Conan at the Demon's Gate
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Roland Green
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Prologue

The Pictish Wilderness, in the reign of Conan the Second, known as
Conn:

My name is Nidaros, son of one who did not care to acknowledge me.
Likely enough he was a noble with a full purse and influence at Court,
both of which he used for my advancement. Otherwise I might be in the
ranks of the Tenth Black River Guards instead of commanding a company.

On the edge of the Pictish Wilderness, the patrols beyond the outpost
line wait for spring. The Picts in their native forests are no easy
prey even when one does not have to fight the snow and cold as well.

In the sixth year of the reign of Conn, son of Conan, King of
Aquilonia, Great Count of Poitain, Protector of Bossonia, and bearer of
too many other titles to burden you with here, spring came early. It
was decided (I do not know by whom, and it hardly matters anyway) that
we should begin our patrols at once.

I looked from the sky to the face of the messenger (an officer of the
elite Black Dragons, the royal bodyguards) and back to the sky.

"At once?"

"At once."

"The ground is not yet dry enough to let a soldier put one foot in
front of another."

"That does not seem to stop the Picts. They have already raided farms
along Silver Creek."

I wished, not aloud, that demons fly away with Silver Creek and all its
Poitainian colonists. I cannot believe that any part of Poitain is so
crowded that folk with their wits about them would flee to a land where
a Pict can spit in their soup kettles any evening.

The messenger seemed to read my thoughts. He tapped the seal on the
parchment. I did not suspect forgery, only the wits of whoever penned
the command.

"As it is ordered, so it shall be done," I said. "But the wet ground is
a fact that all the generals of ten realms cannot alter. A barefoot
Pict can skip lightly where a booted and battle-ready soldier will
sink."

"The orders do not say how the patrols shall be equipped," the man
said. "Or how far they shall go."

I must have gaped. A Black Dragon with his wits about him was a marvel,
like a two-headed calf, or a babe with one arm a bird's wing. The man
replied with a grin and a shrug.

"I have kin who fought the Picts when Conan the Great commanded on the
border," he said. "Those kin told many tales around the fireside, and I
have not forgotten all I heard then."

"Nor have I forgotten what became of friends who sought dry ground and
ran into a Pictish ambush," I said. I added a few details,
half-expecting the man to turn pale and excuse himself. Since the wars
of Conan's early reign, the Black Dragons have mostly stayed close to
the palace. Few of this man's apparent years (ten less than my forty)
were battle-seasoned.

Instead, he nodded. "I never thought my kin lied, but hearing and
seeing are not the same." He frowned. "The next fort is my last duty.
If you have not led out your men when I return, may I come with you?"

"If you are your own master—" I began.

"I am," he said.

I could hardly put into words my suspicion that he was a spy for one of
rank, perhaps even for one at Court. Nor in truth did I feel any great
desire to do so. I trusted my men (half Bossonians, half the best sort
of Gunderman mercenaries) and my sergeants as I did myself.

Barring ill luck, no bad reports would return to this fellows master.
If ill luck did come, nothing and no one would return from the
wilderness at all.

Moreover, this man looked to be a worthy addition to our ranks. I
judged he might have had Gunderman, or even Cimmerian, blood himself,
from his height and breadth of shoulder. I could not see his hair under
a rain-sodden hood, nor his eyes clearly in the dim lamplight of my
hut.

The mail I glimpsed at his wrists seemed well-wrought, though, the
sword and dagger on his belt were both for use rather than show, and
his riding clothes had seen long journeys if not hard fighting. None of
these would keep a Pictish arrow from his gizzard if his luck was not
in, but they showed he did not trust altogether to luck. Such a man
knew the first lesson of border warfare, and so might live to learn
others.

"You will be welcome. Make haste, though. If we march swiftly enough,
we may catch some of the woodsrunners' hunting parties. No Pict is ever
easy prey, but one with an empty belly gives honest men a fighting
chance."

As a toast to his safe journey and good hunting afterward, we drank the
last wine fit to offer a guest. My second sergeant saw him to his horse
while the first and third turned out the men.

***

Battlements of thundercloud rose to the west the morning we at last
found the Picts, or they found us.

They found us at a disadvantage, because we were a watering party of
twenty. I led, because it was my turn, and Sarabos of the Black Dragons
came because he wished it. I did not wish to have two leaders away from
the camp at the same time, but one could argue that Sarabos had no real
rank.

The men obeyed him readily enough, however, when the Picts struck. This
was just after we had picked our next campsite, a stretch of open
ground at the foot of a frowning rocky hill.

They came out of the woods howling fit to waken the dead and put the
living in their tombs, behind a shower of arrows and throwing-spears.
Knowing that our bows had the range of theirs, they waited until the
lay of the ground and the pattern of the trees let them slip close, all
in that silence that none except cats and Picts on the hunt can
maintain.

Our archers had time for but one flight before five times their number
of Picts let loose. The Picts still favor flint for their arrowheads,
but try telling a man struck deep by one that it is a child's weapon.
That we suffered little was due more to the stoutness of our armor than
the weakness of the Picts' weapons.

The Picts were of two different clans, and as is often the case, one
attacked a trifle before the other. So we had warning and escaped being
surrounded, although by the margin of the thinnest hair in the mane of
a newborn foal. We turned and ran for the best place at hand for
defense, that open ground at the foot of the outcrop.

Our archery took some of the heart out of the first clan, not to
mention leaving two-score warriors kicking or still among the ferns and
rotted logs. We covered some hundreds of paces through tangled second
growth with only one man dead, his comrades able to carry him, and no
one else hurt past fighting.

Then the second clan attacked, without the warning of an arrow shower
but instead charging from cover to reach close quarters almost at once.
As with most Picts, they wore feathers and tattoos, breechclouts and
war paint, and precious little else. But more of them than I cared to
see had swords and knives of metal, sometimes their own bronze or
copper, sometimes captured steel.

I do not know how long the fight lasted. I had my broadsword, a
short-handled mace, and good Aquilonian mail with a helm of Zingaran
style standing between me and the Picts. All did good service, too. I
know I slew a fair hand'sworth and more, and took only two grazes in
return.

Others were less fortunate. Six of us died or were hurt past fighting
in that brawl at close quarters. It ended in our favor because, as was
most often the case, the two clans' war parties had leapt into battle
without any common plan. Most Pictish chiefs would sooner serve up
their sons in a stew than take orders from another chief.

So there was no one to tell the first clan to hold their arrows until
the second had drawn away from us. The first clan began shooting again,
and their arrows rained down alike on friend and foe. Foes mostly bore
armor, although a Gunderman died with an arrow in the eye. Friends were
mostly naked, and another score of Picts died howling or moaning with
Pictish arrows through their gizzards.

Sarabos leapt into the midst of this fratricidal slaughter with a
broadsword in one hand and a long dagger in the other. I saw him behead
one Pict, geld a second, chop the arm from a third, and break the leg
of a fourth with a kick like a mule's, all in one continuous flow of
movement. A circle grew around him, inhabited only by the dead or those
about to die.

At last he sheathed his weapons, hoisted the fallen Gunderman over one
shoulder like a miller hoisting a sack of grain, and pointed toward the
rocks.

"I thought I heard you bid us withdraw that way," he said to me. "I see
at least one cave in that ravine to the south." With a long arm covered
in other men's blood, he pointed.

His eyes were keener than mine, and his ears had heard no such orders,
but I thanked him with a nod for saving my authority over my surviving
men. I put myself with the rearguard while Sarabos and his burden led,
and we tramped up the slope.

It was my plan, formed in my mind as we moved, to climb to the crest of
the rocks and light our smoke torches. That would tell the camp where
we were, and they would be up with us long before the surviving Picts
could muster numbers or courage to come at us on the high ground.

Conan the Great had a favorite saying: "A man can think out a battle
beforehand as much as he pleases, but Fate will still spit in the
beer." (Although he did not say "spit.") He never called it his own
invention, and I much doubt that it was. Kull of Atlantis could have
coined it in his wars against the Snakemen of Valusia.

What spat in our particular tankard that day was the thunderstorm. The
clouds swept over the rocks before we could reach the heights. As
Sarabos laid the dead Gunderman down, the first drops of rain fell.

Thunder crashed overhead. I looked up to see a thunderbolt sear the
ridge. I spat from an all-but-dry mouth. If we climbed to that crest in
our armor and the lightning went on playing, more than torches might be
set alight.

I looked downslope to judge the closeness of our pursuers. To my
surprise, I saw them running off as if we had turned into a band of
demons and were on their heels. They were even leaving the weapons of
the dead, and it takes great fear to make a Pict do that.

It struck me that whatever so daunted Picts might also be something
Aquilonians could justly fear. I saw the same thought on faces around
me, but—and all honor to my men and their kin—no one said a craven
word.

We did keep our formation as we searched the slope for that cave. It
was well that it was not far, for in about the time it takes to change
the guard, the rain was coming down in a deluge. We might have been
standing under a waterfall, and neither good leather nor oiled wool nor
any armor ever forged could keep us from being sodden to the skin.

We covered the final paces to the cave with more haste than dignity,
and with small regard for a proper formation. Once inside, with the
rain no longer battering on our helmets until it addled our wits, I
quickly arrayed the men. Sentries at the mouth of the cave, sentries
toward the rear, the driest and cleanest place for the wounded, and
those neither standing sentry nor tending the wounded allowed to strip
and dry their weapons, armor, and clothes.

I set myself to counting our resources in the matter of food and water.
Each of us had come out with two days' salt meat and hard bread, and a
full water-bottle besides the ones we were to fill. If the Picts did
not cut us off from the streams, the rills would be swollen full by the
rain, and there might be water toward the rear of the cave, which
seemed to lead far into the rocks. Such rocks in Pictland were usually
honeycombed with underground springs and—

"Captain! To the rear!"

It was one of the rear sentries, a clear-headed Bossonian who would not
have let confusion or fear show in his voice without good cause. I
ordered all to their feet and all weapons readied, and went to stand
beside the sentry.

At the edge of the torchlight, I saw worked stone. It was far too fine
to be Pictish work, and far too fresh to have come down from the time
of the old Hyborian invasions. I thought I could make out lintels,
doorways, benches of living rock, and unwholesomely sinuous figures.

I lit another torch and remembered that this had best be the last I
used, or we might not be able to signal the camp when the rain ceased.
The spread of the light extended. I saw that the sinuousity of the
figures was no fancy; the worship of Set had once found a home in this
cave. I recognized Stygian hieroglyphs and even more arcane signs, of
which I neither knew nor wished to know the meaning.

I strode farther to the rear, saw that the cave made a bend, and moved
on until I could look beyond the bend into what appeared to be a
chamber. Something tall and upright loomed at the outer edge of the
light. I took two more steps—

"Crom!"

It was not an image of the Great Serpent, as I had feared. It was the
life-sized image of a warrior of gigantic stature, in a strange mix of
weapons and garb, half-Pictish and half-Black Coast, with a stout
Hyborian broadsword at his waist.

Nor was it hard to put a name to that warrior. On three different
campaigns I had seen the same face, older, weathered, the square-cut
mane of hair gray, the face adorned with a mustache and in time, a
beard, but none other than the one I beheld on the image.

The soft, swift tread of a hunting-panther sounded behind me, and I
turned to see Sabaros. He had removed his hood and undone his hair, and
I saw in the torchlight that it was jet black. Nor was there any more
doubt about the hue of his eyes. They were blue, the same blue as the
ice I had once seen in a cave in Gunderland, and fixed on the image
with an intensity that seemed to make them glow with an inner light.

It struck me that I had not been wrong to invoke the chief god of
Cimmeria and patron of our late king. It likewise struck me that
Sabaros of the Black Dragons could doubtless, far more easily than I,
put a name to his father.

None of this told me, however, what an image of Conan was doing here in
a cave where no civilized man had ever set foot. Stygian sorcerers were
civilized only by courtesy, and rumor named some of them not quite
wholly men.

Suddenly the cave seemed less a refuge, and the rain—and even the Picts
outside—less a peril.

One

The Black Coast, many years earlier:

The man passed through the shadows beneath the great trees by the
Umfangu as silently as a lion on the hunt. Indeed, there was much of
the lion in his soft-footed tread, the mane of black hair that swept to
wide, bronzed shoulders, and the eyes that searched endlessly about him
for either prey or rival.

Those eyes, however, had never graced a lion's face, nor that of a man
in the Black Kingdoms. They were chill-blue northern eyes, with an
intensity in their gaze that might have made a real lion cautious.
Certainly they had done so with more than a few men, and those who had
not learned caution from the ice-blue gaze had mostly died before
they'd had time for a second lesson.

Now the man's steps took him away from the river-bank and the stout
trees there. He approached a small clearing, where a forest giant had
toppled years ago, bearing to the ground all in its path. The robust
life of the jungle already had saplings and vines mounting the dead
tree, but through the gap overhead, sunlight still reached the jungle
floor more freely than elsewhere.

The man was only a spears length from the edge of the sunlight when he
halted, studying a patch of ferns. With the woods-wisdom gained by many
hard lessons, some few not easily survived, he knew that he must watch
from some other place today. The ferns would hold traces of his
presence far too long.

Left or right? Left, he decided. That would take him away from the
trail that entered the clearing on the far side. Never had he seen more
than a handful of the natives—nor any animal he could not face
barehanded—come down that trail. Never, likewise, did the jungle cease
to hold deadly surprises for the unwary.

Now he moved even more silently than before, and more cautiously. His
steps took him from a root that would bear little trace of his passing
to dry ground that could be brushed clean of footprints, and from there
on to a swinging vine that kept him entirely clear of the ground for
six good paces. The vine sagged under his massive weight, but neither
broke nor left other traces of his passing.

At last the man reached his goal. The blue eyes narrowed as he studied
the clearing, finding no changes and no movement. He settled into the
roots of another giant tree, so completely still that his massive limbs
might have been part of the roots themselves.

The eyes would have revealed life to anyone drawing close enough. That
revelation would have come too late for any foe, however. A broadsword
lay across the calloused knees, a stout dagger hung from the thong of a
rawhide breechclout, and two handmade spears leaned against one of the
roots. Any or all of these weapons would have drunk a foe's lifeblood
before the man recognized danger.

In this also, the man was like a lion. Indeed, his name in these lands
was "Amra"—the lion. Fairly earned in battle, too, although he did not
care to let his thoughts dwell long on those battles.

His birth-name, though, matched those eyes of northern ice. He was
called Conan, and his native land was bleak Cimmeria.

***

Kubwande, son of D'beno, bore a headdress as well as a loinguard of
zebra-hide. These marked him as an iqako—a Bamula title best translated
as "lesser war chief."

He also bore a stout boar-hide shield, two spears with sharp bog-iron
points, and a war club carved with signs against witchcraft. He wore
anklets of feathers dyed with berries and roots known best to the
Bamulas' wizards. He expected that before this day's sunset, he might
need all of these weapons and protections.

Not only was this hunting party on the trail of wild boar—nearly as
cunning and well-armed as the great cats for leaving empty places in
the huts of the Bamulas—but also Kubwande was hunting under the
leadership of qamu (greater war chief) Idosso.

The qamu was not Kubwande's mortal enemy, because even Idosso knew that
a man must sleep sometime. While he sleeps, it is as well if those who
wish his death are too few to overcome those who guard him. It was no
secret between the two warriors that Idosso wished to be the next war
chief of the Bamulas and that Kubwande wished someone else would be so
honored. But this did not make for blood-feud between them, as yet.
Indeed, Kubwande was ready to see Idosso honored by gods and men alike…
if he would but give ear to Kubwande's advice.

Kubwande still thought it was somehow fitting to hunt boar in Idosso's
company. The man was larger than all but a handful among the Bamulas,
as strong as he was large, fierce of temper, but not without some
cunning. A dangerous man to judge lightly, as two hand'sworth of the
bleached skulls of enemies outside Idosso's huts made plain to all but
fools.

Being no fool, Kubwande intended that his skull should remain upon his
shoulders. This meant giving Idosso no cause for a chiefs' bout unless
there was a chance of victory.

Or perhaps that the battle not be to the death? Kubwande knew that
Idosso had enemies among the kin of those he had slain. Those kin might
not fight Idossa themselves, but some of them had the ear of greater
chiefs. Kubwande was no mealie-bearer girl but a seasoned warrior more
useful to the Bamulas alive than dead.

It would all be as the gods wished, of course, but Kubwande was one to
go about his life as he wished until the gods told him otherwise. Today
he wished a good hunt, with a fine boar at the end of it, and a feast
of roast pork whose flavor not even Idosso's presence would be able to
spoil.

Kubwande licked his lips at that thought, aimed an imaginary spear at
an imaginary boar some fifty paces off to the right, and sank the spear
deep between the shoulder blades. The boar took two steps, then went to
its knees, rolled over on its side, and died kicking in the dead ferns—

"Kubwande!" Idosso called. "Are we at peace with the Fish-Eaters?"

Kubwande did not start, but knew shame, and moreover, that the shame
was just. His attention had not been where it belonged.

"The Fish-Eaters are no great peril even when they are enemies,"
Kubwande said. "Nor do I think they have much stomach to be so, after
our last battle with them."

Idosso grinned, showing front teeth bearing the ritual carvings of one
who had slain a lion with a spear. It was Idosso who had led the last
Bamula war party against the Fish-Eaters, and slain with his own hands
six of their warriors.

Kubwande thought that any man who could be so easily turned by flattery
was not a good choice for war chief, but the vice had its uses. Keeping
peace among the hunters today was not the least of them.

It was time to watch behind. Kubwande and six other warriors halted,
turned to face back down the trail, and raised spears. One blew a bone
whistle. Its eerie call drew equally eerie replies from birds, but none
from humans or spirits.

To finish the ritual, Kubwande raised his war club, whirled it three
times around his head, and flung it down the trail. It struck a tree so
hard that the club bounced back and fell almost at his feet.

The signs were all good. Nothing they need fear was on their trail.
While hunting boar, that was just as well.

***

Conan the Cimmerian could sleep as readily as any cat, but he remained
wakeful as he lay among the tree roots, watching the clearing. He was
not in one of his regular hiding places, each chosen carefully, then
set about with snares and traps that none could pass through without
waking him.

He was half a day from the nearest of those refuges, in land claimed by
the tribe called the Fish-Eaters. The Fish-Eaters could hardly have
been a menace even if they wished to be, but fear can make weaklings
deadly.

Also, the Bamulas had taken to wandering in the Fish-Eaters' land as if
it were their own. No one on the Black Coast despised the Bamulas.
Conan knew of them only by what their enemies said, but there had been
several warriors from tribes hostile to the Bamulas aboard Tigress. The
Bamulas had offered a good price for those warriors, or so Belit had
said, but she refused.

"I will sell no one to the Bamulas," she added. "If I deal with them at
all, I will buy—and at the same price I pay the Stygians."

Blood and steel, death and fear, were the coin Belit used against the
Stygians, until her own end. Now the clean seas held her ashes and
those of Tigress; the jungles along the Zarkheba River held the bones
of her crew, Conan's erstwhile comrades; and the Cimmerians mind held…
what?

Memories of sharing more than he had ever dreamed he could share with a
woman, far more than a shared bed—although those memories alone would
have given many men wakeful nights. Memories that made her… call her a
cherished comrade and one would not be far off the mark.

Nor, the Cimmerian thought, would Belit's spirit disdain the name.
Anymore than her body had disdained his embraces, or her warriors
Conan's leadership…

It had been a good time, and now it was past. No son of Cimmeria spent
much time mourning what was gone forever—the harsh northern land
allowed few luxuries, and that one least of all. Moreover, Conan had
sent Belit home to the ocean aboard the ship in which she took such
pride, and of which she had made so fearful a name along the Stygian
shores.

The slate was clean. But he had known when he put the torch to Tigress
that it would be a good long while before he set foot aboard ship
again. With his memories and weapons, his knowledge of the Black Coast
gained from his comrades aboard Tigress, and a sailors kitbag slung
over one shoulder, he had plunged inland.

A footfall that none but a hunter, human or animal, could have heard
ended Conan's brief reverie. He moved only his head, having contrived
his position so that he need move nothing else to study the whole
clearing.

The footfalls continued, light, sure, and drawing closer. The Cimmerian
raised a finger to test the scant breeze. The finger said again what
his ears had already told him, that the visitors were coming down the
path.

Now he could count their number by ear. More than one, all but
certainly. Not enough to fear, even if they were not Fish-Eaters.

Conan waited. If the Bamulas were thrusting their hunting parties this
deep into Fish-Eater land, it was worth knowing. It was not worth a
fight; only in tales to amuse children did a single hero defeat a whole
tribe. But peaceful oblivion in the depths of the jungles of the Black
Coast would be as much past as Belit, and—

Three women stepped into the clearing. Each carried a jug on her head
and a basket on one hip, slung from the opposite shoulder. The sling
thong was all the women wore above the waist, and below it they wore
only cloths wrapped from hips to knees. Nor did any of them look the
worse for being thus revealed. A well-formed woman never hurt a man's
eye, no matter what hue her skin might be.

The women set down their jugs, unslung their baskets, and placed all of
them in a rough circle in the middle of the clearing. Then they knelt
and prostrated themselves seven times toward the offerings. An earring
raw gold dangled from each woman's left ear, and one them had a ring of
ivory and gold in her nose.

They rose, breasts bobbing in a manner that would have made a stone
statue stare wide-eyed, and looked about them. Conan wondered what they
were expecting, awaiting, or perhaps hoping for.

He decided that it was probably not him leaping from his hiding place.
He had yet to meet a woman who warmed readily to a man who began by
scaring her out of her wits.

The vigil lasted, as did the silence. Conan had just noticed that the
girl with the nose ring also had blue feathers woven into her tightly
curled hair, when his instincts warned him of something else.

The silence had lasted too long and grown too complete. The normal din
of the jungle had ceased, and it did that only at the appearance of
something unknown or hostile.

Neither Conan nor the girls had provoked the jungle life. This said
little about the new presence, but what it did say made Conan slide
from his watching place, lifting a spear as he moved. A snake might
have envied the smoothness and silence of his movement; certainly it
drew no response from the women.

Then something unheard even by the Cimmerian made all three of them
whirl. A moment later they had vanished up the path, with only the last
flicker of the last woman's skirt lingering briefly in Conan's vision.

If it had not been for the jugs and baskets in the clearing, he might
have thought the women had been a dream, risen from bad wine or an
empty belly.

There was no wine in this jungle, although the native beer was robust
enough to satisfy a drinking man's thirst. But an empty belly was
another matter. Conan's stomach chose that moment to rumble, reminding
him to check his snares on the road homeward. In this steaming forest,
snared animals died quickly, and more quickly still became unfit to
eat.

The thought of beer turned Conan's eyes back to the jugs. It could do
no harm to see what the women had left behind, and if it looked
doubtful, there were plenty of apes to test it for poison.

Conan's eyes roamed ceaselessly around the clearing as he crossed it to
the offerings. His long arms barely bent twigs or disturbed leaves as
he reached in for baskets and jugs. With one of each in either hand, he
withdrew into the shadows, walking backward as if each step was made on
a carpet of spiderweb stretched over a bottomless pit.

Invisible in the shadows again, he drew the bark stopper from the jug.
Its contents smelled like beer, surely enough, and felt like it on the
back of his hand. Moreover, when he cautiously licked that hand—

It was then that the Cimmerian noticed the sign on both the jugs and
the baskets. It was the Fish-Eaters' sign of an offering to an unknown
spirit. The tribe had five chief gods, each with his own sign, and a
sixth sign for spirits, good or evil, who came from none of the five.

Beer and mealie-bread, fruit and dried fish, would be a welcome
addition to his diet. They would also be stolen from something as near
a god as made no difference.

No lover of priests or believer in their babble, the Cimmerian doubted
the gods cared much for what men did or left undone. He had also spoken
truly to Belit when he said of the gods, "I would not tread on their
shadow," and who could say how hard he was treading on whose shadow
with this little theft?

There were wise thieves and foolish thieves, and Conan walked the
forests of the Black Coast only because years ago in Zingara, he had
learned the difference. He would be a wise thief and return the
offerings from whence they had come.

He had just risen to take the first return step when a woman's scream
sounded from well down the trail. Then Conan heard war cries—some of
them Bamula, some in no tongue he recognized—fierce gruntings, and
another scream.

As he snatched for weapons, Conan let the offerings fall from his hand;
let the spirits pick them up if they so wished. A single leap took him
over the other offerings and the tree trunk. Vines looped serpent-like
around his legs but he pulled free, without sound and almost without
slowing.

He had a spear in his left hand and the broadsword-blazing in his right
as he plunged to the trail.

***

Kubwande and the warriors watching the rear whirled at the sudden din,
raising spears and shields, waiting for the jungle to sprout enemies,
or at least answers. Curiosity might eat at them, but it was the honor
of a Bamula warrior to watch only where he had sworn to watch and not
let his eyes wander like a woman's.

Only when Idosso shouted, "All men to the fore!" was the rearguard
released from its oath. Then curiosity lent wings to Kubwande's feet as
he led his men forward to Idosso's aid.

It was not at once clear what aid the senior chief might need. He
gripped one Fish-Eater woman by her nose ring and the waist of her
skirt, while another warrior was kneeling on the back of a second
woman.

The second woman was entirely naked, save for the rawhide thongs now
being swiftly looped about her wrists. A hobble hung from the warrior's
loinguard, ready to encircle the woman's ankles.

"Idosso, it will be a sad day for the Bamulas when a warrior such as
you needs help with two Fish-Eater women!" Kubwande said. He hoped the
flattery would take the edge off the statement.

Idosso's woman kicked sharply backward, landing a bare foot in the big
warrior's groin hard enough to make him grunt. His hands tightened,
ready to twist and tear.

Kubwande's breath caught. He had heard of what Idosso could do to
captive women if angered. He did not wish to see it, and indeed wished
that it not happen at all, if he could contrive this without a
challenge to Idosso.

"There were three women," Idosso said. "All had been making offerings
to the unknown spirit. Then something frightened them. They will not
tell me what."

"If it is peril for them as well as for us, they will tell without
torture. If it is peril only for us, they will die before they warn
us."

"That may take a while," Idosso growled.

"Too long, if one has escaped and even now runs to warn her folk,"
Kubwande said. "True, they are only Fish-Eaters—"

The woman on the ground made a foul suggestion about what Kubwande
could do with his manhood. The woman in Idosso's grip looked ready to
spit in someone's face. Kubwande hoped she would not.

"—and one Bamula is worth ten of them. But we are so deep in Fish-Eater
land that they may come ten times ten for each of us. Then all we will
have is a praise-song over our bones instead of an answer."

"True. Also, bones enjoy no woman's flesh." Idosso let go of the nose
ring, shifting his grip to the woman's arm. In spite of her kicks, he
gripped both wrists in one gigantic hand.

"Now, girl, you earn our being kind to you. What brought you here, and
what frightened you?"

Kubwande saw the play of hatred, doubt, and fear on the woman's face,
and at last her decision to speak, before Idosso had done more than
twist her wrists lightly. That showed wisdom, facing Idosso, or indeed,
many Bamulas.

"We… we came to offer to the unknown spirit, who has taken a man's
form," the woman said.

"A man's form? When? And what kind of man?" Kubwande's questions leapt
like spears before Idosso could open his mouth.

Idosso looked a savage curse at the lesser chief, but ere he could
gather wits or words for more, a crashing of trampled jungle foliage
made everyone snatch weapons. Then the curtain of leaves to the right
flew apart, and a thin brown-skinned man clad only in a dirty white
loincloth leapt onto the trail. Kubwande saw blood on the mans arms and
thighs.

He also saw blood on the tusks of the colossal boar that followed the
man into view a moment later. Even Bamula warriors needed a moment to
gather courage and wits to face a creature that size, high as Idosso's
waist at the shoulders and grizzled with age that brought cunning
without taking away strength.

Another man who ran from the shadows down the trail had no such
hesitation. His spear flew as swiftly and as truly as if his eye had
commanded his arm without the need for thought.

Only a shifting of the boars feet kept the spear from striking a mortal
blow. It pierced deep into the beast's flank, but did not reach his
life.

Instead, it drew his attention to the newcomer. The boar whirled with a
squeal of rage and pain. Then it lowered its head and lunged for the
spearman.

Kubwande raised his own spear, but found that he could not throw
without risk of hitting either a comrade or the man. As the man flung a
second spear, aimed to gouge the boars back, Kubwande had a clear look
at him for the first time.

No warrior of this band save Idosso could have looked the man in the
eye. His hair was as dark as any jungle dwellers, but long and
straight, and the Black Kingdoms had never given birth to such a pale
skin. No land that Kubwande knew had ever produced those fierce blue
eyes, like a lion's in all but color.

It seemed to the Bamula warrior that they now knew what form the
unknown spirit had taken.

Two

Conan had just time to notice something odd about the wounded man, the
boar's first victim. Then he had to give all his attention to the
beast, lest he become its next one.

An ordinary broadsword was not the best weapon against a boar perhaps
slowed, perhaps weakened, but yet with tusks and muscle enough to be
deadly if it reached close quarters. That was the problem with the
broadsword: only by chance could it keep the boar at arm's length.

By chance, or by a single swift cut.

The boar whuffled. Conan shifted to a two-handed grip, although the
sword's hilt barely had room for both his broad hands.

The boar's hooves churned earth as it charged. Conan crouched, swung,
and leapt aside in a single flow of movement as swift and smooth as the
strike of a viper.

The sword sheared through the boar's forelegs. Sheer momentum carried
the beast forward, to ram its snout into a tree. There it thrashed and
scrabbled frantically with bloody stumps of forelegs and intact
hindlegs.

Then the Cimmerian's sword came down like an executioners axe, on the
back of the bristly neck. Flesh and bone parted, a final bellow ended
in silence, and the boar lay still.

Conan studied the blade for nicks, then wiped it quickly on the boar's
hide. The jungle was as hard as the sea on a good weapon. The
broadsword was not his whole arsenal, but it would be his weapon of
choice as long as rust did not eat it like a crocodile gulping down a
baby.

Only when he was satisfied at the condition of his weapon did the
Cimmerian rise from a crouch to face the watching men. He recognized
them as Bamulas from their headdresses and tattoos, and as alert and
wary from their stances and lifted spears. It seemed best to make a
gesture of peace toward them, lest some of those spears fly because of
some witling's fear.

Conan thrust the broadsword into its scabbard and crossed both arms on
his chest. "I am Conan the Cimmerian. I am here in peace. I make you a
gift of this boar."

Most of the spear-points and shields dipped a trifle. The Bamulas
seemed to understand him. Now would they believe him? He hoped the
pirates' cant he had learned aboard Tigress would be enough. The crew
had been of a score of different tribes, and their common tongue was a
stew of words from all, flavored with Shemitish and even Stygian words
for good measure.

Before Conan could speak again, a woman broke away from the grip of the
tallest Bamula and ran toward the Cimmerian. At this, one of the
Bamulas flung a spear, and Conan's sword leapt from its scabbard with
the speed of thought.

The spear fell harmlessly to the ground, cloven in two as neatly as any
butcher ever divided a sausage, and the woman flung herself at Conan's
feet. She babbled and wept at the same time, speaking too quickly for
him to follow more than one word in five. It seemed likely that she was
asking for his protection, and it seemed certain that the Bamulas would
be displeased if he granted it.

Nonetheless, no woman had ever called on the Cimmerian for protection
without receiving at least some measure of it. He put his foot lightly
on the back of her neck, a gesture he had seen Belit make in claiming
lordship over certain prisoners.

The tall Bamula who had been holding her frowned. "Is this your woman?"
he asked.

"I could ask you the same," Conan said. "I take no man's woman, but I
wonder what a Bamula does here with a Fish-Eater girl."

"I am Idosso, a qamu of the Bamulas, lords of this land," the man said.
"The girl is my prize."

"The last I heard, this was the land of the Fish-Eaters," Conan said
mildly.

"The Fish-Eaters have only what the Bamulas allow them," Idosso said.
This drew a glare from a second woman Conan now saw for the first time,
lying bound and entirely bare on the ground among the other warriors.
The woman at Conan's feet raised her head. He gently pushed it back
down. Idosso seemed a man with a long tongue and a short temper, the
sort best not angered without need, in any land.

"Pardon, qamus Idosso and Conan," a Bamula warrior said. "But I think
we need to take thought for this man." He pointed at the boar's victim,
now sitting with his back to a tree, his eyes closed. "He babbles in no
tongue I have ever heard."

Conan saw Idosso frown at the Cimmerian being given the honorific
title, and he recognized a cunning trap. The warrior who spoke was no
giant like Idosso, who had nearly Conan's own height and thews, but his
eyes told of sharp wits that he made useful in place of sheer strength.

"Why do you ask me—?" Conan said.

"Kubwande, son of D'beno, iqako of the Bamulas as was D'Beno before me,
is he who speaks," the warrior said, making several gestures of obvious
formality whose exact nature Conan did not recognize.

He did recognize, though, the wisdom of taking every chance for
politeness when he faced odds of twenty to one, and the twenty all
stout fighting men. Judging by his first sight of Bamulas, they were
living up to their reputation.

Kubwande was hardly as fair to the eyes as Belit, but he seemed as
ready to give Conan a friendly welcome among strangers.

"Kubwande, I will help this wounded man if you will tell me why you
think I know his speech. I will also take nothing that any Bamula
claims as his, nor shed the blood of any who does not seek mine. By
Crom and Mitra, I swear it."

Those last names some warriors clearly recognized; Conan saw gestures
of aversion. The two women stared wide-eyed at him.

"The women say you are the flesh of the Fish-Eaters' unknown spirit,"
Kubwande said. "They were on their way from offering to you when we met
them."

"They have part of the truth, anyway," Conan said. "I am flesh, and
need food. But not as badly as this poor wretch needs help."

Conan knelt beside the wounded man. No, dying—he had the look the
Cimmerian had seen too often, on many battlefields. The boar had struck
deep enough to reach the man's life, which would flee his body no
matter if three kings' doctors did their best for him.

Conan's best was not that good, but he had survived enough wounds of
his own and tended more than a few wounded comrades. His hands were
firm but light as he bound the man's wounds, listening all the while
for some words that would explain the mystery of his appearance here.

For it was a mystery. By garb and appearance, the man was a Vendhyan,
and Vendhya was half a years hard journey from the Black Coast! Perhaps
he had fled slavery in Stygia, where folk of every race on earth, and
(so it was whispered) some not of earth, toiled under the lash of
Stygian slavemasters.

But Stygia was also a good long journey from this jungle trail, and the
man showed no marks of either a journey or slavery. He was slim but
well-fleshed under the brown skin, his hands showed no callouses from
years of brutal labor, and his back showed no wounds save those from
thorns and the boar.

Then the man began to babble in his dying delirium, calling for his
mother, and the mystery deepened. Certainly the man was a Vendhyan;
Conan had spent enough time in that land to do more than separate a few
jewels from its rich lords. He had warred, wenched, and learned the
tongue the dying man was now speaking.

But he was not speaking to much purpose, as was only to be expected of
the dying. Conan knew that no shaking or shouting would bring the man
to his senses, and held his peace. What the gods wanted the man to say,
he would. Otherwise he would take his secret with him—and Conan did not
find it in him to blame the man, dying as he was, alone and far from
home.

Suddenly the man's eyes widened and he sat up with a shriek of
indescribable terror. He flung one arm up so violently that Conan's
dressing of his wounds tore free and blood flowed again. The Cimmerian
turned to look where the bloody hand was pointing, but saw only air and
jungle before it.

"The gate!" the man cried out. "The demon's gate! It opens again. The
demon calls. Beware, beware, be—"

Blood gurgled in the Vendhyan's throat and trickled from the corner of
his mouth. His arm fell back limp, and although his eyes remained open,
they saw nothing.

Conan was reaching to close those staring eyes when he felt something
prod his back. He turned his head, to see a young Bamula warrior
holding a spear with two hands, neither of them entirely steady.

Slowly, Conan rose to his full height. Just as slowly, he turned
around. The warrior raised the spear until its point touched Conan's
chest.

Then two massive arms swung like bludgeons. The first rammed into the
pit of the warrior's stomach, doubling and lifting him at the same time
to meet the second fist on his jaw. He flew backward through a gap in
the Bamula ranks and fetched up in a tangle of vine.

Conan waited to see that the warrior was still breathing, then picked
up the fallen spear. Without apparent effort, he snapped the stout
shaft in two.

"The next man who prods me, I will feed his own spear," the Cimmerian
said. "The Bamulas have no name for being fools, so what ate his wits?"

Kubwande met Conan's eyes without flinching. "He thought you were a
demon, for knowing the speech of the stranger."

A demon, and the Vendhyan had spoken of a demon's gate. It seemed that
the man had left behind him an even deeper mystery!

Conan looked at the fallen warrior, who was struggling to rise. "I am
no more a demon than you are," he growled. He strode to the dead boar
and drew his own spears from the carcase. "Have you ever heard of Amra,
the pale-skinned warrior, companion to Belit of Tigress?"

Even this far inland, that was a name to conjure with in the Black
Kingdoms. The fallen man nodded as two comrades helped him to his feet.

To speak the truth did not avoid peril if the Bamulas had received
injury at Belit's hands or at those of one who followed her. Conan knew
of no such incident, and he and Belit had sailed, loved, and fought
together for so long that he doubted she'd had many secrets from him.
But it was always the one secret a man did not learn that doomed him,
and if so, Conan would soon follow the Vendhyan.

At least then he could ask the man what his dying babblings had meant.

But no hostility showed in the chiseled black faces or watchful dark
eyes around Conan. Then Kubwande spoke, in accents of surprise and
pleasure.

"You are he?"

"The very man. No need to worry about my being a Fish-Eater spirit or a
demon."

"Eh," Idosso said. "We heard that Belit was dead and Tigress no more.
Also her warriors."

"You heard the truth," Conan said. He kept his voice level. "She fell
afoul of the ugliest sort of magick and died of it, with most of her
men. I avenged the dead, sent the living home, and gave Belit and her
ship to the sea."

His tongue grew more nimble as he spoke of Tigress's last voyage, and
his eyes no longer saw the Bamulas around him. When he finished
speaking, it seemed that they too no longer saw what lay around them,
but instead, the burning ship carrying the Queen of the Black Coast to
her ocean grave.

"Were there any Bamulas among those who lived?" Kubwande asked after a
long silence.

"None who called themselves so," Conan said. "Also, some of those who
lived were of a mind to seize another ship and go on bedeviling the
Stygians. I was not. I had a sign from the gods to go inland and find
new friends there."

In truth, he had lacked the heart to look again at the sea, the shroud
of a beloved battle-comrade. But he had given the Bamulas all the truth
they deserved, and if they still doubted him, they could send him to
join Belit!

Whether Conan's tale or what they saw in his eyes and in the calloused
hands gripping the spears won over the Bamulas, he saw them lowering
spears and unslinging shields. Two of them bent to lift the dead
Vendhyan. Others improvised a litter of spears, to bear the dead boar.

"Will you follow us, Amra?" Kubwande asked when the warriors were ready
to depart.

Conan shook his head, then handed Kubwande one of the spears. "Take
this as a pledge of my friendship for the Bamulas, but do not ask me to
come with you. My vision said I must stay apart from all men yet a
while longer."

"But the Fish-Eaters—?" asked.the young warrior who'd paid for his
spear-prodding with a sore jaw and belly.

Conan laughed at the youths concern. "I am as good a man as any Bamula,
and which of you would fear Fish-Eaters?"

The two women's sharp looks and Idosso's raised hand reminded Conan of
a last matter. "I wish that these women decide freely whose they shall
be. This also my vision has told me to ask."

The two women stared at each other, then at Idosso, and finally at
Conan. The one with the nose ornament pointed at Idosso.

Conan had long, since understood that women had no more sense than men,
but these women's decision seemed altogether foolish.

"May I ask why?"

"You are god-touched, Amra. We cannot be to you as women to a man.
Idosso is only a warrior—" at which words the man grunted very like the
boar "—and not… not…"

"A speaker of demons' tongues?"

The women looked bleak as Idosso howled with laughter. Conan bit back
curses on the women and sharp replies to the big chief.

"So be it. But I owe the women this much for their offerings. If they
are ill-treated, I will learn of it, and those who ill-treat them will
answer to me."

Idosso's stance said how little he cared about that, and Conan wondered
if he should press his claim more vigorously in spite of the women's
fancies. Idosso seemed likely to be a harsh master, but also likely to
be in a fury over losing the women. Not because they were so rare among
the Black Kingdoms, but out of a surfeit of pride.

The Cimmerian had seen rather more such men than he cared to remember,
and killed a good many of them. Too swiftly adding Idosso to their
number, however, might not win friends among the Bamulas. And unlike
the Fish-Eaters, the Bamulas knew who he was, where he was, and how to
send enough warriors to drive him into desperate flight, or an equally
desperate last battle.

"Let it be so," Idosso grunted. Then he spoke sharply, too fast for
Conan to follow his words. The warriors had no such trouble, however;
they were formed up in a few heartbeats and hurrying down the trail in
a few more.

Conan looked at the bloodstains where the boar had fallen and where the
Vendhyan had died, then slung his spears over one shoulder and drew his
sword. He returned up the trail as he had come down it, sword in hand,
but at a more leisurely pace.

He also had no hesitation about making a meal of the offerings,
although when he was done, he knew at least one bread-maker among the
Fish-Eaters who should be thrashed!

Three

Far to the north, a sorcerer named Lysenius sat in a cave whose rock he
had shaped into the likeness of a Stygian temple, and cursed in a
scarlet fury.

No one in the Black Kingdoms heard his curses, nor would they have
understood them if they had. Indeed, no one at all heard most of them
save his daughter Scyra, who had heard them far too often for them to
have any power to either amuse or anger her.

Some Picts heard a few of the curses, borne on the night wind. They
made signs of aversion, telling one another that this time the anger of
the white shaman was so great that surely it would lead him to make war
on the very gods themselves.

If that were to come about, they wished to be a long way from the
battlefield.

* * *

Conan spent little time after his meeting with the Bamulas wondering if
they saw him as friend or foe, man or mage. He commonly left that sort
of thing to scholars and scribes with no real work to fill their days.

Here in the Black Kingdoms, Conan was beyond the reach of scribes and
scholars. The days settled into an endless flow, with a rhythm of
eating, sleeping, hunting, bathing in streams, and tending his weapons
and snares. The Fish-Eaters brought no more offerings, but there was
ripe fruit and fat game aplenty; only a fool could starve in the Black
Kingdoms.

Being no fool, the Cimmerian fed well. Being no fool, he also grew eyes
in the back of his head and ears in his elbows and knees whenever he
left his refuges. The Fish-Eaters might someday be moved to do more
than refuse him offerings, brooding over those wenches whose fancies
had led them to go with Idosso. Not likely, and hardly soon, in a land
where a single spearman's share of loot from Tigress would buy a harem
fit to make Iranistani noblemen jealous, but still, it was a danger to
be considered.

A danger, also, that like leopards, crocodiles, wild bees, and poisoned
vines, was likely to strike only those who did not consider it at all.

***

Among the warriors of the Bamulas, some talked of the white man the
Fish-Eaters thought was a god. They did not talk of him by the name of
"Amra," for that name was a secret kept among Idosso's band, who had
bound themselves to its secrecy by fearful oaths. Both Idosso and
Kubwande had also bound the women by similar oaths, likewise by threats
of dire and lingering punishment, and in Kubwande's case, by the
promise of gold and a servant of his own from among Idosso's women.

Idosso seemed to think that promising rewards to the women, instead of
merely threatening them with punishment, was a madman's whim. It was,
however, one that he seemed prepared to allow.

He was likewise curious over Idosso's insistence that Conan's perhaps
being the notorious Amra should be kept a secret. So curious, indeed,
that he asked Idosso about it, in tones that would brook no silence.

"As simple as a Fish-Eater," Kubwande said, then asked pardon for the
insult of calling Idosso by that name.

"One day you will ask pardon for your tongue's nimbleness and I will
reply by pinning it to the roof of your mouth with my spear," Idosso
said. "I am not a tame ape, to be made to perform until you can sell me
to the Stygians. You sell me to anyone, Kubwande, and you will go there
with me."

Kubwande assured the chief that buying and selling anyone except a few
more women was as far from his mind as the Mountains of the Moon were
from the hut where they sat and drank beer served by the Fish-Eater
women. Idosso grunted what might have been assent.

The lesser chief took it as such. "Do we know that Tigress and her
mistress are gone? Has anyone seen their bones?"

"If Amra tells the truth, he went to some trouble to be sure that no
one would."

"If. Or he might be spying on us for her, while she finds new men and
readies ships to come upriver."

"We will fill her new men and her old alike with spears if she does
that," Idosso said around a mouthful of mealies. "Her, too, if she is
as brazen about leading her fighters as the tales have it."

"Should we do that before we know what she wishes in these lands?"
Kubwande asked. "Remember, a dozen tribes have given warriors to her
crew. Hardly a single tribe has any feud with her, or she with them.
And we are no better friends to the Stygians than she was. Since either
of us were warriors, has a year gone by when their slave-raiders have
not needed to be chased back into their own lands, with spears prodding
the laggards?"

Idosso laughed at the picture, not least because he had led such war
parties more than once, and made much of his reputation thereby. "So.
You think maybe Amra is spying for one who might be a friend of his?"

"I do not know otherwise. Until I do, this man is like a dagger hidden
in one's loinguard. Do not bring it out before the right time, when it
will strike a single deadly blow."

Kubwande could see Idosso's wits struggling to grasp what the other
truly meant. He waited in patience. Better if the man understood it
without aid.

"He!" Idosso exclaimed at last, and tossed the beer gourd so high it
stuck in the grass of the hut's roof. "We keep Amra's secret, and he
may talk to us alone among the Bamulas. If his mistress has friendship
to sell, then she will sell it to us. Whoever brings the Queen of the
Black Coast to friendship with the Bamulas—"

He did not finish. There was no need. Kept a secret, Amra would be a
dagger to thrust into the bellies of rivals for the ivory stool of the
war chief. Thinking that, Idosso was content to let his ambition rule
him. And Kubwande, well aware of that ambition, knew that he might rule
Idosso.

At least for as long as necessary. One could not keep the peace with
such a man forever, even if one pretended friendship for him. He was
too quick to anger and too slow to think.

But the blood-feud might be like the concealed dagger or Amra,
something to be brought out only at the proper time.

***

Conan knew nothing of the intrigues among the chiefs of the Bamulas.
Had he known, he would have cared much less than Kubwande hoped, at
least until someone insulted Belit's memory.

Then doubtless his temper would have got the better of him and it would
have been a red day in the history of the Bamulas before the Cimmerian
went down under the sheer weight of spears, if indeed he went down at
all. Foes as formidable as the Bamulas had in the past thought long
odds meant a dead Cimmerian, and had ended as food for the vultures
before they could learn greater wisdom.

Conan intended to leave the Bamulas in peace; he hoped they would do
the same and not give him any cause to change his mind by mistreating
the women. If they were thus amenable, they could fight all their
neighbors, none of their neighbors, themselves, demons, or the very
gods, without troubling his dreams.

He was more wary of the Fish-Eaters. Doubtless they would learn the
truth about the women's disappearance. Doubtless also, they would in
time consider avenging themselves on a foe they could overcome, which
would not be the Bamulas. Conan added more snares to the paths around
his refuges, which began to look like lairs, slept lightly, and kept
weapons to hand every moment, waking or sleeping.

He also set fish-traps in certain streams. Tigress had carried away
more loot than gold and jewels from her prey—weapons, ships gear, and
food among them. The food had often failed between one prize and
another, however, and during those long days, nets and lines went over
the side. The catch went into the bellies of Belit's sea-wolves, either
at once or after some while in barrels of salt brine.

Belit had always jested about fish being food for lovers and insisted
that Conan eat his fill to be a fit consort for her. On the whole, he
did not think that anything short of starvation could kill a man's
interest in a woman like Belit. But while he held her, he held his
peace… and grew accustomed to fish.

So when he found a stream that ran deep but no more than two
lance-length's wide, and abounded in strange but succulent fish, he
turned his hand to catching some of the bounty. Saplings and reeds,
with thongs of grass and vine coated with plant sap to keep them from
rotting, were enough for his purpose.

He soon had three traps set, close enough together that he could visit
all of them once at dawn and once at twilight. He had them placed where
he thought that both he and they were safe from prying eyes and greedy
hands.

***

He was right, at least about human eyes and hands.

On a still night, Conan awakened to the roll of thunder. But his
near-animal keenness of instinct found something wrong with the
thunder.

It had come not only without rain, but without wind. He would not say
that it had come without clouds, for here one could not see the sky
without climbing trees taller than the towering pines of the Border
Kingdom.

He listened, ears searching the darkness for the slightest sound that
might tell him more. He heard nothing but the common night birds and
insects of the jungle, with their rasps and shrieks, their whines and
chirrs, as they sought food or mates.

The Cimmerian slipped from the hammock that was one of the few comforts
he had taken from Tigress before she sailed on her last voyage. His
feet made no more sound than that of a leopards, and his hands, guided
by night-keen eyes, moved surely as he girded on his weapons.

After the thunderclap, the silence had lasted too long. Natural thunder
did not come in single claps.

Something not of nature, or at least not of the jungle, was abroad
tonight. Conan did not know whether he could fight it, or even if it
would be worth his while to do so. But he knew that it was always
better to be the hunter than the hunted.

He stalked rather than strode as he swung in a wide circle around his
lair, a circle that took him toward the principal stream in the area.
He disturbed ferns and grass, branches and vines, hardly more than one
of the great cats would have done, prowling the jungle in search of
prey.

Now he searched the night with every sense alert, one hand on
sword-hilt, spear in the other hand, dagger on belt, and two more
spears slung over his back. Even a leopard plummeting from above would
have found the Cimmerian no easy prey, for besides bearing ample steel,
he looked upward with every few breaths.

Halfway around the circle, Conan had found nothing amiss. He had begun
to think that his ears, or the jungle, had deceived him, drawing him
out into the night on a fools errand.

He kept on, however. As long as he walked this path, it would do no
harm to pass by his fish-traps, saving himself the journey in the
morning. Also, he knew that the jungles of the Black Kingdoms held much
that he did not know of. He had come a long way from the young thief in
Zamora, more boy than man, only less clumsy than an ox and so ignorant
he did not even know that he was ignorant.

At first, Conan thought the growls ahead did come from one of the great
cats, mating or feeding, perhaps wrathful at being disturbed. Then he
heard a deepness in the growls that spoke of a beast larger than any of
the cats—or indeed, of any other creature of the jungle.

The hippopotamus and elephant grew larger than the cats, to be sure, as
did the crocodiles. None of them growled. Conan walked softly now, and
his broadsword rode free in a weathered, scar-knuckled hand.

At the last moment, he swerved aside from his usual path to the stream
and slipped through the undergrowth to a spot that he knew would let
him see without being seen. If this was a natural creature, that is; he
remembered the single thunderclap, and the Vendhyan who babbled of "the
demon's gate."

It was a natural beast Conan saw from his hiding place, and indeed, one
he had seen before. But nothing in nature had ever brought it here.

It was one of the great snowbears of the far north, beyond not only
Cimmeria, but the lands of the Aesir and Vanir. The hardiest of
northerners, men who could trade blows all day and hoist mead horns all
night, walked softly in the presence of the snowbear. It was twice the
height and five times the weight of a large man, swift as a ferret,
with teeth a finger long, and claws like daggers in all four
platter-sized feet.

It was also nothing that the Black Kingdoms had ever seen. Nor, as far
as the Cimmerian knew, was there any land within half a year's travel
that had seen them, or any mountains closer by to offer one a home of
snow and ice.

The bear showed no signs of any long journey. Its thick white fur hung
damply from flanks unsunken by hunger, and the gaze in the chill black
eyes held no weariness. Conan had fought serpents whose gaze held more
warmth than the snowbear's.

From what Conan remembered of northern tales of the snowbears, they
were great eaters of fish. So it surprised him hardly at all when the
bear ambled to the stream, thrust a paw in and came up with Conan's
fish-trap and all the fish within it. The fish-trap slithered onto the
bank, the fish twisting and flopping.

The bears paw came down like an axe. Stout reeds and well-tied knots
parted like rotten threads, and fish flew everywhere. One flew higher
than the rest. The bear reared, opened its mouth, and plucked the fish
out of the air with the ease of an Argossean youth playing street-ball.

In that moment, the bear's vitals lay open to a shrewd blow from spear
or arrow. It was long range for a spear, but Conan wasted not a single
breath regretting that he had no bow.

Propelled by a thick Cimmerian arm, the spear struck with the force of
a shaft from the heaviest of Bossonian longbows. A hand'sbreadth left
or right and the fight would have been over in the same moment it
began.

Ill luck—some fault in Conan's aim, or perhaps a puff of breeze—sent
the spear astray. It drove through fur and skin but struck a rib before
doing any harm.

The bear reared again, its growl becoming a roar. One swipe of a vast
paw plucked the spear from its chest. The shaft flew again, driving its
point a finger'slength deep into a stout tree.

Then the bear charged at the Cimmerian, as unerringly as if more senses
than natural guided it and as fiercely as any beast the Cimmerian had
ever faced.

Conan flung a second spear, thanking Crom as he threw that he had
brought three. The bear swerved as the spear left Conan's hand, and the
spearhead only gouged fur and skin along one flank.

The Cimmerian thrust with his sword, not made for thrusting but longer
than the bear's forelegs. The tales of the snowbears told him of more
than their food. They made it plain that no man ever came alive out of
reach of those paws.

The point sank in, and the bear twisted, roaring like all the fires of
Set's dark abyss. Conan jerked his sword free, hope dawning as he made
to thrust again. The beast shuffled forward and batted at the sword.

The blow all but numbed the Cimmerians arm. A trifle more force to it
and it would have swept the sword from his hand. He flung his third
spear, aiming at the snowbears eyes, and this time his aim was true.

The bear reared up, the spear dangling from the bloody ruins of one
eye. Conan could have thrust again, but his awareness of the ground
told him that this was folly. The bear had hemmed him in against
several stout trees. If his thrust miscarried, he would have nowhere to
flee to when the foe charged again.

So he darted to one side, slashing hard at a forepaw. His sword sheared
claws from the right paw, making the bear roar again. It was shaking
its wounded paw furiously as the Cimmerian leapt through the first gap
in the trees large enough for his massive frame.

In among the trees, the bear's greater size would be more burden than
blessing in its pursuit of the Cimmerian. He could go where it could
not, and strike from hiding places its one remaining eye could not find
in the darkness.

He could slay it without coming within reach of those forepaws, Mitra
willing! There would be no peace for a man in this land with the
snowbear hunting free, and Conan did not think the Fish-Eaters were the
folk to put an end to it.

The bear was willing enough to follow the Cimmerian's trail. Its wounds
had enraged it; Conan doubted that it had any thought but to rend and
tear what had hurt it.

The bear also seemed clumsier at this task than the Cimmerian had
expected. Perhaps it had lost the scent of its prey among the
unfamiliar odors of this new land. Perhaps, like many northern
creatures, it had slept during the Time of Endless Night and so had
poor night-sight.

Regardless, the Cimmerian soon found himself at his wits' end for a way
to bring the beast into some trap where he could fight and it could
not. After what seemed half the night and oaths sworn by all the lawful
gods of every land he knew, he saw it evade his fifth (at least)
attempt to bring it to bay.

"By Erlik's brass tool, I'll have that beast's hide for a new hammock
yet!" he vowed. He gave more ground, and this time he stepped through a
wall of vine onto a trail. Moreover, he stepped onto the trail in plain
sight of a clearing where at least two-score Fish-Eaters were crouched
with spears and war clubs.

Conan cursed again, but his loudest oaths were drowned out by the cries
of the Fish-Eaters as they leapt to their feet and waved their weapons.

"The woman-stealer and demon-bringer Amra!"

"Kill the lion-man!"

"Wash the spears! Wash the spears! Wash the spears!"

For a folk commonly called peaceful, the Fish-Eaters seemed to be
remarkably zealous for war against the Cimmerian.

Conan had no quarrel with the Fish-Eaters, and indeed wondered why they
called him a demon-bringer. "Fear makes folly," was all he could think
of.

"Ha!" he thundered. His bull's roar beat down the Fish-Eater's cries.
Heads turned, but for the moment, no spears flew.

"I am no demon, but in those trees is something worse than any demon I
ever saw. It could eat lions. It will eat you and your children if we
do not slay it now!"

That was as far as Conan went before the Fish-Eaters started shouting
again as they had before. The Cimmerian felt a mighty urge to leave
those fools and the bear to amuse one another and make his own way to
safety.

But he had insulted the Fish-Eaters to make peace with the Bamulas. He
owed it to them not to add injury to insult.

In the next moment, the matter was taken out of Conan's hands. The bear
lunged and crashed into view, streaming blood and roaring now like a
volcano in full eruption. Its growls drowned out the Fish-Eaters and
its charge turned their cries at Conan to howls of fear, then of agony.

Two Fish-Eaters died in that first charge. Others were wounded, either
by lighter swipes of the paws or by their fleeing comrades knocking
them down and trampling them. Spears flew, but few struck and none
drove deep.

The bear whirled, striking with left and right paws in succession, like
a human adept at the pankration. More bloody furrows opened in black
skins, but there were some stout hearts under those skins. Conan saw
one man—no, boy—run in with a long-tined fishing trident and thrust it
deep into the bear's unhurt leg.

Then the lad died screaming as the creature whirled, bending like a bow
to clamp its jaws across his belly. The screams ended as the fangs
reached his vitals. The bear tossed its head, then flung the corpse
away and turned to seek new victims.

Conan saw that the Fish-Eaters might fight with the courage of despair
but had neither weapons nor craft to contend with the beast. Nor would
it be easy for him to best it in the open, where it could whirl about
in its own length to face and strike seemingly in every direction.

An icy chill ran down the Cimmerian's spine, even in the heat of the
jungle night. Had the dying Vendhyan spoken the plain truth, that
demons had a gate through which to send men and beasts where nature
would not allow them?

Demon-sent or no, however, the bear was flesh and blood. It could be
slain, and with the battle-fury upon him, Conan knew that if it was
not, he would not see another sunrise.

The Fish-Eaters were making a wide circle around the bear, some braver
than others darting in to drag away the bodies of their dead. The most
courageous of all thrust their spears, but their courage only cost them
their lives. The bear still had one eye, much vigor, and a hide too
thick for the light spears of the Fish-Eaters.

Conan waited only long enough to be sure that the Fish-Eaters saw him.
Whether they could tell him from the bear, he could not be sure.
Whether they would check their throws even if they could was still more
doubtful.

The one thing Conan did not doubt was that a warrior's honor demanded
the creatures death.

Spears did fly as he plunged at the bear, but two missed and he plucked
one out of the air. A fourth only grazed one shoulder blade. Then he
was moving too fast for the Fish-Eaters to follow him as he closed with
the bear, sword in one hand, spear raised high in the other.

He was also moving too fast for the bear. It was slow to turn to face
him, and Conan let out a roar of triumph. That roar seemed to finally
put the beast in fear. It shook its head in confusion and pain, as if
its wounds were finally besting its fighting spirit.

Conan dared to close. He flung the spear from just outside touching
distance, and it pierced fur and hide. The bear turned, snapping with
blood-dripping jaws at the shaft in its side. Doing so, it offered the
Cimmerian the back of its neck.

Even a good broadsword driven by both of Conan's arms was unequal to
slaying the bear at one blow, and from that, the Cimmerian nearly died.
The bear forgot the spear, remembered his old foe, and spun, both paws
striking at Conan, who was leaping backward after his sword-blow. One
paw struck him, and fortunately it was the right paw, from which he had
already sheared half the claws. Otherwise he would have been gutted
like a sheep carcase and flung down upon the bodies of the dead
Fish-Eaters.

That was the bear's last blow. Blood gushed from its neck wound,
staining the already much-stained white fur. It lay down, then settled
its head on its paws. It growled a final defiance as one Fish-Eater
drew close, then rolled over on its side.

Conan saw the light go out of the bears remaining eye, and he was all
but tempted to sing a death-song for it, as for a vanquished human foe.
Snatched from its own land and flung out here in the stifling jungle,
it had done its best to live and had met death with a warrior's
courage.

Then the Fish-Eaters were all around the bear, blocking Conan's view of
it, thrusting with spears and hammering it with clubs… all except one
man, older and slighter than most of his comrades, and wearing an
elaborate feathered headdress taller than he was.

This one pointed a cunningly wrought stick at Conan and shouted: "The
demons war among themselves! Kill Amra and we will be done with them!
He has slain his rebellious servant. Now it is his turn to die!"

At least that was the sense that came to the Cimmerian. It took a while
for it to reach the Fish-Eaters, deafened by rage, blood-lust, and
triumph.

It took no time at all for Conan to realize that the Fish-Eaters'
gratitude would take the form of spears in his gizzard. That was a
reward he had no mind to wait to collect.

"Crom!" he snarled and spat on the ground. The Fish-Eater chief jumped
back, as if he expected to see flames arise where the Cimmerian spat.
Then he jumped again as Conan snatched up a spear.

That was not enough. Conan's throw sent the spear clean through the
fancy headdress, impaling it like bait on a fisherman's hook. The spear
flew on to sink deep into a tree trunk and stand there quivering, with
the headdress dangling from the shaft.

Before the Fish-Eaters stopped gaping at the sight, the Cimmerian
turned his back on them and strode off toward the stream. If the bear
had left any fish at all from the ruined trap, he would carry off a few
for food on his journey to the Bamulas.

Before he reached the stream, the thunder came again, a single clap,
followed by a long rumble dying away into the ordinary sounds of the
jungle night. Conan halted, weapons ready, looking back on his trail
for signs of pursuit by Fish-Eaters, bears, demons, or anything else.

He saw nothing and heard no unnatural sounds, nor any further thunder.
The bear might be dead, but whatever had brought it to the Black
Kingdoms from the frozen lands of the north was still abroad in the
jungle.

Four

"So the Fish-Eaters did not follow you?" a Bamula whom Conan did not
recognize asked.

Conan's brows drew together. He fought an urge to loosen a few of the
fellow's teeth. Under their dark skin the folk of the Black Kingdoms
had every virtue and every vice he had met elsewhere. One vice was
asking questions asked ten times before, merely to hear the sound of
their own voices.

"Is this a counting-house in Shem or a council hut of warriors of the
Bamulas?" the Cimmerian growled. He looked at Kubwande. "Or has someone
forgotten to tell others what I told him?"

Kubwande spread his hands in a placating gesture. "I have told as many
as have asked."

"Well, the next time hold them down and shout it in their ears, or I
will do it for you," Conan said. He grinned, to take the menace from
the words.

The Bamula warriors did not relax their guard. Stout fighters every one
of them, they knew that none of them could have done half of what Amra
had done. This made him the master of any warrior at the council, even
if less than half of his tale was true.

"The Fish-Eaters did not follow," Conan went on, measuring the silence.
"But if you think this means they bear me any goodwill or expect me to
be their man among the Bamulas, think again. Or use your heads for
brewpots, for they hold no wits!"

His look invited anyone who wanted to take the insult seriously to do
so, as long as he had mourners enough for proper rites afterward. None
of the Bamulas accepted the invitation, and after a moment more of
silence, Idosso let out a gusty laugh. Beer-laden breath washed over
the Cimmerian as the Bamula chief shook and quivered.

"Of course the Fish-Eaters would not follow this lion among men," he
said at last. "They have the courage of she-goats, if that. And to
think of a lion obeying the commands of such goats! Sooner think of me
doing it!"

That signaled the other Bamulas to join the laughter. Conan looked
around at the faces, noting how they watched Idosso. Clearly, these
were the warriors and petty chiefs loyal to the big qamu. Just as
clearly, both Idosso and his followers expected Conan to join their
ranks in return for their offering safety among their tribe.

In that, too, the folk of the Black Kingdoms were like all other men
Conan had met and fought.

This time the urge he fought down was to toss his beer in Idosso's face
and follow the beer with a good measure of Aquilonian steel. Conan's
dagger was much closer to his hand than any of these folk seemed to
realize. His patience with their treating him as a witling was also
much closer to its end.

No, there was one among them who seemed to see clearly. The one whose
name he remembered as Kubwande was nodding. "I doubt that the bear left
half the Fish-Eaters fit to walk, let alone fight. And who among us
would trail this wounded lion with less than a score of comrades?
Idosso maybe, but who else?"

Everyone seemed to decide that it would flatter Idosso if they agreed
with Kubwande. Conan saw heads nodding and hands thrusting gourds and
wooden cups of beer toward him. He accepted them all. A man could drink
enough of this jungle brew to float Tigress without fuddling his wits,
if he had any to begin with.

"More beer!" someone shouted. Others took up the cry, and one man began
pounding a drum.

The grass curtain across the door parted and two women entered. Their
clothing consisted of heavy ivory earrings and necklaces of scarlet
wooden beads. Both were young and slender, just out of girlhood, but
one of them moved like a crone of seventy winters.

Looking more closely, Conan recognized the two Fish-Eater women he had
allowed Idosso to carry off. The slow-moving one in her turn recognized
him. Her look carried a wish that the wrath of all the gods descend on
the Cimmerian and the claws and teeth of fifty demons rend him. It was
a change from the last time he had seen them, when they seemed to think
he might sprout teeth and claws if they yielded to him rather than to
Idosso.

"Ho!" Idosso shouted. "Fresh Fish, are you doing as I told you, when
you look at a sworn guest that way?"

Conan could recall no guest-oath, but he did not care to call Idosso a
liar to his face. The woman clearly recalled much, and none of it
agreeable. She knelt, and Idosso surged to his feet, one vast fist
clenched to descend in a blow that might have broken the woman's skull
or snapped her neck.

The blow never landed. Idosso had touched the Cimmerian's honor too
closely already by giving those bruises that Conan now saw on Fresh
Fish's otherwise smooth and well-oiled skin. Clearly, the big man's
word to treat them well had been worthless, and Conan would not see
them suffer further, even to buy peace with the Bamulas. Either the
suffering or the peace would end.

Conan's arm shot out and five sinewy fingers clamped on Idosso's wrist.
The Cimmerian let the thrust of Idosso's blow pull him to his feet. In
rising, he jerked Idosso off balance. The Bamula would have fallen on
his nose at the feet of the women had not the Cimmerian held him in
front and Kubwande and others from the rear.

"You dare—!" someone began.

Conan cut him off. "These women came to me. I allowed them to go to you
because they seemed to fear me and you promised to treat them
honorably. Now it seems that you have given them reason to fear you
more than me."

Idosso snarled, shaking himself free of his helpers. "Any man would
have done the same. Or is your blood as milky as your skin, Little
Lion, that you know nothing of women?"

Conan released his grip and stepped back. The women gaped at him,
horror warring with dawning hope on their faces. "If you want to see
the color of my blood, Idosso, try to take it," he said. "Or take a
Cimmerian at his word, and remember what you promised to these women!"

Idosso looked ready to leap at the Cimmerian, until he caught
Kubwande's eye. Then he contented himself with cursing eloquently.
Finally he grabbed each woman by an earring, jerked them to their feet,
and all but flung them at Conan. They fell back to their knees,
struggling with the pain of their bleeding ears, and each grasped
Conan's legs.

"Take them, then, and may you have much joy of a better man's
leavings!" Idosso snarled. "Take them, and be out of Bamula lands
before nightfall, or—"

Idosso's threat died unuttered as a sweat-drenched warrior flung
himself through the curtain and fell at the chief's feet. The big man
gaped at this portent, then Kubwande signed the man to rise.

"What is it?" Idosso demanded.

"The demons struck again," the newcomer gasped. "In Dead Elephant
Valley, they have taken a village."

"Taken?" Conan exclaimed. "Carried off, you mean?"

Either the man did not understand him or did not recognize him as one
with the right to an answer. Only when Kubwande (again!) signaled did
the man begin to speak.

Conan listened to a tale of a village assaulted by beasts out of a
nightmare. They had the forms of apes but the scales and sharp teeth of
gigantic lizards, as well as the ravenous appetite of starving lions. A
score of the villagers were dead, as many more hurt, huts, grain
stores, and livestock ruined, and altogether as much harm done as a
band of hostile warriors could have contrived.

He also saw the eyes of warriors searching him for some sign of
foreknowledge. It seemed that the Fish-Eaters were not the only ones
who suspected him of being such an utter fool as to deal with demons!

Conan muttered curses under his breath, wishing himself and the women a
long way from the land of the Bamulas. But wishes were not fishes, nor
even Fish-Eaters in strength enough to protect the women should he
return them to their kin and tribe.

The Cimmerian added curses on the whole race of women, except one whose
spirit now walked with the spirits of other valiant warriors. Without
the two wenches, there'd be no cause for him to quarrel with Idosso. It
would be his choice, to stay among the Bamulas or to set his feet to
the nearest trail and blink the smoke of their huts from his eyes for
all time.

"Idosso, my friend," Conan said. "It is too great an honor, these two
fine women. I must do something more to earn it before I can take them
with a good heart."

"So?" Idosso's growl was still that of a bear's, but one disturbed from
sleep rather than enraged or hungry.

"So I think we'd best all be on our way to Dead Elephant Valley and see
this demon's work," Conan went on. "If I help the Bamulas fight these
demon-spawn, then I will take the women for my household. But by Crom,
I will earn that household before I take any women to it! Conan of
Cimmeria accepts nothing like a bone thrown to a dog, and the Bamulas
had best remember that!"

It took much less than Conan's knowledge of men's eyes to read those of
the Bamulas. Surely this quest will prove Amra either a great warrior
or a friend of demons, all the eyes said.

Only Kubwande's were unreadable. Conan measured the lesser chief,
wondering if his life among the Bamulas might be easier if the man was
not quick enough to escape one of these demon-spawned lizard-apes.

But to every man his fate. Conan would accept his when Crom sent it,
and not push another into death's path when that other had as yet done
him no harm.

Then he looked down at the women. Their eyes were even easier to read
than those of the warriors. The women's eyes held a wish that Conan be
found worthy of some rank that would allow him to protect them. A short
while at Idosso's mercy seemed to have left them indifferent to whether
he was black or white, brown or purple, yellow like the folk of Khitai
or spotted like the Dog Men of old tales, if only he could stand
between them and the Bamula chief.

Conan drew the women to their feet and rested one brawny arm lightly
across each set of slender shoulders. "Well," he growled to the
assembled warriors. "What say the Bamulas? Or are they going to stand
gawping, until I have to find my own spears and mealies and make the
journey with only these wenches for help?"

After that, it seemed that the Bamulas could not swear to the bargain
fast enough.

***

In the Pictish lands of the north, Lysenius had exhausted his curses.
This was as well, as he had likewise exhausted his daughter Scyra's
patience. She had even ventured to speak sharply to him about wasting
his strength and frightening those Picts within hearing.

"Any Picts that close are weaklings!" was his reply. "Best I frighten
them to death, before they breed weakling sons!"

"Some of them are sure to do so," Scyra said, smiling. "How many of
them can marry me?"

Then her smile faded as her father cuffed her, not angrily but not
lightly either. "No jesting, girl. There're ten clans that would follow
us if their chiefs had hopes of getting sons from you."

She held the shadow of the smile on her face until her father turned
away. Even then she did not ease her stance or lower her head until she
heard his footsteps passing out of the chamber, down the passage…

Down the passage to the other chamber, where he would wrestle with his
Stygian scrolls. Wrestle not altogether in vain, and always with great
earnestness, as he sought true mastery of the spell of the
world-walker. He wished not to merely use the spell about the world at
random, but to master it so that he could pluck anything (or anyone) he
wished from one chosen place and send it to another.

The girl shivered from more than the chill of the cave. She had heard
in her father's nighttime mutterings hints that blood-sacrifices might
help one master this and other spells. The blood of near-kin, by
preference—and she was the only kin her father had yet living in all
the world, let alone in this cold land to which she had followed him
because she would have been doomed as he in the land where they were
born.

The blood of near-kin—or the blood of many victims. Would she have to
choose between being the sacrifice herself or being wed to some
bandy-legged Pictish chief so as to buy the blood of a score of his
warriors, wives, and slaves?

The shivering passed. Now what the girl felt was an inner queasiness.
Also, deeper within, a firmer resolve than before to increase her
knowledge of her fathers wizardry.

He had said little enough, one way or the other, about her learning
magick. What she had learned, she had learned carefully, because even
before the quest for the demon's gate began, she knew that magick gone
awry was an unforgivable crime.

That care took its price, though. She had to snatch her time with the
scrolls and phials from her other work, work that was entirely hers
from the time her mother died. Years before the yeomen of the land came
with bows and ropes in search of her father's life, no servant would
spend a night under the Cave Wizard's roof. She cooked and cleaned,
washed and mended, and by candlelight after all was done, scraped up
knowledge of a few lesser spells.

That knowledge would no longer be enough. Use those lesser spells to
heat the soup or to lure birds into the snares? Why not? Every moment,
every drop of sweat, saved from her work meant freedom to spend
increasing her own knowledge.

Her father would not notice how she did the work. He would notice only
if she failed, as had been his way even before her mother died.

Mother, you could have saved both me and Father, by not dying. He might
not have heeded you, but alive, you would not need the vengeance that
has consumed him.

But that was a foolish girl's wish, and her time for being either a
girl or foolish was rapidly nearing its end. Every day brought her
closer to the time when she would be either woman-wise or dead… or
wishing that she were.

***

Somehow, Kubwande was not surprised when the man who answered to both
"Conan" and "Amra" brought the two Fish-Eater wenches with him on the
trek to Dead Elephant Valley. Anyone who would risk a quarrel with
Idosso over such women was hardly a man to leave them in the very
village where Idosso had a dozen sworn friends who would avenge the
slight to his honor by killing the women.

Of course, such friends would not have won through. It would have been
their blood trailed on the dirt of the village paths, and their
hyena-gnawed bodies found on the edge of the forest in the morning.

Some of those Idosso thought were his friends were sworn to Kubwande by
still more potent oaths (and many good cows had it cost Kubwande to
purchase the binding of those oaths from the wizards and wise-women).
Others were friends only to Kubwande and no other among the Bamulas. A
man who feared the fate of those who stole from wizards or lay with
their sisters would do far more than guard a pair of Fish-Eater women
for the man who held their secret.

Shedding the blood of Idosso's friends to keep Conan among the Bamulas
was gambling, of course. But since he first learned of the game of
chance, Kubwande had never gambled save with bones he had carved or
shells he had painted himself. Now his game-pieces were men, but he
still took care that they were of his own making, unlikely to do
anything to surprise him.

The only question, in the innermost recesses of his spirit, was whether
the white warrior was not even more accustomed to gambling, and for
higher stakes, than Kubwande or any other among the Bamulas.

Then, after two days' swift march, warriors and women alike came to
Dead Elephant Valley, and there was no more time to play luck-games
with men, or even to think about it.

Five

The village was a sight to daunt even the Cimmerian, who had looked on
such more times than he had years, and sometimes when friends or allies
lay stark and bloody in the ruins. This village at least was one of
strangers.

Even from two long spear-casts away, one could tell that more than
elephants now lay dead in the valley. Closer to hand, the stench rose
like a wall, and the air seemed so thick with the reek of death that
one could cut slices from it with a dagger.

Not all the huts were ashes, ruins, or the tombs of their inhabitants.
Some yet stood, and in their shadowed interiors Conan glimpsed still
more shadowy figures, furtive and fleeting.

Emboldened by the coming of the Bamula war party, a few of the hardiest
villagers crept out into the gray dawn light and began to move about.
They still avoided, as if it were the mouth of the underworld, the
center of the village, for there the dead lay thickest.

As the sun climbed higher and burned off the mist, turning the sky from
gray to blue, insects began to gather. One sight seared itself into
Conan's memory: a babe who could not have seen out his first year,
slashed open from throat to belly, and one leg ripped from its socket.

Flies hummed around the eyes of the tiny corpse, and other, less
familiar insects crawled over the rest of the blackening body. Nor was
the small corpse intact even apart from its wounds; other
carrion-eaters had been there before the insects.

In the middle of the human corpses lay the body of one of the
lizard-apes. Braving the stench, Conan strode forward to within a
spear's length of the dead "demon" and studied it. Rather as he would
have noted the armor and weapons of a dead foe from a host he had never
met before, he noted the beasts apparent strengths and weaknesses.

It had an ape's long arms but longer legs than most apes Conan had met,
as well as a stumpy tail. Short spines ran up its back from the base of
the tail to the neck, then resumed on the head as a crest. With the
butt of a spear, Conan prodded the scaly hide, more resistant to
weapons than any ape's but clearly not impenetrable. Half a dozen
spears, as many arrows, and a portion of skull crushed in deeply by a
club swung with desperate strength, bore witness to that.

Conan shifted the spear-butt to the beast's mouth, prying open the
jaws. Most of the teeth were caked black with dried blood and shreds of
human flesh, but Conan saw that they were more like a leopard's than a
gorillas. In their native land, these beasts ate flesh.

"But not in this land," the Cimmerian said to himself. "By Crom, not in
this land! Not again."

"Eh?" Idosso asked, then covered his confusion with a bellowed war cry.
Carrion birds, feeding on corpses at the fringes of the village, flew
up squawking and screaming. The villagers flinched as if Idosso himself
had turned into one of the lizard-apes.

"Well, Amra, does all this sniffing and poking tell you anything?" he
growled. "It is said you have more than a man's senses."

"Much is said, by those who know nothing," Conan replied. At Idosso's
scowl, he added, "Wise men such as you and I do not listen to them."

The diplomacy acheived the effect the Cimmerian had hoped for. Idosso's
scowl turned into nothing worse than the frown of a man trying to think
what to do next. Conan already knew, and likewise was sure that Idosso
would hardly welcome advice.

"The back, guard the women and bearers," the chief shouted. "Chest and
belly, ring the village. Arms, to me." It was the Bamulas's custom to
divide any large war party into four divisions, each named after a part
of the human body. The arms were the vanguard, scouting ahead. The
chest and belly were the main body, supposed to be the strongest and
fiercest warriors. The back brought up the rear; its warriors were
commonly either youths newly given their spears or older men not far
from putting their spears into the roofbeams of their huts, the Bamula
ritual for declaring oneself an elder.

It had not surprised the Cimmerian to learn that when both chiefs
carried spears in another's band, Kubwande had marched with the arms
and Idosso in the belly.

Conan held his tongue as the Bamulas moved to obey Idosso. He also
stepped back from the center of the village, so that he would not have
to hold his nose.

The Bamulas moved in obedience to Idosso. Some were clearly swift,
skilled, and alert enough to please any captain. Others were merely
trying to pretend the best they could. It was the same mixture that
Conan had seen in other hosts, save those who were either handpicked
from proven warriors or rabbles snatched from the streets and farms by
some lord's sergeants.

The Bamulas would hardly prevail against an equal force of seasoned
troops from some civilized land, but then they wouldn't have to. Their
warriors did well enough against rival tribes, and they held their own
against the occasional slave-raider, darting in from the sea or across
the Stygian frontier to pluck a village's worth of live merchandise. It
remained to be seen whether they would be equal to the task they now
faced, that of fighting demons, or at least creatures hurled into this
land by sorcery as vile as any demon.

Conan strode over to Idosso. He made the greetings of one chief to
another slightly higher in rank, as well as other gestures of respect
he had learned from the Suba warriors aboard Tigress. He hoped that
none of these were insults among the Bamula.

"Speak, Amra," Idosso said. He had command of his voice, but when the
chief spoke, Conan could hear a hint of weariness—the result of the
battle he had fought to become chief.

For once, the huge Bamula had the Cimmerian's sympathy. Conan's own
early battles as a captain were not forgotten, nor the indescribable
pleasure of facing the unknown and pretending that it was neither
frightening nor confusing.

As a pleasure, it ranked just ahead of drinking bad wine or embracing
aged serving wenches. It was also quite as common a part of the
warrior's life, and Idosso was just going to have to take it as one
more of the gods' favorite jests.

"I doubt that I've anything to say that you haven't long since thought
of yourself," Conan said. "Have any of the folk of the village come
forward to tell the tale of their slaying the beast?"

"No, but what can they teach our warriors?"

Conan almost forgave Idosso's arrogance for his saying "our." Being
soft-spoken to pale-skinned strangers was clearly no pleasure to
Idosso, but it was an art he was prepared to master if called upon.

If Kubwande thought the big man was too witless to be other than the
smaller man's puppet, he might have a rude awakening in store for him.
Probably in the last moments of his life.

"The gods only know, but I cannot help wondering," the Cimmerian said.
"These lizard-apes look like natural creatures, the same as the boar
and the bear. Warriors' weapons can take their life. But how many
warriors will die in so doing?"

"Do you think Bamula warriors fear death?" Idosso did not raise a
weapon. His voice made such a gesture needless.

"Less even than I," Conan said. "But even a Bamula warrior might think
twice about dying before all the demons were slain. If we trade our
lives for the lives of this band of lizard-apes, what happens when the
next band comes through the demon's gate?"

Idosso looked as close to uneasy as his face allowed. Conan pressed his
advantage.

"Any man might fear seeing his village used as this one has been—his
women carried off, his sons gutted like that babe there."

Idosso looked, and his face worked. "Then let us find the demon's gate
and close it."

"Aye, and with our own living flesh if need be. But we shall hunt it
with more knowledge if we speak to the villagers first."

Idosso stood like a vast ebony image. Then his head jerked, hard enough
to make the crimson feathers of his headdress dance like branches in a
gale.

"Let the arms search the village," he shouted. "Bring all fit, to speak
to me! At once!"

The warriors of the arms thumped their fists on the earth at Idosso's
feet. He spat where they had thumped. They struck their foreheads with
their open palms, formed into pairs, and ran off, spears in hand and
shields on their arms.

"Am I permitted—?" Kubwande asked. He seemed to have sprung from the
earth, but Conan was hardly surprised. The gift of silent movement was
one a man like Kubwande would surely need.

"Not alone," Idosso growled. "You have no lizard-scales with which to
keep a spear out of your unguarded back."

Conan neither smiled nor shouted for joy. He only said, "Would I be
good enough to guard it?"

"Am I worthy of being guarded by Amra—?" Kubwande began, to be
interrupted by the Cimmerian.

"Flatter one who will listen to it," Conan said.

The Bamula looked as though he had been slapped. The Cimmerian wondered
if he had spoken too plainly, or perhaps said something he had not
meant. His command of the Black Kingdoms' tongues grew almost daily,
but it was far from perfect.

"I have been a warrior in many lands, and on the seas," Conan said. "I
have not been a warrior in this land nearly as long as you have. You
must know things I do not, if you are not a babe in arms."

"If he is, then a stranger babe was never born of women," Idosso said.
"Go and seek what you may find, unless you both think I need nursing?"

Neither Conan nor Kubwande stayed to answer that question.

***

Conan and Kubwande found less to do than they had expected, until they
reached the farther edge of the village. The folk from the nearer huts
had taken the brunt of the lizard-apes' assault, and those who had not
died had mostly taken to their heels. Those left were mainly the aged,
the young, or those caring for them.

These the other Bamula warrior-pairs were vigorously seizing, dragging
out of their huts, and all but beating with clubs to learn what had
happened. Kubwande admonished a few warriors who seemed sure to attract
more fear than knowledge, just before Conan would have done the same.

That was as well, the Cimmerian knew. The villagers were Lesser
Bamulas, whose dialect was somewhat apart from that of the Greater
Bamulas whom he had met first. The villagers could have offered to
guide him to the demon's gate, and he might have been slow to
understand. Also, it was too soon to put to the test the willingness of
Bamula warriors to obey his commands.

The two men stalked onward. Each kept his eyes roving over the huts,
livestock enclosures, and fields. Out here, the huts were mostly
intact, if empty, but too many of the enclosures and fields showed the
passage of the lizard-apes. Where the cattle and goats did not lie
gutted and fly-blown in patches of dried mud mixed from blood and soil,
the fences lay smashed flat and the freshly sprouted grain and yams
trampled into the earth.

A few villagers peered out of huts, more boldly than Conan had seen
before. Some of them were young women. He thought of sending back to
the baggage train for his two maidservants. Perhaps they could get some
sense, or even knowledge, out of these village wenches.

No warriors appeared, not even the graybearded or newly fledged. The
bodies strewn on blood-hued earth doubtless accounted for a good many
of them, and others had surely stayed with the fugitives. But Conan
wondered if that was all the warriors that Dead Elephant Valley had
boasted on the morning the lizard-apes came.

He said nothing and indeed put the matter almost out of his innermost
thoughts. But his eyes now searched the huts with more care than ever.
Also, when he thought the head Bamula was not looking his way, he cast
an eye on Kubwande.

***

In the Pictish lands, Lycenius's wrath had long since taken him past
cursing, into a morose silence. Before the silence came, however, Scyra
had learned that he had a new problem with the world-walker.

Once the problem had been to keep it open. Now it was open at both ends
and would not close. The gate ran from a remote part of the jungles
south of Khitai to somewhere in the Black Kingdoms. Though this was
more knowledge than he had usually possessed before, it was useless as
a midwife's pain-charm for closing the gate.

It was not that Scyra cared much for the fate of the jungles and their
remnant of a race from before the dawn of man. She cared hardly more
for the Black Kingdoms, full (or so she had heard) of fierce warriors
to whom a score of monsters could hardly be more than a brisk day's
martial exercise.

She did care very greatly that frustration and failure could drive her
father ever closer to the edge of madness, or even over it. Nor was
there a great deal she could do to prevent it. She might try to heal
him if he slipped beyond that edge, or at least care for him, but to do
either, she would have to be alive.

It was the knowledge that she might soon be at the mercy of her own
resources, which were small, or of the Picts, among whom "mercy" was
near-kin to a curse, that kept her at work. The hides were easily
filched from the store in the cave; the spells she had largely fixed in
her memory.

It was the herbs and unguents that gave her the trouble now. Neither
could be easily filched from her father's stores in sufficient quantity
without his being warned. Later in the year, if the peace with the Owl
Picts held, she might gather the herbs herself, but now the Owls did
not guard Lysenius's lands, which were just awakening to the new
spring.

With the gods' favor (she had invoked all save Set), she would be apt
for a short time of shape-changing. If that short time was not enough,
she would face the choice of remaining in animal form forever or
turning back to face her father's wrath.

She might even be driven to praying and sacrificing to Set, if she
thought the Lord of Serpents could spare her that choice.

***

In time, Conan began to wonder if the "village" of Dead Elephant Valley
stretched all the way to the Suba lands, or perhaps to the sea.
Certainly he and Kubwande had already covered ground enough to hold
some of Turan's smaller cities, or a merchant prince's estate in Argos.

At least they were leaving the slaughterhouse stench behind, which must
be growing riper as the sun climbed higher. Now the orb blazed from
above all but the highest treetops, stripping the last shreds of mist
from the jungle and awakening those birds and beasts of daylight, who
had slumbered until dawn. They added their sounds to the rising din of
the jungle, until Conan could no longer hear his own footsteps and had
to raise his voice for Kubwande to hear him.

He had noticed that no other Bamula searchers were in sight, and even
their footprints were few and sparse. One could tell the Bamula
warriors' prints from the villagers'—the villagers wore footgear that
spread the great toe wide apart from the other four toes. Kubwande and
the Cimmerian were some distance from friends, whom they might need
should they meet enemies.

They met neither friend nor foe for about as long as it took a skilled
dancer in a good tavern to divest herself of her garments. During that
time, they reached a part of the village—or perhaps it was another
village—where the huts thrust themselves deep into dense second-growth
jungle. Or perhaps it was the jungle growing back among the houses.

However it came about, the few huts were low and rude, almost lost in
walls of stunted trees and lank vines. The fields seemed to cower
before the onset of the jungle. Only the cattle-pens and the fowl-runs
rose stout and well-made, everywhere set about with thorns.

Conan had seen such care taken in other lands, where beasts of prey
roamed close to human habitation. A babe or child, even a servant or
lesser wife, taken by the leopards was of small moment. Loss of a cow,
or even a calf, spelled disaster.

That at least was not the Cimmerian way. For a moment, Conan looked
back across the years, as he might have looked down a well, to consider
his involuntary leave-taking from his homeland. On the times he had
returned, he had found nothing to make him less a wanderer. When he had
found Belit, he had thought it might be a good sign that the gods
blessed those wanderings.

Now she was gone, and again he wandered alone. He hardly cared where
those wanderings ended, or when. But he had more than enough pride, to
be sure that neither an oaf like Idosso or a schemer like Kubwande
would make an end of him without a fight that storytellers would still
remember when the world was old.

Conan shortened his stride until he was level with Kubwande, then a
trifle ahead. He had no need to be at Kubwande's back, and indeed that
might give offense without cause and bring a quarrel without purpose.
Neither would he give Kubwande a clear look at his back. Enough that
the women were a long way behind him, tending the baggage and no doubt
well-guarded—as long as Idosso wished them so.

The ground began to slope down, and through leather-tough soles Conan
sensed dampness underfoot. They passed a fish-trap that had once been
very like the Cimmerians, and was now rent savagely apart, as his had
been, by the ice bear. Then the ground dropped away, and they stared
down a path that broke the wall of vines, giving passage onto a shingle
beach, and beyond the beach, a view of a muddy stream.

The stream was hardly more than thirty paces wide, but judged by the
current in the middle, it was too deep to wade. Also, as with most
streams in the Black Forest, it was doubtless home to crocodiles and
river-horses.

Conan slung his shield and spear to free both hands, then leapt down
the last few paces of path to the beach. Gravel hurled by his landing
raised spray from the river and sent a swirling rainbow of fish darting
for safety.

"What are you doing?" Kubwande sounded truly concerned for the
Cimmerians safety.

"Looking for boats. If anyone has gone on from here, they're in a boat.
It may have left traces."

Kubwande's face hinted that searching for anything short of a pile of
gold this close to the river was less than wise. Conan kept on with his
search, kneeling at times to examine the gravel, being careful to turn
his back neither on the water nor on Kubwande.

At last he rose and stared downstream. "Two boats were here, I think.
Both are long gone. All the footprints look to be the villagers'. No
signs of crocodiles or river-horses."

"What about the lizard-apes?"

"I'd not wager on recognizing their prints. But do you see signs of any
kind of fight?"

Kubwande studied the beach and the path, then the masses of vegetation.
He was plainly determined to prove as skilled a tracker as the
Cimmerian, but also unwilling to pretend to see what was not there. An
honest streak, or only enemies whom he feared might make common cause
with the Cimmerian?

Conan laughed. Honesty in such as Kubwande was as rare as chastity in
tavern wenches, whether they were white, black, yellow, purple, or
green. The iqako had also mistaken his man if he thought Conan would
stoop to making common cause with one set of intriguers against
another. If matters came to that pass, he'd shake the mud of the Bamula
lands from his feet and fight his battles elsewhere.

"What is the jest, Amra?"

It tempted the Cimmerian to give Kubwande a truthful answer. He might
even have yielded had he thought for a moment the man would believe
him.

"A thought came to me. Have the villagers fled the lizard-apes only to
fall prey to river-horses?"

"Only the river-spirits know, and they seem slow to speak today."
Kubwande shrugged and turned his back on both the Cimmerian and the
river as he climbed the bank.

He had just reached the level ground when the vegetation rustled, tore,
and disgorged a half-score village warriors. Some of the men of the
village had survived demon-sent lizard-apes, fear, and any perils of
the river, to seek vengeance with spear and shield.

There could be no doubt, either, about the object of their vengeance.
"Slay the demon-master!" one screamed, and flung his spear straight at
Conan. The Cimmerians shield leapt up, catching the spear in midflight
and knocking it into a wild arc. It soared high over all heads and
vanished in the mud-hued river.

The next spear Conan met more boldly. He snatched it from the air,
whirled like an Iranistani dervish, and flung the spear butt-first the
way it had come. Also butt-first, it struck a warrior, just above his
loinguard. He doubled over, dropping shield and remaining weapons, then
sat down abruptly, gasping, groaning, and spewing all at the same time.

Three more spears followed, but Conan's feat had dazzled eyes and
slowed arms. All three spears sank deep into the thick leather and
tough wood of his shield; none of them came anywhere near his flesh.

"I am no demon-lover!" Conan shouted. "Kubwande, you speak their
tongue. Tell them that. Tell them that I can give their spears back
butt-first, so they can use them against the demons. Or I can return
them point-foremost, if they try to kill me."

Kubwande shouted. It slowed a few of the villagers but stopped none.
Four of them half-slid, half-fell, down the bank and came at Conan with
spears held low or clubs brandished high. If they could not slay the
demon's master from a distance, they were ready to fight, kill, or die
at close quarters.

Fighting men who were determined to kill, without shedding their own
blood, was the most demanding sort of fighting. It was also an art in
which the Cimmerian was not as skilled as he now wished. For most of
his years, his battles had been against those who sought his life, and
there was no reason not to take theirs.

Matters were otherwise now. The villagers had lost scores of people to
the lizard-apes' teeth and claws, and they would lose more to the
perils of jungle and river before all the fugitives returned. Conan had
no wish to weaken them further, or to make them enemies, when their
strength and friendship might help solve the mystery of the demon's
gate.

So he wielded shield and spear as he might have done in a tavern brawl,
where honor rather than life was at stake. As he had the advantage of
reach on all of the warriors, this went well at first.

Conan rammed the shield up under the jaw of one man, while thrusting
with the spear-butt into the thigh of another. Both men went down. Then
he swung the spear clubwise to the temple of a third man. The man's
headdress, shield, and war club toppled, and a moment later he measured
his length on the beach among them.

That reduced the number of opponents on their feet, and the ardor of
those left standing. Conan saw Kubwande driving two others back up the
path, shield and spear dancing almost too fast for the eye to follow.

He hoped the Bamula would have the wits to end the fight without ending
his opponents' lives.

Then three more villagers leapt down onto the beach. That restored the
enemy's strength, and they began spreading out to either side,
seemingly to trap the Cimmerian with his back to the stream. One of the
newcomers was young, hardly more than a boy, and with the rash courage
of youth, he ran into the water, hoping to outflank the Cimmerian.

Conan was trying to look in all directions at once, when the splashing
of the boy ended in a louder splash. The horror in the villagers' eyes
told him what made the second splash, even before he heard the bellow
of a river-horse.

The Cimmerian whirled and leapt in a single motion, landing clear of
the circle of warriors. One obstinate villager thrust at him. Conan's
spear danced and came down across the mans wrist. He yelped like a
kicked dog and stumbled out of range, cradling his wounded hand in his
sound one.

The river-horse had the lad gripped in its massive jaws now. But Conan
saw that by some god's whim, the boy was held in a gap between the
beasts teeth. None of the tushes, long as a short-sword and
razor-edged, had pierced his flesh.

Water fountained as the Cimmerian leapt into the river. His club
blurred in an overhand stroke that could have taken a bird on the wing.
Instead, it took the river-horse squarely across the nose. The beast
reared back, jaws gaping.

Even Conan's thews protested as he lunged with one arm to grip the boy
by the loinguard and snatch him from the jaws. With the other arm, he
drove his spear deep into the roof of the beasts mouth.

The river-horse bellowed like a dragon and churned the river like a
school of sharks in a feeding frenzy. It tried to snap at the boy, then
at Conan, but the firmly embedded spear kept it from closing its mouth.

The Cimmerian held the boy at arm's length, examining him for wounds as
he waded to the bank. "Here," he said, setting the boy on his feet.
"Find a wise-woman for him and he'll do well enough. Better than you
will the next time I find you naming me demon-master!"

The villager gaped. Then one of them ran forward and embraced the boy,
which was all that kept the lad on his feet. Conan saw that the man's
hair and beard showed gray, and judged he was the lad's father.

Meanwhile, the river-horse was thrashing about in the shallows, trying
to be rid of the spear. Conan had thrust it in too deep for easy
dislodging, but not deep enough to reach the beast's brain.

Maddened with pain like this, the creature might roam the river for
days slaying many, before death came. Conan knelt to replenish his
stock of spears, then turned and waded back into the river.

As the water reached his knees, he heard a mighty shout and a fierce
splashing. Before he could turn, a rush of village warriors nearly
knocked him off his feet. He had barely regained his balance before the
villagers surrounded the river-horse, thrusting with spears, slashing
and stabbing with daggers, even pounding on the tough hide with clubs
as they might have pounded on signal drums.

The death-cries of the river-horse might have been heard as far as any
drum, too. At last they ended, and the beast floated dead in bloody
water. It took the united strength of all together, Conan included, to
drag the river-horse out of reach of the current.

"Not out of reach of the crocodiles, though," Conan said. "Best we go
back to the village and bring up a few more spearmen, and all the women
to cut the carcase apart. I didn't wrestle that beast to give the
crocodiles a banquet, by Crom!"

He had to speak three times before Kubwande seemed to understand. Even
then, the warrior was slow to retrace his steps. The Cimmerian had time
to receive the barely coherent thanks of the man whose son he had
saved. The man was named Bessu, a lesser chief; his son was Govindue.
Conan hoped both would speak for him in Dead Elephant Valley. There was
precious little he could do in their land if he had to fear demons
before and spears behind.

Conan also had time to prowl the bushes where the villagers had hidden.
He found little that he had not expected, and only one thing that gave
him any unease.

It was footprints leading to and then from the bushes. No villager's
footprints, either, from the way the toes stood together. On a bush not
far in from the bank was a blue feather. The villagers wore few
feathers, and none blue that Conan had seen.

It was a rare Bamula warrior, on the other hand, who did not sport more
blue feathers than any other color in the headdresses all were wearing
today.

Conan's face was sober as he retraced his steps to the village, but all
took it for the look of any man who has just escaped a death-grapple
with a river-horse. None asked questions he could not readily answer,
and soon the meat from the river-horse was roasting over cookfires and
boiling in pots, sending more wholesome odors to war with the carrion
stench.

Six

Conan climbed a hand'sbreadth higher on the branch, the height of a
temple tower above the jungle floor. The branch swayed and creaked
softly.

He climbed another hand'sbreadth. The branch sagged, and now the
creaking held a sinister note, like the creaking of the ungreased
hinges of a tomb door in the least-frequented part of a graveyard.

Conan considered that from where he was, he could see little. He
considered that after a fall to the jungle floor, he would see even
less, if he saw anything at all with living eyes.

Belit would not welcome him with open arms if he perished through a
boy's folly. And speaking of boys—

"Govindue!"

"Here, Conan!"

"Where is here?"

"On the largest branch on—I think on the far side of the tree, from
you."

It sounded to Conan rather as if the boy was in the next tribe's land,
but the tree they had climbed was large. Also, the Cimmerian's ears had
been accustomed to wide spaces, by land or sea. The jungle had a
wizard's power to twist a foot snapping a twig, or even the fall of a
drop of water, into something that sounded unnatural, whose distance
one could not judge easily or sometimes at all. This made Conan no
fonder of the jungle than before, but it was not beyond his power to
learn the art of judging the distances in this land.

"Do you see clearly?"

"Yes."

"What do you see?"

"The tops of all the trees in the world, a sky that promises rain, and
many birds."

"Any strange ones?"

Conan could almost hear the boy shrug as he replied. "There are many I
do not know. But some are so far off that no one could make out their
breed. Also, I do not know all the birds of the jungle."

"You see a trifle more clearly than some warriors twice your age,
Govindue. You know what you do not know."

"Is this important?"

"Only if you want to live to twice your age, lad."

It sounded almost as if Govindue was laughing. Then Conan heard: "Are
you coming higher to join me, Conan?"

"If I do, the next you'll be hearing of me is when I hit the ground and
spatter like a ripe melon."

"Tell me when you fall, Conan. I want to watch."

"Your father said I might regret saving you. I begin to see that your
father is a wise man."

From safely on his side of the tree, Govindue made a rude noise. Then
he laughed, and the Cimmerian judged that the lad was resuming his
watch over the roof of the jungle.

***

Conan and Govindue were not the only hunters for the demon's gate who
were perched in tall trees, gazing out over sunlit treetops. Many other
warriors, Greater and Lesser Bamulas alike, were aloft, not altogether
certain of what they looked for but praying that nothing unusual would
escape their eyes between dawn and dusk.

When all who sought the demon's gate had taken counsel together and all
had spoken and been heard, it became clear that the demon's gate was
not open at all times. When it was open, however, it had come to open
very nearly the same place each time.

The first task, therefore, was to find this place. And the first
suggestion Conan made was to begin the search from the high ground.

"There is no high ground in the jungle," a Bamula of Idosso's faction
reminded them all.

"A watcher can do as well from atop a tree as from a cliff or the crest
of a hill," Conan replied. "All he needs are sharp eyes and keen wits,
which makes me doubt you could do much if we hung you by the heels from
a cloud."

All laughed, even the man himself. Conan judged that a good sign. It
was not within him to curry favor by meekness.

In Nemedia or Aquilonia (or so Conan had heard), a band of warriors
such as the demon-hunters would note each coming of the demon-spawn on
a map. The Bamulas knew nothing of maps, however. Conan had used maps
in Turan and afterward as a mercenary, and charts while aboard Tigress,
but he was not equal to teaching the art of the map to the Bamulas.

What the Bamulas did know was the jungle they had roamed since they
were boys, and how to give Conan at least some of that knowledge. It
was not hard to make in their minds a picture of a great circle, formed
by the appearances of the demon-spawn.

A child could then understand that the gate must open and close
somewhere within that circle. All that remained was to watch the
circle.

Some of the Bamulas, currying favor with Idosso, and some of the
villagers, bent on vengeance, wished to watch from the ground. To hide
in trees like a monkey, they said, was for women, and for men with milk
instead of blood in their veins. Some were bold enough to look at the
pale-skinned Cimmerian as they said that.

Kubwande heaped scorn on those men like coals on a roasting fowl. "The
jungle hides so much that all the tribes of the land together could not
watch such a circle. Also, the demon-spawn are best not watched far
from the ground."

"The ghosts of our kin will haunt us if we flee battle!" a villager
snarled.

"If you watch from the ground, you will join your kin without a chance
to avenge them!" Conan said. "None of these demon-spawn are fit prey
for a single warrior. Face them alone, and you will prove yourself a
brave fool. Face them with your comrades, and you will go to your kin
with the foes' blood on your spears!"

He looked at the village chief. "Is not that the truth of it, Bessu?
Did you not slay the lizard-ape while working together, after those who
sought to be heroes were all dead?"

Govindue's father nodded. "Amra has seen the truth. By the spirit of my
daughter, I swear it. These spawn must be fought by many against one.
The many can come together only if they are warned. Only from the high
places can the warning come swiftly."

So the watchers climbed aloft, the drummers settled down where they
could hear the watchers and speak with their drums, and the warriors
waited to hear the summons of both watchers and drums. All that
remained was for the gate to again open itself, so that the watchers
might see.

The demon-hunters had been watching and waiting now for ten days.

***

Conan had no intention of climbing down the tree and leaving Govindue
to watch alone. Instead, he sought a more secure perch that would still
let him see something besides a curtain of leaves.

He had just reached a point some five spears' length below Govindue
when the boy cried aloud, surprise mingled with fear in his voice.
Conan unslung his spear and gripped a stout branch with one iron-thewed
arm. With the other hand, he used the spear to push the leaves aside.

It might have been a small bird close at hand. A hunter's instinct had
told the boy, and now told the Cimmerian, that it was a giant far off.
How far, Conan could not judge.

Plain to anyone's eyes, beyond the bird was an unearthly shimmering in
the air above the jungle roof. It seemed a waterfall, all but solid
with golden-scaled fish—which was impossible.

If this was not the demon's gate, then there were two creations of
wizardry abroad in the jungle. Conan stared at the shimmering,
squinting against the sun. He gave it his whole attention, trying to
fix its position in relation to other visible objects.

It did not help that all those visible objects were the tops of trees.
Conan's jungle lore grew daily, but he was not yet master of the art of
telling trees apart at a glance.

He had just noted that one tree had a jutting three-sided crest, when
Govindue shouted again. The branches quivered as the boy slid down to
dangle beside him.

Conan now saw it also. The bird was sweeping toward them, as if it
scented either prey or enemies. Conan had no intention of being the
first, nor was he well-equipped to be the second, with only a spear and
a dagger.

The bird turned in the air, seeming to stand on one wing. Each wing was
the size of a ship's foresail. Turning, the bird revealed a repulsive
belly the hue of dried blood, half-bare and surrounded by molting
feathers of sickly gray and the green of swamp scum.

It's beak was the hooked weapon of a predator, and if that had not made
it's diet plain, a carrion reek wafted over Conan and his companion as
the bird flew by.

Govindue lowered himself onto Conan's branch, which creaked but did not
sway. With one hand, he gripped a light branch, with the other, he
raised his spear.

Conan put a hand on the boy's shoulder and shook his head. "We will
never have a better chance," Govindue said. "Warriors do not skulk."

"We are warriors with other tasks than fighting," Conan said. It went
against every instinct hammered into him in his years of war to say
this, but truth was as plain as the stink of the bird. As long as the
bird lived, it might fly back to where it had come from: the shimmer,
which might be the demon's gate, or whatever other place unnaturally
linked this jungle with the bird's home.

Which "others," the Cimmerian wondered. He had never heard of the
jungles of Vendhya harboring birds the size of a war chariot, but even
Vendhyans did not know all the denizens of their forests. Vendhya held
wide expanses of rank forest where no man ventured lightly, and few of
those who ventured at all ever returned.

As the bird flew past for a second time, Conan saw that the neck was
even barer than the belly, and scaled as much like a serpent's as like
a bird's. The eyes glared a venomous yellow and seemed to drip a pallid
ichor.

Then the bird was coming for a third time, and it did not turn.
Instead, it spread its wings wide with a thunder of air and a viler
reek than before, and halted itself in midair. Long, claw-tipped toes,
four on each foot, reached out for Govindue.

They never touched their goal. Warriors' instincts commanded both Conan
and the boy. Each launched his spear simultaneously. A heavier weapon
driven by a stouter arm, Conan's spear thrust deep into the bird's
reeking breast. Govindue's flew straight to a more vulnerable target,
one glaring eye.

Carrion breath nearly stifled the warriors, and the bird's shrieks of
rage and pain almost deafened them. They clung like apes to the
branches as the great wings thrashed wildly. Leaves, twigs, birds'
nests, and the odd monkey showered down around them.

The bird plummeted away and out of sight, then reappeared farther off,
climbing slowly. Blood oozed from one eye and added further hues to its
breast. All but holding his breath, as patient as a great cat eyeing
its prey, the Cimmerian waited. Waited for the bird to either flee
toward that distant shimmering or return to the attack.

It did neither. Instead, it folded its wings and plummeted down into
the jungle. Branches crackled and splintered. Then came a mighty blow,
making Conan's tree shiver like a fence post struck with an axe.

Smoke poured up through the branches, greasy dark fumes that reeked of
burning flesh. Conan drew a scrap of bark cloth from his loinguard and
clapped it over his nose. At last the unnatural stench faded. Govindue
was trying to look in all directions at once, as if he expected another
bird to fling itself at the tree. He gave little care to a secure perch
or grip, and Conan made ready to catch him if he slipped.

Then the tree shivered again, worse than before. The shivering passed
briefly, only to return. This time it continued.

Suddenly Conan saw the horizon tilting, and heard sharp cracks as wood
fibers thicker than a man's arm tore like threads. Somehow severed by
the bird's funeral pyre, the tree was toppling.

Conan reached up and grabbed Govindue. "Hold tight, lad. There's no
riding this one down. We'll have to leap for it."

Govindue was silent. Limber and agile as he was, he knew his master. He
threw his arms around the Cimmerian's massive torso as Conan flexed his
legs, stretched out his arms, and leapt.

As their first tree fell away from them, they plunged across open air
and landed in a second tree. A branch caught the Cimmerian across the
chest, knocking the wind from him and bruising Govindue's hands. The
boy used his feet to keep himself from plummeting to the forest floor,
then hooked one arm painfully over a branch. The tree under the two
swayed and creaked as its falling neighbor tore vines, splintered
branches, and crushed everything beneath it into the forest floor.

Smoke and dust streamed up through the gap in the forest roof, as if
the bird's funeral pyre had reignited.

Conan and Govindue stared down at the corpse of the tree, seeking some
traces of the corpse of the bird.

They saw nothing, save on either side of the severed trunk, a patch of
ashes that might have come from wood, flesh, or leaf. Even the smell
had vanished with what seemed miraculous speed.

No, with sorcerous speed. The demon's gate was letting greater and
viler magick into the jungles each time it opened. This latest
trespasser had immolated itself without harming more than trees. The
next one might be as deadly as the snowbear, and as tenacious of life
as a great serpent.

As Conan clambered down the tree, it struck him that learning where the
demon's gate was might not be so great a victory by itself. Not if the
gate was defended by creatures such as had come through it thus far, or
even by more formidable ones.

There would indeed be grief among the kin of the hunters for the
demon's gate before the hunt was done and the gate closed.

***

That night Lycenius cursed softly and fell asleep in his northern cave
long before his daughter Scyra.

When she at last also slept, she knew still more about the
world-walker, and much of the new knowledge gave her sinister dreams.
The gate was transforming creatures that passed through it, a little
more each time. Never in nature would that bird have burst into flames
as it had.

Her father had never been fully master of the world-walker's powers.
Now those powers were growing in ways that it was not meant for mortals
to understand. It seemed that her father had tried to link the
world-walker with the Pictish Wilderness instead of with Vendhya, and
then close it. The link was uncertain, but there could be no doubt that
the world-walker remained open. Was it to remain thus until it had sown
chaos in whatever lands it might link?

Scyra slept then, and dreamed of the gate twisting so that it linked
the Black Kingdoms and the Pictish Wilderness. She dreamed of warriors
leaping—unchanged, by some sorcerous logic—through the gate and
striding up the hill, led by one gigantic in stature, if blurred in
features. A broadsword swung at his hip, she knew, and long black hair
flowed from a nobly held head.

If he was coming for her, at least he was no Pict. Indeed, he looked
fit to fight the warriors of any three tribes of that ill-natured race.

Seven

Conan and Govindue were not the only gate-hunters to see the shimmer
above the treetops. Indeed, other watchers had studied it longer, not
having to contend with giant birds. (One man was bitten by a tree adder
and died of it, but this was an uncommon fate for those who searched
the jungle, nor did it smell of sorcery.)

Each of the climbing watchers described what they had seen, some with
more care than others. Kubwande listened to all alike with great
attention, and beside him sat Idosso, seeming to listen as intently.

Conan also listened, and was pleased to recognize a fair number of
places where he had wandered before the demon's gate opened. It was
good to know that he had not lost his power to swiftly learn the lay of
a battlefield.

Of course, he had intended the jungles to be a refuge from the sea and
all the bitter memories it held. It was distant and malignant sorcery
that had turned the land into a battlefield, and the demon's gate that
held the key to defeating that sorcery.

Now it seemed that the warriors held the key to finding the demon's
gate. Or so Kubwande said.

"We should watch the slope dawnwards of River-Horse Crossing on the
Afui," he said. "Some should watch aloft, some from the ground. All
will need their finest weapons, and hearts girded with courage."

"Then we are ready for the hunt," Idosso said. "All are armed and
brave, and let no one doubt it."

Conan could have laughed at Kubwande's face, which was a study in
hiding his anger at being chided by his friend. It would have been
unwise, however. Plainly, the two chiefs were rapidly becoming as much
rivals as allies in the quest for the demon's gate. The honor of
closing it would be a warriors dream, and past friendships would be of
little account.

Such rivalries were nothing new to the Cimmerian. In many lands over
many years, he had snatched everything from pearls to chieftainships.
One day he might snatch a throne, although that was not something he
valued as much as some did. A king was not nearly as much his own
master as folk thought, and he was a fixed target for his enemies.

What prize Conan might find in the Black Kingdoms he hardly knew and
did not much care, as long as it made him no more enemies than those
with whom he could contend. That would be more than he had so far, of a
certainty.

The Black Kingdoms bred stout warriors. Cimmeria bred still stouter
ones.

***

They marched to the banks of the Afui in a dawn that hinted of rain not
far distant. Mist rose from the trails and spiraled upward, to veil
saffron-hued flowers and clusters of drumfruit, a deep, glossy purple
worthy of a royal robe. Insects chirred and whined high and low.

Conan marched in the vanguard with the arms. He had not seen the two
women since the night before last, but they had showed no hurt then.
They might have grown a trifle thin-flanked, carrying waterskins and
mealie sacks, but their bruises had healed and their eyes rested
approvingly on the big Cimmerian.

The party split to move along three trails as it approached the Afui.
Conan judged that this might take the men on each trail out of reach of
help from the others. It would also bring more warriors up to the river
at one time. Time and the gods would tell which was the greater risk.

Idosso seemed in rare good spirits this morning. He even tried to sing,
until Kubwande gently urged him to silence. Conan knew the lesser
chiefs prompting was due to the nearness of wild animals, but doubted
that was the only reason. The Cimmerian had no great ear for music, but
even to his ear, Idosso bellowed as loudly and harshly as a rutting
bull.

The ground sloped for the last few hundred paces, the paths winding
down toward the riverbank. At last Conan led his warriors out into the
open ground, where once there had been a sizable village, but long
before the demon's gate opened, a tribal war took it. Now the jungle
was taking back even the ruins.

There were plenty of hiding places, but few of the men chose to use
them. Most stood on the bank, staring across. Ripples in the water
hinted of river-horses, crocodiles, and carnivorous fish lurking in the
sluggish depths.

Beyond the water lay a circle of clear ground. Something like the foot
of a beast still more gigantic than an elephant had stamped it out,
crushing small trees, bushes, flowers, ferns, and vines into an
ill-smelling paste.

Conan studied the clearing from the near bank. It was not pressed into
the earth at all. Only the vegetation had suffered—and, Conan saw,
nearby trees. More than a few of them showed signs of branches lopped
and bark peeled with unnatural precision. A great fungus, an
unwholesome white—blotched still more unwholesomely with umber and
black patches—stood half-whole, half-crushed, with crawling insects
further blackening the crushed portion.

When Conan saw the other parties appear in the open, he began studying
the bank, looking for a way across. He had no intention of swimming
that river, nor of examining the mysterious circle without a line for
swift retreat. If that circle was not the demon's gate, it was still
something with no rightful place in the jungle.

The Cimmerian cupped his hands. "Ho!" he snouted. "Bearers with axes
forward." The heads of Bamula axes were of an iron too easily dulled
for Conan's taste, but there were many of them, and the Bamulas were
skilled in all manner of woodscrafting. It would not take long to fell
a few small trees and bind them with vines into a light bridge.

Not long, after the axes came up… so where were they? Conan cupped his
hands to shout again; then his hands fell to his waist, clenching into
fists as they did.

The axes were coming, bound across the backs of the two women. One of
the wenches limped, the other had one eye swollen almost closed.

"Crom!"

Conan's gaze swept the riverbank as he turned in a full circle. His
hands remained clenched, but he kept them away from his broadsword. Too
many spearmen stood about him, ready to throw before he could reach
them.

Idosso met the chill rage in the northerners eyes with a set jaw and
level stare of his own. He also kept his hands from his weapons, but
challenge was in every muscle and in every feather of his ornate
headdress.

Conan knew that Idosso (urged on by Kubwande?) had set him a direct
challenge. Moreover, it was one that he would find it hard to meet
either way. Fight Idosso and even if he won, the band would be divided
and forced to accept a stranger for leader on the eve of battle. (If
challenging the demon's gate was not a battle, Conan wished some kindly
god would tell him what it was!)

Refuse, and Idosso would preen himself as one whom even mighty Amra
dared not challenge. Also, the lot of the women would be even more
wretched, and this latest beating far from the last or the worst.

Conan understood that Idosso was the kind of man who needed a firm hand
the moment he challenged you. There had been some like him aboard
Tigress, until Conan and the mates reduced them to order. Others too,
many others, stretching back to Cimmerian villages…

He should have met Idosso's challenge the first time it was offered and
laid him out next to the dead Vendhyan! But—better late than never.

Conan unbuckled his sword-belt and let it fall. A gesture brought the
women over, one to pick up the fallen weapon, the other to hand the
Cimmerian one of the axes.

Idosso looked bewildered. Good. Kubwande was not whispering in his ear.
Or perhaps this challenge really was no idea of the iqako's?

"I am Amra. I'll not take the advantage of a sword against a spear."

"Ha!" Idosso sneered. "You'll take the edge of my spear, and when you
do, no woman will look at you again."

Conan shrugged. "Better than you. No women ever looked at you, save as
one who sees a snake in her bed."

Idosso's mouth opened, but no sound came out.

The silence told Conan that work on the bridge had also ceased. He
rounded on the wide-eyed men by the stream. "Keep at work instead of
gaping, you mud-grubbers! Or I'll be after you when I'm done with this
overgrown lout!"

Silence replied. Fearing treachery in the silence, Conan turned. His
eyes widened. He also found his tongue frozen, and a bitterly cold
sense of the presence of ancient evil crept along his backbone.

A golden shimmering was growing in the air over the cleared ground.
Already it was higher than most of the trees, and climbing higher
still, in utter silence. The golden light dappled leaves and struck
sparks on even the murky water of the Afui.

Conan detected a spiral motion beginning in the golden shimmer, but
heard no thunder, and indeed, not the slightest sound. He saw Bamula
warriors performing rites of aversion and young Govindue staring, his
jaw sagging halfway to his chest. But the lad had his spear raised in
one hand and his shield advanced on his other arm. Whatever ancient
horrors might be rising along this river, he would meet them like a
warrior.

For a moment, Govindue made Conan feel ancient. The Cimmerian himself
had been no older than the boy when he first knew war. He wished for
Govindue at least as many years and as much luck as he had enjoyed, and
shifted his stance. He would not willingly take his eyes off either the
apparition across the river or Idosso on the near bank.

The huge Bamula stood with his spear trailing on the ground and his
shield halfway down his arm. Either he did not fear treachery from
Conan or he was too bemused to think of his weapons.

A moment later, however, everyone had cause to think of their weapons.
Not all had time to use them before death struck.

Death burst from the trees in the form of the most gigantic of all
lizard-apes. Its glaring red eyes could have stared into those of an
elephant, and its claws and teeth torn out a bull's throat.

It limped, from a festering wound on its left leg that oozed yellow. A
spear had left a barely healed gouge across its ribs. One eye was
half-closed by the scab over a scalp wound. Clearly, the beast's
sojourn in the alien jungle had brought it across the paths of humans
more than once. From the brown smears across its muzzle and on its
forearms, none could doubt the fate of those humans, dying even as they
left their mark.

Its ordeal might have slowed the beast, but it had also taught it
cunning. It approached silently, so that it was almost upon the
rearmost men before they knew their peril. Then it charged into their
midst, kicking and clawing wildly.

Hammer-blows of clawed hands flung bleeding warriors to the ground.
Kicks sent others flying. Some landed rolling and leapt up to rejoin
the battle. One, slashed open from throat to belly, landed almost at
Conan's feet and did not move. The Cimmerian snatched up his fallen
sword, leapt over the body, and closed with the lizard-ape, sword in
one hand, axe swinging in the other.

Spears flew wildly, flung by desperate men who had forgotten that
friends stood between themselves and the enemy. One spear skewered a
village warrior in the buttocks. He leapt and howled, then cried out in
a different voice as the lizard-ape ripped open his shoulder.

With the courage of desperation, the warrior reached behind, snatched
the spear from his body, and thrust wildly. The spear-point sank
through scales into flesh, but a furious buffet from one long arm flung
the valiant villager aside. He fell and lay still, his skull crushed
out of all human semblance.

A woman's scream checked the Cimmerian's rush into battle. He slowed,
searching for the wench without taking his eyes off the lizard-ape. New
wounds had slowed the beast further, but those of its ilk seemed to be
as tenacious of life as any creature he had ever fought. He thought it
had clutched one of the women, but it lumbered forward with bloody paws
empty.

Not the lizard-ape, but Idosso had brought forth the scream. The big
man held Chira, one of the two women, with his fingers wound in her
hair. She struggled and spat at him, but he mastered her as easily as
he would a child.

Then he gripped her by loinguard as well as hair, lifted her high, and
flung her straight at the lizard-ape. She screamed again. The beast
caught her before she struck the ground, and its teeth fastened
themselves in her throat. The screaming crescendoed in a welter of
blood.

In the next moment, the ghastly meal ended as Conan lunged forward. He
plunged the axe's blade in the massive skull, then slashed the beast
across the muzzle to force it to turn. Beast's blood and woman's blood
both showered Conan as he struck again, this time a thrust through the
ribs with all his gigantic strength behind it.

The fine Aquilonian steel was bent and nicked when the Cimmerian
withdrew the blade, but the lizard-ape was as dead as the Empire of
Acheron.

Conan jerked the axe free next, then glared at Idosso over the two
corpses, beast and woman. He lifted the axe, ready to throw, judging
its balance. He really wanted to choke the life out of the brute with
his bare hands, but anything that left Idosso dead was better than
nothing.

The axe never flew. Idosso roared with surprise and pain and whirled.
The other woman—Vuona, Conan remembered—leapt with a gazelle's grace
from the reach of Idosso's arms. In her hand she held a small but
well-made dagger. It's blade dripped Idosso's blood.

The huge Bamula lunged at Vuona. He only hooked her loinguard, tearing
it away. Nudity did not slow her flight.

Idosso flung the spear he had held ready for the lizard-ape, but it
only grazed her ankle. Then she was running with the speed of mortal
fear down to the river.

Whatever might be in the river terrified her less than Idosso did. She
leapt into the water without breaking stride, then splashed furiously
across. Bare and dripping, proud and slender, she rose from the water.

Idosso snatched another spear from the nearest warrior. He raised it to
throw, but Conan closed and chopped down, wielding his sword
left-handed and holding another axe in his right hand. The blade might
need a smith's attention, but it could hack through a Bamula spearshaft
as through straw.

Conan stepped back and tossed his weapons, snatching the sword out of
the air with his right hand, the axe with the left. He spat on the
ground, then put his foot on the spittle and rubbed it into the earth.

"Come on, Idosso, brave against women. Come, and end underfoot like
that."

Idosso roared a wordless challenge filled with mindless fury. Then a
great cry arose, freezing the warrior to the spot and making Conan
turn.

Vuona still stood on the opposite bank, but now her hair rippled as if
in a strong wind. She stared at the demon's gate with the gaze of a
bird ensorceled by a snake. Conan thought he saw sparks of light
dancing over her skin.

"Vuona!" he shouted. "Back!"

She seemed to hear—at least he thought he saw her shake her head. Then
she took two steps forward, lengthened her stride with a third, and
broke into a run.

Ten paces brought her to the edge of the golden spiral. Its light now
gilded all her dark skin to the hue of fine bronze. Conan shouted
again, and this time she showed no sign of hearing him or anything
else.

Without breaking stride, she vanished into the spiral. Conan thought he
saw it waver, and he cursed women turned witless by fear as he waited
for the gate to vanish behind Vuona.

It did not. Instead, Idosso loomed up at Conan's shoulder. By pure
instinct, the Cimmerian whirled, fists clenched. No steel touched the
Bamula, but one weathered fist sank deep into the pit of the chief's
stomach. As he doubled over, the other fist smashed into his jaw. He
fell sideways into the bloody mud around the dead lizard-ape.

Conan now cursed his own temper. He could have slain Idosso with steel
and lived with a clear conscience, and not a Bamula would have
complained until after their mission was done, if then. Now he had made
the man helpless, and it was not in Conan to kill a senseless man in
cold blood. Nor, most likely, was it in the Bamulas to peacefully see
him do it. Least of all was it in Idosso to learn wisdom from a mere
crack on the jaw.

Conan wished Idosso in Crom's nethermost and coldest afterworld, where
fools and traitors stood encased in blocks of ice. He wished any Bamula
who followed Idosso all the lice of all the ill-kept taverns in
Zingara.

Then he sheathed his sword, ran down to the bank, and took a running
dive into the water. Shouts rose behind him as his head broke the
surface, and he felt something rough scrape his leg. But the
crocodile—if it was one—fell short in its first lunge at the Cimmerian.
Before it could turn for another attack, Conan's powerful strokes had
carried him across the river.

He scrambled onto the land and gazed at the demon's gate with the care
of a hunter seeking the weak points of a beast he has never seen
before. A golden spark settled in his hair; he brushed it away as he
would a persistent fly. His hand seemed to tingle where the spark
struck it, but the tingling faded quickly.

Shouts rose behind him again, louder than before. He recognized
Govindue's voice, and thought he heard that of Bessu as well. If they
were trying to tell him to stay away from the demon's gate, they were
wasting their wind.

The gate had not compelled his will, as it seemed to have done with
Vuona. It had done nothing except swallow the woman—who would not have
been desperate enough to pass within it had she not been fleeing
Idosso.

Nothing compelled Conan except his own honor. An honor he had allowed
to be stained by not dealing with Idosso the way the chief deserved,
and in the moment he saw what the man was. In honor, he owed Vuona
rescue, as well as Idosso's death… if he ever returned to the Black
Kingdoms.

And if he did not? Well, Crom promised nothing to even the best
warriors, but left their fate in their own hands. If no more, he could
at least see that Vuona did not die alone.

Conan drew his sword, wiped it on the grass to remove a trifle of water
from the blade, and strode forward into the golden spiral of the
demon's gate.

Eight

The boy Govindue was the first to follow Vuona and the Cimmerian. He
flung his spear across the Afui to free both arms for swimming, then
leapt into the water. The head of a crocodile broke the surface just
behind him, but the boy reached land before the tooth-studded jaws
could close on him.

Spears rained upon the crocodile. Few penetrated the ridged, scaly
hide, but one struck an eye and another the sensitive flesh of the
nose. The creature hissed like porridge boiling over into the cookfire
and sank out of sight.

The boy made a ritual gesture of dedicating himself to conquer or die,
hands over heart and head bowed. Then in silence he turned and walked
into the golden swirling that had swallowed Vuona and the Cimmerian.

Bessu let out a terrible cry, like a half-score hyenas all at once. The
birds not already driven from the banks of the Afui by the demon's gate
flew up screeching and chattering. Then he was tugging the one lopped
tree trunk forward, toward the narrowest stretch of the river.

Bessu had help from the others toward the end, but he did most of the
work himself. His lank frame seemed to have been endowed with a
strength greater than that of the vanished Cimmerian. Sweat poured from
him and his breath came in gasps, but he was the first across the
bridge, running lightly as a monkey to the far side.

"Warriors, I follow my son!" he called. "Join us and battle the demon's
gate and its master. Stay, and let all know that you are less brave
than a woman, a white-skinned outlander, a boy, and an old man."

Then he ran forward, to become the fourth person swallowed in the
golden swirling.

One foolish warrior raised a spear to bring down Bessu, but a wiser
head struck that spear out of the wielder's hand. With a shrewd blow of
his war club, Kubwande slapped the second man on the shoulder, then ran
across the bridge.

He did not rush straight off on the trail of the others, though. He
carried over his shoulder lengths of branch hastily hewn into stout
pegs. These he drove in on either side of the log bridge with the blunt
side of an axe. On the near end of the bridge, others did the same.

The thudding of axes on pegs woke Idosso. He lurched to his feet with
all the grace of a beer-swollen river-horse and stared about him as if
those he saw had fallen from the sky. Then he shouted at Kubwande.

"Where is that dog of a Conan?"

"No dog," Kubwande said, "but one who has led where we must follow."

"Whaaaaa—?" Idosso's roar would have stunned in the air any birds not
already startled into panic flight by the uproar before the demon's
gate.

"Yes," Kubwande said. Being no fool, he had seen the look in the other
warriors' eyes after Bessu vanished into the demon's gate on the trail
of his son. The village chief's appeal to everyone's honor was not one
to resist.

Also, Idosso's offenses against Conan's honor, as well as against many
taboos, were great. Kubwande recrossed the bridge, stepped close to the
large man, and whispered this message into one large scarred ear.

Idosso's nostrils flared, like those of a leopard scenting prey. He
raised one fist, then put the other hand to his aching head.

"Of course, if the outlander struck you so fiercely that your wounds
demand I summon the village women—" Kubwande began.

"Shall I tell you what to do with the village women?" Idosso muttered.
Kubwande pretended not to have heard.

The last pegs were driven in, and the first warriors crossed the
bridge. They moved slowly, and not only because the log was slippery
and the crocodile might be waiting below, wounded and wrathful.

On every man's face was a common look. No one rejoiced that Conan's
honor had taken them through the demon's gate on Vuona's trail. No one
seemed ready to let his own courage be doubted, by refusing to follow
the northerner into whatever lay beyond the demons gate.

Kubwande was of a mind to blame that eager lad, Govindue, more than he
blamed the Cimmerian, and perhaps the lad's father likewise. Conan was
a stranger, and one could always say he was not worthy to be
followed—until a boy said otherwise, then led the way.

There would be a reckoning with son and father, Kubwande vowed. He
hoped there would also be no reckoning with Idosso for shaming him into
action, but knew Idosso's temper was as certain as a crocodile's
hunger.

But Idosso was grasping a spear and strapping his zebra-hide shield to
his other arm. He tightened his war belt of crocodile hide set with
river-horse teeth. Then he raised his spear and flung it with all the
terrible strength of his right arm. It flew across the river, skimming
over the heads of the men on the bridge, and bit into the ground just
short of the demon's gate.

"Where Conan leads, any warrior must follow!" Idosso shouted.

Kubwande was on the bridge ahead of Idosso. Then the big chief was on
the log. It groaned and swayed, in spite of the pegs. Kubwande
half-hoped that the gods would spare him a host of burdens by snapping
the log like a twig and dropping Idosso into the crocodile's jaws.
Undoubtedly Idosso was not the only war chief of the Bamula who might
allow himself to be ruled by Kubwande's advice.

All the men were now across the river, save a few too hurt to fight but
able to remain behind and tend the dead and dying. Briefly, Kubwande
envied them. Their scars would tell all that they had reason not to go
battle demons.

He was almost ready to prod Idosso forward with the point of a spear
when the big man leapt ahead, snatching up his spear and flinging it
again, straight at the heart of the demon's gate.

It flew into the golden swirling and vanished. A moment later, Idosso
was striding forward, and a moment after that, he had likewise
vanished.

"We have a chief to lead us into the demon's land," Kubwande called.
"Forward, warriors!"

No one ran at that call, but none dared hold back, and in the time
needed to heat a pot of stew, the far bank of the Afui was empty. As
the crocodile rose again, its remaining eye and slit nostril alone
showing above the water, the swirling of the demon's gate became
swifter. The golden light darkened, and a roar as of a mighty cataract
battered at the hearing of the wounded.

They clapped their hands over their ears and opened their mouths. As
they did, the spiral grew tighter and a wind from beyond nature churned
spray from the Afui, drove the crocodile into the depths, and scattered
leaves and lengths of vine.

Branches and whole trees snapped, unheard in the roar. Nuts pelted the
cowering wounded, and a branch flew down and ended the suffering of a
dying man by crushing his skull.

The wounded murmured words they had been taught, but they knew that a
score of the greatest wizards of the land would have been powerless.
The demon's gate had gained new strength by devouring those who sought
a warrior's reputation by entering it. Soon it would leap across the
Afui and devour them, then go on to ravage the land.

Between one breath and the next, the roar and the sinister glare died.
The wind eased, the last few leaves drifted down from the sky, and the
log bridge slipped into the Afui with a gentle splash.

Those whose eyes had not been dazzled or ears deafened thus far saw a
thin spiral of smoke rising from the circle in the ground, and heard
the faint cackle of flames in dried leaves. Little else except the wide
eyes and trembling hands of the watchers remained to tell the tale of
how the unknown had entered the jungle, then departed with more than a
score of warriors.

***

Conan walked at a steady pace through the demon's gate. He would learn
what lay on the other side soon enough, if there was another side.
Meanwhile, a wise warrior took care when he could not see the ground
under his feet and barely feel it (if indeed it was ground; it felt
more like a half-frozen marsh).

The golden light was all around him, and in his ears sounded a
low-pitched drone, like an immense swarm of bees the size of pigeons,
returning to a hive the size of Aghrapur. Then the light and the drone
began to fade, and Conan stood ready to draw his sword to face whatever
might await him on the other side of the gate.

Whether he faced demon, wizard, or peasant with a flail and outrage
against the stranger trampling his crops, Conan was prepared (although
he would rather not kill the farmer, who could not be counted a real
foe, and perhaps would be willing to tell him much useful about the
local wizard).

Chill wind blew on Conan, the golden light gave way to daylight,
without the emerald tint of the jungle, and he seemed to fall the
length of his sword. His hillman's swiftness of hand and foot, eye and
sinew, would have guarded him, had his sensibilities not been blunted
more than he realized by the demon's gate.

As it was, he felt a steep slope under his sandals, and gravel sliding
away, taking his balance with it. He threw himself backward, thrusting
out his spear like a Gunderman mountaineer's climbing staff. The
spear-point met rock and rebounded, not sinking in even the length of
the first joint of a child's finger. Conan had the sense of being about
to slide over the edge of the precipice, and in his ears roared the
unmistakable din of rapids below.

Then something snagged his hair. It gripped so fiercely that for a
moment he feared his hair would tear loose from his scalp or his scalp
from his skull. Then his slide ended, the pain faded as the golden
light had done, and he was able to look about him with a clearer
vision.

His hair was tangled in a low, thorn-studded branch of a bush growing
seemingly out of the bare rock. Below him, a slope strewn with boulders
and patches of gravel dropped sharply to a stream thirty paces beyond.
White foam boiled over more boulders as green water seethed past them,
and stunted trees thrust gnarled brown branches toward the sky.

Conan carefully sliced away hair with his dagger until he was free,
then stood up. The sky was largely hidden by the sides of the valley,
although the slopes were not as steep above as they were below. Seamed
and weathered rock sparking with bits of quartz bulged outward to
either side of a ravine that gave Conan his best view of the sky.

It had a northern look to it, a hard blue that found a reflection in
the Cimmerian's eyes. Under such a sky had he been born, although the
clouds marching by on the wind were softer than those of his native
sky. It still had to be a long journey to the north from the Black
Coast, or from whence came the breeze that crept even down into the
valley and blew cool on his bare skin.

The demon's gate might never have existed, for all that Conan could see
of it. Nor was there any trace of Vuona. She could not be far ahead of
him, but what did the demon's gate do to distance?

Also, what might it have done to her senses? Bare as she was, she could
not have passed quickly over this rocky ground even had she been sound
of mind and wits. Fuddled by the demon's gate, she might well have
fallen down the slope and now be a corpse, battered out of human
semblance against the rocks in the rapids.

Conan did not know what gods ruled in this land, nor which of them
would help him if petitioned. So he merely asked that cold Crom, if he
took care for a warrior's honor, would allow him to return to the Black
Kingdoms. That the god would further allow him to find Idosso alive,
and to then end the man's life. It was the least he could do for Vuona,
he vowed, although he suspected he might have an exceedingly long
journey from this land to the lands of the Bamulas.

Having made the vow and seen no signs of disapproval that he
recognized, Conan considered how well he was prepared to face this
land. He was no worse-clad than he had often been when facing harsher
weather. Sandals protected feet, while a belt held weapons and a pouch
of pressed meat and beans (hard as wood, as enduring, and tasting
hardly better, to Conan's mind).

His weapons were sword and dagger, with the spear now hardly more than
a staff or club. Its soft iron head had not met hard mountain rock in
friendship or survived intact. He would have given much for a bow, had
he thought there was anyone in this land able to accept the offer.
Seeing no bowyers' or fletchers' shops hidden behind the rocks, he
resolved to seek out sinew and flint, feathers and branches, to make
his own. Also a sling, a weapon he had small use for on the battlefield
but one that he had found handy for filling the pot in any wilderness
(and for poaching in more civilized lands).

Conan shifted his spear to his left hand and drew his dagger with his
right. Then, putting his hillman's knowledge to the test, he began to
climb toward the ravine and the sky beyond.

***

Scyra had waited long, but only silence came from her father's
chambers. Indeed, the whole cave was more silent than she had ever
known it, even when her father had simply fallen asleep in the course
of nature.

When he did that, his body at last commanding his sorcery-clouded mind,
he always snored. She remembered vividly the snores that raised echoes
not only in his chambers, but outside them, when she went in to draw
blankets over him.

Scyra's eyes grew moist at the memory, and at other memories from years
farther back, before exile, the wilderness, and all that came with it.
Her father had tucked her into bed during the year of her mother's
illness. Then she had begun tucking him in, when his grief after
Mother's death threatened to unman him.

Had it in fact done so in the end, turning him into what he had become,
all but a slave of his own powers? At least she prayed to lawful gods,
when she could remember their names, that it was only to his own
powers. Had he been grief-stricken beyond common sense, and thought of
nothing but avenging his wife (or of at least sending her the message
that he loved her, words he had so often left unsaid in life)?

Scyra did not know. She knew only that unless her father called out by
voice or spell and said that he was dying, she had to flee this cave
for a while. In time, she would return, to be the dutiful daughter
while also working along her own paths, to perfect her own magick as
well as to master her father's. Not so dutiful as to submit to wedding
a Pictish chieftain, but there was much else that she could do before
she had to openly refuse that last bargain.

The air in the cave seemed hotter and heavier than usual, and she
smelled a pungent hint of sulphur. Eager as she was to flee to the
fresh air, she did not do so in foolish haste. She had been spellclad
for studying the scrolls, in case she needed to actually cast one to
test them. Now she drew on breeches and undertunic, overtunic, belt and
dagger, wrapped her auburn hair in a rawhide hood, and pulled over
everything a rawhide cloak in the Gunderman style.

Staff in hand, she made her way out of the silence and stink to the
outer cave. She paused to salute the votive lamps at the mouth, and to
kiss the upheld hilt of her dagger. Then she flattened herself against
the wall and sidled toward the daylight.

The Picts were her masters in woodscraft, as they were the masters of
most folk, and if they dared to lurk near the cave, they would see her
before she saw them. But if the Owls were daring to draw close to the
cave, much else had gone awry, and the best she could hope for was to
live long enough to bring word of their presence to her father.

If he had not indeed allowed them to close in, echoed in Scyra's mind.
The wind from the cave mouth seemed suddenly to bring more cold than
cleansing.

The echo grew louder, and she realized that it was not of the making of
her mind. Borne on the wind with it was the sound of Pictish drums.
They were not close, but had the volume of a clan-sized war party at
least.

She would still go out, but stay close to the cave. Even a Pict
commonly wary of sorcery would lose fear of wizardry and all else in
his war-frenzy, and slay what stood before him without caring much what
it was.

***

The boy Govindue was glad that everyone believed he was as brave as he
wished to appear. Even his father seemed to be deceived. But then, his
father had suffered much. He would be slow to believe ill of his only
remaining son.

In truth, Govindue (and no doubt the gods) knew that he was both as
excited as when he had taken his first woman and as frightened as the
first time he had hunted a leopard. He had been fortunate both times,
pleasing the woman and killing the leopard. Remembering such good
fortune was about all that kept his limbs moving as he trod the road
through the demon's gate. It felt like a muddy trail, and adding to
Govindue's unease was the feeling that at any moment the mud would turn
liquid and he would plunge downward, out of even the golden demon-light
and into a darkness without end.

Then the mud seemed to dry and the golden hue faded from the light. A
moment later, Govindue sensed something harder and colder under his
feet than he had ever before felt. He had heard of walking on bare
rock, with wind colder than the winter rains about you, from certain
elders who had reached the Mountains of the Moon and returned. He
himself had never left the Bamula lands; he could only believe the
tales of the elders as a boy must, to show respect.

Govindue went to his knees, then sprang up and ran. He did not know
what lay before or behind, except that any foes who lay before should
have a moving target. Also, he could seek out any foes laying ambushes
for those who might come behind him.

Govindue ran fifty paces before he realized that the ground was turning
into a steep slope. Also, he was bumping into the trunks of stout
trees, and their lower branches were lashing him across the face. He
halted and studied the limbs.

Instead of leaves, they had clusters of fine needles, and instead of
nuts, they had clusters of little brown scales. Once he had seen an old
warshirt taken from the body of a Stygian slave-raider, a shirt made of
iron scales shaped much like this. Also, he had heard of such trees,
again from those elders who had walked in the Mountains of the Moon.

Well, even if the demon's gate had taken them no farther than the
Mountains of the Moon they would have a long journey home and not all
of them would complete it. They would have to fight hostile tribes, to
say nothing of the demons servants who were surely close at hand, ready
for their master to call them into use—

Drums sounded from up the hill. The drummers were lost in the trees,
but Govindue was accustomed to judging the place of a drummer half a
day's march away in the jungle. These were five or six of them, beating
small drums and no more than ten spear-throws uphill and to the left.

Thunder rolled, although Govindue saw nothing amiss, neither golden
light nor indeed any disturbance of the air. He did see a man stagger
into the open and go to his knees. More men followed, until there were
nearly as many as he could count on his hands and toes.

Might the demon's gate be invisible from its far side? With such
powerful wizardry, anything might be possible. If that was the truth,
then whoever mastered the demon's gate also had a mighty way to send
warriors wherever he wished, into the very hut of an enemy chief—

Govindue swallowed a cry. He had recognized the first man through the
gate. It was his father, Bessu. Others of Dead Elephant Valley were
with him, likewise some Greater Bamulas. He recognized Kubwande, and
less happily, Idosso.

The boy began to work his way down the slope. He was relieved to see
that the warriors seemed to have their wits about them. They had fallen
swiftly into silence and had readied their shields and weapons in
response to the drums.

His relief faded quickly as he saw his father and Idosso quarreling.
They kept their voices low; he heard no words. But he knew his father's
face well enough to read it even from this distance. Also, Kubwande was
not taking sides, which weakened Idosso but also Bessu, and indeed,
weakened the whole band by allowing the quarrel to go on.

Govindue began moving faster. His place was at his father's side, all
the more because his father had followed him through the demon's gate.
He moved so swiftly that on the rocky ground his foot turned and he
would have fallen had he not been able to brace himself against a tree.

From a bush ahead, a man rose into view. Govindue saw him clearly,
although no one unused to hunting in dense forest would have recognized
the form of a man. Govindue not only recognized the form of a man, but
saw that he was naked except for a loincloth and a necklace of human
teeth. Save where he was tattood or painted, he was brown-skinned,
about the hue of some Stygians, and carried a bronze-headed war-axe and
a short bow with a quiver of flint-headed arrows.

The man's dark eyes quested about, searching other bushes and trees for
the source of the drumming noise. Govindue had the eerie sense that the
tree he had sought the moment he slipped was no protection from the
man's gaze, let alone his arrows. Did the man have potent magick. What
if all his people had the same?

But if the man had magick, it was not enough to reveal Govindue to him.
He needed no magick, however, to see the Bamulas gathered in the open,
or to signal to what were likely his comrades. The axe rose and fell
three times. Only those behind him could have seen it, they and
Govindue. The boy also saw more bushes quivering slightly; the man had
at least a hand of comrades. If they all had bows—

If they all had bows, Govindue knew what he must do. He would be alone
among at least six of the enemy, and he would die there. But if he died
giving a warning, his father and others would live. If in time they
knew he had given the warning, the ancestors would be told and would
honor him.

Also, Idosso would know what kind of son Bessu had, and perhaps accept
his leadership. If Idosso did not, Kubwande might.

The man was rising again, with his bow ready and an arrow in his hand.
Standing, he turned his side to Govindue. He was smaller than the boy,
but his exposed side seemed as generous a target as the flank of a
buffalo.

Govindue's spear flew. As it struck, Govindue cupped his hands and
shouted: "Wayo, wayo, wayo! The enemy comes! Wayo, wayo, wayo, the son
of Bessu calls!"

***

Conan had been creeping downhill ever since he reached the ridge and
heard the drums. He could have used more time on the high ground spying
out the land, but even a brief look had been enough.

This was indeed far from the Black Kingdoms, a higher, colder land way
to the north. The trees were pines and firs, giving the terrain a
darker hue than that of the jungles of the south. The sky was harsher
and the sun milder than in the land of the Bamulas. Far away a line of
slate-tinted sapphire slashed across the horizon, a sea very unlike the
warm blue of the waters Belit had sailed.

For a moment, Belit seemed to die all over again. Conan shook his head,
letting the wind whip his hair about his shoulders—a wind such as he
had often felt in his native land, but never on the Black Coast.

The sorrow passed, and grim resolve took its place. The demon's gate
had brought him not to some other part of the Black Kingdoms, nor to
any party of Vendhya. This was an unknown northern land; his first task
after finding Vuona was to make it known. Somewhere under one of those
crags or in a stand of straight-boled firs might lie the master of the
demon's gate.

Conan was looking for any sign of Vuona's passage when he heard the
drums. He at once resolved to seek out the drummers and watch them from
hiding. If they appeared friendly, he could learn their land and ways
around a fire, and over meat and ale seek their help in finding Vuona.
He doubted that any tribe inhabiting such a land as this would refuse
help in the hunt, and abundant meat had a way of loosening tongues.

If they were hostile, on the other hand, he would make one a prisoner,
then learn as much in a less friendly manner. He might then know Vuona
was doomed, but also from whom to take vengeance.

The last of the befuddlement had left the Cimmerian's head. He stalked
down the hill with the silent grace of a hillman on the prowl, never
bringing his foot down where anything might snap or roll. He passed in
silence through gaps between trees one would have sworn would not pass
a squirrel, and all this while moving swiftly as well. It was not long
before he was in sight of the first of the folk of the drum, and knew
his enemy.

They were Picts, which meant "enemy" to any Cimmerian. Conan had
learned much from men who had fought in the Pictish Wilderness, both
Cimmerians and those of other races. Many of them bore scars, likewise
the memories of friends hideously slain; none bore any goodwill toward
the Picts.

"Which is something no god would ask anyway," Conan remembered one
mercenary in Argos saying. "Because the Picts bear nobody any goodwill,
including mostly one another, I think. If they'd better weapons, they
might do us all a favor and kill one another off. As it is, they'll be
a plague long after my grandson's a gray-beard."

Masters of woodscraft, the Picts were, lightly armed, and certainly no
match for Conan in single combat. But they would be a hundred to his
one in this land, and they had bows.

The drums continued, the rattle and thud shifting as if the drummers or
the wind or both were on the move. Conan judged that he was upwind of
the main body of the Picts and that the breeze would hide any slight
noises he made.

He wanted to close with them unseen and unheard, before they launched
their attack. If their intended victims were civilized, he would know
who might be grateful for his aid. If this was only a brawl between
Pictish clans, neither side would be a friend to strangers, but one
side might yield a talkative prisoner. Also, the Pictish prisoner would
save Conan the work of making a bow for himself.

He judged where the flank of the Picts would be by where he would have
placed hillmen himself when launching such an ambush. Nor was he wrong.
A solid mass of Picts was not slow to appear, well-hidden from below
but naked to the keen blue eyes studying them from above.

Conan was about to drop to his knees to crawl closer, when he saw a
slim, dark figure rise from cover farther down the slope. Fugitive
sunlight sparked on a spearhead as the slim figure threw. A Pict
thrashed out his life, and Conan heard a Bamula war cry.

The cry was still echoing on the wind when the Picts close to Conan
leapt up and charged downhill. In the next moment, the Cimmerian
recognized the village boy, Govindue, as the spear-thrower. Now the lad
was facing his last moments of life, with only one who might deserve
the name of friend to share them with him.

Conan gave the wildest of all Cimmerian war cries, and his legs were
churning even as his sword flew from its scabbard. Then he was on his
way downhill, crashing through bushes like a rolling stone, leaping
boulders, altogether like an avalanche about to strike the Picts.

Nine

Govindue did not see Conan for some while after the Cimmerian began
hammering his way into the rear of the Picts. There were too many trees
and not a few Picts between him and Conan. Also, the Picts were busy
trying to kill him and he was equally busy trying to stay alive.

The boy's first man-kill had certainly drawn the attention of all the
Picts about him. They sprang into the open, snatched up bows, nocked
arrows, and shot. Those without bows threw spears. Only his fleetness
of foot and a few intervening trees saved Govindue from being brought
down at once.

Instead, he opened a gap of thirty paces or more between himself and
the Picts. As he ran, he sought a hiding place. It was not in the gods
to give him one where these smelly, snarl-haired hillfolk might not see
him.

But perhaps he could find someplace that would let him fight them on
more equal terms, even killing a few more of them before they brought
him down. He had only one more spear besides his war club, but he might
be able to capture a weapon from some dead foe.

He had already done better than he would have expected, killing one
enemy, drawing others on to him, and still being alive. If he lived
only a little longer, the songs they made of his deeds would not
console his father for being sonless, but would make his death-rites
more pleasing.

A spear rattled against a branch and plunged into a bush an arm's
length from Govindue. He risked a look backward, and nearly paid for
that look with his life. His foot came down on a branch so rotted that
it snapped under even his youthful weight. A broken stub gouged his
ankle.

Seeing his prey slowed, the leading Pict slowed in his turn. That
mistake cost him dearly, giving the boy just time to snatch up the
mis-aimed spear, judge its balance, and throw.

The Pict was snatching his bow from his back when the spearhead drove
into his ribs. He threw up his hands and fell across the path of his
comrades, blood spurting from his mouth as he choked and coughed out
his life. At last his thrashing limbs were still. Four live, full-armed
Picts faced a Bamula lad with only spear and war club left to make the
songs about him worth hearing.

That they would be sung, Govindue had no doubt. Behind him, the trees
gave way to open slopes, with broad spaces where a rat would have
trouble hiding. Boulders crowned the hill, but the hillmen would bring
him down one way or another long before he reached the rocky shelter.

In boyish bravado, Govindue made an obscene gesture at the hillmen.
"Govindue, son of Bessu, gives you this greeting to take back to your
women. Maybe they will regret the better man you slew, and take your
parts to put on my grave."

The Picts did not understand a word of the Bamula speech, but they
understood that they were being insulted, and they howled with fury.
One nocked an arrow.

Then the odds changed in a moment, as a stone flung seemingly from
nowhere crushed the archers throat. A demon's howl made the surviving
Picts flinch, even as the dying archer toppled. They were looking about
them to see what had risen from the earth when Conan stormed through
the trees and into their midst.

Against Conan, three Picts had no more chance than three goats against
a lion. None of them ran, so they died all the more swiftly. Conan
threw a spear that impaled one Pict through the back of the neck, until
the spearhead burst from his mouth in a shower of blood and teeth. He
threw another stone that caught a second Pict just above his loincloth.
The Pict stumbled and ran into a tree hard enough to knock himself
senseless.

This left the last Pict alone, with nothing to do but fight. He did
this with a warrior's courage, but he faced both Govindue's spear and
the descending sweep of Conan's sword. The Bamula spear pierced the
Pict's thigh in the same moment as the Aquilonian steel sheared through
shoulder and ribs into the man's belly.

Conan put his foot on the last Pict's ribs and jerked his sword free.
His grin was a leopards.

"Never throw that close to a swordsman."

"Forgive me, Conan."

"I will, since you didn't hit me. Now let's see what your father and
his friends have left of the rest of these ill-smelling
rockscrabblers."

"Who are they, Conan?"

"A folk called the Picts. What more I know, I'll tell you all later."

As if to remind them of further work at hand, the drums sounded again
from farther down the hill. Only briefly, however—the clash of weapons
and the war cries of both peoples swiftly drowned them out. Amidst
these sounds, Govindue was sure he heard men's death-cries as well.

He needed no second command to follow Conan.

***

Conan knew enough about the Picts to have some notions about fighting
them. He also had his strength, speed, and instincts, all honed like a
fine sword by many years' fighting in more than a dozen lands against a
score of different enemies. Some of those foes were hillmen like the
Picts, although the Pictish Wilderness was more heavily wooded than the
Ilbars Mountains or the wastes of northern Iranistan.

Conan led Govindue across the slope just inside the tree line. They
could have gone faster in the open, at least until the first Pictish
archer made good practice against them. The trees hid them and the
Picts from each other, and Conan trusted that he was a match for any
Pict they might stumble across at close range. More than a match, with
a second pair of eyes and another fighting arm at his back, each ruled
by sharp, if youthful, wits.

Dead Elephant Village would be well-led, if no more demons came to
further ruin it before Govindue was of age to succeed his father as
chief.

Conan judged correctly in thinking that the Picts had a second party
opposite the one Govindue found. Thus placed, the Picts could have
caught the Bamulas in a deadly hail of arrows from both sides as the
warriors came uphill. More than once, Conan had laid such an ambush
himself. Just as often, he had fought his way out of one, commonly
carrying dead or wounded comrades and, at times, a few holes in his own
hide. Ambushes were no mystery to him.

Govindue, however, had drawn the first band of Picts out of their
intended position. Then Bamula and Cimmerian together had slain them so
swiftly and silently that their comrades below had no idea of what had
befallen them. Fierce but ill-disciplined warriors, they were shooting
from behind their trees at the Bamulas behind theirs, when Conan and
Govindue came down upon them.

Again the attack had the force of a rockfall crashing onto a hut. This
time, however, the Picts had greater strength and less courage. Some
turned at bay, desperate as wolves, bold in their refusal to retreat
from only a handful. Others turned to flee. The two crossed one
another's path, hurled curses and stones, and sometimes came to blows.

Conan and Govindue waded into the confusion, slashing, thrusting, and
flailing about with total impartiality between the two factions.
Neither courage nor fleetness of foot helped those Picts who found
themselves within striking distance of the pair.

The Cimmerian wielded a spear in his left hand and his sword in the
right. He thrust an axe-man through the shoulder and split his skull as
the man dropped his axe. Reversing the sequence, he hamstrung an archer
who had turned his back, then rammed the spear between the man's
shoulder blades. The spear stuck in the Pict's ribs. Conan put one foot
on the small of the Pict's back, snapping the man's spine in the
process, and jerked his spear free.

Then, in a single motion, the Cimmerian whirled, smashing the spear
butt-first into a Pict's jaw. As the man reeled back, two of his
comrades valiantly tried to close with Conan and give their friend time
to flee.

They failed. The Pict stumbled and fell before he completed three
steps. At the same time, Conan's sword whistled left, right, left, in
three cuts. The neck of one man gaped so that his head lolled like a
drunkards. The other screamed and clutched at his thigh, dropping guard
and weapon. Conan split his head with a fourth stroke.

Govindue had nothing except a bent-headed spear, but he killed one Pict
and drove a second back. A third came on to the attack, shrieking like
the spawn of demons and wielding a rude stone-headed axe. Govindue
leapt in under the swing of the axe and slammed his spear up against
the Picts arms.

The Pict howled and dropped the axe. Govindue shifted his grip and
thrust hard before the Pict could draw clear. Blood oozed from around
the spearshaft, and sprayed from the Picts mouth as the breath tore
from his punctured chest. He jerked until he twisted the spear from
Govindue's grasp.

Conan kicked at the Pict but the man fell back, taking the spear with
him. The Cimmerian stood guard against two more Picts while the boy
picked up the axe and tested its balance.

"Near enough to a war club," Govindue said. He swung furiously, with
more energy than skill. One of the Picts chose that moment to lunge
forward. The axe caught him across the bridge of his nose and he fell,
without even a scowl crossing his ruined face.

By now, Conan and his companion had cleared a respectable space about
them, empty of living, or at least of fighting, Picts. Howls and cries
from among the trees suggested the nearness of other Picts, and also
foretold that the Bamulas downhill were fighting their way toward the
Cimmerian.

It was as well, Conan realized, that the demon's gate did not fuddle
the wits of those who passed through it, or change them into demons. If
the Bamulas had walked through the gate too bemused to fight until
after the Picts had sprung the ambush, he might have been facing a long
and solitary search of the wilderness for Vuona.

Now he had twenty or more comrades to help him search for the girl,
fight the Picts, and seek out the master of the demon's gate. There was
loss with the gain: the twenty would be harder to hide than one, few of
them were used to northern lands or cold weather, and some might not be
wholly trustworthy.

Conan signaled to Govindue to open the gap between themselves, and they
worked their way down the hill. The arrows came thicker now that the
Picts below had no fear of hitting friends who were either slain or
fled. But the Picts were less than polished archers. A score of men in
any Turanian band of mounted bowmen would have been their masters. They
trusted to showering foes with arrows and had ill success when they
needed to rely on sharpshooting.

A tree at a time, Conan and Govindue worked their way into the ranks of
the remaining Picts. They slew three, and in time the remainder
abandoned their archery, once more afraid of hitting comrades. Conan
picked up a bow and used it to good effect. He told Govindue to watch
for other bows, and also for fallen arrows still fit for use.

"We will be in this land long enough to need some meat, and the bow
outreaches the spear for hunting," Conan said.

"You have fought before in this land?" Govindue asked.

"In ones enough like it that what I remember from them is worth doing
here," Conan replied. "Also, men come from many lands to serve the
Aquilonians along the Pictish frontier, and talk freely when their
service is done."

"The gods grant that is enough," Govindue said. For a moment, he looked
close to his age, the courageous boy far from home rather than the
seasoned warrior.

Conan slapped him on the shoulder. "Hurry with that arrow hunt," he
said. "I'll watch for any Picts fool enough to linger."

***

Before the thud of the Pictish drums faded from Scyra's ears, the
unmistakable din of a battle replaced it. The sorcerer's daughter at
once went to ground. Picts this far inside her father's lands were
rare; a battle was unheard of. Learning who was fighting whom and
bringing the knowledge back to her father would go far to earn her a
pardon for leaving the caves.

She would balance curiosity with caution, however, lest she die with
her knowledge sealed behind her lips. The Picts were her masters in
woodscraft, but she was not helpless. One born in the Bossonian Marches
knew one tree from another, and ground that hid from ground that
revealed.

Scyra formed a picture in her mind of the location of the battle, then
judged the best route to follow to see it. She considered casting a
spell of invisibility, or at least of confusion, but such a spell would
not last long, and might reveal her at the worst possible moment, close
to the enemy and defenseless. (The spell of invisibility she had
learned needed to be cast spellclad, without so much as a sharp pin
from her hair for defense.)

No, the simple prowl of a cat stalking a bird would teach her the most
with least danger. She crouched and began to crawl forward on hands and
knees, to cross the patch of ground where only bushes offered cover.
Thirty paces farther on, the trees began, reaching all the way up the
slope to her goal.

Scyra had covered only fifteen of those paces when she saw something
move under a bush. She ceased her crawl and held her breath, waiting
for a further movement. It came, and now it seemed unmistakably to have
a human source.

She listened for sound from beneath the bush, and also for any sign of
lurking Picts. It could be that two tribes of the hillmen were
fighting—a band of Snakes or Wolves breaking the taboo against being on
the white shaman's land, and a band of Owls defending the holding.
Scyra had no illusion that she would be truly safe with either tribe,
but the Snakes would surely kill her, and not mercifully. The Owls
might be slow to kill the shaman's daughter, if they recognized her in
time.

Quickly she realized that the battle was making too much noise for her
to hear any lurking Picts. But this had to be true for Picts listening
for her, too. She drew her dagger and crawled toward the bush from
which the sounds and movement came.

Branches crackled and gravel sprayed as a dark-skinned figure scrambled
frantically into the open. It was just leaping to its feet when Scyra
clutched it firmly by both ankles. She was not a trained or
accomplished fighter, but she was calm, not terrified, and also
sturdily made from birth and strong from years in the wilderness. The
figure toppled, almost on top of her. From less than the length of her
daggers blade, Scyra stared into the wide, rolling eyes of a
dark-skinned young woman.

The sorcerer's daughter would have given ten years of her life now for
a spell to both silence the other and persuade her that she faced no
enemy. The best Scyra was able to do was to clamp a hand over the
woman's mouth and make soothing noises into one ear. The ear, she
noticed, showed clotted blood where an earring had been ripped away,
and the dark skin bore bruises and grazes. Some of them might be the
work of the rocks; others surely were not.

Beyond those minor hurts, the woman seemed unharmed as far as Scyra
could judge. She hoped that was far enough, for the woman was of no
race she had ever seen, darker than either Pict or Shemite, with
rounded features. She was also well-formed—with the look of a girl just
come into womanhood—under dust, dead leaves, and bruises.

Was she from the Black Kingdoms far to the south? Most likely, from
what Scyra had heard of their folk. But then what was she doing in the
Pictish Wilderness, farther from home than Scyra cared to imagine, far
even from any shore where a ship might have landed her?

The answer was plain. The world-walker had linked the Black Kingdoms
with the Pictish Wilderness, whether by Lysenius's intent or by pure
chance. This woman had wandered into it—or been drawn like so many
others by the mind-compelling power of the spell. Had she come alone?

The woman wore neither clothing nor weapons. Hardly garb for flinging
oneself into the unknown. A madwoman? Scyra looked at her companion's
eyes again.

They were still wide and fearful, but no madness as Scyra recognized it
showed in them. She pointed at herself. "Scyra," she said.

The other's eyes widened farther. She pointed at her breast. "Vuona,"
she said.

"Vuona," Scyra repeated, pointing at the woman. The dark one nodded
vigorously.

All this while, the battle had faded into the back of Scyra's mind. Now
it returned to the forefront as a man's death-scream cut through the
trees and seemed to soar into the sky like an arrow.

"Wayo, wayo, wayo!" Scyra heard. It came from the direction of the
battle, an exuberant chant from a dozen robust male throats. She had
heard the victory chants of Picts before, but this was nothing like
theirs. Deeper, fuller, and somehow more wholesome, it was like nothing
she had ever heard or imagined.

Vuona jumped as if bitten by a serpent.

"Bamula!" she cried. Scyra tried to restrain her. Picts three clans
away must have heard that cry, if they had not already heard the
battle. Rushing off to where you thought friends were was often a short
way to death in a Pictish ambush.

The woman fought with surprising strength, and now Scyra wished for a
Pictish war hammer. A good buffet on the head—

"You Bamula?" Scyra asked. Could that be the name of Vuona's tribe? Had
a war party come through the demon's gate and fallen among the Picts?

The chant went on, now almost as loud as the battle. Not a Pict could
be heard, only the Bamulas. Perhaps it was a case of the Picts falling
among the Bamulas?

Silence swallowed the hillside. It lasted long enough for a deep
breath, then a new chant was taken up.

"Ohbe Bessu, ohbe Bessu, ohbe Bessu!" The new chant was no softer than
the first, but slow and dirgelike. Vuona listened attentively, then
scratched a shallow trench in the ground, pushed in a small pine cone,
and covered it up.

"Bessu," she said, pointing at the mound.

The victory had not been without cost, it seemed. A warrior named Bessu
was honorably dead. Again the chanting sounded more worthy of a warrior
than did the Pictish howling.

Vuona pointed up the hill. Scyra sighed. It appeared that the woman
wanted to go up there, badly enough to face the arrows of any lurking
Picts alone if there was no other way.

Scyra studied her intended path again. At least Vuona would not have to
go alone. Then perhaps she might in turn be grateful enough to return
to the caves with Scyra, for a hunting smock to cover her skin and
lotions for her bruises, if nothing else!

Then, who could know what might follow? Scyra lacked spells for
learning Vuona's tongue or teaching her Bossonian, let alone reaching
into her thoughts and reading them without words. Those were in scrolls
she had never touched, let alone read, if indeed her father had not so
firmly embedded them in his memory that he needed no scrolls to cast
them.

But if they were embedded in his memory—? Vuona might speak, might see
Scyra and Lysenius as friends, might lead the other Bamulas to them—the
other Bamulas, who had survived a passage through the demon's gate in a
condition to fight Picts!

Scyra had long since vowed to either defeat or win over her father. Old
love let her prefer the second. The Bamulas might give her the key.

Ten

Govindue allowed Conan to lead the way down the hill toward the place
of the Bamula warriors. The village lad walked proudly, for this day he
had won a name that would last even if this was his final fight. He
wondered if Conan's tribe—the Kimmerala, was it?—had the custom of
praise-songs, and if Govindue of Dead Elephant Village of the Lesser
Bamulas would ever be mentioned in the praise-songs about the fires of
the Kimmerala.

It was as well for Govindue that he allowed Conan to lead. The
Cimmerian was first to see the leaves trembling, revealing a lurking
live Pict where others might have seen only the dead. There was no
shortage of dead Picts, and from one of them Conan snatched up a
short-handled axe. Not well balanced for a swift throw, it still
plunged through the concealing bush.

A pantherlike scream froze all except Conan. He was still moving when
the mortally wounded Pict leapt into the open. One arm dangled useless,
but the other held a spear and retained its strength and cunning. The
spear flew toward the oncoming Bamulas.

Most of the men had the wits or the time to fling themselves to the
ground or to raise their shields. Bessu had the wit and the swiftness
of eye and hand to fling his own spear, but he had no shield, having
given it to a warrior who had lost his. Before he could think to defend
himself, the Pict's spear was in his throat.

Bessu fell backward, half-flung by the spear, half-falling as strength
deserted his legs. His own spear sank clean through the Pict's broad
chest, so that the weapon burst out his back. It was slaying a dead
man, but the Bamulas shouted as if Bessu had killed the enemy's war
chief.

Govindue knelt beside his father while all the rest joined in the chant
of "Wayo, wayo, wayo," then moved on to "Ohbe Bessu___"

"Honor to Bessu." Yes, much honor to a man who had followed his son
through the demon's gate and into a strange land, to die there in
battle. Honor Bessu would not hear except with his spirit ears. His
face was set and his eyes wide and staring; he must have died as he
struck the ground.

Govindue set his own face into a mask as hard as polished wood over his
grief and gripped the spear. It was custom that if a dead warrior had
blood-kin in the band, that kin should draw out the death-weapon and do
whatever else might be needful for the dead man. If blood-kin was not
present, then the eldest living warrior bound to the dead man by a
blood-oath had this duty. Either man still received a spirit-burden
that needed lifting after the battle, but a lesser one than would some
total stranger.

The lifting would be far in the future, Govindue realized. He saw
trouble from that, not far in the future, when the other warriors also
realized it. They too might be uneasy about the fate of the body of
Bessu and of any other dead in this distant, cold land of savage men
who seemed near-kin to demons.

"We must also honor Conan," Govindue said. "Without his arm and sword,
we would have suffered more. Without his knowledge of this land, we
might still be in danger."

Govindue looked at the black-maned warrior, hoping he had kept the
desperation out of his voice and eyes alike. Conan shrugged.

"I can't do much about the Picts, for I've heard they swarm like wild
bees and are about as hard to kill. But yes, this land is more like my
homeland than yours. I know something of what a man needs to live and
fight here.

"Also, we're better placed in one way than I expected. This is not some
demon's realm from which the only way back is through the demon's gate.
The gate's sorcerous master may not be our friend, but we may not need
his friendship. Somewhere at the end of this wilderness is the sea. On
the sea are ships, to be hired or, if needs be, taken. Remember that I
have sailed as Belit's right hand, and I know ships."

Idosso stepped forward. He was shaking his head. Govindue hoped it was
because he was still befuddled by Conan's blows, not because he was
working himself up to a fighting rage.

Idosso's first words dashed that last slender hope. "Are you saying
that you lead here now, Amradulik?" One did not call a man one wished
peace with "Lion Dung," not even as a jest—and it did not seem to
Govindue that Idosso was jesting.

"I am saying that I know the ways of this land and you do not," Conan
said. "Does anyone care to dispute that? I can find a path out of the
wilderness and a ship to warmer lands more easily for myself and Vuona
than for all of us together. If it is your wish that I do that, only
say so now and plainly, and there is no quarrel among us."

The thought of being abandoned to freeze, starve, or die under Pictish
onslaughts clearly appealed to no one. Even Idosso looked a trifle
daunted.

He also seemed to find something in certain faces, something Govindue
was too young to put a name to, not too young to dislike. "Are we
supposed to beat this wilderness for Vuona, until we find her with a
Pictish arrow through her___?" the chief challenged.

The obscenity drew faint laughter. Conan shrugged again. "If you think
that is the best way to find her, go and seek her yourself. Only, I
doubt that you are the man to find her, unless she is dead or too hurt
to move. You coming after her will make her run faster, and one day she
will run faster than you."

"No woman can fear me," Idosso growled. Govindue saw his fingers begin
to twist. He also saw Kubwande begin to look openly uneasy.
Unfortunately, Idosso's back was to the lesser chief. He seemed to read
nothing in any of the faces he saw before him that would deter him.

"Truth," he went on, "is that Vuona should welcome a return to me. In
Amra, she has had only the kind of man who makes his bed with such as
Govindue."

A killing light flared in the ice-blue eyes. Conan took a step forward,
fists clenched. Idosso stood with legs apart, waiting for him to strike
with hand or steel.

The blow never landed. Conan merely said quietly, "Well, then, if I am
supposed to favor Govindue, I will prove it. Lad, you are now second to
me. Idosso, you will obey his orders as you would mine."

Conan turned his back on the big warrior. For a moment, Govindue
thought the uneasy peace would hold.

Then someone laughed. Kubwande glared around the circle, plainly
seeking who had been so foolish as to laugh at Idosso when the big man
was in such a temper.

Govindue also sought the laughter. If he was to be leading these men,
it would be well to know who was foolish and who wise among them,
without learning everything from Conan.

Neither chief nor youth finished their search before Idosso bellowed
like a rutting buffalo and flung himself at the Cimmerian.

***

Idosso's bellow of rage was probably intended to slow the wits and
limbs of his opponent. Against many other men, it might have done so.

Against Conan it merely gave a warning, and cost Idosso the advantage
of surprise. Insofar as he needed every advantage he could gain, this
was not the act of a wise warrior. But then, Idosso had never been
famous for his wisdom.

Conan knew at once that he faced a formidable opponent. If Idosso
managed to get in one shrewd blow with fist or foot, or a firm hold on
a limb, let alone on Conan's neck, the fight would bode ill for the
Cimmerian. He had seldom faced barehanded an opponent so nearly his
equal in size, strength, and speed, with that speed, if anything,
increased by the man's rage.

The Cimmerian kept the distance open for a few moments, long enough for
him to get rid of his sword. He hoped Govindue would guard it, but had
no time to look where the blade fell. He could not wear it in this
chief's bout of honor, and not only because it would go against Bamula
custom for this sort of fight.

If Idosso once had his massive hands on the blade, the temptation of
easy victory might outweigh the fear of public dishonor. It would not
be an easy victory, of course, and it might be no victory at all. But
Conan doubted he would gain much if he defeated Idosso at the price of
being too badly hurt to lead the warriors out of this Pict-ridden land!
These wanderers needed one leader, and he a born northerner who was
also fighting-fit.

The sword clattered to earth somewhere. The onlookers hissed and
pounded their fists together, the Bamula form of applause at such
bouts. Conan hoped they would not be so enthralled by the fight that
they forgot to post sentries. He doubted that all the live Picts were
gone even from this patch of forest, and knew they must swarm in the
forests beyond it.

Idosso came on, and Conan let him close. As the Bamula chief neared
within striking distance, it was Conan's turn to leap. A fist buffeted
the side of Idosso's head. It was a blow that had it struck full and
fair would have stunned an ox.

The Cimmerian's opponent was not without cunning, however, at least in
this kind of fight. As the blow was launched, he was moving sideways,
swiftly enough that it only bruised his cheek rather than crushing his
skull. His reply was a kick that might have shattered Conan's knee, but
the Cimmerian also saw the menace and moved so that Idosso's great foot
only grazed instead of landing full-on.

Around and around the two men went, neither able to gain any advantage
that the onlookers could see. Nor did Conan himself think he had much
of an advantage. A single stumble, not impossible on this rough ground,
and he might take a blow that would slow him. The first man to be
slowed would be the first to die.

Few arts of personal combat were strange to Conan, a warrior since his
fifteenth year. If he did not stumble, he had little fear of the
outcome. What he wanted was a swift victory that would settle all
doubts among those he must lead out of this land. If the fight lasted
long enough, they might wonder.

Also, the Cimmerian might take grave hurt in a long battle and be unfit
to lead. Nor could the Picts be ignored. The longer the fight drew the
attention of the warriors, the more time for the Picts to gather
'round.

Conan could not abandon the fight and flee to the forest. Neither honor
nor good sense allowed that. So a swift victory or death were his
choices, and he resolved to gamble his life on the swift victory. Not
only his life, but the lives he might save by thus winning.

It was a matter of waiting until Idosso gave him an opening. The wait
only seemed to last until sunset. In truth, it could not have been more
than the time needed for a hungry man to gnaw the meat from a chicken
leg, before Idosso offered Conan that opening.

Conan pretended to stumble. Idosso, turned half away from his opponent,
whirled. He did not guard himself as the Cimmerian rolled back on his
shoulders and kicked out with both legs.

One leather-soled foot caught Idosso where Conan had aimed it. Against
such a kick, a loinguard of zebra-hide was no more protection than a
lady's silken shift. The steel plate of an Aquilonian knight's guard
might have been enough, but even it would have been dented and the
wearer uncomfortable for days.

Idosso doubled over, but he still had the determination to clutch at
Conan's ankles. Conan broke his hold with a swift half-roll and kicked
again. This time a Cimmerian foot caught Idosso's knee, and Conan felt
bone give.

He also heard a cry, and not from Idosso.

"Beware, Conan!"

Conan recognized the voice as Kubwande's and the note of warning in it.
He rolled again, and his own sword in Idosso's hand slashed down
through the space where he had been. The blade bit deep into the rocky
ground, and Conan spared a moments thought for the new nicks it would
be taking. Much more of this and he would need either a blacksmith's
forge or a good stout club to take the place of a useless blade.

Conan sprang to his feet, and with one foot, kicked the sword from
Idosso's hand. It flew, Conan neither knew nor for the moment cared
where. Then he brought both hands clenched together down on the back of
Idosso's neck. Skull and spine alike gave under the blow. Idosso fell
facedown, rolled onto one side, then over onto his back as the light
went out of his eyes.

The noise of another fight, or at least of a scuffle, now reached the
Cimmerian's battle-sharpened ears. He moved until he had no one at his
back and a clear view of Govindue and a village warrior rolling over
and over together. Conan bent to pick up his sword, and Kubwande raised
a warning hand.

"Ha, Conan! Hold your sword. This is a chief's bout like yours. Iron
has no place in it."

Conan considered placing iron, or even steel, in Kubwande's skull or
belly, but held his hand. It was not impossible that Kubwande might
have the wits to follow the victorious Amra, at least until Amra had
led the way out of the Pictish Wilderness. Honor was probably not in
the man, but any treachery he contrived back in his homeland, Conan
could meet with either sword or a swift pair of heels, as he saw fit.

Meanwhile, Kubwande was a warrior of some prowess, and there were not
so many like him in this band that one could be spared merely because
of what he might do. That was one of the rules of wise leadership that
held true for all men, white, black, yellow, brown, or green with
purple stripes if there were any such!

Conan could not put a name to Govindue's opponent, but he determined to
ask the man a few sharp questions if he won. If he slew the lad, Conan
resolved to make those questions still sharper, with the aid of his
sword. It would give any blacksmith an apoplexy to measure the damage
to the blade, but it would serve well enough, even for one so
thick-skulled as to further divide these lost warriors by a chief's
bout.

Strength was equally matched in the contest, but the opponent clearly
had more experience. Govindue, however, had youthful swiftness and
suppleness. He also seemed more in earnest. He could not have been
fighting harder if his victory would have brought his father back to
life.

The thought made Conan look toward Bessu, whose body still lay where it
had fallen. There had to be other bodies as well. Now that Idosso was
no longer among them, it was time to find all the corpses and hold
proper rites, lest the Picts carry them off for rites of quite other
kinds.

Conan knew little about Pictish ways with their foes' dead, but he
doubted they practiced anything he had not already met among his foes.
Any man who had come upon a patrol staked out, gelded, and even more
indescribably mutilated in other ways by the fierce warriors of the
Afghuli, did not expect to be surprised by anything the Picts did.

Conan was also certain that nothing but proper rites for their dead
would ease the minds and hearts of the Bamulas. They were a long way
from home, so far distant that even spirits might have a daunting
journey to the Black Forest. Anything that eased their minds would ease
Conan's task.

As if Conan's thoughts had summoned up new strength in the youth,
Govindue wriggled like an eel, breaking his opponents grip. Sweat
streamed from him as he leapt up and kicked at the other's throat. The
kick landed, not hard enough to crush the windpipe, but hard enough to
make the man clutch at his neck with both hands.

Govindue jerked one hand away from the bruised throat and twisted it.
"Give over, Bowenu," he snarled. For a moment, his voice sounded like
that of a man ten years older and chief for all of them.

"It is not my place to decide for you, Bowenu," Kubwande said, "but if
it was—"

Bowenu's reply was neither coherent nor polite. Govindue drew the man's
other hand away from his throat and pinned him to the ground.

"Now do you give over and swear to follow me as chief over our
village?"

"Ah… eh… over those of the village… here, led by Amra. Is… enough?"

Conan hoped Kubwande would have the sense to be silent and Govindue to
accept. The boy certainly was of an age to succeed his father, and his
work on this day would give him a claim going far beyond blood. Asking
for everything in one bowl, however, might not be wise.

"Then you accept that Conan leads here?" Govindue demanded.

"I will… swear blood-oath… offer anything I do not need in this land of
monsters!"

"Good sense, Bowenu," Conan said, laughing. "We will all need
everything we have with us or can steal from the Picts, to live until
we find a way home. Govindue, what say you?"

The boy—no, Conan would not call him that again, the young chief— rose
to his feet and looked down at his former opponent. "I accept, Bowenu.
Although I hope you at least do not challenge me again, even when we
reach home. I would not gladly fight such a brave warrior and thus
weaken our village."

"I will bring birds' eggs for broth for your first-born son," Bowenu
said, speaking clearly for the first time in a while.

Conan looked on the young chief with approval. He was showing a brew of
skill, mercy, and resolution that should serve him well. The Cimmerian
hoped for but few troubles from the six or seven warriors of Dead
Elephant Village among the band.

As to the rest…

"Iqako Kubwande. I ask no oath. I only say that I have no quarrel with
you, and I trust you have none with me. Idosso was your friend, but not
mine."

"He was friend to none of us for challenging you as he did," Kubwande
said. "I will not unsay praise I have given him, before both men and
gods. I will say that he lived with more honor than he died. May the
spirits reward him for his life and forgive him the way of his death."

That seemed to satisfy the Greater Bamulas. It did not wholly satisfy
Conan, but he knew when he would gain nothing more from the man. He
resolved to keep a discreet guard against Kubwande and not allow the
man any closer to his back than necessary.

"We know who leads," Conan said. "You know the kind of man I am. And I
know that our first work is to gather our dead, tend our wounded, and
find a safe place for the night."

"Is there one?" someone asked.

"There may be, or there may not," Conan replied. He raised a fist. "But
there will be no place safe from me for any man who disobeys."

Kubwande raised his fist, and Govindue did likewise. The ritual gesture
served its purpose. No one spoke, but instead, all scattered to relieve
the sentries, seek moss and leaves for the wounded, and find any dead
not lying in plain sight.

***

Scyra now needed no common language with Vuona to understand what was
in the woman's mind. Vuona had only one thought there: to rejoin her
people, or such of them as were abroad in the Pictish Wilderness.

It seemed to Scyra that this urge was stronger than it had been, before
the two tallest warriors fought and the northerner conquered. Had the
black champion been an enemy to Vuona? It did not seem impossible;
Scyra could not read thoughts precisely, but she had some art of
recognizing evil by what it did to a man's face. The big black warrior
had been, if not evil, at least in too much of a rage to either lead or
follow.

If this had been as it seemed, a fight over the leaders place, the
Bamulas had chosen the better man. The big northerner had a kingly air
to him even in his garb as a Bamula warrior, with nothing of it lost to
the blood, dirt, and bruises. He would have looked equally well as a
greenclad Bossonian archer or an armored Aquilonian knight. Not in any
sorcerer's garb, however, for he looked a creature of the open land, or
even of the wilderness itself. He also had about him a forthright
quality that Scyra once thought only her father possessed among
sorcerers, and now knew that even he lacked.

Scyra was so intent upon the tall northerner that she had less
attention to spare for Vuona. Vuona, no fool, soon recognized this. The
first warning Scyra had was Vuona's leaping up and running toward the
Bamulas.

The men were just lifting their dead and wounded on improvised litters
of poles and branches when one of them saw Vuona. He shouted and waved.
Vuona let out a shriek of happiness, which turned to a shriek of fear
as an arrow struck a tree a hand'sbreadth from her ear.

The tall northerner shouted a single command, and his warriors spread
out with the speed and sureness of seasoned fighters. They could not
see the Pictish archer, however. He was behind rocks, so close to Scyra
that she could have touched him with a long stick.

Instead, she touched him with her knife. She was not a skilled
knife-fighter, but she had surprise, fury, and enough strength for the
purpose all working for her. The Pict died, and she made sure that he
died in silence by clamping a hand over his mouth until his last breath
had passed.

Scyra lay motionless beside the Pict until she was certain her kill had
drawn no Bamula's attention. She searched the body until she discovered
the tattoos of the Red Adder Clan of the Snakes. She was hardly
surprised to see her previous suspicions justified. The Snakes had
never been entirely happy with her fathers peace with their Owl rivals.
Now it seemed that their unhappiness was driving them to treachery, if
not to open warfare.

She began to crawl backward, intending to be well away from this place
before the warriors came searching. Then she considered that it might
not hurt to let herself be found. If she could speak to the northerner,
she might learn more of him and his band of warriors. Such a band might
prove useful if they needed to earn their way home and had the prowess
to earn it in defense of Lysenius and Scyra.

Scyra's arts of concealment were like her knife-fighting, sufficient
for many purposes. They were sufficient to hide her until the Bamulas,
called back from the hunt by their leader, gave up the search for the
Pictish archer. She was ready to weep in frustration when she saw the
slope empty.

She had not meant to be out of the cave this long, and besides, she had
given her cloak to Vuona, now marching off with her people. Scyra saw
no alternative to following their trail. Let them go, and they might as
well be on the moon for all her chances of finding them again without
either the Picts or her father knowing. She had to be first here to
know what the Bamulas were about, or she would be going to the
marketplace with an empty purse.

She took bow and arrows from the body of the Pict, and searched the
other dead tribesmen until she found one who also wore a cloak. It was
of Bossonian work, stiff with dirt and grease, reeking from long
wearing by Picts who never bathed unless they were caught in the rain,
and probably the prize of some bloody-handed border raid.

Still, she wrapped it around herself. It was just barely large enough;
her Bossonian blood made her as tall as the common run of Pictish men.
But the wool was warm, and from a distance, it might deceive the hasty
eye.

There was no food to be found, save the bodies of the dead Picts—and
even in jest, the idea made Scyra gag. But some of the edible ferns
were green, there were fish in the streams, and the Bamulas could
hardly travel too far their first night in this land, no matter how the
northerner led (or drove) them.

With those hopes lightening her step, Scyra set off on the trail of the
Bamulas.

***

It was agreed on the march that one of the three chiefs would always be
on watch. Conan, Govindue, and Kubwande drew twigs for who would begin
the night, and Govindue drew the shortest twig.

Not that there was much to see in this nighted forest, either of friend
or foe. A cloak from a dead Pict kept out some of the wind, but even
the gentlest breeze in this land seemed to pierce like an arrow.
Govindue had never been so cold, not even during his manhood ordeal,
which had sent him into the jungle during a particularly severe autumn
season of rains.

It was as well that Idosso was dead. He would never have been an honest
follower to Conan, the young chief decided. Kubwande might be, if only
out of fear of starvation, Picts, and Amra's fist.

More surely still, Idosso would never have had Amra's knowledge of how
to live in this land. Live, fight, even win free of it. He had not been
so stupid that he would not have learned, but before he learned (or
Kubwande taught him), many might have died. Perhaps too many.

Conan had the soul of a great chief, and with such a soul, his skin did
not matter to the gods, still less to Govindue, son of Bessu.

The footfall was loud enough to have reached ears much less keen than
Govindue's. More seasoned as hunter and tracker than as warrior, he
heard the sound as clearly as he might have heard a boulder falling
from a cliff. When two more footfalls gave him a sense of the
intruder's direction, he had plenty of time to hide where he could see
the path.

It seemed as if the intruder either wished to die or thought the
Bamulas were friends approaching. In the darkness, it was hard to tell
what the oncoming shapeless cloak concealed, and Govindue would have
given a year's yam harvest for a trifle of moonlight. Had he been sure
it was a Pict, his spear would have pierced the intruder's belly after
the third step.

Then the intruder stopped and threw back the cloak. Govindue's breath
hissed out, and he began a ritual of aversion. Pale-skinned,
pale-haired—a ghost had come upon them!

His hiss found an echo. Then he knew it was not an echo. No echo of his
ever spoke in words he had not uttered.

"Bamula? Vuona? Bamula? Vuona?" The questioning note was clear. So was
the kind of voice. Not a ghost, after all, but a northern woman. Coming
for Vuona? Why not? If the world was mad enough to hold such things as
the demon's gate, why not a northern woman coming for Vuona?

Govindue rose, but did not step into the open. The woman might be
honorable, but the Picts were not and could be following the woman.

"Ohbe Bamula," he said. "Ohbe Bamula. Ohbe Vuona. Ohbe Vuona." Then he
called, "Woman," using the word for an elders wife. If she was one of
power, it would please the gods, and if she was mad, they would not
care.

"Bamula," the woman said, sounding somewhat like Amra when he spoke his
own tongue. Then she stepped forward. Govindue saw that she wore a
knife at her belt and a bow and quiver on her back, but held her empty
hands out in front of her.

Govindue stepped out to face the woman, holding his hands as she held
hers. Then he pointed back over his shoulder toward the camp.

"Bamula! Vuona! Bamula! Vuona!"

She understood his message. Still holding her hands before her, she
walked up the hill toward the band's night camp. Govindue had barely
time to call one of the other guards to take his place ere he hurried
after her, lest she vanish in the darkness.

***

Conan and Vuona sat a trifle apart from the others, without being
outside the circle of the guards. The Cimmerian had left no one in any
doubt of what he would do to them if they wandered off and the Picts
did not save him the work.

Vuona squatted on her haunches and leaned back against a fir bole. The
moonlight silvered her bare shoulders. She wore rawhide leggings taken
from a dead Pict, but was bare otherwise. She had returned wearing a
rawhide Gunderman cloak, but had given that to one of the wounded.

They would have to hunt for both food and garb, Conan knew, and soon,
even if all the Picts in the wilderness came at them. For him, this
night was as mild as a summer eve in Cimmeria, but the Bamulas only
just kept their teeth from clattering loud enough to wake Picts a days
march away!

"I ask your forgiveness, Amra."

"If you wish it, ask it of Conan. 'Amra' is a name that sounded well
aboard Tigress, or from Belit's lips."

"Is it your true name?"

"Were you thinking to bespell me with it?"

Even in the darkness, Vuona's expression of horror seemed real enough.
"No!"

"That's as well. I've a habit of putting my sword in people's gizzards
faster than their spells can slow my arm. I would hate to have to do it
to you."

"It would be… justice. I… if I had not—"

"Oh, plague take your quaverings of conscience, girl! Leave them to the
priests. You're not the first woman to make a mistake about a man.
Since the wrong man's dead and I'm alive, what ails you?"

"Being here, when we could be somewhere safer. It is my fault."

"Very likely it is, but past mending now."

She slipped out of the crouch and knelt before Conan. "Not even by a
woman's gift?"

Conan looked her up and down. She needed no darkness to hide faults;
her lithe form had none. He realized that he was looking at her as at a
woman, and that this was the first time he had done such a thing since
Belit's death.

Also, Vuona needed a place in this band, and a chief's woman was the
most honorable she could hold. Conan had begun this whole mad affair to
save her…

She climbed into his lap and twined her fingers in his hair, raggedly
barbered after his encounter with the thorn bush, but still giving any
woman a good grip. Almost too good a grip, for she had strong hands.

Conan ran his own hands from her shoulders down to the small of her
back, and beyond. Fingers that had wielded a deadly sword earlier in
the day now undid the leggings. Vuona leaned forward; Conan felt
youthfully firm breasts—

"Amra!"

"My name is Conan!" he snarled. Vuona slid off his lap. The Cimmerian
took a deep breath, then realized that it was not Vuona who had spoken.

"Govindue, you are away from your post." Those were the first words
that came into his mind. Had he thought at length, he would doubtless
have spoken more sharply.

"Forgive me. Amra—"

"He wishes to be called Conan."

"You're not a chief's woman yet, girl, so let Govindue speak."

"A woman has come."

"I've heard of Pictish women. Doubtless the guard who saw her fell dead
at the sight of her. Take her captive, put another man in the dead
one's place, and leave me in peace."

Conan thought the young chief was trying not to look at him or Vuona.
"Am—Conan. The woman is not a Pict. She looks like you. Her name is
Scyra, and she knows we are Bamula and that Vuona is among us."

Vuona jumped to her feet as if she had sat on a viper. "It is she, the
magick woman!"

Govindue made gestures of aversion. Conan rose, took Vuona under both
arms, and gently lifted her off her feet until his nose and hers were a
hair'sbreadth apart. She flinched at the look in the blue eyes.

"Vuona, I can forgive you for choosing the wrong man. I will not
forgive you for hiding something like this from me—" he waited until
she looked ready to faint, then added "—a second time." When he set her
on her feet, her legs quivered and threatened to tumble her into the
fir needles.

She found her voice, however, and could hardly talk fast enough. When
Vuona was done, Conan donned his sword-belt but drew the blade. It
seemed to compel Vuona's gaze.

"Remember what I said about sorcerers with swords through their
gizzards? This woman had best prove herself our friend, and quickly.
Govindue, take me to our guest."

"As you wish, Conan."

Interlude

The Pictish Wilderness, in the reign of King Conan the Second:

Sarabos was the first of us to fully regain his wits. To speak more
precisely, he had lost the fewest of them at the sight of the cave, and
even of the statue. Therefore he had the least ground to cover before
he could command his voice.

He still spoke more than a trifle distantly, as though he were
recounting something he had experienced in a dream and whose reality he
could not altogether trust.

"Let us all believe that what we see here is really here. Believing so,
has anyone heard even a faint smell of rumor that might explain it?"

He might have been talking to the statue, and the living men gathered
around it made as little answer as if they also had been stone. I was
glad to see that this was not wholly because they were standing with
eyes wide and staring, jaws hanging and gaping, and their powers of
speech quite gone.

Some of them were cleaning and dressing their comrades' wounds. I heard
a stifled scream as one man cut down for an arrow in another's thigh.
It was deeply embedded, and I prayed to Mitra that it would not drain
the man of blood when it came out.

Others were unpacking supplies and cleaning weapons. As unwholesome as
this cave appeared, it was still dryer and freer of Picts than the
world outside. Also, these were veterans of the border wars, some of
them old enough to have served under Conan at Velitrium, had they been
in the Aquilonian service at the time. Unless the ancient Stygian
magick—or whatever other spells had produced the image—awoke, I had no
fear of my men or for them.

I saw by the torchlight men looking at each other. I held my tongue. I
suspected that I was about to learn things that it would have been as
well to know beforehand. But there are always things that the soldiers,
particularly Marches born, will not willingly tell their officers,
especially those born and reared far from the Marches.

"What we hear tonight stays with us," Sarabos said. "No matter what you
confess, we will leave it to the gods."

The men continued to look at each other in silence. One or two flinched
as the man with the arrow in his thigh let out a scream that was
anything but muffled. The echoes were slow to die, and I saw men
looking toward the rear of the cave.

Their faces said that they hoped nothing lurked back there to waken at
a human presence after so many years, and come forth hungry and
horrible. I did not find that hope quite without reason, but I chose to
put a better face on the situation.

"This is no very pleasant place, but let us remember it seems to be
taboo to the Picts. They will not come in, but our comrades will have
no such fear. Remember too that the last time Conan the Great found
himself in such a place, he came away with the treasure of the pirate
Tranicos and put himself on the throne of Aquilonia with its aid."

Somebody muttered about putting himself in bed with a comfortable wench
and a jug of good wine being quite enough. I did not find that without
reason either.

One of the men finally spoke up. "There is something that I heard from
my mother." He was a Gunderman by his speech, but he looked dark enough
for a Shemite… or a Pict?

As if he had read my thoughts, the man went on. "Yes, I have Pictish
blood. My mother is half-Pict, though my father was all-Gunderman. She
had some of their speech and knew some old tales.

"One of these, she said, was taboo among the Picts. There was a curse
on anyone who told the tale, almost as great as on anyone who entered
the cave. She told me, because she thought I had best know it, and also
believing that my Hyborian blood should weaken the curse."

Nobody dared ask one question, and again the man seemed to have the
power to read thoughts. "My mother bore five healthy children, the last
when she was hard upon forty, and was living yet last fall in her
sixtieth year. I have fought in five campaigns, without loot or honors,
but also without grave wounds. If there is a curse, I think my mother
spoke the truth about it."

"Well, then, speak the truth about what she told you, and we will
listen," I said.

"It may not tell you much—" the man began.

"Anything you tell us will be more than we know now," I said firmly.
"And a storyteller should have a name. Forgive me that I did not learn
yours."

"I am Vasilios, son of Ayrik," he said.

"Then speak, Vasilios. We are all listening."

Vasilios cleared his throat; the air was much dryer in the cave than
outside, as well as a trifle dusty. He sipped water from his bag. Then
he folded his legs, rested his hands upon his knees, and began.

"It was in the time of my mother's father, the Pict, when a sorcerer
lived among the Picts and a statue came to life and walked…"

Eleven

The Pictish Wilderness, many years before:

Conan listened to Scyra with great attention even after she admitted to
being the daughter of the sorcerer Lysenius.

"I have never heard of him, not that I make it my affair to count the
world's wizards," Conan said. "Nor do you look much like a sorceress.
You're dressed too shrewdly, for one thing."

"We have lived here for five years," Scyra said, voice taut with
indignation. "I was barely a woman when we arrived. Assume that I am
not a fool and hear me so."

"I ask your pardon, Scyra," Conan said. He translated her remarks for
Govindue and Kubwande. They nodded, then frowned when he added that
Scyra and her father clearly had either great powers or friends among
the Picts.

If Lysenius and his daughter had magick enough to stand off the whole
Pictish nation, dealing with them would be a chancy matter. They would
be too cursed powerful! And if so powerful, why did they need help?

If they had Pictish allies, helping them would mean fighting alongside
Picts. Conan had no blood-debts owed to the Picts, unlike many
Cimmerians had, but the ancient feud between Cimmerian and Pict was
nothing he could easily forget. Nor did it necessarily matter what he
wanted; the Picts might choose to slaughter the Cimmerian in one moment
and the Bamulas in the next.

These things were true. It was also true that Conan's band had small
chance of fighting their way to anything more than a warrior's death.
They would be twenty-odd men fit to fight against all the Picts in the
forests, Picts who knew these forests as they knew their own hands,
shot arrows from cover one would swear could not hide a mouse, and did
not shiver on a mild summer night!

Conan had walked into the demon's gate because of his duty to Vuona. It
should not come hard to do worse than fight beside Picts, to save Vuona
and all the rest who had honored him by following in his footsteps.

"Can your father conjure us up some warm clothes and hot food if we
enter his service?" Conan asked. "We will expect more, but those we
must have before we can do enough to earn it."

"Can your men not hunt, cook, and clean hides?"

"All of these things take time, Scyra. Time the Picts may not allow us.
Do you think whatever friendship you have for them will save us?"

"Do not call the Picts my friends. At best, they are allies."

She sounded as if she expected to be believed, and for Conan not to ask
"Against whom?" Conan decided that it did not matter. Anything that
took his band closer to safety would help, and to obtain that, he would
swear any oath. If Lysenius needed their aid at all, he was not
powerful enough to punish them for breaking such an oath, and the band
could take its chances with the Picts. Fed and garbed for this
wilderness, those chances would be better than they had now.

"As well. I will never call a Pict my friend, but I may take a day off
from killing them if they do the same for me."

"That I believe my father and I can promise. We have furs and hides,
salt meat and dry nuts, and a part of the cave where you will be safe
from the Picts as if you were at home in the Black Kingdoms."

"Also, I'll be bound, where you will be as safe from us." Scyra looked
indignant, but Conan held up a hand. "No insult taken and I hope none
given. In your place, I'd do the same. We've no need for a Zingaran
love-temple feast, as long as we understand each other."

Conan watched Scyra sidelong as he translated for Govindue and
Kubwande. She seemed to understand what he was offering and what his
doubts were. He hoped he would not have to put into words his intention
to end both her and her father at any sign of treachery. That would be
a sad waste of a fine woman, apart from everything else.

The two Bamula chiefs each had to go apart and talk to their followers,
while Conan and Scyra sat cross-legged facing one another. She assumed
that posture as easily as any Pict or Khitan, and seemed as calm as if
she had been waiting in a nobleman's hall for the horses to be brought
up.

Out of the corner of his eye, Conan saw Vuona flatten herself against a
tree, as she thought out of his sight. He wanted to go over and shake
some sense into her. If she wandered about by night in this land to spy
on him out of jealousy, the Picts would be making magick with her skull
before three dawns, if they found anything in it.

The other chiefs returned.

"Will the wise-woman swear blood-oath to treat us with honor, even if
she must go against her father?" Kubwande asked.

"That demands too much!" Govindue exclaimed. "The gods would frown on—"

"The gods would spit on us from a high cloud if we did not at least
ask," Kubwande said. "Lad—young chief—not all fathers are as yours was.
I learned that before my manhood ordeal."

There was some dark secret about his childhood lurking in Kubwande's
voice, one Conan would have given a barrel of good Nemedian wine to
know. Doubtless also it was something that torture could not wring from
the warrior.

Conan turned to Scyra and translated the question. He saw her flinch,
and even in the darkness he could see her face lose some of its color.

"Please. If my father knew—"

"Does your father not know about your coming here?" Conan wanted to
roar loud enough to crack branches and shake birds' nests out of the
trees. He had wits enough to realize that would only frighten Scyra out
of hers, besides warning Picts half a days march away.

"He doubtless knows by now that I am not in the cave," Scyra said.
Conan heard the effort it took for her to control her voice.

"Then you do not come here by his command?"

"I do not come here against it, either."

"You might have said that."

"You, my friend, might have asked." She had the impudence to grin.
Conan resisted the urge to shake her, then suddenly could not resist
the urge to grin back.

"Scyra, I think you'd have the courage to go against your father if
needs be. If these chiefs will take my word for it, you need swear no
oath."

He translated. Govindue was almost eager to forget the oath, Kubwande
reluctant. The older man at last yielded—however, muttering as he did,
that he seemed to spend all his time running about on matters begun by
women…

***

About this time, Lysenius's ghost-ear came within hearing of the
meeting place by the cliff. Tonight it was carried within an owl,
because the Picts most likely to be about were of the Owls and the bird
was taboo to their hunters. Lysenius had not forgotten the time he sent
a ghost-ear hawk into the land of the Snake Clan and next saw it as
feathers on a chiefs headdress.

The sorcerer had enough command of the owls keen night-sight to
recognize Scyra. He also saw what proved his judgment about the men of
the band with whose leaders Scyra was meeting. Their ghost-voice was
that of folk of the Black Kingdoms. The world-walker had finally won
him what he wished most of all: warriors with no kin in the Pictish
lands or anywhere close enough for them to reach him before he had done
his work.

He would brew his vengeance with their blood, and then his daughter
would see him as he truly was.

Was she, in her delusions about him, warning them? And if she was, were
they believing her? The ghost-ear should warn him of that much, even in
the modest brain of an owl. Better by far was a man, even a Pict, but
Lysenius had decided against that before he went into his ghost-ear
trance. The Owl Clan would not be pleased if these black warriors
slaughtered one of their men while he was too bespelled to defend
himself.

The owl swooped low, as it might have swooped chasing a squirrel on a
low branch. It passed within easy ghost-ear hearing of Scyra and those
sitting with her.

The bird should have sent all their secrets across the nighted forest
to Lysenius, waiting on his pallet of scented needles. Instead, it
heard nothing closer than the warriors by the cliff.

It was as if Scyra and those sitting opposite her had no ghost-voices,
which was impossible. Everyone had a ghost-voice, from the gods down to
the lowest insects, even to the worms crawling beneath the earth.
Sometimes it was all but impossible for Lysenius to separate the voices
of those he wished to hear from the din of all the rest.

Now, however, Scyra and three men might have been outside the common
world for all that the ghost-ear could hear them. On his pallet,
Lysenius twitched, writhed, bit his lip for self-command, and contrived
to avoid losing his mastery of the spell.

He sent the owl past them again, and this time he watched through the
bird's bodily eyes. He saw Scyra, he saw two black warriors facing her,
he saw a black girl hiding behind a tree.

He also saw in the middle a man taller than all the others by at least
a head, of a northern fairness, with cold blue eyes and ragged black
hair. The man's muscles were in proportion to his stature, and when he
moved, it was with the control and mastery of a warrior. The scars on
his tanned skin would have said as much had he remained perfectly
still.

Was this the man with no ghost-voice? Did he not only lack one himself,
but bind those close to him into the same silence? Mystery piled upon
mystery, and none of them to Lysenius's liking.

No, that was not altogether true. The man might have no ghost-voice,
but everything else about him suggested a warrior's spirit. A strong
warrior's spirit, able to feed the sacrifice more than any other two
men put together.

The northern warrior with Scyra might remain a mystery, but he would
have his place in Lysenius's plans, as little to his liking as that
place might be.

***

Conan was not entirely persuaded that Scyra had merely wished to
surprise her father with the gift of the service of the Bamula
warriors. His two chiefs were still less so. None of them cared to call
her a liar to her face. She still held out a better hope of a passage
home than any they could make for themselves. The later the hour, the
more the two Bamulas shivered—three, counting Vuona, who had not moved
from her place by the tree.

A soft hoot and the thump of a falling body made all turn. An outsized
owl lay on the ground, a spear through its breast. Its outspread wings
were broader than Conan's shoulders. Its beak clicked twice, its eyes
stared about with what seemed to Conan more than a bird's intelligence,
then it shuddered and lay still.

"Good throw, eh?" came a cheerful voice from behind a tree. Bowenu
stepped into sight, knelt, and retrieved his spear. Only then did he
seem to notice that Scyra was regarding him with a face of distaste,
even of fear, that needed no translation.

"Why did you kill it?" Conan asked.

"It was swooping so low I could hardly miss, and it is big enough to
make a meal after a good plucking and roasting."

Scyra looked as if she wished to spew. Bowenu's gestures had also
needed no translation.

"What's dead is dead, Bowenu," Conan said. "But this is a new land. We
don't know what's safe to eat and what is not. This wise-woman would
rather you had not killed the owl. I will trust her. And if you do not
trust her, then trust me to leave bruises everywhere Govindue did not.
And hold your spear!"

Bowenu went through the most elaborate of the four Bamula rituals for
craving pardon, and Conan finally granted it. He had some difficulty
keeping a straight face, and Vuona behind her tree was struggling to
hold in giggles. Conan vowed to spank her soundly if her laughter broke
the peace with Bowenu. They needed even warriors whose arms were
swifter than their wits.

"We are in the lands of the Owl Picts," Scyra said. "The only worse
thing you can do in their eyes than kill an owl is to kill a warrior in
hunting paint and hang his head up."

"Just as well we were too busy to take heads this afternoon," Conan
said dryly. "Although I seem to remember they were in war paint, if I
know anything about Picts."

"They were, and they were of the Snakes, who have a long feud with the
Owls. But I did not think they would trespass on our land."

That told Conan more than he had known before about the sorcerers'
friends and foes among the Picts, if not as much as he would have
chosen to know. It seemed to him that Scyra was no great hand at hiding
secrets, at least not from one who had survived the intrigues of gilded
Aghrapur in Turan.

"Well, Scyra. I think we've talked as much as makes any sense when
there's neither wine nor beer to wet our throats. I trust you've no
plans for returning to your father tonight?"

"The Owls would not—"

"The Owls may not be able to see in the dark as keenly as their totem.
They might mourn after they feathered you with arrows, but you'd not
get up from the bier for all that. I also much doubt that we've seen
the last of the Snakes, and they'll be no friendlier to you after today
than they were before."

Scyra nodded. "There is truth in that." She sounded both reluctant and
gracious.

"Good. Then come share our fire, if you won't share the owl. All the
warmth that's about here tonight is with us, and most of your hope of
waking up with your throat unslit."

Scyra followed Conan to the camp, but she lay down well away from both
the fire and the pile of sleeping Bamulas, huddled together to share
the warmth of their bodies. Conan thought she was watching him as he
also lay down, with Vuona curled against his chest, but sleep took him
before he could be sure.

Twelve

By good fortune, the Bamulas were either dead or fit to march, even to
fight. They performed as best they could the rites for their dead,
gathered their weapons, and departed camp with Scyra as guide.

Conan's band came to Lysenius's caves on a fine spring evening, after
two days of stiff marching for the barefooted Bamulas. The Cimmerian
noted the need for footgear in this rock-strewn land; some said a host
marched on its stomach, but they were bards, not captains in war.

The frowning rocks made the Bamulas look at one another, and Conan knew
that some were looking within themselves to find the courage to
continue. A hillman born, he had scaled such cliffs and explored such
caves before he had seen his tenth summer. The Bamulas were hardy
enough in their own land, but their own land was not as harsh as the
north, and they were as their homeland had made them.

"Come along, brothers," he called. "Most of us have crawled into lions'
dens and come out alive, and no sorcerer is worse than a lion."

He did not entirely believe that himself, but the cheerful ring of
confidence in his voice inspired the Bamulas. They began climbing the
ladder to the mouth of the cave Scyra had said would be their quarters.

Conan and Scyra were the last to go up. They stood briefly side by
side, gazing at the forest that lapped like an emerald sea against the
foot of the sorcerers hill. Conan knew that Pictish eyes watched
them—had been watching them, indeed, all during the two days of the
journey.

There had to be some truth in Scyra's tale of peace with the Owl Picts.
In two days, a hostile tribe could have conjured out of the ground a
hundred warriors for every Bamula and buried Conan's band alive under
arrows and stones. But though black eyes had watched from behind trees
and under bushes all along the trail, no arrow or spear had flown, no
war cry had risen, and no drum had throbbed except far off toward the
sunset, as a signal.

As if Conan's thoughts had called to them, the drums began to thud
again, barely heard above the wind even by the Cimmerian's lynx-keen
ears. Scyra shuddered, and without thought save to warm her, he put an
arm around her. She shuddered again but did not shake off the arm, and
after a moment, relaxed into his comfort.

"It is still no easy thing," she said, "to hear those drums and not be
afraid. When I grew up, to hear them meant running for the horses if
you had them, snatching boots and bread if you didn't. The Picts were
never far, or at least not far enough."

"What did your father learn that gives him a hold over the Picts?"
Conan asked. "Or is that a secret?"

"It is. He has not shared all of it with me, and would not be happy if
I shared even what I know with you without his permission."

Conan thought the happiness of a sorcerer would never be high among his
cares, but then, he was not a sorcerers son, Crom be praised! Also,
this sudden reticence aroused a fighting man's suspicion. Scyra had
been frank enough before Conan's band had entered her father's domain.
What did she need to hide, to keep them there?

But it was as true as it had ever been that through this domain lay the
best road home. A score of stout and wary Bamulas might daunt even a
sorcerers urge to treachery, and if worse came to worst, they were as
well off dying here as among a howling horde of Picts.

"The more I learn, the happier I will be," Conan said plainly. "And the
happier I am, the happier the Bamulas. They expect to leave here bound
for home, and will be angry otherwise. Your father may have arts, but
are they equal to twenty angry Bamulas?"

"I pray to Mitra that none of us ever need learn that," Scyra said. She
climbed onto the ladder and scurried quickly out of sight.

Conan watched her go, then watched briefly as an eagle circled against
a western sky rapidly turning blood-hued as the sun sank. He did not
tarry long; this land was uncanny enough by day. By night, one did not
need a barbarian's fine-honed instincts to sense awful evil creeping
about on unwholesome business.

Even a sorcerer's cave had something over the Pictish forests by night.

***

The western hills swallowed the sun. Only stars, and a moon too new to
give much light, served the world beyond the illuminated circle around
fires.

This was as well for the thing that hunted in the darkness. The chakan
had been sent by the shaman of the Owls, to trail the band of demon-men
going to the rock house of the white shaman. It had a man's form but an
ape's hair and a great-ape's strength, enough to snap most men in two
as a boy snaps a twig.

It had no command to kill, however. Or at least not tonight. It was to
trail, climb, and if it found a suitable place, to hide. What it heard,
saw, and above all, smelled, the shaman Itha Yarag would draw from its
mind with his magick.

When he had done that, the Owls would know more of the mage who had
served them so well. They might even know if he would continue to serve
them as well in the future, or if the coming of the demon-men meant he
had found new friends.

If so, it would be time to take all of the loot in the cave, sacrifice
the white mage in the old way, and pass his daughter round among the
chiefs of the Owls, and even of friendly Picts such as the Lynxes and
Eagles.

***

Spring turned into summer, and summer ripened the life of the forest.
Fruits and berries began to show other hues than green. Streams lost
their spring fullness, and the hunting around the remaining ponds was
bountiful. The Picts gorged on the summer's plenty and lay about, sated
and as at peace with the world as it was in the nature of Picts to be.

Conan and his Bamulas were quite content to let sleeping Picts lie,
save for those they joined in raids toward the east and south. This
they did with some effect, as they were well-furnished from the
storerooms of Lysenius's caves.

They saw little enough of the sorcerer himself, which was not
altogether good, to Conan's mind. The more they saw of him, the more
they would learn. Lysenius had other senses than the common human ones
with which to learn about the Bamulas; he could know without seeing.

When first they came to the cave, they heard that Lysenius was ill.
Scyra told Conan that someone had slain the bearer of his ghost-ear and
that he had been in a healing trance since.

Conan passed that tidbit on to his band, and Bowenu began to crow about
his spearwork. Govindue promptly told him that he would be wrestled
into submission again if he did not keep his tongue between his teeth—

"—if he has any left when I'm done with him," the Cimmerian added. "A
good warrior's tongue is bold, Bowenu. It does not charge about like an
elephant drunk on overripe pears!"

Bowenu held his peace for some days thereafter.

He might well have done so because, like the others, he was too busy
accustoming himself to the new clothing, weapons, and food the Bamulas
had received so lavishly. Clearly, Lysenius was not stinting his new
allies, and had not stinted his former ones.

Just as clearly, he had been gathering more than the loot of Pictish
raids in these caves. Magicks, trade, or friends beyond the border?
About the first, Conan would not even hazard a guess; he left in peace
sorcerers who did him the same favor.

Trade was possible; there was one chamber so heavily sealed that it
practically shouted its name as the treasure-house. With the eyes of a
seasoned thief and a prudent captain alike, Conan noted at least three
ways of breaking in. But he made no attempt on the chamber now. He
wished peace with Lysenius and Scyra, and opted for no encounter with
the magickal protections the sorcerer had surely put on his treasure.

Friends beyond the border seemed almost as likely a source of
Lysenius's hoard. It was no secret to Conan that there were Hyborians
who dealt with the Picts at the expense of their own kind, although
there had never been many such in Cimmeria, and fewer still long-lived.
That harsh land had its own harsh punishments for those who went
against their blood.

In other lands, such men flourished, or at least were not spied out as
readily. They were a kind that made Conan wonder more than once if the
southern men had bred true. He would leave them to their intrigues,
however, and keep his Bamulas free of them, the gods allowing. The
intrigues of the Black Kingdoms would be enough for him for some years
to come, if he and his band ever returned thence.

Clothing of rawhide and fur, tanned-leather sandals and woolen
leggings, Pictish spears and war-axes, Bossonian bows and Gunderman
armor—all came forth in abundance. So did more jerked meat, dried nuts
and berries, and a pungent ale. The Bamulas pronounced the ale as good
as their native beer, and were not backward about draining a whole
barrelful before Conan put a halt to that.

"The Picts are still out there, those who pretend friendship and those
who do not even pretend. We are more fit to meet them than we were, but
they are still a hundred to our one and they know this land."

The Bamulas learned quickly, being seasoned warriors eager to begin
carving a road home through Lysenius's enemies. Thrice Conan led them
out on raids, and brought them all back.

They did not march with Picts on these raids, save one or two who acted
as guides. This was as well. Conan knew the Pictish way of war, and
would not have his Bamulas learn it. His people would return to their
land with no screaming girl-children violated before their burning
homes, and no graybeards left with skulls broken and unseeing eyes
staring at the sky.

Then the day came when they raided across the borders into the Marches,
and the Picts marched with them.

***

From a high branch, Govindue's birdcall came. It was the call of a
Black Coast bird, not a native of this wilderness. Conan doubted that
the caravan guards were woods-wise enough to notice the difference. Or
if they were, that they would have the time to put their knowledge to
any good use.

Forty Picts lay in wait along one side of the road. Conan's Bamulas lay
in wait along the other side. This let both bands attack at once, but
kept them apart until the moment of the attack.

That was just as well. The Picts looked askance at the "demon-men" as
much as the Bamulas looked askance at the Pictish warriors. Bad blood
had been avoided; although Conan and the Pictish chief had not a word
in common, each was a seasoned captain who could plan a battle with
gestures and scratches in the dirt.

The caravan was well into the trap now. Definitely its guards were not
woods-wise, or perhaps the raiders had truly outrun their warning. The
Bamulas had attacked nowhere and the Picts set upon only one isolated
farmstead on the way across the border, and the forest could hide sixty
men from even the most keen border patrol.

Now, if only the Picts would not shoot arrows with their eyes closed
(as it sometimes seemed they did), and the Bamulas would remember that
even a friendly arrow could kill—

A Pictish war yell gave the signal for the attack. Conan leapt from
cover, brandishing his sword. He had smeared his face and other exposed
skin with berry juice, darkening his complexion until he did not stand
out among the Bamulas. Bad enough to be fighting on the side of the
Picts; worse still if tales came that black warriors with a white
leader fought in alliance with the Picts. That sort of tale could turn
out a host to sweep the borders clean. Conan doubted that this would
please Lysenius, and was certain that it would not speed the Bamulas'
homeward journey.

He leapt into the road and snatched at the bridle of the caravan's lead
guard's horse with one hand. With the other, he blocked three downcuts
by the rider, who had more speed than skill and no strength sufficient
to get through Conan's defense.

The horse reared. Conan ducked under its belly and came up on the
guard's off-side. He struck with his sword, pulling the blow so that it
only stunned through the helmet rather than splitting helmet and skull.
With the other hand, he gripped the riders belt and heaved. The man
flew out of the saddle and crashed into the ditch. Conan noted with
regret that he fell on the Pictish side; with luck, he would recover
his senses before the Picts found him.

Conan reined the horse and thrust a foot into the stirrup. The mount
reared again, nearly snatching him off his feet. A guard thrust at him
under the horses belly. The point of the blade only nicked Conan
instead of sinking deep. He kicked the sword out of the man's hand,
swung into the saddle, and slashed down with his sword. This time,
skull gave as well as boiled-leather helmet; the man fell, and the
horse's hooves finished the work begun by the Cimmerian's sword.

From horseback, Conan had a better view of the battle along the trail
than anyone else. The guards to the rear had formed a shield wall, and
those forward were retreating toward it. Not all of them reached their
goal; Pictish arrows and Bamula spears were thinning their ranks. Conan
even saw the one Bamula who had truly mastered the bow find a victim.

It seemed to Conan that the guards had decided to save their lives and
let the wagons and packhorses go. Either that or they planned a trap.

Then he saw a flurry of righting around one wagon that clearly had not
been abandoned. He raked the horse's flanks with his heels and charged
down on the men there. An arrow nicked his neck, the shaft of a spear
thrown awry slapped the horse's flank, then he was up to the wagon. The
arrows from the trail ceased; either the Bossonian archers feared
hitting friends or the Picts had beaten them down.

Three men were struggling against four Picts and a Bamula. The guards
had leather corselets and mail caps, and no little skill with their
swords, which meant they were holding their own until Conan came up. He
kicked one man in the back of the head without reining in, and smashed
another across the helmet with the flat of his sword. Both went down.

The third man scrambled into the wagon, thrust his arms under the
cover, and came out with an ironbound coffer. Small as it was, it was
plainly heavy. The man staggered as he jumped to the ground, then
staggered again as a Pict thrust a spear into his thigh. In spite of
the wound, the man broke into a run, so swiftly that between one breath
and the next, he outdistanced his assailants.

He did not outdistance Conan, on horseback. Before the archers behind
the shield wall could draw and loose, the Cimmerian had overtaken the
man. One massive Cimmerian arm swooped down like a kingfisher on a
minnow and plucked the coffer from the man's hands.

The man squalled like a mating tomcat and stabbed at Conan with a
vicious poinard. Steel tore flesh and, weighted with the hilt of his
broadsword, Conan's fist stretched the man senseless on the ground.

He wheeled his horse and rode back toward the head of the caravan, to
see Govindue on the trail, waving his arms. With only twenty Bamulas,
there could be no division into four parts, not without keeping men out
of battle in a way that the Picts would call dishonorable. But there
could be a young chief with sharp eyes and a cool head perched in a
tree unseen by Pictish friend and Bossonian foe alike.

"Horsemen coming!" Govindue shouted. The actual words he used were
"six-legged warriors," since horses were unknown in Bamula lands.

Conan thought that he'd either scented a trap or that luck was with the
caravan. Just as well, too. Without a fresh enemy to fight, the Picts'
bloodlust might lead them to beat down the shield wall with their
arrows and massacre everyone. As it was, anyone from the caravan left
alive now might well see tomorrow's sunrise, and as many more as fate
allowed.

He waved to the Bamulas. Picts also saw the gesture, but their chief
had not signaled them. Drums and shouts held them where they were.
Conan cursed. He had no wish to be impaled on the horns of this
dilemma: either desert the Picts or stay until they also saw the
Bossonian reinforcements, when that might be too late for the Bamulas,
who were closer to the new enemy troops.

Conan shouted for the Bamulas to return to cover on either side of the
road. That might give the newcomers a clear path to some of the Picts,
but it would let the Bamulas survive long enough to fight back, and
perhaps to rescue their northern swozhu. (That was an expressive Bamula
word meaning "friends-for-one-raid," and it was not altogether praise.
It was also the most common way the Bamulas had of referring to the
Picts.)

The Bamulas had barely regained the shelter of the trees when the
Bossonians charged out of the shield wall. Either the rearguard had
been stronger than Conan realized or more survivors of the men forward
had reached the wall. Regardless, they swiftly reached close quarters
with the Picts.

The Picts were not ones to fight at close quarters against armored
opponents, unless they had a great advantage in numbers. This they did
not have, but they had an open road into the woods, where no horseman
could go. They took that road, and in moments there was not a living
Pict in sight.

Since the Bamulas had to take the same road, Conan dismounted, slapped
his horse on the rump, and sent it cantering off toward the
reinforcements. Then he sheathed his sword and gripped the coffer with
both hands. Even for the Cimmerian, it was a trifle on the heavy side
for one hand in rough country.

***

Conan made sure that there were no Picts within sight, and none hiding
close enough to see, before he opened the coffer. He did this by
seeking a hollow tree, the last remnants of what must have once been
the size of a good temple and older than most such built by the hands
of men.

While Kubwande held a tuft of burning moss tied to a stick, Conan
attacked the coffers hinges with his dagger. They gave only just before
the dagger was too blunt for use. Whoever had contrived this coffer had
wanted to keep what lay within exceedingly well-guarded indeed.

The lid opened with a faint and more than slightly eerie scream. Conan
at first thought nothing was inside at all. Then he saw that within,
the coffer was lined with black velvet and stuffed with black silk. He
drew out the silk and noticed a faint reflection from Kubwande's light.
He put in his hand, felt around, and gripped something smooth that had
two textures, metal and stone.

He held the object up—a square-cut crystal so transparent that it had
looked black against the black velvet, but it was betrayed by the
age-darkened gold of its mounting. To Conan's eyes, it looked as if it
might once have decorated a sword-hilt or a helmet, but there was
something about it that made him uneasy.

"Hunh," Bowenu snorted. "Not enough gold in that to make it worth
carrying."

"Not enough wits in your skull to make you a good judge of such
matters," Kubwande replied. "If we do not wish to leave it, let us give
it to Lysenius. He may find some value in it."

"That he will, from the way the guards were righting to snatch it
free," Conan said. "Whoever has lost it may pay a fair-sized ransom."

He felt an urge to have it out of his hands as quickly as possible, but
he was not wholly sure that Lysenius was the right destination. The
jewel had a smell of sorcery to it, and that meant the farther it was
from both honest folk and Lysenius, the better.

What about an honest woman? Scyra seemed to have her doubts about some
of her father's schemes. Conan would trust her more if she had
concealed less about them, but his trust for her was still as a gold
coin to a brass piece compared to his trust for her father. He trusted
no sorcerer wittingly, but for the Bamulas' sake, he would give Scyra
as much trust as he thought she had earned.

"We have crystals like this in my homeland," Conan said. "They have
power, but it is women's magick. Vuona is a woman, but not adept with
power. Scyra, however, is both a woman and a mistress of magick. She is
fit to receive the crystal."

"What if Lysenius is angered?" Bowenu asked.

"Then," Govindue said in the tone of one instructing a child (although
Bowenu had to be five years his elder at least), "we shall hold our
tongues about it until Scyra has been given it."

Thirteen

Lysenius did not resemble the usual notion of the sorcerer, but then,
Conan had acquaintance with many sorcerers (although liking few) and
knew that they were as varied as were common men.

Scyra's father was nearly as tall as Conan, and had he led an equally
vigorous life, he might have been nearly the Cimmerians physical equal.
As it was, a stout belly bulged under a silk shirt that could have
begun life intended for a Barachan sailor. Other signs of good living
thrust out blue hose cut in the latest Aquilonian style. A short green
Bossonian foresters cloak hung from broad shoulders, and the curious
array was completed by a massive rawhide belt, clearly Pictish, with an
equally Pictish bronze dagger thrust through it.

The broad face above the garb was almost too youthful to belong to the
father of a woman Scyra's age. Or it would have been save for the
altogether bald pate and the splendid beard, mostly gray shot with
streaks of black. The eyes were Scyra's, an intense blue that almost
seemed the image of Conan's—but the Cimmerian had the same uneasiness
about what lay behind those eyes as he did about what lay in a pouch
slung to his own belt.

"I am well-served by you," Lysenius said. He spoke with what Conan had
come in his wars to recognize as an Aquilonian accent. "Very
well-served."

He used that last phrase three more times before Conan started
translating for the Bamulas. The Cimmerian translated it only once.
There was no cause yet to share his doubts about Lysenius. His
instincts led him to wariness, and he trusted those instincts; had he
done otherwise, he would have been long dead. Being neither god nor
priest, however, he did not call them unfailing or perfect.

Conan's doubts grew as slowly as moss for some while as Lysenius
rambled on. It seemed that he had come to the Pictish Wilderness in
flight from first Aquilonia, then from his native Bossonia. In each
place he had practiced the magick arts in a way that offended the
powerful, and in Bossonia, their wrath had claimed his wife, Scyra's
mother.

With nothing but his lawful knowledge of magick, he had come to the
Pictish Wilderness. Conan vowed to believe that when he saw ships
floating in the air. The Stygian priests had long reaches and much gold
with which to buy friends. Lysenius had befriended the Picts by using
his magick in ways that did not cast doubts on the powers of their
shamans.

Now it was time to take his revenge on those who had exiled him and
deprived him of his wife. He would find the Picts a champion. The
statue of an ancient warrior lay in a distant cave. Vitalized by
Lysenius's spells, the statue would come forth, an invincible protector
of the Picts. They would swarm across the border, and those who had
wronged Lysenius would rue the day they did so, as they listened to the
screams of their kin before their own throats were cut…

Lysenius went on at considerable length about the red ruin the Picts
would leave in their wake. Conan, who had seen more such campaigns than
most men twice his age, listened with grave attention. He was not
learning much about Lysenius's plans, but he was gleaning a good deal
about the sorcerer's mind.

Mostly, he decided, he was recognizing that Lysenius was mad. Whether
the mage had been so before (and Conan had even less use for Stygian
magick than for most other kinds), he certainly was so now. Mad from
loneliness perhaps, and even perhaps with some cause, but there could
be no cause for unleashing the Pictish nation on the Bossonian Marches.

Conan was about to ask what part he and his band might play in this
scheme, when Lysenius seemed to pluck the Cimmerian's thoughts from his
head. It was so uncanny that Conan dared not look at the pouch on his
belt to see if Lysenius had also plucked the crystal from it by sheer
force of will.

"I cannot give to any one tribe or clan of the Picts the honor of
entering the cave of the statue. Not without making all the others
jealous enough to fly at my throat, or at least at the throats of the
tribe so honored. I am already unfriends with the Snakes more than I
could wish, and there would be others in like case."

Again Lysenius rambled, evoking the vision of the Snakes returning to
loyalty and trust once the statue walked and victory seemed assured.
Conan began to wish that the Snakes would demonstrate their lack of
friendship by raiding the cave in this moment. Fighting Picts would
surely be less tedious than listening to a sorcerer with more ambition
than sense (the most common kind, in Conan's experience).

"It will fall to you and your warriors of the Bamula to travel to the
cave. You are of no nation among the Picts. You are proven in valor and
skill. Above all, you have already passed through the world-walker, and
what you have done before, you shall do again."

It took Conan a moment to realize that Lysenius was referring to the
demon's gate. He used that name when he translated, and he heard hisses
of indrawn breath all across the chamber behind him. Lysenius,
fortunately, seemed to take these as signs of eagerness, and Conan
thanked various minor gods that the sorcerer knew nothing of Bamula
customs.

"Let honor be done to Lysenius," Conan said. The Bamulas hissed again
and began to chant.

"Ohbe Lysenius. Ohbe Lysenius. Ohbe Lysenius."

Conan rather hoped they would be allowed to continue until they had
gone on as long as the sorcerer. However, it seemed that only one man
in these caves was allowed to be tedious. Lysenius made an unmistakable
gesture of dismissal, and Conan arrayed his men, bowed in the Hyborian
style, and led them out.

They passed down three corridors, and on the fourth and final one to
their quarters, Conan signaled to Kubwande.

"Yes, Conan?"

Conan tapped his pouch. He had kept the crystal on his person even
while in the chamber with Lysenius as he wished no other man endangered
for possessing it. Sorcerers had tried to kill him more often than he
could count on fingers and toes together; the Bamulas were not so
seasoned.

"I am taking this where we have agreed that it belongs."

"Take care, Conan. The Bamulas need you more than they need Scyra. I do
not mean only the Bamulas here, either."

"Time enough for the others when we see them again," Conan said. The
mans transparent flattery had lost its power to anger him. Kubwande was
no fool, and indeed a fine hand in battle, but intrigue was in his
blood as much as vengeance was in Lysenius's.

***

Lysenius had not precisely discouraged roaming about the caves, but he
had made it clear that it was not without its dangers. He did not
describe these dangers, so Conan had no idea whether they were
magickal, human, animal or simply holes in the floor ready to tumble
the unwary into the abyss.

Being seasoned at skulking in the darkness from his days as a thief,
Conan cared little for vague menaces. He was not slow to learn his way
around the tunnels. Before the band had been ten days guests of the
sorcerer, Conan had learned the tortuous way from the warriors'
quarters to Scyra's private chambers as thoroughly as he had learned
the way to the well when he was thirsty.

He did not enter those chambers. Scyra seemed to have told him all that
she cared to, and he had no wish to strain her loyalty by asking for
more.

He also did not wish to give Vuona cause for jealousy. Well-bedded as
she now was, she would have little cause, but women did not always need
cause for jealousy. Nor was Vuona powerless to make her jealousy
dangerous, if she chose to betray the band to Lysenius. Doubtless some
Bamula would spare Conan from having the girl's blood on his hands, but
he would rather she returned alive and hale to the Black Kingdoms with
her comrades.

Now Conan intended to cover the whole path to Scyra's chambers and meet
her there—if needs be, waiting until she returned. In spite of what he
had said to Kubwande, he had no plan to give her the crystal without
demanding knowledge of what it was. If he had any doubts that she could
be trusted with it, he would guard it, with his life if necessary.

He told Kubwande that if he had not returned before dawn, the Bamulas
were to seek safety by themselves. He did not instruct the man on how.
Kubwande certainly had fewer scruples than the Cimmerian, and might
gladly think his best hope was serving Lysenius. Govindue would most
likely not be able to prevail against him.

If it had not been for the mystery of the crystal, Conan might not have
risked seeking Scyra. But two duties to his people now weighed in the
balance, and the mystery of the crystal was the heavier.

Turning down a side tunnel, Conan quickly came to a crack in the rock.
On the outside, it was large enough to admit him if he slipped through
sideways, though not without some scraping of hide. Inside, it
broadened into a chimney. The chimney offered only a few cracks as
finger and toeholds, but for much of its way, Conan could go up it feet
against one side, back against the other. He tied his lantern, a brass
casing holding pressed moss soaked in oil, to his belt and began his
climb.

He finished it with more care for silence than usual. It was his
experience that sentries were always the most alert when you could
least afford their attentions. He still made good time and was soon
padding along the tunnel above.

This led to a corridor carved by an underground stream, which still
flowed waist-deep through the premises. Conan stopped at the hole
giving entrance to the corridor, and wrinkled his nose. Smell could
tell of danger where eyes and ears failed, and he smelled something
rank that had not been there before.

He heard nothing however, and the light of his lantern revealed even
less—only the bare rock of the tunnel, eroded by the stream over the
eons, and the chill, dark water flowing past at its usual swift pace.
Conan put a finger into the water and tasted it. No trace of anything
uncanny, or even foul.

There were several ways to Scyra's chambers beyond this tunnel, but
here it was the only path, unless one could burrow through solid rock
as easily as a mole through fresh-turned earth. Lacking that power, the
Cimmerian slipped into the water and began his advance, breasting the
stream that seethed around him. He held the lantern high and his sword
in his free hand, and his eyes searched both ahead and behind, while
his feet sought firm purchase on the tunnel-bottom with each new step.

It was well he used such caution. The foul odor grew stronger with each
step, and now he began to hear what seemed to be breathing that was not
his. He held his breath; silence did not return. He advanced; whatever
lay in wait suddenly had the wits to halt its own breathing.

Now Conan felt a chill from more than the water. Obviously, what lay
ahead had sensed his approach. It could choose the time and place of
its attack, and he could only meet it with precious little warning, and
possibly with less room. That was still better than having to pursue it
through the caves, or worse yet, having it roaming the darkness ready
to attack less robust prey.

The Cimmerian passed the narrowest portion of the corridor without
incident. He thought he heard a scraping from ahead and well off to one
side, and remembered that several dry branches led into the tunnel just
beyond.

He stepped forward—and the tunnel rang with a hideous scream as a
massive weight surged against him. Water sprayed, the lantern hissed
out, and darkness swallowed the battle.

Conan recognized at once that he faced two assailants. One, bolder than
its comrade, clutched at his left arm, then tried to twist, claw, and
pull all at once, without securing its grip. Conan pivoted from the
hips, breaking the enemy's hold and dashing the creature against the
wall behind him.

That gave him a respite for a moment only, but all he needed. He rammed
his free hand, clenched into a fist, into the darkness where he judged
the others throat to be. At the same time, he slashed, clumsily because
of the angle, dangerously because of his strength and the newly keen
edge of his sword. Aquilonian steel came hard across the back of the
neck of the being in front. It howled again, and its fetid breath
stifled Conan.

The first attacker now tried to seize him from behind. But once again
it was slow to secure its grip, overly eager to do its victim injury.
Conan brought both feet up and kicked hard at the attacker in front, at
the same time driving himself backward against the foe behind.

He heard a crack as the rear attackers skull met the tunnel, and felt
its grip weaken. Now he had a hand free with which to draw his dagger,
and he stabbed furiously into what lay before him. Another scream, and
this time a spray of blood mingled with the reeking breath. Conan
stabbed again and more blood sprayed, but no scream came. He stepped
from between the assailants and brought his sword down, feeling bone
give once to the right, once to the left.

Then only the echoes of the death-screams remained, and the gurgle of
the water washing over two hairy bodies, carrying away two streams of
blood.

Conan sheathed his weapons and climbed out of the water. He thought he
had suffered no great hurt, although he felt as if he had been pounded
with clubs and flogged with nettles. Whatever he had faced had been
strong, quick, not highly intelligent, but far too dangerous to be
allowed to roam the tunnels.

That made one more question he was going to put before Scyra, and
demand that she answer before he handed over the crystal. He touched
his belt to see that it was still in its pouch, and assured of that,
began the next stage of his journey.

***

Conan had no way of rekindling his lantern, but no need to either. The
last part of the way to Scyra's chambers was so easy to traverse that
any apprentice thief could have done it without light. The Cimmerian's
scrapes and bruises had barely started to throb before he was at
Scyra's door.

He drew his dagger, sheathe and all, reversed it, and tapped on the
door with the hilt. He heard movement— faintly, for the door was heavy
wood bound with brass, some of the brass forming curious figures that
might have been runes in a tongue Conan had never encountered. He heard
a faint ting, beyond doubt the opening of a peephole, then a sharp hiss
of indrawn breath and the sound of a bolt being drawn.

With a creaking of hinges that seemed as loud as the war cries of an
army, the door opened. Scyra stood there, her dagger in one hand, a
cloak of supple rawhide thrown hastily about her. It left her feet and
lower legs bare—as well-formed as Conan had suspected. It also left him
certain that she wore nothing under the cloak.

"Conan! What brings you here?"

"Curiosity."

"About me?" In another woman, that might have been flirtatious. Scyra's
sober expression and level voice gave the lie to any such notion.

"About something I took from the Bossonian caravan."

"You fill me with curiosity. The more so, coming here looking as you
do. You look as if you have fallen down a cliff. My father said there
were dangers in roaming our tunnels." She beckoned him into the chamber
and he followed.

"There are more dangers than your father believes, unless he has turned
loose giant apes in the caves," he said. Scyra's eyes widened. Conan
continued, describing his foes as best he could without having seen
them clearly.

Scyra had turned pale before he finished, and was silent for a moment
afterward. Then she said slowly, "You met chakans. Pictish wizards tame
them and use them for tracking… and killing. They are not allowed in
our caves."

"Tell that to whoever sent them," Conan said brusquely. "And meanwhile,
keep your door locked and barred, and a dagger ready to hand. Or a
spell, if you have one potent against those brutes. One of them could
tear you limb from limb without breathing hard."

For a moment, Scyra seemed about to faint. The cloak nearly slipped
from her shoulders, and she seemed not to notice when Conan rearranged
it. She sat down as if her legs had failed her, and hung her head for a
moment.

"Is your peace with the Picts breaking?" Conan asked, seating himself
beside her. He wanted to shout, but forced himself to speak as to a
child. Scyra had wits and courage, but tonight was bringing her much
bad news all at once.

"If they have unleashed chakans on us, it may well be," she replied.
"What else did you come for?"

Conan drew out the crystal. Scyra's eyes grew even wider, but her voice
was steady as she spoke.

"That was from the caravan?"

"Yes, stoutly coffered and well-defended. Three Bossonians looked ready
to sell their lives to keep it."

"I understand why."

"Then if you do, tell me, and I will understand also. I hardly think we
have time for riddles."

She shook herself. "No. We do not." She reached for the crystal. Conan
hesitated for a moment. If this was something of sorcery and gave her
new powers when she held it—

But his sword and dagger were ready and could deal with Scyra—or
anything she could turn herself into— well enough. He drew the dagger
and rested his other hand on the hilt of his sword.

For a moment, Scyra seemed to have eyes for nothing except the steel,
and no power of speech. Then she held out her hand again, and Conan put
the crystal in it.

Silence, long enough that Conan feared other chakans would find their
dead comrades and come prowling in search of vengeance. Scyra seemed to
be in a trance. He hoped she was finding some answers with these
delvings into other worlds, and might in time condescend to give them
to him.

Before his impatience forced the Cimmerian to speech, however, Scyra
stood up. She seemed calmer, although the hand that gripped the crystal
was clenched so tightly about it that the knuckles were white.

"This is, by its appearance a Crystal of Thraz," she said.

"That tells me nothing," Conan said.

"Forgive me. Such crystals are very old, said to be Atlantean, but of
course everything that old is blamed on Atlantis, even when there is no
mention of it in the chronicles of—"

"Scyra, I have no time to listen to you imitate your father at his
worst. What does the cursed thing do?"

"It can increase the power of a sorcerer. It can also clean temples or
other holy places of the taint of dark sorcery."

"Useful little device, isn't it?"

"Please. There are only six of them known to exist. I never dreamed
that one would come into my hands."

"Then you intend to keep it?"

"Do you mean, to keep it from my father?"

Conan grunted. Scyra was too shrewd by half. He was almost tempted to
snatch the crystal back and smash it on the floor. He doubted it was
harder than the mountain stone, and a few shrewd cuts with his sword
would finish the work. '

"You're the best judge of your father's honesty. Would it help him use
the demon's gate—the world-walker—to send us to the cave of that image
he's planning to bring back to life? If it will do that, I won't ask
you to keep it from him. It's my life and the Bamulas's at stake."

Scyra's eyes widened again. They were very fine eyes, and Conan would
not mind seeing them widen on a pillow, but he wished the woman would
find words more quickly.

"He is sending your band to the cave?"

"So he said, in words I understood. Which of us is astray in his wits?"

"No one. You heard… you heard the truth, but not all of it."

"And the whole truth is?"

Scyra took a deep breath, and now the words came swiftly and clearly.
There was a woman of sense under that fidgety exterior, the gods be
praised!

"The statue must be animated by a blood-sacrifice. Either the nearest
kin of the sorcerer, or twenty-some other folk. My father considered
sacrificing me. He then changed his mind and wished to sacrifice twenty
Picts."

"How was he going to persuade them?"

"I was to marry a Pictish chief. My bride-price would be the lives of
twenty of the chiefs warriors."

"The chief wouldn't live to the next day's sunset after that. Your
father may know magick, but he knows less about Picts than young chief
Govindue knows."

"He was desperate. Also, the other Picts might have forgiven him after
his magick brought them victory."

"The victory of turning the Marches into a howling wilderness. You
wished that?"

"He is my father. He loved my mother, and saw the Marchers as her
murderers. Vengeance comes easily when you look at the world thus."

"Madness comes even sooner, and I think it has come to your father." A
suspicion buzzed in Conan's mind, like a marsh bug whining in his ear.
It grew louder, then turned into an ugly certainty.

"My band goes to the cave in the world-walker, and then we become the
blood-sacrifice? No Picts killed, none turned to enemies, and the
statue on the march? Is that your fathers scheme?"

Scyra nodded. "He has not said so plainly, but from what I have heard
and what you have said—I can hardly doubt it."

"Nor can I," Conan said. "Scyra, if I give you this crystal, can you
keep it out of your father's hands? I think you have need of some
defense against him, even if you do not choose to fight him. I would
not ask that. But I swear I will destroy it if you do not swear to keep
it, and if you betray us, you will join us in death."

It always made sense to arm a friend in the enemy's camp. It was ever a
question, though, whether the friend would remain one and any weapons
given him stay out of the enemy's hands. Conan's luck in such ventures
had been mixed. He wanted to trust Scyra, and if she could be trusted,
she might do much good.

If not, she might be the doom of them all, and not only himself and his
band. Bossonian corpses would be piled high before the Picts were
beaten back across the frontier.

"I will swear, Conan. While I am thinking of the oath, I would like to
tend to your wounds. The chakans did not bite, did they?"

"Not so I've noticed, but they have claws and muscles in plenty."

"You were fortunate as well as strong. Their bite festers so that only
spells can remedy the wound. Warm water and a herb poultice for the
scratches, a potion for the pain of the bruises—"

"No potions."

"You do not trust me?"

"I need to trust my wits. I've never yet taken a potion that didn't
slow them, and my arm as well. Those may not be the only chakans
about."

"Very well. Turn your back."

Confident that she could not stab him without warning, Conan perched on
a low stool. It creaked ominously under his weight. He heard bare feet
padding across the floor, and then warm dampness touched his back. So
did something else warm—the bare breasts of a woman.

He spun on the stool, raising his legs as he did. They swept Scyra off
her feet. He caught her and dragged her onto his lap. She wore only a
Pictish loinguard, and all the rest of her was as fair to look at as
were the feet and legs.

She shook her head, making lights dance on her hair. "Is this enough of
an oath?"

"For now… but I thought sorceresses needed to be maidens."

"A man who has no ghost-voice cannot weaken a woman's magick," she
said.

"No what?" Conan asked.

She explained. The explanation was long, but this time Conan did not
mind the length. She remained in his lap, kissed him, sponged down his
wounds, and in due course, removed her loinguard. They were in the bed
shortly after that, and entwined almost at once.

How long they remained thus, Conan never knew. He only knew that Scyra
had cried out for the third time, when a fierce shock made the chamber
quiver. Earthquake, he thought at first. The bed creaked and swayed,
the stool toppled over, sponges and the water basin fell to the floor.
As the quivering faded, Conan heard the rumble of stone, and then a cry
that could have come from no human throat.

He rolled from the woman's embrace and bed and snatched for his
clothes, steel, and the crystal. All were where he had left them.
Neither Scyra nor any minion of hers had used this moment to steal the
jewel. He might ask the woman more, should ask more if there was time.

"Scyra, I will trust you to be no enemy to us even though you be none
to your father. The crystal is yours. It is best you and it remain
here, though. I am taking my people away. We may be fighting chakans,
Picts, and the gods alone know what else."

She looked up at him with eyes that were no longer wide but half
closed, even sleepy, with satisfaction. "Conan, for a safer journey,
look to the chest over there, by the hanging with the blue castle. It
is not locked."

The chest contained a motley array of goods, but only three were of
interest. The first was a new lantern. The second was a packet of oiled
parchment, holding a map of the wilderness, embroidered on the thinnest
of Khi-tan silk. Conan judged that with a little time, he could master
it.

The last was a heavy purse. Conan opened it briefly, judged that the
coins were gold all the way down, and added it to his load.

Scyra had neither moved from the bed nor donned her clothes. Conan
threw her a final admiring look, and she writhed with pleasure as if
the look had been a caress.

"Go swiftly, Conan. If you are beyond my father's reach soon enough, he
may not punish me."

"You haven't seen swiftness, Scyra. Not until you've seen a Cimmerian
and a host of Bamula warriors running for their lives!"

Fourteen

Govindue woke the men when he heard the distant sounds of a battle. In
this jungle of stone, it was hard to tell where and how far away the
battle was fought, but it seemed to lie on the path Conan had taken.

The men were sleepy, many of them, and not pleased to be awakened. Nor
was Kubwande friendly to the young chief.

"Conan said that we had until dawn to await him," the iqako said.
"Until then, we should rest and save our strength."

"Rather than save Conan, if he needs it?" Govindue asked.

The young chief was pleased to note that even some of the most
heavy-eyed men nodded at those words. Some among the band had the same
notions of honor as he did, which was as well. By now, they all owed
their lives to Conan more than once, and Govindue was sure they would
owe much more to the man who would not be called Amra before they saw
the Bamula lands again.

"We do not know where he is—" Kubwande began again.

It was Bowenu who interrupted. "We know that where the battle is, Conan
will be found. Never was there such a chief for finding the enemy, or
they finding him."

This time everybody nodded, even Kubwande, although he seemed uneasy.
Govindue made ritual gestures of gratitude at Bowenu and vowed that
when he had it in his gift, the man would have more than gratitude.

"Then some of us should go," Kubwande said. "I will gladly lead them."

Govindue shook his head, and he was glad to see distaste for that idea
on most of the other faces. "We will not divide our strength, not in an
unknown place and facing an unknown enemy. We will all gather what we
wish to take from this place, and when we leave this stone hut, we will
leave together. Nor will we divide ourselves on the way to find Conan,
or afterward, save by chance.

"We have been together this far, and it has meant life to all of us. If
now it means death, then that is as the gods will it, and we will meet
the death they send like warriors of the Bamulas. In this land, too,
people will cry 'Ohbe, Bamula!'"

It was the longest speech Govindue had ever made in his life, even
longer than the one at his manhood ordeal. It also seemed to strike
home more than he dared expect, with warriors some of whom were almost
old enough to be his father.

The gods touched those whom they wished to lead, it seemed. He would
have to be worthy of their trust, as well as that of the men.

Then there was no more speech, only the scrape and rattle of men
preparing to strike out for war.

***

Conan moved openly through the tunnels now. Speed was everything, to
take him back to his people before anything could happen to them.
Treachery by Lysenius, attack by chakans, another earthquake—anything
was possible.

Anything except panic among the Bamulas. Not all of them had showed
equal prowess in battle, but all of them had followed him through the
world-walker and on after that. It was not in them to give way to fear.

At one point, the roof of a tunnel gaped open, a crack wide enough to
swallow a boy running up into nighted depths. Conan could have sworn
that the wall was also bulged out. Just as well he was moving openly
through the wider tunnels. The narrow passages of the secret route he
had taken to Scyra's bed might have become a trifle too narrow for a
well-grown Cimmerian warrior.

Conan realized that the way he was following now led past the
treasure-room. He also realized that there were smoke and dust in the
air, and a foul odor he had no trouble recognizing. Chakans lay ahead.

This time he was ready. He set down the purse and map and advanced
burdened only by lantern and weapons. Around the first bend, the smoke
and dust swirled thicker, seeming ready to swallow every beam of light
from the lantern. Around the second bend, his sandals grated on stones,
and a block fallen from the roof lay half-barring the passage.

Conan crouched, listening for any sound from beyond the block. If the
chakans were lying in wait, that would be the best place for them.

Only silence came, broken once by the faint, distant clatter of rock
falling. The reek of the chakans seemed to be weaker now, and another
odor was joining it. That one was even more familiar to Conan. It was
the smell of death.

Whose death? The only way to learn was to go on. Conan drew both
weapons and sidled past the block, back to the wall, his eyes seeking
friend, foe, or even knowledge of what had befallen the
treasure-chamber.

The chamber opened off a larger one, and when Conan entered that larger
chamber, he found himself on what seemed like a battlefield. Fallen
rock was strewn about, likewise gobs of half-melted metal and pieces of
charred wood, all still smoking and adding to the choking miasma.

Among the other debris were several corpses. They had almost human
shape, but the proportions of the limbs were subtly wrong and no human
ever sported such a peaked skull. Conan also saw on those corpses that
were not charred black far too much hair for any human being.

Beyond the rubble-strewn floor, the arched entrance to the
treasure-chamber gaped. Smoke curled out of it, and more from the
remains of the doors still dangling from either side of the arch.
Beyond the entrance, smoke and dust swirled so thickly that the light
of Conan's lantern could hardly penetrate farther than into the stone
itself.

He had seen enough, however. A band of chakans had come prowling this
way, and with their half-bestial intelligence, had found the
treasure-chamber. What they had thought it to be, the gods alone knew,
but they had surely made some attempt on the doors—vigorous enough to
draw the chamber's magickal defenses on them and cause a minor quake.

Or had that been entirely magickal? Lysenius had not seemed to be any
master of the mechanic arts, Scyra still less. But these caves and
tunnels were too extensive and well-shaped to be altogether natural;
what powers had made them in the eons before Lysenius came to the
Pictish Wilderness? What had those powers left behind?

Conan knew one thing that he was not going to leave behind—anything
portable in the treasure-chamber. Lysenius had no good use for any
pickings, and the Bamulas might need more than Scyra's gold to speed
their way homeward. He would have to chance confrontation with any
remaining mechanical or magickal defenses of the treasure-chamber, but
he had taken greater risks with less need when he was far less skilled
a thief.

Conan retrieved the purse and map and was crossing the chamber when he
heard footsteps mounting the tunnel from below. These were human
footsteps, and numerous, moving fast—mayhap the Bamulas, or perhaps
Picts following in the wake of their shaman's creatures.

The Cimmerian slipped into the arch of the treasure-chamber's entrance
and waited, then doused his lantern. Now he was all but invisible,
unless one shone light almost squarely upon him.

The newcomers were carrying lanterns. Good. They would illuminate
themselves well before they illuminated him. Then a quick rush, if they
were Picts—

More footsteps. These were coming from the tunnel Conan had just
followed. They were slower, fewer—and now the Cimmerian heard the click
of claws on stone. Chakan, or whatever else they might be; the one
thing they were not was human. Did Lysenius have creatures of his own
conjuring at his service, to defend his stronghold?

The oncoming men seemed to hear the others almost at the same moment as
Conan did. He heard their footsteps stop, then a whispered command to
set the lanterns down in front of them. Relief washed through the
Cimmerian. The language was Bamula, and he could have sworn the voice
was Govindue's.

Three chakans now slipped into view, one of them on all fours, sniffing
the floor. From Scyra's description, that had to be the one trailing
the Cimmerian. The others were to guard it while it trailed and help it
to strike down the prey when they came upon it.

Conan resolved to alter their plans. There seemed to be far too many of
these shaman's pets roaming about tonight. He intended that by dawn,
there would be far fewer.

He bent carefully, without any betraying scrape of skin on stone or
rattle of gear. He picked up a small stone between thumb and
forefinger, then tossed it out onto the rubble-strewn floor.

The rattle seemed as loud as a war cry in a temple. It certainly drew
the chakans' attention. Whuffling uncertainly, they stopped and looked
about them. They had to be able to see the Bamulas' lanterns, but could
they see the men beyond?

At least one of them did. With a cry that was part-scream, part-howl,
it leapt toward the lanterns. It landed among them, knocking two over.
Darkness redoubled, as did sound, with Bamula war cries, Cimmerian war
cries, and the bestial howls of the chakans all vying with one another.

The two remaining chakans sprang to join their comrade, or so Conan
judged as best he could by the scant light remaining. If that was so,
then all three had their backs to him.

He leapt from his hiding place, landing amid fallen rocks and barely
keeping his footing. A charred piece of wood cracked under him, but the
sound was lost in the uproar and no chakan turned to face him.

That was fatal to one of the beasts almost at once. Knowing their
strength, speed, and tenacity of life, Conan struck with two hands on
his sword. The cord of the spine, the bone of the skull, the flesh of
the chakan's neck all gave way together. The creature's high-peaked
head lolled on its shoulders as its body lurched forward, bounced off
its comrades, and fell to the floor. Two spears thrust from above into
its back ended its last struggles, and the rank odor of its death
filled the chamber.

"Don't close with them!" Conan shouted. "Form a hedge with half your
spears and throw the others!" The Bamulas were no weaklings, but Conan
doubted their power to come alive out of a chakan's unnatural grip.

For answer, someone threw a spear. It passed wide of both living
chakans and nearly struck the Cimmerian. He snatched it up, ready to
return it point-first to the fool who had thrown so wildly.

Or had it been wildly? He remembered those footprints on the bank where
he fought the river-horse, and Kubwande's taste for intrigue. A "wildly
thrown" spear in the darkness could give any man excuse should it slay
a friend.

The next moment, the Bamulas brought down the second chakan with spears
both thrown and thrust. Conan heard a warrior cry out in pain and fury,
and then came the death-rattle of the chakan. The third chakan seemed
bemused and astray in its wits; it crouched on the floor and whimpered
until Govindue stepped forward and thrust it through the neck.

The young chief had withdrawn his spear and was bending its point back
into shape when Conan approached him. They pounded each other on the
shoulders, then Conan led Govindue apart and whispered:

"A spear came near to taking me instead of the chakan. Did you see who
threw it?"

"Is that their name? We thought them apes. Are they more?"

Conan told him of what he had learned from Scyra. Govindue looked
grave. "It is not good, to have two kinds of evil magick against us."

"Tell me what I don't already know, or hold your tongue."

"I know who threw the spear. Need I name him?"

"I have no wish to curse him. Kill him, if needs be, but not curse
him."

"Then you need no name. Such as he, I think curse themselves from the
day they are born."

"Likely as not." Conan raised his voice. "Ho, Bamulas! We have a
treasure-room to loot. Take only what you can carry easily. We must
leave here swiftly and keep up a good pace for some days."

"Why are we leaving Lysenius?" That was not Bowenu, as Conan might have
expected. He did not recognize the speaker in the darkness, but someone
apparently did and spoke up:

"Scobun, do you want to share quarters with these? Or serve anyone who
commands them? Better to take our chances with the Picts! A cleaner
death, if no more."

"Yes," Conan said. He told briefly of Lysenius's planned treachery. He
spent no time explaining how he had learned, although Kubwande did ask
where the crystal was.

"Where I intended it to be," Conan replied. "I judged rightly. It is
woman's magick, and a good thing for us. Scyra will not make war on her
father for us, but she has no love for treachery. What strengthens her
works for us."

"Wise words," Govindue said. "Now… the treasure-room lies over there."
He pointed with his spear. "Four at a time, and each four only while I
count to a hundred. Anyone greedy or stealing from his comrades will
not live long enough to fear Lysenius or the Picts!"

The young chief's voice was still a trifle too high-pitched to give him
a real air of command, but he had everything else a captain might need.
If luck and the gods spared him, Govindue would leave a mighty name
behind him.

If, of course, he did not tonight leave his bones in Lysenius's caves.

***

The looting of the treasure-chamber went swiftly enough. Chests and
bags alike had been sundered apart by the chakans and the magick
defense against them. Gold and silver coins, some freshly minted
Aquilonian crowns, others from realms long lost in the mists of time,
jewels, massive necklaces, arms rings and ornaments, and finely
decorated weapons, lay strewn wantonly about.

Conan kept a close watch on the men, partly to encourage them to pick
the precious rather than the showy, and partly to prevent trickery. He
had his sword drawn and even the thought of taking something from a
comrade was hard to hold if one sensed those ice-blue eyes boring into
the back of one's neck and seeming to read one's innermost thoughts.

The Cimmerian contented himself with a jeweled dagger, which he added
to the purse of gold from Scyra.

The blade had never been of the best steel, and now showed signs of
rust. The jewels might be worth a manor; the dagger itself was barely
fit to cut salt meat in a starveling siege camp.

Everyone had a bulging pouch or bag when he left the treasure-chamber.
No one seemed any the slower for his burden, but the day's march would
test the Bamulas far more rigorously. Conan resolved that any man who
fell behind from an overabundance of loot would have to divide half of
his cache among more prudent comrades. If they also were fully
burdened, the man would have to leave his baubles for the Picts and the
wolves.

With this decision made, Conan formed his men up and led them down past
their old quarters and out into the night. Dawn found them well on
their way east, and as yet unpursued.

The Bamulas rejoiced at this, and seemed to regard their escape as a
certainty. Conan was silent about his own doubts. They were a long way
from the border, Lysenius might have resources not yet used or be
letting them go for his own purposes, and the Picts would not be long
in coming.

Even if they survived all these perils, the border might be closed to
them. They had raided in the Marches, and it might well be that no
amount of gold would make Bossonians forgive men who had marched with
the Picts.

***

"They are gone! Gone! Gone!" Lysenius thundered.

Scyra hoped that he would not try to cast any spells until his mind was
less troubled. Now, if he tried to warm a bowl of herb tea, he was
likely as not to set his robe on fire.

She had seen this sort of thing happen before, and it had helped speed
his way out of both Aquilonia and Bossonia. In Aquilonia, men paying
good gold and silver for spells unlawful even under the decadent
Numedides brooked no failures or partial successes. In Bossonia,
bungled spells betrayed Lysenius and his family to hard-handed
neighbors who might otherwise have not learned who lived among them.

But a tiger who missed his leap three times out of four was no less
dangerous to the man under the fourth leap.

"We must raise the Picts and be after the Cimmerian and his men,"
Lysenius groaned. "But what can I do to pay blood-price for the
warriors who will die?"

From a brief look at the treasure-chamber, Scyra doubted that her
father lacked gold for this purpose. Twenty Bamulas had wrought further
havoc after the wardings slew the chakans and shattered the door, but
they had by no means stripped the chamber bare.

But offering part of that gold would make the Picts wonder if there was
more. Indeed, they might already have learned of it from the chakans.
Neither god nor man nor magick could stand between Picts and that much
gold.

Her father would escape as a beggar, if he escaped at all, with no
gold, no magick not unlawful in any land they could hope to reach,
nothing but her—if her marriage to a Pictish chief was not the price of
his escape. There had to be some path out of this that would neither
beggar her father nor slaughter Conan and his Bamulas.

If she could save Conan (she shivered at the memory of his lusty
embrace) and leave the Bamulas to their fate—

No. Conan would refuse such a solution and die cursing her. His honor
bound him to save those who had followed him through the world-walker
and into a land that must be as strange to them as the Black Kingdoms
would be to her… else he would die with them.

But if she could save Conan's band without ruining her father…

She stepped back and drew from her purse the Crystal of Thraz. Her
fathers eyes were fastened on the ceiling when she did so, and he
seemed to be talking to some being there, or even in the solid rock
beyond. It took some moments before he lowered his gaze.

He started then, and let out a roar that nearly made Scyra drop the
crystal. She stepped back two more paces, as he looked ready to snatch
at it.

"No, Father. It was a gift from Conan. He took it from the Bossonian
caravan, then gave it to me."

"But… you know what these can do?"

"Am I not your daughter?"

"Do not, for once, answer a question with a question, Scyra. It is
clever, but this is not the time for cleverness."

In that, Scyra thought, her father was very much mistaken. It was
indeed a time for her to be clever beyond her wont, or Conan was
doomed.

"Wait, Father. I know what this is. I have… I have tested it, in small
ways. Not great ones, but the small ones have been enough to tell me
that this one is bonded to women and women only."

Lysenius frowned. Scyra hoped he was not trying to remember the names
of the spells that she might have used. If he interrogated her even
aloud, let alone reaching into her mind, betrayal was likely and
disaster not impossible.

"This is the truth?"

"By all that I know, yes."

"You cannot swear by more," Lysenius said. His broad shoulders bowed
for a moment under the weight of all his years and memories.

Scyra knew how many of those memories were of failure and loss, and
wanted to hug her father as she had when she was a child. It had
comforted him them; would it comfort him now?

Perhaps, and she would feel even worse a traitor than she did already.
Her father might not scruple at selling her to the Picts to advance his
schemes, but when she stood before him, he had not the heart to call
her a liar. There remained in him more of the man he had been than she
had thought.

Perhaps she could find a way entirely out of this land with Conan's
help. Surely the Cimmerian knew the way to some land where she and her
father could live out their days, on what they could take from the
treasure-room and what she might earn with her healing skills. She also
could appeal to that northern iron honor of his.

Again she fought the urge to embrace her father. He looked ready to
weep, and she knew that if he began, she would join him. Amidst her
tears, the truth would come out, and all that she feared might come to
pass.

"Father, I have a plan."

"Do not put yourself in danger for it."

"We must not fear danger, if we are to avoid doom. We both know that
Conan has no ghost-voice. We cannot hear his mind across the
wilderness. But he can hear my ghost-voice if I fling it toward him
through the Crystal of Thraz."

"That is potent magick."

"Then you must teach me what I do not know, and how to use it in
safety. If I can speak to Conan, I can subtly guide his band toward the
Cave of the Warrior. Meanwhile, we can follow them with a stout band of
Picts, enough to seize the Bamulas when they reach the cave. Conan
alone has enough spirit in him to raise the statue. If we are able to
sacrifice the whole band—"

"That was my very plan!" Lysenius exclaimed. He grinned down at his
daughter. "Truly, you are my daughter of the spirit as well as of the
body."

Scyra wanted to scream that she was anything but that. Instead, she
went on. "We might well use the world-walker, to pass ahead of Conan's
band."

Lysenius shook his head. "The Cave of the Warrior is hard upon the land
of the Snakes. We would not last a day without more Owls ready to
defend us than I could pass through the world-walker. I also doubt that
very many Picts would pass through it even if I could send them. What
they have seen of my magick already puts them in fear. The world-walker
would drive them mad."

Lysenius drew himself straight. To his daughter, he appeared for a
moment almost as kingly as Conan. Then he bent and kissed her on the
forehead, letting his hands rest lightly on her shoulders. She stood
entirely still, but her stomach churned.

"So be it. Do as you must, to guide Conan. I will reach out to the
chiefs of the Owls and assemble the warriors. Shall I ask them to bring
litters as well?"

"Unless you think we can match the pace of marching Pict warriors,
yes," Scyra said with a wry smile. "No doubt, if I could do so, I would
be worth more than ever as a bride for a chief. But I fear we cannot
pretend that we are any sort of Pict."

Nor, in the end, even any sort of friend to them.

Fifteen

To Govindue, this land of the Picts would always seem more perilous
than his homeland. This was not without reason either, as even Conan
granted.

There were the nights so cold that even the strange, all-enveloping
clothes made of the hides of furry beasts barely kept shivering at bay.
There was the rocky ground, the streams that held no crocodiles but
could rise to a flood after a swift rain. There were storms, as fierce
as any in the jungles, if not as frequent. There were animals, not as
numerous as those of the jungle, but in their own land every bit as
dangerous—and with habits Govindue did not know.

Before and beyond all, there were the Picts. They had to be out there,
Govindue knew, even though they had remained quite unseen and nearly
unheard since the band left the caves of Lysenius. Any tree in the
expanse of sinister green he saw now from a low ridge might hide a
Pict. The forest ahead might hide enough to swarm over the Bamulas and
bring them down with bare hands, if they were of a mind to capture them
alive for Lysenius or for their own purposes.

Govindue could not withhold a shudder at the thought of what Pictish
schemes might mean to captives. The Bamulas and their enemies were
adept at tests of a prisoner's endurance, but the Picts made them seem
like weak-willed children.

Conan scrambled up to the ridge beside Govindue and shaded his eyes
against the rising sun. They had been on the march this day ever since
all the sky one could see overhead was a sullen gray. Now it promised
to be a fine day, in which they could make a good long stride toward
safety—or doom.

"You look uneasy, young chief," Conan said.

"How I look only speaks my thoughts," Govindue said. "But I suppose a
chief must keep such thoughts from more than his mouth?"

"You do not need to ask, I think," Conan replied. "Had I known half as
much about leading when I was your age, I might be a general or a
prince today. Well, the gods make our paths rough or smooth as it
pleases them, and we can only walk where they will us to. Although I
see you seem used to walking paths in sandals, or even in boots now."

Govindue laughed. "They will never feel natural. But in this
rock-fanged land, walking barefoot would feel much worse, and that
quickly."

"As Vuona discovered. Have her feet healed?"

Govindue felt the blood rush to his face. Conan gave him a sidelong
glance, and for a moment he feared his chief was about to strike him.

"I saw you rubbing ointment on her feet and binding them in strips of
cloth. Was there more that I did not see, that I should know about?"

"I have not bedded your woman, Amra," Govindue said stiffly.

"I am still Conan here in this band, in this land," the other said
sharply. Then he grinned, to take the lash from his words.

"Your sense of honor would not allow it, I know. But is Vuona
displeased at the idea?"

"You know her better than I do," Govindue said. "It is as well that her
feet are sore, or I might not be able to outrun her."

"No, but you could give her a good long chase so that by the time she
overtook you, she'd be too winded for bedsport."

Govindue's face remained hot, and the bigger man saw that he had
embarrassed the young chief. "As long as Vuona makes no trouble among
the men, I will not chain her. If she makes trouble, I will not chain
her either… I will run her through. As for the future… when we know
we'll not end as bones bleaching on a Pictish midden-heap, you might
think of a first wife and do worse than Vuona. You know that she is
daughter to one of the three highest chiefs of the Fish-Eaters?"

"I did not know."

"Never miss listening to a woman who's willing to talk. Half the
trouble women cause is by silence, and Vuona will never have that
fault. Others, no doubt, but you as a chief in the Dead Elephant Valley
bound by marriage to a chief of the Fish-Eaters—"

"Yes, and since I am oath-bound to you, it could mean peace between you
and the Fish-Eaters. Indeed, you might serve me by advancing my suit."

"Small chance of that. Her father, I judge, is the chief whose
headdress I skewered when he was trying to have his people kill me as a
demon-lover."

"One can see that he might not love you, nor think well of any suit you
brought. As you wish, Conan."

"You have not so much to learn as you think, young chief. Indeed, I've
no desire to exchange fleeing the Picts for fleeing the Fish-Eaters."

"All who have followed you here would stand by you to the death."

"Yes, and to the death of a good many Fish-Eaters, which would make war
between them and the Bamulas. A man finds enough wars in his path by
chance, without going out and seeking more!"

Conan looked about him. "Now let's be down and off. The men should have
finished at the stream, and these boulders might hide more than Picts."

***

Conan saw no signs of Picts on his way down the hill or in the trees
around the pool where the Bamulas were filling their water bottles. The
forest was not short of water, even in high summer, but Conan had
warred in deserts that made Hell seem moist and temperate. He would
never miss a chance to take on water, and if he and his band never had
to stand off Picts on a waterless hill, so much the better.

Indeed, he was beginning to wonder if they might make their way clean
out of the Pictish Wilderness without having to stand off any of the
tribes. They were still some days from the Marches, and trails, blazed
trees, and every so often a fallen feather or discarded moccasin, told
of a Pictish presence.

No living Pict had showed so much as a feather-tip however, and even
Picts were not such cunning trackers as to remain so completely
invisible for so long from eyes as keen as the Cimmerian's. They had
also missed more than one chance to slaughter the little band with
small danger to themselves.

Conan had been using Scyra's map and his many years as woodsman and
warrior to guide his people around the many dangerous passages. But
only a god able to lift them into the sky could have taken them past
all perils. Half a dozen times, Conan had felt the flesh of his back
crawl with the anticipation of an arrow sinking into it, but no arrow
ever came.

It was a mystery, and he did not like mysteries. Not in this land,
where the Picts were deadly enough when they behaved in their common
fashion.

He would have liked to ask Scyra for an answer, those times when she
reached out and touched his mind with advice on the best way to go. The
first time it had been at night, as he was drifting into sleep after a
weary scramble across the worst stretch of hills on their way east. He
had thought of Lysenius's magick and resolved to fall on his sword
rather than let the sorcerer master him to the harm of his people.

But it had only been the sorcerer's daughter. Her thoughts came in her
own voice, which he remembered well (and not only her cries of joy).
Also, she offered as proof of who she was, memories that no one else
could have had.

So he came to accept her advice, and more than once tried to send his
thanks back, and more than thanks. No answer came, however. In time,
the Cimmerian realized that this sending of thoughts might remain from
her to him, unless he himself turned sorcerer—which was about as likely
as his willingly becoming a eunuch!

Mayhap there was nothing sinister behind the lack of Picts. Scyra might
well have been able to dissuade her father from unleashing the Owls.
Now the fugitives were at, or even beyond, the land of the Owls, into
land disputed between the Wolves and the Snakes. The Snakes at least
were no friends to Lysenius, and the Wolves might have too much on
their hands fighting the Snakes to fret over handfuls of curiously hued
strangers wandering across their land.

Conan joined the column close to the rear, behind Vuona. He walked
beside her as the band left the clearing and saw that she was casting
sharp looks at Kubwande.

"Has he been making trouble?" Conan almost said "again," but did not
care to discuss the stray spear in the dark during the battle against
the chakans.

"What would you have me say?" Vuona replied. "I have no quarrel with
him. Have you?"

"Not unless he is fool enough to find one before we are out of the
wilderness," Conan said shortly. He also said it loudly enough for
others besides Vuona to hear. Kubwande might have friends who would
serve his schemes safely at home but could see wisdom until they had
left the Picts behind.

"He does not seem that big a fool," Vuona said. "Also, I think you will
be a bigger chief than he is."

"As the gods will," Conan said.

"Could they will us a safe place nearer than these Marches?" Vuona
asked, almost pettishly. Conan saw that she winced sometimes as she
walked, and that dark stains showed on her foot-bindings.

"Not safe from the Picts," Conan said. "Sore feet are better than a
slit throat or a cracked skull. Besides, in the Marches they have warm
houses with soft furs on the floor."

"Warm? How does anybody keep warm in this land?"

Conan did not say that if Vuona kept more of her clothes about her and
showed less of her lithe form, she might stay warmer. Perhaps she would
not be so good a match for Govindue after all. The young chief deserved
at the very least to know who was the father of the sons born to his
wife.

"They build their huts of stone and heavy logs, and put fires in stone
boxes inside."

"They must stifle!"

"Not in the winter."

"Winter?"

"A time much colder than this, when there is snow— frozen water—lying
as deep as a man's height on the ground. All the streams freeze so that
one can walk dryshod across them, and to be caught without shelter is
death."

Vuona looked up at the sky with the face of one struggling not to cry
out. Conan rested a hand lightly on her shoulder.

"No snow today, and not for many days. Do not fear."

"Who fears?" she said haughtily. Then, more softly, she added. "I do
hope that we are out of this land before the winter."

"Woman, in that we think alike," Conan said.

***

The hoots the Owls used for signals on the march came back from the
head of the line, passed Scyra's litter, and faded away to the rear.
The bearers halted, and Scyra climbed out, disdaining the helping hands
offered by several warriors.

Perhaps that was giving offense to those who meant well, but Scyra
would believe in a well-meaning Pict when she saw the sun stand still
in the sky. She also feared in her innermost heart that her flesh would
creep and crawl away from a Pictish touch.

All along the trail from the caves, she had been troubled by nightmares
in which Picts by the score made free with her body in ways that would
have made a Stygian turn away in disgust. Once she awoke so drenched
with sweat that she had to quickly change her garments, lest her father
suspect that she was fevered and try to cure her in ways that would
betray her secret.

Scyra had small doubt that it was that secret that was unsettling her
mind and tormenting her spirit, by night and sometimes by day. However,
it had not yet kept her from learning the arts of the Crystal of Thraz,
nor from reaching Conan with her messages of guidance.

Indeed, she had begun to suspect that if she had the time, she could
make her lie the truth. She could bind the crystal, if not to women
only, at least so tightly to herself that her father could not use it
without risking its destruction. He would not chance that unless he
became persuaded that she was lying to him—and it was still not in
Lysenius to believe that the daughter who was all that remained to him
of his dead wife would betray him and his plans.

And speaking of her father's plans—here came Sutharo, one of the five
greatest war chiefs of the Owls. Lysenius had named him most often as
Scyra's likely husband among the Picts, and it seemed to the young
woman that the Pict had learned of this. Certainly his manner around
her was that of one who wished her goodwill. She doubted that this
grotesque parody of courtliness would last beyond the marriage circle
and the dousing of the torches, but for the moment he was being as
civil toward her as it was in a Pict to be toward an outland woman.

Sutharo wore leggings and a wolfskin cloak, as well as a breechclout of
the finest deerskin, lavishly embroidered with colored shells and bits
of bone. He carried bow and quiver with bronze-headed arrows, a spear
likewise bronze-tipped and decorated with heron feathers, and in his
belt a hatchet and a well-kept piece of loot from some battlefield, a
Gunderman-style short-sword.

Halting before Scyra, he gave his best imitation of a bow. "I trust I
find you well, gracious lady," he said. Like nearly all pure-blooded
Picts, he spoke no Hyborian tongue, but there were similar modes of
address in the Pictish speech used among chiefs or toward shamans.
Scyra recognized that he was using both at once. Considering the common
lot of Pictish women, this was near to a Hyborian kneeling at her feet.

"I am well. The journey is not hard, and the hope of victory at the end
of it strengthens any warriors spirit." She used the same mode of
speech as Sutharo, remembering at the last moment that in Pictish there
was no feminine form of the word "warrior."

"Yes. May it also strengthen your regard for one who leads warriors to
that victory." At least that was one meaning of the Pictish word for
regard. Another meaning was "lust."

Scyra doubted that if Sutharo conquered the whole world and laid it at
her feet, she would feel either meaning of the word for him. But that
particular truth would help no one and nothing, and she did not feel
any of the qualms about lying to Sutharo that she felt in the matter of
her father.

"My father and I have always held the warriors of the Owls in high
regard. Your friendship strengthens us in all ways."

"That fills me with joy." The word for "joy," like the word for
"regard," had other and less polite meanings. Scyra did not doubt that
Sutharo was using several meanings at once. The common Pictish chief
might not shine at the court in Tarantia, but the common Aquilonian
courtier would likewise not find himself well-suited to the intrigues
of a Pictish tribe—if he lived long enough to join in them at all.

Scyra walked up and down, stretching her cramped limbs, ready to give
everything but the Crystal of Thraz for a hot bath. (Perhaps also for a
bundle of scented herbs to stuff in her nostrils against the reek of a
thousand Pictish warriors under a sun climbing toward the zenith.)

Instead, she turned her thoughts from the discomforts of her body and
toward remembering where Conan had been when she last touched his mind.
He no longer shied like a startled horse from that touch, and so far,
her father had not to her knowledge listened to her speaking to Conan.

The Cimmerian might have no ghost-voice, but he had a very keen eye for
what lay about him. No doubt his many battles and hunts—and yes,
flights for his life—had sharpened his eyes and ears alike. Seeing a
tree through Conan's eyes, Scyra could almost count the needles on a
branch fifty paces above the ground.

She did not return to the litter to draw out her map, the twin of
Conan's. The Picts had no knowledge of maps, and while they respected
the arts of the white shaman and his daughter, they grew uneasy seeing
them practiced openly.

Instead, she sat on the bole of a fallen oak, feeling the sponginess of
the rotted wood, smelling the rich mold, hearing only birdsong and the
chirr of an insect just over her head. The human world and all its
assaults on her senses faded from her awareness, leaving only nature
surrounding her mind as she composed herself to send her ghost-voice
out to Conan…

She returned from her mind's journey just in time to hear the hooting
pass by again, from front to rear. Now it meant an end to the halt. The
scouts had reported the way clear, the hunters had returned with any
game unfortunate enough to encounter them, the water bags had been
refilled, and the warriors who swore by the Owl were ready to march
again.

So, Scyra had learned, were Conan and his people ready. Indeed, she
could let them march the way they intended for the rest of the day.
They were moving almost as she would have wished had she been marching
with them and guiding their every turn.

After tonight they would need to bear farther to the south to come upon
the cave in good time. They would also need protection against the
Snakes, whose lands they approached.

The Snakes had been for some time at odds with the Wolves. It was short
of open warfare, but most of their warriors would be facing the Wolves
at the other end of the Snake lands. Some would still remain close to
the cave—too many for twenty Bamulas, a Cimmerian, and a woman to meet
successfully.

She could not trust her father to offer magickal protection. He would
ask more questions than she could answer with believable lies, and her
masquerade would be ended.

A vanguard of Owl warriors, going on ahead? Yes, and what was to keep
them trustworthy? Even if they did no more than fight the Snakes—

Sutharo. If she gave him certain promises she had no intention of
keeping, he might swear to bind his warriors to peace with Conan, and
even with the Snakes, unless the other tribe attacked first. Snake and
Owl were old enemies, but there was no declared war between them now,
and the Snakes had the Wolves on their hands.

She would make promises, and pray that he did not ask her to keep those
promises until after the battle. She could make some excuse that would
keep him away from her; Picts had as many superstitions as any about
the business of men and women, and more than most. Afterward, Sutharo's
wrath would be something to fear, but his writ could not run beyond the
Pictish lands. If she and her father lived, those lands would not see
them again.

Sixteen

Scyra's directions had kept Conan's band wandering along ridges and
over hills for the best part of two days now. The Cimmerian had no
difficulty in finding paths that kept the band concealed, but he was
beginning to find it hard to believe that Scyra knew what she was
doing.

She said that she wished the band to have ample warning of any
attackers, so was sending them high, where the Snakes seldom roamed.
The Picts were creatures of the forest, she said, and the Snakes more
so than most. They were uneasy on bare rock, and those who kept to it
might pass through Snake lands almost unhindered.

It was much in Conan's mind that high, cold, rocky land was enough
hindrance to his Bamulas even without Snakes crawling out from under
the boulders. One night it grew so cold that Conan ordered a fire
built, fearing detection less than he feared finding half his people in
the morning frozen as hard as the rocks around them.

Perhaps it was too strong to say that Scyra did not know what she was
doing. She knew Picts and the Pictish Wilderness. She did not know the
Bamulas and what was needed to keep their trust—which was not leading
them across bare slopes with nothing between them and the naked sky but
clouds and perhaps a circling eagle!

Conan even tried once more to return Scyra's mind-message, but received
as little reply as before. After that, he held his peace. If by some
quirk of fate he did sprout a "ghost-voice" at this time, Lysenius
would be as likely to hear it as his daughter. The border was still
three days' unimpeded march away, and the spells of any sorcerer as
potent as Lysenius could strike from an even farther distance.

It was toward evening at the end of the second day that Conan climbed a
tree that rose higher than the nearest crest and offered better
concealment. He came down with such a grim look on his naturally harsh
countenance that only Vuona was bold enough to ask what he had seen.

"Picts," was all the Cimmerian would say.

"How close?" Govindue asked.

"Close enough that they could move between us and the border if they
wished to."

"Then our task is to make sure they do not wish to," Bowenu said.

"How are you going to do that?" Kubwande snapped. "Cloud the minds of
their chiefs with magick beer, flung across the hills to their camp by
your powers?"

"Let Conan send a few of us in some direction the others are not
taking, to show ourselves to the Picts and then hide. A small band can
hide easily, and while the Picts seek it in vain, the rest can be away
to the border."

"My thanks, Bowenu," Conan said. "But you don't know the Picts. They
can track a man if he leaves only two needles out of place on a trail.
Also, they would surround a small band with a few warriors and send the
rest on in search of the band's comrades. I honor your courage, and
hope all will do so, but it would be wasted.

"We cross the border on our feet and together, or we lie down together.
And if we lie down, it will be among enough dead Picts so that their
tribe will be known as the Tribe of Widows and Orphans!"

They would have cheered him gladly then, even as "Conan," but he
silenced them and sent out the guards and watering parties. Afterward
he walked a little apart and was sitting on a rock when Govindue came
up.

"It is now my turn to ask if you are troubled, Conan. I cannot offer as
much help as you gave me, but what I can give is yours."

Conan looked at the young chief. Even the smallest lie would be a
larger betrayal than he could manage.

"I saw the fire-smoke of two bands of Picts. One is the one I spoke of,
doubtless Snakes. They will be looking for Wolves, and might stumble on
us only by chance. The other is to the west, and closer. I would not
say surely that they are on our trail. I wouldn't wager against it
either."

"You think… has Scyra betrayed us?"

"Not to her father, I am certain. Otherwise, we'd have his spells
splattering about us like hawk droppings. But neither Lysenius nor
Scyra may be masters now. The Picts may have tortured our plans out of
both, stuck their heads on poles in an Owl village, and set out after
us to do the same."

"We shall sing a death-song for Scyra," Govindue vowed. "Even for her
father, if you think his spirit would be calmed."

"I've known few sorcerers who could ever have a quiet spirit, no matter
how many songs you sang for them. Save your breath to drink your beer,
and leave Lysenius to the gods. They've more time than we mortals, or
so the priests say."

***

Sutharo, son of Yagan, war chief of the Owls, waited with scant
patience for his scout to descend the tree. It would have been swifter
for the man to shout from on high, but this was not Owl land.

"Have you seen Snakes? Are they close?"

"Many Snakes. From the fires, I think more than three hands of hands.
Not close. Not between us and the hill the white shaman says is the
place."

"You have done well. You may drink first when next we find water."

"I thank the chief."

Sutharo hoped they would find water soon. He and the warriors with him
had been traveling swiftly for two days now. They had not overtaken the
demon-men and their giant chief. The demon-men seemed as swift as Owls,
even on bad ground.

It would be worth all that his warriors endured if they came to the
place in time to protect the demon-men from the Snakes. If they did,
then the white shamans daughter would lie in Sutharo's bed, and a son
of such blood would surely be both war chief and shaman.

Such a son might rule over more than one tribe. His father's tomb would
be a place all men would know, and in the aftertime, the father would
sit by the fire of the highest gods.

It was as well that his warriors did not know that they were bruising
their feet and drying their throats to protect men they would afterward
be killing. They might wonder at Sutharo's asking such a thing, and
even speak doubt to his face.

Some might even challenge him. They would be fools to do so, in the
land of the Snakes and where the white shaman might see the quarrel
among the Owls. But there were always fools, even among the Owls. There
were also those who would not follow a chief who had lied to them for
no better reason than to fill his bed with Scyra.

Sutharo had long wished for another chance to fight the Snakes before
he grew too old to lead the Owls in war. But he had begun to think that
it was always better to fight as one's own chief, even if the reward
for that was not Scyra.

***

Scyra's last message bid Conan bear to the south, around the end of a
ridge he could see ahead. That would be all very well if the southern
end was not the one closer to the Snakes. Going straight over the ridge
would be possible only if he was alone. His eye for ground told him
that the far side of the ridge was too steep for the Bamulas to face.

Very well, then. They would go north. It was time to see what
disobeying Scyra would bring. If no harm, well and good. If it proved
that she was right—well, a man could only die once.

If it drew the sorcerous wrath of Lysenius—again, a man could only die
once. But Conan knew he would die with an easier mind if Scyra did not
prove treacherous. He had been deceived by more women than some men
ever knew in their lives, but he had also met his share of the other
kind, and not only Belit. They were some-thing he would regret leaving
behind, if indeed his time was at hand.

He pointed his sword toward the north. "We go this way. Be more
watchful than ever. Every step takes us deeper into Snake land."

"If the Snakes strike, they will feel that they have bitten stone!"
Kubwande shouted. It was the most worthwhile thing he had said in some
time.

***

Scyra cursed under her breath in the Pictish tongue, using words that
her father would be astonished she knew. She cursed Conan, invoking
parts of his body that would, again, astonish her father.

She did not curse the Crystal of Thraz, although she knew full well
that without it, she would never have conceived her plan. As for
attempting to put it into execution, sooner would she have tried to spy
on a Pictish soul-changing, where a man's soul might enter a snake and
a snakes the man.

But it seemed to her, as she sensed Conan swerving farther and farther
from the right way, that perhaps the Crystal had made her too
ambitious. She had tried to guide, and even to bind, a man who was no
more made for that than was a tiger of the Vendhyan jungle, or a wolf
of his own native forests. She had known Cimmerians only by their
reputation before she met Conan. Now that she knew him, she did not
wonder that Cimmeria remained fiercely independent and that Aquilonian
intrusions to the north met bloody ends.

Her father stepped up behind her. She felt his breath on the back of
her neck, and smelled the Pictish beer on it. Words of reproach almost
reached her lips; she swallowed them.

"Conan goes on as you wish?"

"Not altogether. He circles the ridge widdershins."

"Ah. Can you send Sutharo's warriors after him?"

"Even if I could touch Sutharo's mind, I would not. He would call it
witchcraft and fear me."

"Any man in his senses would fear you sometimes, Scyra. Just as they
would your mother. In that way, there is almost too much of her in
you."

Next, he would start rambling about her mother; then he would cry, and
then he would drink more Pictish beer and fall asleep. She hoped he
would not so unman himself that he could not cast a proper spell when
they reached the cave.

No, she had come to hope that he would. If his magick deserted him at
the last moment, he might never learn of her betrayal. She would not
have to take the final steps of pitting her magick against his. If he
could not complete his vengeance, might he not remember that there were
other things in the world besides that?

Scyra squeezed her eyes shut and felt them stinging even so. It was
hardly likely. Lysenius had lived for his vengeance for too many years
to remember much of what life had been like before that.

Also, if his powers deserted him, he would be dead— swiftly if he was
fortunate, slowly if he was not, and his daughter with him. It was near
to madness already, her scheme to betray Picts while they were all
about her. It was not wholly mad, only because she had hopes of
concealing the betrayal long enough for her and her father to be beyond
the reach of any Pict.

He would forgive her. The Picts would not. Nor would Conan, although if
matters went awry, doubtless the Picts would put an end to him before
he could take vengeance on her.

Life seemed to be one betrayal leading to another.

Scyra realized that she did not hold such a life as dear as she might
have.

***

The Bamulas had learned the art of climbing hills as they had learned
archery. A few of them were skilled. Most were better called
"determined." Not much to Conan's surprise, Govindue was among the most
adept at handling himself on hillsides. Rather more to the Cimmerian's
surprise, Vuona was almost as light on her feet. He wondered if she was
trying to flaunt her strength before someone, and if so, whether it was
him or Govindue.

It happened that the young chief and the woman were the two closest to
Conan when he led the band over the north end of the ridge. It wound
off to the south, with the side before them bare and rocky, the side
behind them thickly wooded. At the foot of the slope, more trees rose,
firs and pines, making a sullen darkness that could have hidden enough
Picts to sweep away a province, let alone a band of strangers in this
land.

Conan went to ground and motioned those with him to do the same. They
passed on the message, and no one allowed himself to stand boldly on
the rocky spur, in plain sight from below and above alike.

The band had gone its own way, rather than the way Scyra bade them.
Nothing had come amiss—yet. It would still take a better reason than
defying Scyra to make Conan lead his people across the bare eastern
slope of the ridge.

The Cimmerian had perhaps the time of two or three deep breaths to hold
this thought. He had time to wave to those behind him, bidding them
move to the north, within the tree line.

Then arrows hailed from the sky. They were numerous enough to warn
their targets, but not to do grave hurt. Shooting eagerly, without
closing the range, the Picts did not inflict so much as a flesh wound.

Conan knew that such good luck, or the gods' favor, would not last much
longer. He also saw from the fall of the arrows that they were coming
from the very trees where he had intended to lead his people.

This was not much to his liking. He thought briefly that perhaps Scyra
had the right of it, and that he owed her an apology, if he lived to
see her again. For a sorceress who had barely seen her twentieth year,
she had a wise head on those round, freckled shoulders—

"Run!" he shouted, pointing down the slope toward the trees to the
east.

"The Picts—?" somebody shouted.

"That way, and already shooting at long range. If we run, they'll have
to run too, to keep us within bowshot. Shooting on the run makes poor
practice. The best archers to the rear. If you find a good place to
hide and see Picts in the open, give them a little present. But don't
fall too far behind. We can't stop to let anyone catch up."

Running was something the Bamulas knew well. Even when their lack of
skill on hillsides betrayed them and they went down, they rose again
quickly. No one broke bones or sprained muscles, and men whose bruises
and cuts left blood trails in the dust on their bodies ran as swiftly
as before.

Conan remained in the middle, where he could see and speak to everyone
alike, and also be ready to join the rearguard of archers. He bore a
stout Bossonian longbow, with a good edge in range over anything
Pictish, and a quiver of two dozen arrows, besides his other weapons.
The Bossonian longbow seemed almost clumsy to one who had learned his
archery on the subtle but powerful Turanian horsebow, but the Cimmerian
despised no weapon that could kill a man.

If the Picts gave him any sort of a chance, he would add a good many of
them to his escort from the world, even before drawing steel.

Conan had just seen Picts breaking into the open to the north and
unslung his bow when Vuona let out a shriek as if the pits of the
netherworld had opened at her feet. Without slowing, Conan turned his
gaze toward the woman and saw that she had reason to cry out, for Picts
were also sprouting from the trees ahead. Some had already nocked, and
the first arrow from them fell almost at Vuona's feet. She dodged
sharply to the left with a yelp of surprise.

Conan knew that if his people stopped moving, they would be shot down
where they stood, and if they ran, they might be running from one
danger into another. The only way to safety seemed to be along the
slope, toward the south—toward the way Scyra had bidden them go.

Most certainly, Scyra had seen clearly. The Cimmerian vowed to swallow
his pride and admit as much, if he ever saw the witch-girl again.

The gods' hands remained over the band as they ran south, some now
staggering and lurching, but all remaining on their feet. Conan heard
breath rasping like ill-kept bellows in the forge of a slovenly
blacksmith, the kind his father would never have countenanced in their
village. It was not his own breath yet, and he knew he had speed and
endurance enough to leave his band behind.

He also knew he would do no such thing, Nor would the band abandon the
first one who fell. They would form a circle around the fallen comrade
and try to stay alive until nightfall. That was too far away to offer
much hope, but nothing else offered any at all.

No, that might not be wholly true. Up the slope and ahead lay a shadowy
recess that looked very much like the mouth of a cave. Around it,
boulders were strewn in a pattern that did not look entirely natural,
but that offered as a good a place as any to go to ground.

"That way!" Conan shouted, pointing with his free hand.

It took a few moments for everyone to see where he was pointing, more
for everyone to turn. Those moments gave both bands of Picts time to
close the distance. The Bamula archers and Conan nocked and shot. The
range was long, but the Bamulas and the Cimmerian were shooting more
downhill than not. Two Picts fell; two more halted. Most of the
returning arrows dropped short, and none did great harm.

Vuona picked that moment to stumble, going down hard enough to furrow
one leg on a sharp stone. She rose, bleeding, cursing, and weeping all
at once. After a few steps, it became clear to Conan that she could not
keep on her feet all the way to the boulders.

He slung his bow and made ready to snatch her up, but it was Govindue
who reached the young woman first. He lifted her on his shoulder as if
she had been no heavier than a basket of grain or he as strong as the
Cimmerian, and ran the rest of the way up the slope with her. Conan was
not the last man into the boulders, but he was well behind the young
chief.

A final spatter of arrows clattered on the stones. Conan reached out
from the recess to pick them up; they would need every weapon they
could command. He had just gripped the last arrow when he heard a
barely stifled scream from Vuona, and curses from the men.

Only Govindue seemed in command of himself. "Conan, I think you should
see this."

The Cimmerian slipped past a boulder that seemed blackened by fire too
hot for earthly flame and stared past the next two boulders. He had
judged correctly: a cave lay beyond.

It was no longer shadowy, however. A stark blue witchlight glowed
within, brightening even as he watched. Two steps closer and he could
see that the light came from niches carved in the walls of the cave,
which wound back into the hill out of sight.

Two more steps and the witchlight fell on his skin. He waited to see if
any other spell came to life at human presence, or only the light. As
he waited, he became aware of a murmur of doubtful voices among the
Bamulas.

"Easy," he said without turning around. "This kind of light seldom does
harm. If it's meant to, it would already have done so. Would you care
to take your chances with the Picts on the open hillside?"

"We've Picts to the front and magick to the rear," Bowenu said
dubiously. "How is that better?"

"We can retreat into the cave if the Picts, their arrows, or even their
stink, grow too thick!" Conan said, hardening his voice. "One man can
hold the mouth of a cave against fifty."

"That is true for the Picts as well," Kubwande said. Conan refrained
from cursing him or laying him out with a well-placed fist. Instead, he
shrugged.

"Only if we have to come out this way. I've never been in a cave yet
that didn't have at least two ways out."

That seemed to soothe most, if not Kubwande. Conan saw no reason to say
that the Picts might well know of any other ways out and guard them as
well.

Sheltering in the cave might end his band's lives swiftly under the
power of the magick there, and would likely only delay their end at the
hands of the Picts. But Conan was no man to give any foe an easy death,
and time and again, staying alive for moments, even for days, longer
had turned the battle.

Seventeen

Scyra was as weary as if she had walked all the day, but she could not
sleep—it was not because of her father's snores in the rear of the tent
either, nor the reek of the scores of unwashed Picts sleeping upwind of
the tent. Some of them were snoring too.

She had taken off no more than her boots, and it was easy to draw them
back on silently. She considered bringing along bow and arrows as well
as her dagger, but decided to leave them. She was an indifferent
archer, and anything that made her look as if she wished to leave the
camp might make the warriors suspicious. There were enough with
unsettled minds already; she had no wish to see more.

The Owls were growing uneasy as their march took them closer to Snake
and Wolf lands. The Snakes barely pretended friendship. The Wolf Picts
had not fought the Owls in some years, but if the Owls grew weak from a
clash with the Snakes, the Wolves might be at their throats before the
snows came.

Five hundred Picts were more than any except a major war chief could
keep in order. The only such chief on this march was Sutharo, gone off
ahead with his clansmen to ward Conan against the Snakes. Scyra found
most of the warriors asleep, a few mounting a desultory guard, and the
remainder of those awake crouched around a small fire, chanting
quietly. Scyra hoped her father's guard-spells would at least wake him
if any danger struck the camp.

She leaned against a tree and listened to the chanting until some of
those on the outside of the circle noticed her. One called out a bawdy
greeting, others laughed, and someone else asked her to step back that
her shadow not fall on them.

She replied by gestures. If they were making war-magick, it was a man's
rite. A woman's voice could ruin it as easily as a woman's shadow. As
she turned and stepped away from the fire, someone called out his
thanks.

She had not learned to love the Picts in the years of her exile in the
wilderness. But she realized that she had largely ceased to hate them,
after seeing them do all that other folk did. Or perhaps not all—their
homeland was harsh, and she missed the sight of fat herds and bulging
barns.

But something would be gone from her life when she could not wake to
hear the drums and the cries of the hunting bands. Something would be
gone from the world, too, when high roads pierced the wilderness, and
the Picts who yet lived became docile farmers and shepherds.

Too late, she heard the twigs cracking to her left. She had her dagger
drawn and was whirling to thrust into the darkness when a hairy hand
buffeted her across the temple. The blow flung her off her feet,
striking her head a second blow against a tree. The world was suddenly
fire-shot darkness whirling about her.

Another hand, vast, hairy, and inhumanly strong, gripped one ankle.
With her free foot, she kicked savagely, and felt her foot strike
rock-hard bone. Pain roared up her leg and burst in her skull like a
thunderbolt.

She had lost her grip on her weapon and now scrabbled desperately for
it. Her enemies were beyond her power, but she could still turn the
dagger against herself. These—they had to be chakans—could be sent by
no friend of herself, her father, or Conan. She would not be used—

A hairy foot sank into her stomach. Her head snapped back and struck a
root. All her senses failed at once, and she swam down into blackness
from which the fire slowly faded until there was only an infinity of
nothingness all around her.

***

The Picts seemed to have no taboos about the cave or any fear of its
magick. They crept so close that a few well-placed arrows were needed
to kill the boldest and discourage the rest.

The Picts' boldness would have discouraged the Bamulus, but Conan urged
them to look once more at their hopes rather than at their fears. "It
could be that the Picts expect the magick here to end us. They also may
expect us to find a way to use it against them, and want to end us
first."

At least nobody was ready to call this nonsense to his face. In his own
mind, Conan could only hope he was right—or at least that nothing more
went amiss to prove him wrong. If the courage of the Bamulas snapped,
their last hope would be gone, and only a final stand would remain to
the Cimmerian and such as chose to make it with him.

That might be all that remained even now, but Conan remained convinced
that every moment a man lived was another he was not dead. Dead,
nothing changed; alive, who could say?

Meanwhile, there were wounds to be tended, the scanty food (hard
biscuit and salt meat) handed around for a few mouthfuls apiece, and
sentries to be posted. Conan wanted them both at the mouth of the cave
and a little distance inside it, but did not press the matter. He
sensed the unease of the Bamulas at being too far within the cave, and
was not quite without unease himself. Also, posting sentries inside the
cave would say plainly that he feared attack from there, besides
dividing his scanty strength and keeping more men awake.

The sentries had barely taken their places when a hideous uproar of
Pictish cries made all hope of sleep impossible. Conan stared out into
the darkness, then crawled out, risking an encounter with lurking Picts
in the hope of learning what might be going on.

He was ten paces beyond the boulders, all his senses sharpened by sheer
willpower, when he sensed movement close to his left. He lay still,
unable to judge the others distance by sound. If the Pict was making
any, it was lost in the uproar from downhill.

Then, in one moment, the Pict was leaping at Conan, and in the next,
another shadow was leaping to meet the first. The Cimmerian rolled out
from under the collision of the two Picts and sprang to his feet. He
clutched a braid with one hand and a feathered headband with the other
and slammed the two heads together. The Picts reeled but continued to
struggle.

Conan shifted his grip to their greasy hair, tightened it, and slammed
their heads together again.

This time he heard bone crack, and both men went limp in his grip. The
Cimmerian dragged them like snared deer back to the boulders, then
onward into the light.

The light resolved some of the mystery. One of the Picts bore the war
paint, feathers, and tattoos of the Owls. The other, it was equally
plain to see, was of the Snakes.

"Lysenius's friends the Owls have come to the hill," Conan said.

"You do not call them our friends," Kubwande said. It was not a
question.

If it had been, it was not one Conan would have cared to answer. The
best thing that could be said for the Owls coming to fight the Snakes
was that by the time the fighting was done, there would be fewer Picts
around the hill. Whoever won would be nursing wounds and gathering up
dead, while Conan's band regained its strength in what had so far been
the safety of the cave.

He wished they had no need to wait. In the confusion of a night battle
between two ill-ordered bands, neither of them knowing the ground, a
band five times the size of Conan's might slip through—if its captain
and men had no scruples about abandoning comrades who could not march.

Four of the men and Vuona were past running, at least tonight. Conan
would not lead anyone into certain death, least of all at the hands of
Picts. He could not leave them, nor kill them with his own hands while
any hope remained. That hope grew scanter by the hour, but it was not
gone yet.

Angry with everything—including himself for following Vuona through the
demon's gate, and the dawn for not coming sooner—Conan paced the cave
like a caged lion. The blue witchlight brought a hue to his eyes that
led some of the Bamulas to rites of aversion.

Once he thought he heard the grunting of some unnatural beast out of
the dark hillside. Another time he was even more certain he heard
running water from within the cave, where all had been silent before.
He almost went in search of it, but saw that Kubwande was wakeful and
Govindue and Vuona asleep, not yet in each others arms but with their
hands almost touching.

The Cimmerian would not leave that rattlejawed intriguer in command if
he had to watch all night. Kubwande could not sell to the Picts
anything that they would not buy, but his warcraft did not seem what it
had been. Conan had brought his band too far to lose them one moment
before fate required it of him!

***

It did not take half the night for Sutharo to count his warriors. It
only seemed to. When he had finished counting, he was even less happy
than when he had begun.

The Snakes had fought well, as they always did. They also knew the
ground better than the Owls did, which had not been so the last three
times Sutharo led his warriors against the Snakes. This time he had
driven off the Snakes as before, but many Owls were dead or too hurt to
fight.

Also, this was Snake land. If even one Snake warrior fled to the chiefs
with word of the coming of the Owls, the Snakes would return in
strength. Sutharo and his remaining warriors would be caught between
the hammer of the fresh Snake warriors and the anvil of the hill above
them.

In spite of this, Sutharo had no intention of leaving the hill before
Lysenius came, and thus abandoning the foreigners to the Snakes. He was
a warrior of the Owls. Also, he was a man to whom a beautiful woman
(even if not a Pict) had promised herself, if he kept his promise to
her.

He only hoped that he would not lose too many more warriors. Then he
might seem unlucky, and he would be much less of a chief by the time he
and Scyra were married, or perhaps not even alive at all.

Sutharo was sitting cross-legged on the trunk of a fallen tree when he
heard a chakan give its warning cry. The hoots of sentries also came
back to him. He rose and walked into the forest, in the direction of
the chakan's signal.

There was not one chakan but three, and two of them carried on a
litter—

"Scyra?"

It was her, but she did not speak. He saw bruises and smears of blood
on her face, and her clothes had been torn in several places.

The remaining chakan stepped forward and reached for Sutharo. The chief
drew back, then remembered that shamans used these beasts not only to
track enemies, but to bear messages. He forced himself to stand waiting
while the chakan rested a bristle-haired palm on his forehead.

A message flowed into Sutharo's mind, placed in the chakan by Vurag
Yan, chief shaman of the Owls, and carried across the wilderness in
such a way that Lysenius could not learn it. Yan seemed angry, and as
he listened, Sutharo understood why, and even came to share that anger.

The white shamans, father and daughter alike, were abandoning the
Picts. There would be no blood-sacrifice of the Cimmerian Conan and the
demon-men, nor even of one of the Picts, to bring the statue to
invincible life. Scyra intended that she and her father should flee,
deserting the Picts, leaving the Owls at war with the Snakes as well as
with the demon-men.

The demon-men were few, but they might have powers Sutharo did not know
of, and he did know that the Cimmerian was even more formidable than
most of his folk.

. "So what is your command, Vurag Yan?" Sutharo asked. He did not know
if the chakan could send a message to the shaman as well as bear one
from him, but he thought it best to discover that for himself.

After a moment, a reply passed through the chakan into Sutharo's mind:
"See that the blood-sacrifice is Conan and his band. With enough of
such strong blood, even I can bring the statue to life and command it!."

It was the first hint of modesty that Sutharo had ever heard in the
shaman. He resisted laughter. He also considered the wisdom of
bargaining, and decided that it was necessary, if not wise.

"Scyra remains with me."

"You still wish to wed her? Your sons will have tainted—"

"I will have more sons of purer blood than you ever will, you old
woodsrat! I wish to command her father and Conan through holding her.
Much they might do against me could put her in danger, as long as I
hold her. Or can you protect me against Lysenius, Conan, and the Snakes
all at once?"

"You are defiant and disobedient, Sutharo."

"I lead the warriors who are here now, and whom you will need to finish
your work. You need me as much as I need you, Vurag Yan."

The chakan moaned in outright pain; apparently the shaman's wrath at
this reply hurt. Sutharo waited, but the night returned to silence,
both within his mind and outside his body.

He looked up the hill. It would not be an easy matter, breaking into
the cave against the Cimmerian and the demon-men. It would cost
warriors' lives. Sutharo hoped it would not cost so many that the
Snakes came and finished off those left before Vurag Yan or the
warriors left behind could help him.

If it could be done, though… the praise-songs would be without end for
the warrior who gave the Picts vengeance for their wrongs, and raised
the Owls to the highest place among all the folk of the wilderness.
Vurag Yan would no doubt try to seize all the glory himself, but there
would be enough who knew about Sutharo to give him his share, too many
for the shaman to silence.

He sent messengers to summon his underchiefs. They had best move
swiftly, before the enemy had time to regain strength, or worse, to
summon any magick from within the cave.

***

The captured Snake Pict was dead when Conan dragged him into the cave
mouth. The Owl Pict was senseless and never awoke enough to speak.
Before long, he too died. The Bamulas began to mutter among themselves,
fearing the spirits of the dead might walk if the Picts' bodies
remained among them.

After all that the band had survived on its journey thus far, Conan
thought Pictish ghosts were hardly worth a child's concern. He did not
say so, however. Instead, he nodded.

"Let us take them far back into the cave, so its magick will bind the
ghosts."

"What if it makes them stronger?" Kubwande asked. To do him justice, he
now seemed less calculating than half witless from fear. Conan did not
altogether find fault in that—here they were close to treading on the
shadows of the gods, or even of less friendly beings… as Conan had
sworn to Belit he would not do.

But what a man did for himself was one thing, and what he was ready to
do for those who had followed him so far and so bravely was another.

"If the magick of the cave was our enemy, it would have struck us down
by now. It cannot be a friend to Pictish ghosts. But if you wish,
someone can come with me to perform the Bamula spirit-binding on these
Picts. It should at least give their spirits too much of a headache for
them to come bothering us."

It was Bowenu who stepped forward, even before Govindue, about the last
man Conan had expected to volunteer. This was as well. The two lesser
chiefs could watch each other, and Bowenu could hardly be a danger to
him. Each of the two lifted a body and set out down the tunnel into the
hill.

The corridor ran level for some distance, perhaps fifty paces. Then it
sloped gently downward, widening as it did. Conan thought he saw
weathered reliefs of serpentine shapes on the walls, like decorations
in a temple of Set, but not quite the same. Or mayhap they were just
natural patterns in the rock and he was seeing what was not there. Too
much magick and not enough wine for too long could set a man's fancies
in a whirl.

At last they rounded a corner and reached a point where the tunnel both
widened and rose into a domed chamber. The rock of the walls, a
grayish-purple under the witchlight, was too smooth to be wholly
natural, but quite undecorated. Dust lay thick, except for a circle
about a spear-length wide in the middle of the chamber, which might
have been swept and sponged only moments before.

In the middle of the circle rose a statue. If it was life-size, its
subject had been taller and broader even than the giant Cimmerian. It
also seemed to have just been thoroughly and lovingly cleaned, and
Conan saw a faint pattern of scales on the skin.

There was something vaguely reptilian about the eyes, and memory
chilled Conan. Was this one of the legendary serpent-men of Valusia? So
ancient they had fought with the Atlanteans, they had been gone even
before the long-dead Empire of Acheron rose to wreak its black havoc.
But some of their magick had survived; it was said to lie at the heart
of the cult of Set, the Great Serpent.

Conan stepped closer, without venturing into the clean circle. Magick
had to be alive here, to make that circle; he would not tempt fate. He
walked around the statue, quieting his own cold doubts, and wishing
that Bowenu would either command his quaking limbs or fall down in a
faint. Ancient magick, like old predators, could scent fear, or so
Conan's experience had led him to believe.

Was this a serpent-man? The scales and the eyes said yes. More spoke
otherwise. The statue had the air of an aging mercenary, weary from
long and thankless service in liege to succession of close-fisted
masters, yet faithful to his trust and those who followed him. If this
was a serpent-man, then there had been some virtue in at least one of
that kind—or else a sculptor able to imagine it, which was far from the
same thing. (Once, in Argos, Conan had sat for his portrait. When he
saw what the painter had done, he threw the painting out the window and
nearly hurled the painter after it.)

What unsettled Conan most was not what the statue showed. It was the
statues very existence. Had Scyra been treacherous all along, using her
mind-touch to guide him and his band to the cave of the statue her
father planned to reanimate? Reanimate as a champion of the Picts, by a
blood-sacrifice of Conan and his band?

The thought made the cave seem even colder than the night outside, and
the witchlight harsher. Conan felt the urge to step into the circle and
push the statue from its base. If it toppled and shattered, all the
spells at Lysenius's command could hardly bring it to life—

Conan leapt into the circle and threw his full weight against the
statue. He might as well have flung himself against the walls of the
cavern. Three times he tried to topple the image, three times he felt
nothing unnatural but gained plenty of natural bruises and scrapes, and
three times the statue did not so much as quiver.

"Conan," Bowenu said at last, "how long will you tempt the gods?"

"Until they're tired of being tempted and either strike me dead or
topple this misshapen stone!" the Cimmerian growled. But he did not
leap again. He still felt nothing amiss within the circle, but in the
air around him he sensed power, great and old, leashed for now but
dreadful if ever loosed.

He looked at the statue. It showed no trace of his efforts to topple
it. The dust he had tracked into the circle lay where it had
fallen—until suddenly it vanished, with a faint ruddy glow, so fleeting
that Conan could have sworn he imagined it. Bowenu's wide eyes and
trust in his own senses told him otherwise.

They left the dead Picts lying where they had set them down and
returned the way they had come. "It will be a bold ghost that roams
about under the eyes of that statue," Conan said.

They were only halfway along their return journey when Conan heard
Pictish drums and war cries, then, louder and closer, angry Bamula
voices. He and Bowenu looked at one another and broke into a run.

***

Lysenius thanked gods he had not worshipped in many years that the two
spells he needed most this night could be cast without giving outward
signs.

Outward signs of working magick would alert his Pictish guards. His
reputation might daunt them, might hold their spears, arrows, and
knives. It would do nothing for the chakan sent by Vurag Yan. He saw
the creature sitting on its haunches on the other side of the fire,
eyes glowing like the coals of the flames of the underworld. At a
command from its master, it would be over the fire and its claws at his
throat before he could take a deep breath.

The moment he could risk movement or speech, Lysenius resolved, he
would put an end to that chakan and all others of its kind. Without his
pets, the shaman would lose much of his power for mischief.

Lysenius gathered his thoughts, and this time his concentration on the
statue in the cave did not slip away. "By the power of the Seven Waters
and the Five Mountains, by Iblis, Mitra, Crom, and Set, by the Curse of
the Unborn Phoenix—"

The incantation resounded in his mind as though his head had been a
cave into which a herald cried messages. He kept his face carefully
blank, a mask behind which all the magick in the world might have
hidden, and his breathing regular. Even his hands lay in his lap, as
motionless as the sleeping puppies he had once shown Scyra when she was
a child of five.

In the corner of his mind not given over to magick, Lysenius prayed
again. This time it was to no god in particular. It was only a wish
that when this night's work was done, he might seem to his daughter as
he once had. Not for long, but even a single day of his daughter's
former love would be enough.

He could not ask more. Too much lay between them now, and regardless of
that, she was a grown woman, no longer a maiden either, if her
ghost-voice told the truth. (And had that been the Cimmerians doing?)

But however much lay between them before this night, he now saw
clearly. He might yet find a way to take his vengeance for his wife's
death. Gentle as she had been, she deserved that at least. But he would
no longer put Scyra in harm's way to gain it. He would take her out of
danger first, then fight whatever battles might be needed when there
was no longer risk of her being one of his enemies' victims.

Would that he could use the Crystal of Thraz! It would make easier, if
not less perilous, this work of animating the statue by sheer will,
without a blood-sacrifice.

Lysenius knew the gem was in the tent; he had touched it with his mind.
He did not dare bring it out with the grip of that same mind. No
outward signs could be allowed to warn the Picts that magick prowled
the night.

Also, the Picts did not seem to know the uses of the Crystals of Thraz.
Such uses were not in their magicks. The longer Lysenius kept the gem a
secret, the better his hopes of using it to some purpose.

"By the fifth element, commanded by the gods for warriors, which is
called mud. By Ishtar and Semiramis—"

Lysenius stirred enough to lick dry lips and take a deep breath. From
far off, something had touched his mind. He opened himself to that
touch, and recognized it. He thought a greeting.

In a distant cave in the land of the Snake Picts, a curiously wrought
statue quivered on its plinth.

Eighteen

Conan's ears gave him no warning that the statue was on the march. The
howling of the Picts drowned out all other sounds, including their Own
drums, the screams of their wounded and dying, and the war cries of the
Bamulas.

So far, none of the Bamulas were down, and even those wounded in the
running battle on the hillside were able to fight. It was not hard for
a lame man to fight sitting down, and those with bows were making as
good practice sitting as they might have done standing. Indeed, against
the wall of flesh the Picts offered as they tried to cram themselves
into the cave, a blind man could have made good practice.

Conan burst into the fight with a Cimmerian cry that sent echoes
crashing about the cave and for a moment rose even above the Pictish
howls. He flung his bow and quiver aside and snatched sword and dagger
from his belt as he ran.

A Pict leapt over the first line of Bamulas, escaped being spitted on
the spears of the second line, and stumbled into Conan. Conan brought
his knee up and the Pict howled in a very different voice and doubled
in the middle. A dagger-weighted Cimmerian fist crashed down on the
back of the Pict's neck, snapping it as a mastiff would a rat.

Two more Picts who tried to follow the first died on Bamula spears and
made the rock underfoot still more slippery with their blood. Conan
braced himself as enough Picts surged forward to force the Bamulas of
the first line back onto the second, and the second onto Conan. He held
the two joined lines by sheer barbaric strength, arms stretched wide
and sword and dagger outthrust.

"Hold there, you fools!" he roared. "Don't give them any more room to
spread out! Force them to come to us a few at a time!"

Bowenu came up on one side of him, and Govindue joined him on the
other. They also braced themselves and set their spears to work,
darting the already-dripping iron points through gaps in the Bamulas
ahead of them. With a sidelong glance, Conan saw Vuona backed against a
wall. She had apparently speared one Pict in the belly and was
unmistakably hamstringing a second. The Pict looked on her with stark
horror, as if expecting her to begin on his manhood next.

The Picts at last gave way under the spears. Before the next attack
surged forward, Conan moved up to the first line, then beyond it. Like
a rock in rapids, he stood above the next onrush. In moments, his steel
dripped red. He hewed, slashed, kicked, howled, and wove a circle of
death around himself that snatched more than a score of Picts from the
next attack and strew them across the floor. Some moaned until Vuona
cut their throats. A few dragged themselves toward the mouth of the
cave, where the archers had clear shots and finished them.

From Conan to its mouth, the floor of the cave was now packed with
bodies and all but awash with blood. Very little of the blood came from
the defenders, a few of whom had suffered minor wounds but whose
fighting strength was undiminished. There would be no retrieving arrows
beyond the cave mouth this time, but this fight was not going to be won
or lost by archery.

Indeed, it seemed to Conan unlikely that it was going to be won by
anything at the command of the Bamulas. The Owls would surely lose so
many warriors that in their wrath, they would turn against Lysenius and
Scyra, and so avenge Conan and his band, but that seemed about the best
a man could hope for now.

It was then that Conan heard a grating sound from within the cave, as
of stone on stone. Then he noticed that the witchlight had begun to
flicker, as would a lantern in a strong wind.

The grating noise came again, louder. Conan looked down the tunnel and
saw a shadow creeping across one wall. It had no shape he could name,
or indeed wished to name, but every time he heard the grating sound,
the shadow moved.

Then the grating gave way to a long, harsh squeal, and something more
solid than the shadow lurched into Conan's sight. It staggered to the
wall and leaned against it for a moment, then drew itself upright again
and took another grating step.

The statue was walking toward them! It lurched like a drunken pirate,
but no pirate ever loomed so tall. Conan saw that what he had taken for
a scaly skin was more likely a close-fitting, all-encompassing coat of
mail. The face bore no more expression than before, and those eyes
still seemed unnatural in any face asking to be called human.

Conan stood his ground. He really belonged in the rear now, facing the
statue. Human flesh and steel wielded by a man might be as futile
against the animated statue as it had been against the stationary one.
Still, a good push ought to find any weakness in its balance—could the
creation rise if it fell?

He saw the staring eyes of the Bamulas. Most of them were looking to
their rear rather than to their front. If any of the dead Picts came
back to life, they might have an easy victory over his band. The Picts
outside might also be victorious if the Bamulas' courage finally broke
and the men chose to take their chances with darkness and Picts rather
than with this ponderous creation of sorcery.

The Bamulas would have to pass Conan if they ran, and he would not
allow that. There were not many things worse than facing death by
sorcery, but death at the hands of Picts was among them.

The statue came on. The eyes of the Bamulas could grow no wider. Some
of the warriors dripped sweat, in spite of the coolness of the night
and the cave. Govindue alone seemed to be keeping his eyes to the front
and his spear in his hand.

One of the archers loosed an arrow. It was at such a range that neither
the blind, the crippled, nor babes in arms could have missed the
target. The arrow struck the statue on its chest—and the arrowhead
vanished with a sharp crack and an eye-piercing globe of blue fire. The
fire danced on the statues chest for a moment, then vanished.

A sulphurous reek set everyone coughing and sneezing. The shaft of the
arrow clattered to the floor, burned entirely away for a third of its
length and charred for the rest. Smoke drifted up from it—until the
statues next step crushed the arrow into a dark smear on the stone.

Even the Cimmerian's courage did not keep him from shuddering at the
thought of what would have happened to any man who had touched the
statue with naked steel. It must be that steel warred with the magick
in the animated image. What about bare hands?

That thought had hardly entered the Cimmerian's mind when a Bamula
seemed to have the same idea. He ran forward, leaping as he reached the
statue, arms outstretched, hands poised to grip the images arm. Likely
enough, he would try to catch the statue taking a step, off-balance,
where even a little extra weight pulling in the wrong direction could
topple a man—

The statue was not a man. It proved that all over again in the next
moment. The Bamula leapt and gripped one arm. The arm rose, lifting the
Bamula with it until the warrior dangled with his feet off the ground,
like a child held by a parents arm.

"Let loose, you cursed fool!" Conan bellowed.

His warning came too late. The statue brought its other arm around, too
fast for even the Cimmerians eye to follow. Its stone hand smashed into
the Bamula's temple, and the man's skull cracked like an eggshell.
Blood, brains, and pieces of bone showered the others.

The statue now gripped the man with both hands. Conan saw that the
killing hand was smeared with red—but the red was disappearing as if
the blood was soaking into the stone as fast as water into the sands of
a desert. The other hand gripped so tightly that the fingertips
vanished into the warriors dark skin—but no blood flowed.

A moment later, Conan saw that the Bamula was shrinking, his skin
wrinkling like a grape too long in the sun. As his comrades watched in
gape-mouthed horror, the dead Bamula shriveled away until he was only a
dried sack of skin dangling from the statues hands.

And was it Conan's imagination, or did the statue seem a trifle larger,
and was there a light in its eyes that had not been there before?

It was not his imagination, and indeed, it made sense—as much sense as
sorcery or madness ever could, and this was both! The statue had been
brought to life by some spell, most likely a conjuration by Lysenius,
without a blood-sacrifice. That did not mean it could do without one
forever. If no sacrifice was offered, it intended to take the blood
itself.

At least the statue did not seem to be searching for prey at the
moment. Another Bamula ran toward it and without a word from Conan, he
darted under the reaching arms and rose to his full height behind the
statue, unharmed. What he could do there seemed a mystery, if grappling
barehanded was as futile as wielding weapons.

But it showed that they could pass the statue and leave it a clear path
to the cave mouth, the hillside, and the waiting Picts. Likely,
Lysenius had no more command of the statue than he had of the Snakes.
Running free, the stone image would slaughter Picts and Hyborians with
equal strength, feeding on each life it ended. It would have to be
brought down sooner rather than later, and Conan's men could do their
part.

Tonight, though, he'd lost to the statue the first of his Bamulas so
far! He'd be cursed for a Stygian if he was going to lose more men, not
when there were half the Picts in the wilderness for the statue's
amusement. While it thus amused itself, he and his people were going to
break free of the Picts and continue their journey south. Neither Scyra
nor Lysenius would have anything to say about that!

The statue seemed too intent on making its way into the open air to
spend any effort in seeking victims. One man actually blundered against
it as he tried to duck under the arms, and the hand closed on his hair.
The statue made no attempt to draw the man closer, however, nor did it
bring the other arm around this time. The man cursed and clawed and
ripped his hair from his scalp, but in the end, broke free.

Vuona went, three more men went, and then there was no one at all with
Conan save the statue, so close he could almost have touched it with
his dagger. He did no such thing; he gathered himself and, like a
panther, leapt past it.

He landed rolling on his shoulders, and kicked out with his legs. Both
feet slammed into the back of the statue's knees. The image quivered,
pain stabbed through the Cimmerian, and the shock jarred him from his
toes to the crown of his head. He rolled again and stood, testing first
one foot, then the other, to see that they moved properly.

No hurt to him, save the sort of bruises that he could shrug off for
now. None to the statue, either. As invulnerable and implacable as
ever, it marched over the fallen Picts, pushing aside the low barricade
the Bamulas had made of their enemy's bodies. Conan watched to see if
it would soak up the blood, bones, and flesh of these Picts, but it
only shoved the corpses aside or crushed them under its ponderous
weight.

"Too long dead for it, I think," Govindue said. Conan started at the
sound of a human voice, and realized that no one had spoken a word
since his warning to the now-dead Bamula.

"Be ready to follow me out of the cave the moment that witling wizards
toy meets the Picts," the Cimmerian said. "While they're fighting it,
we'll have a better chance to break free than we'll ever have again."

None of the Bamulas looked as if they thought the chance was very good,
nor did Conan quarrel with them. But judging by the fear the statue put
into him and the Bamulas, the Picts would be driven half-mad. That was
no fit spirit for meeting a desperate foe at night—and Conan knew that
he and the Bamulas would be desperate to the last degree.

The grating and scraping of the statue's footsteps was fading now as it
climbed the boulders. It was almost beyond the witchlight, although
Conan would have sworn that it had begun to glow with a light of its
own. Soon it would be in the open, visible to the Picts.

"Be ready to run as you've never run before. We won't leave anyone
alive, but we won't halt for any laggards, either."

Even the lame met his eyes and nodded. By Crom, this was fine company
for one's last battle! If they'd been twenty thousand instead of fewer
than twenty, he'd have been ready to clear the whole wilderness of
Picts and present it as a gift to the Bossonians.

***

Lysenius could not have described in the words of any language known to
men how he knew that the statue was animated but uncontrolled. Perhaps
uncontrollable, at least from this camp, half a day's march from the
cave. If so, certainly a menace to more folk than Picts— and even if a
menace only to the Picts, that made Scyra no safer as long as Vurag
Yan's chakans held her in the camp of the Owls…

It was time to go where he was needed. He had never used the spell of
the world-walker with so little preparation or so many witnesses. But
then, he had never used it to take himself or anything else over such a
short distance.

The dangers were two: his being detected while he was raising the
spell, and his being followed through the world-walker by any of his
guards. The first would catch him helpless; he could only do his best
and pray.

As to the second—he much doubted that the statue had brought death to
Conan, or indeed to most of the Bamulas as long as Conan was leading
them. It occurred to Lysenius that if he wished a war chieftain to wed
his daughter, the Cimmerian towered over any Pict—and not only in
stature, either. If Conan's band was still alive and fighting-fit, any
Picts who followed Lysenius through the world-walker would not live
long once they came out at the cave end of the journey.

Lysenius assumed the posture of meditation, which seemed to arouse no
suspicion among the Picts. They looked at him casually, then went back
to their gambling. One left the circle briefly and returned with
several gourds of beer. Its sour reek made Lysenius want to gag.

The names of gods seldom invoked, and never lawfully since the fall of
the Empire of Acheron, swirled in his thoughts but did not pass his
lips. Nor did any eyes but his see the world about him turn
golden—until suddenly the golden spiral was so solid that no one could
see Lysenius within it.

A Pict leapt frantically at the golden wall as his comrades flung
spears and nocked arrows to bows. The Pict vanished with a cry
strangled in mid-flight. As the echoes of his cry died, thunder boomed
across the clearing, making the fire dance, the leaves quiver on the
trees, and the mages tent collapse.

Then darkness and silence both returned, leaving a half-circle of
gaping Picts staring at the place where Lysenius had been sitting.

***

In the confines of the cave, the thunderclap was deafening. Conan heard
the Bamulas screaming with the pain in their ears, and he opened his
mouth to ease his own. There was still no telling which way the thunder
came from. For a moment, Conan feared that the statue had encountered
magick, either Lysenius's or the Picts', and met its doom just when it
was about to turn from menace to useful diversion.

Then footfalls, the clattering of metal on stone, and a Pictish war cry
rose over the fading echoes of the thunderclap. Rose from within the
cave, back toward the chamber of the statue. Conan snatched his sword
from its scabbard and ran toward the chamber.

He had expected to see a whole band of Picts, sent by Lysenius to take
his people in the rear. Instead, he saw only one Pict, and of all
impossible visitors, Lysenius himself, grappling with the savage. The
Pict had just drawn a rusty dagger to thrust into Lysenius's ribs when
Conan ran him through.

"You can sheathe that sword," the sorcerer said with as much dignity as
any man could contrive under such circumstances. He looked at the dying
Pict and wiped a trickle of blood from his own upper lip. "I think only
one of them followed me through—"

"I can sheathe that sword in you," Conan growled, "unless you talk
fast. What are you doing here? Didn't your daughters treachery—?"

"Scyra's—what?"

The bemusement in the man's voice was either real or consummate
artistry. Conan kept his sword drawn but moved back a pace so that it
no longer imminently menaced the sorcerer.

"Very well. If there is anything I need to know, best tell me now. That
cursed statue has gone out of the cave and will be among the Picts—"

"Oh, gods! It is as I feared. It will not stop until Scyra is dead or
the Picts holding her flee farther than we can pursue."

"Crom! I'm willing to listen to you if you talk sense. If you give me
nothing but riddles—"

"Please. Let me speak."

The Cimmerian saw the effort it was taking the sorcerer to calm
himself, and waited, as little as he liked the notion. He was no friend
of sorcerers and seldom of anybody who could not offer a well-wielded
sword at his side, but matters tonight might have gone beyond what
swords could face. If Lysenius had turned his coat—

It seemed that he had, or at least had given over sacrificing his
daughter to his lust for vengeance. It was hard to be sure, harder
still to understand what he wished Conan to do. The Cimmerians fingers
itched to ram his sword into Lysenius so hard that the hilt rang
against the sorcerer's ribs and the blade stuck far out from his back.

He resisted it. No woman deserved to end as a Pictish slave or
sacrifice, even if she had betrayed him, ten times over if she had not.
Moreover, Conan knew what chance his band had of winning free without
more aid than the statue could give. It was somewhere between scanty
and none at all.

Lysenius could hardly make matters worse, and might make them better.

"You've persuaded me," Conan said. "But my men and I will be watching
both back and front. You hurl one thunderbolt, or whatever you wield,
at us and you won't live to hurl a second."

"That is only just," Lysenius said. His empty voice made Conan wonder
if the man was too shame-ridden to have about him what wits his sorcery
had left. Sorcerers were a chancy lot, even when they called themselves
your friend.

"So be it," Conan said. "Do as you think best, and I'll crawl out and
see what our stone-headed friend is doing. Don't be surprised by
anything you see me and my people do."

Lysenius managed a wintry smile. "I give you the same message."

***

Scyra regained her senses to see Sutharo standing over her. His face
showed the fatigue of battle and no regard whatever for her. He was a
Pictish chief among his warriors, and no care for a woman would enter
his thoughts.

No word of what had happened passed his lips either, but Scyra could
now listen with waking ears to the wagging tongues about her. The only
ones who did not add to her knowledge were the chakans, being without
speech that anyone except a shaman could understand.

Clearly, her father would be at the mercy of the Picts as long as she
was a hostage. It did not matter if she ceased to be a hostage through
escape or death; either way would end the Picts' hold over Lysenius.

Whether she escaped or died, however, she vowed one thing before any
gods that might listen: Sutharo would not see another sunrise.

It was remarkable how that vow eased her mind. Bound to the litter as
she was, she was still able to fall into a light sleep soon afterward.

She awoke to hear, all about her in the darkness, Pictish cries that
held more terror than warlike spirit. Her first thought was that the
Snakes had returned in such great force that the Owls were about to be
overwhelmed. The idea of being slaughtered like a salmon, its brains
beaten out on a flat rock, made her stomach heave.

She struggled, unnoticed by guards or chakans. Indeed, the chakans
seemed to be nowhere in sight, although darkness and the forest could
still hide menaces perilously close to her. She loosened one hand and
one foot from the thongs binding her to the litter and contrived to
turn her head to look uphill.

A blue glow poured from the mouth of the cave now, and against it
loomed a towering black shape. For a moment she thought it was Conan
himself, then saw that the shape moved too slowly and stiffly for any
mortal flesh. The statue had come forth, however animated, seemingly
with a will of its own and nothing commanding it.

The night suddenly seemed colder and darker than before, and the trees
overhead ready to come to life and reach down branches like clawing
hands, to pluck her from the litter, lift her high, and rend her apart
like a rag doll in the hands of a willful child…

Scyra bit her lip to hold back a cry of despair. She also began casting
about in her mind for any spells that she could work, unaided by the
Crystal of Thraz, herbs and simples, being spellclad, or by anything
else except her own wits and memory.

Before this quest yielded consequences, the Picts had regained enough
courage to approach the statue. Or at least one did. Scyra saw him
close to the image, both figures dark against the blue glow from the
cave. She saw the spear rise, and she could riot tell whether in salute
or challenge.

Then the statue moved. No longer heavily or slowly, but as swiftly as
the Cimmerian himself might have done. One arm gripped the spearhead,
and a globe of dazzling blue flame flashed, swallowing both spearhead
and hand. The spear shaft burst into flames; the Pictish warrior howled
and leapt back.

Not far enough. The statues other arm gripped his free hand. The pict
howled again, this time in mortal agony. The statue jerked him off his
feet, holding him kicking frantically. His silhouette began to change,
twist, shrink. Scyra watched in horror and awe as the Pictish warrior
was drained to a limp sack of skin, then tossed away like a fruit
sucked dry.

Horror and awe were also in the cries of the Picts. They drew back, and
began hurling spears and shooting arrows from what they doubtless hoped
would be a safe distance. Blue sparks flashed all over the statue as
the spearheads and arrowheads immolated themselves, and a cloud of
reeking smoke began to spread about the figure.

The image took no harm, though, and neither retreated nor advanced.
Instead, it suddenly raised both arms, and blue sparks as long as
lightning-bolts sprayed from both hands. Its aim was not perfect; some
of the sparks left only smoking patches on the hillside.

Others caught fleeing Picts. A blue glow spread around them as they
stopped, limbs writhing in convulsion, mouths opened in screams that
reached Scyra's ears even through the crackling of the sparks. It was
as if each Pict was being burned in a fierce flame at his own stake.

Then the sparks died and only smoke spreading out in a noisome cloud
remained. Smoke, and a charred thing on the ground.

Scyra had found her spell now. If she could reach out with her mind as
she had done to Conan, and if the Picts had not looted her tent—

There. The mind-touch she had sent across the miles had gripped the
Crystal of Thraz. She kept her touch exquisitely delicate; this was as
difficult as milking adders for their venom to make certain potions
mentioned only in scrolls forbidden (and indeed, seldom found) outside
Stygia.

Her concentration on the Crystal of Thraz was so complete that she did
not notice dark shadowy figures creeping down the slope to either side
of the statue.

***

Conan led his rescue party down the slope in silence, although the
statues thunderbolts broke the darkness more often than he cared for.
None came his way. Now he could only hope that the statues increasing
power would draw the whole attention of the Picts, without driving them
into panic-flight.

That was what he dreaded, next only to treachery by Lysenius. He had
too few men to pursue Scyra and her chakans through the nighted forest,
even if those few were united. As they were now, they would be divided
between his rescue party and those who remained behind to guard
Lysenius from wandering Picts, and the Bamulas from Lysenius's
treachery.

The Bamulas had learned the art of moving as silently on rocky slopes
as in their native jungles. No coughs and hardly a single rattling
pebble betrayed the rescue party as it crept downhill. They could have
made far more noise and still gone unnoticed amid the thunder of the
statues magick and the cries of the Picts.

Beyond the circle of death cleared by the statue, darkness fell again,
and Conan's night-sight returned. He saw a single figure standing
beside a tree, and behind it, shadows that did not look altogether
human. Was it a fancy of the night and the magick, or was there
something lying amid those inhuman shadows?

He would start with the standing figure. At least it seemed human and,
from the headdress, a chief. Behead a Pictish war-band by killing the
chief, after the band had already been shaken by magick, and one had a
good chance of driving the foe into flight.

With hands and whispers, Conan guided the Bamulas with him to the left.
There the ground offered more concealment, almost up to the very feet
of the standing chief.

Unfortunately, a good number of Picts had also sought the same
concealment. Conan found himself at arm's length from a crouching Pict.
As he drew back, his hand came down on a twig. In the brief silence,
the crack reached the Picts ears.

He sprang to his feet and the Cimmerian did the same. Conan's dagger
swung in a deadly arc, ending in the Pict's chest. Blood and breath
sprayed from the man's mouth in silence, and he fell without a cry. But
he had a comrade, and that one not only rose but cried out, before a
Bamula spear silenced him forever.

Instantly, the slope seemed to grow Picts the way a cave grows
mushrooms. All of them seemed to have both wits and weapons with which
to meet human foes, and all were between Conan and the chief.

A Cimmerian war yell halted some of the Picts as abruptly as if they
had been impaled. Before they could advance again, Conan had seen the
thinnest part of their line. He charged it, sword and dagger reflecting
unearthly blueness as the statue continued its work. The Bamulas
streamed behind and to either side of him, shouting their own war cries
and wielding blunted and blood-encrusted spears with the strength of
madmen.

The Picts' brief flowering of courage withered. Conan knocked two down
by the sheer weight of his massive frame striking at the run. He
trampled them underfoot, thrust left with his dagger and slashed right
at two more Picts with his sword. The dagger sank between ribs, the
sword crippled an arm and laid open a skull. The Pict with the crippled
arm died in the next moment as Vuona, of all people, cracked his skull
with a Pictish war club.

"What are you doing here?" Conan snarled.

"This is my last chance to be a warrior."

"Or anything else, if the Picts rally while we stand here wagging our
tongues!" Conan muttered. The woman seemed unperturbed, and a moment
later a swirl of Picts drove between them and both had more important
matters on hand.

A Bamula was down, and from the wounds Conan could see, not likely to
rise again. But four Picts lay dead around the warrior and a fifth was
reeling about with a lamed leg, until Conan's sword cured the mans limp
and his every other earthly ill.

Now nothing stood between Conan and the chief. The two men saw this at
the same moment—and the chief turned. Conan was up with him in a
moment, ready to not only kill the chief, but also to disgrace him
forever in the eyes of his warriors and gods by giving him a
death-wound in the back.

The chief turned again at the last moment and thrust at Conan with a
Gunderman short-sword. The Cimmerian needed to be as nimble as a deer
to escape the thrust. By then he was too close to the man to wield a
sword, and his dagger was in his other hand.

Conan's fist drove into the chief's face, the sword-hilt weighting the
blow like a cestus. The Pict's head snapped back, and his second thrust
was wild. It gouged skin over Conan's ribs; he felt blood trickle. He
was already moving as the chief drew his sword back for yet another
thrust.

This time Conan whirled, dagger in his left hand. The point drove into
the Pict's throat, and the third attempt on the Cimmerians life ended
in a gurgle. The short-sword clanged on the rocks, a Pict dove for it,
and Conan kicked the man in the face hard enough to snap his neck.

Then no merely human foes menaced the Cimmerian. In front, three
chakans stood between him and Scyra, bound to a litter. Behind him
raged the thunderbolts of the statue, and in the cave, Lysenius was at
work.

Even chakans might have quailed at the Cimmerian's war cry. It drew the
Bamulas still on their feet to their chief, and in a compact mass like
a clenched fist, Conan's rescue party advanced toward Scyra.

Nineteen

Lysenius knew what had to be done, likewise how to do it, as soon as
Scyra was no longer among the Picts. The only thing he did not know was
the price he would have to pay. He did not expect to know that until
the moment of payment, which was more commonly the case in sorcery than
any sorcerer ever cared to think about.

Now he could only command his mind, fearing that Scyra might already be
dead and he would not know it. Surely she would have sent him some
final message?

If she had understood what he was trying to do, perhaps. If she had
not, or if she had died too swiftly for any spell… And Conan had no
ghost-voice from which the truth might be learned another way—

Lysenius groaned. Outside, the statues thunderbolts seemed to echo that
groan.

* * *

Scyra now had both hands and one foot loose enough to be able to free
them in a moment. Perhaps not fast enough to escape the chakans if they
had warning, but with magick, darkness, and enemies all about, their
slow wits might not perceive her movements.

She clutched the Crystal of Thraz in one free hand. So far, no one had
seen it, let alone suspected its nature, but that could change at any
moment. She lay still, commanding her breath to be silent and her
muscles to end their futile quivering. Fear was in her, more than she
had ever felt before, but also a sense of her own power, which allowed
her to control the fear.

Picts no longer stood between her and the hillside, but she had no eyes
for the statue. All her attention was on the gigantic living figure
storming forward, cutting down Sutharo (she did not dare curse Conan
for taking away that pleasure) and striding ahead.

Two of the chakans bent to raise the litter. Scyra made ready to jerk
hands and foot from the thongs and do battle with the aid of the
Crystal when, suddenly, the two bending chakans halted. All seemed to
be listening to a silent voice.

Then two chakans advanced on Conan as the third chakan bent, snapping
the thongs about Scyra's wrists and ankles as if they were spiderwebs.
Fear and hope warred in her, as she understood. Vurag Yan had summoned
the chakans, two to do battle and a third to carry her off. If she
struck at the chakans while their minds were linked to the shaman's—

The thought summoned the strength to move. She rolled toward the chakan
and slapped the hand holding the Crystal of Thraz against one hairy
arm. At the same moment, she summoned all the strength of will she had
ever dreamed of possessing into putting a single message into the
chakan's mind.

DEATH.

The chakan howled and reared upright. It flung up it's hands and threw
back its head, still howling, unseeing eyes aimed at the stars. Blood
started from its mouth, eyes, and ears, and it began to tremble in all
its limbs.

Then its hair began to smolder, and stinking, greasy smoke poured from
its limbs and body. It staggered, fell, pushed itself up onto hands and
knees and spewed blood. The smoke grew thicker, and Scyra saw hair
curling and frizzing to ashes that blew away on a wind that seemed to
come from within the chakan. The stench grew until she turned her head
away and gagged, all but ready to spew herself.

With a final gurgle, the chakan fell facedown and lay still. Smoke
continued to curl up from the corpse as Conan knelt beside the litter
and drew Scyra to her feet. She allowed her head to rest against his
massive chest, savoring the pleasure of no longer being alone, but
careful to keep the hand with the crystal well away from the Cimmerians
body.

She stepped back from him and saw the other two chakans lying dead,
their corpses sprouting arrows and spears in profusion. A Bamula lay
among them, his head at an impossible angle to his shoulders and one
arm torn from its socket.

"I… thank you."

"Thank your father, too," Conan told her.

"My—"

"He's doing some wizardly business with that cursed statue. He'll do
more once you're no longer among the Picts," He gripped her hand, then
recoiled as his fingers touched the Crystal of Thraz.

"Pardon," she said. "It… I think it is awake now."

"What are you using it for, besides ill-wishing chakans'?"

"I was ill-wishing their master, the shaman Vurag Yan. I do not know if
the wish reached him through the chakan."

Carefully not touching the crystal this time, Conan lifted her onto one
shoulder. "Tell me more later, when we've no Picts within stabbing
distance."

"You asked."

"So I did, and that's never wise to do with a witch, when you may not
like the answer!"

The next moment he was running up the slope, with the surviving Bamulas
laboring hard to keep up with his hillman's pace.

***

Conan carried Scyra all the way to the boulders, then set her on her
feet and went to cover the rearguard. This was easy enough, as no Pict
dared pass to either side of the statue to approach the cave. A few
bold archers were shooting, but making wretched practice against the
dazzling thunderbolts from the image.

The reek of sweat joined that of the sulphur and charred flesh as the
Bamulas arrived. Conan had just counted the last man in when a new
outburst of Pictish war cries split the night.

"Do they never give up?" Vuona asked, trying to put an arm around him.
Conan noticed that she had the other arm around Govindue, who was not
protesting.

"Not easily," the Cimmerian said and gently removed the woman's arm.
"Best we three not all stand together. Even arrows can find such an
easy target, and they may not have emptied their quivers of spells."

From what Scyra said, the Picts had little magick left in them, at
least for tonight. But from the cries, it sounded as if they had so
many fresh warriors that they hardly needed the aid of spells.

Scyra came out and listened to the cries. "The Snakes have come again,
in strength. They are not attacking, though. I think… there. Listen."

Conan heard a peculiar, irregular beat, five or six drums all sounding
together. The cries faded, leaving the drums to rule the night, along
with the thunderbolts from the statue.

"That is the call to a parley," Scyra said. "I think the Snakes will
offer the Owls safe passage from the land, in return for an alliance
against us."

Conan spat. "That for Pictish intrigues. Will they be fit to stand
against us and the statue both?"

Scyra said nothing, only stood closer to the Cimmerian. By the light of
the thunderbolts, however, he read the answer in her face.

"Crom! The next time a woman runs through a wizard's door, I'll let him
slam it behind her!" He looked down at Scyra. "I hope your father
realizes that he's our best hope now."

"What the gods allow him to do will be done."

"Then let's hope they're feeling generous toward both him and us
tonight!"

***

To Scyra, Lysenius seemed to have cast no spells during her absence,
except perhaps one on himself. She did not care for the vacant eyes and
the slack lips. But with what wits her father had left, he gathered to
greet her. His embrace was hearty, though she could feel the chill in
his flesh and the trembling in his arms and hands.

"I intend to free us of the Picts," Lysenius said. "With the help of
the Crystal of Thraz—"

"I myself must use it if it is to help us," Scyra said.

"Is that still the truth?"

"It was not the truth the first time I said it," she replied. She could
not meet her father's eyes. "Now I believe it to be the truth. If you
try to bond with it, you may die, and surely your spell will not take
effect."

"Why am I not surprised, Scyra, that you lied to me for my own good?"
her father asked.

"Perhaps because it was not the first time I did so, although never
before in so great a matter," Scyra answered. She raised her eyes, and
her heart lifted at the wry smile on her fathers face.

"If I cannot use the crystal, then I must find some other means of
commanding the statue. For that, I need blood. A warrior's blood, above
all."

Conan frowned. It made him look not merely menacing, but terrible.
Scyra put a hand on her father's arm, lest he make matters worse by
flinching away from the grim Cimmerian giant.

"Why don't you come right out and ask for my blood?" Conan said in a
surprisingly even voice. "I thought the statue had already taken enough
for itself."

"Not the blood of a man without a ghost-voice," Lysenius said. "I must
ask, and pray that you will not shed my blood in reply. It will do you
no harm, save by chance."

"Sorcery seems a pretty chancy business, and I've yet to meet wizard or
witch who wouldn't lie to advance themselves. Scyra, what say you?"

"I have no truth-sense."

"I didn't ask that. You know your father better than I."

"Yes, Scyra. Speak freely."

"In your place, Conan, I would give the blood."

He nodded, and Scyra knew that the nod was as good as a solemn oath
from a lesser man. "How much?"

Lysenius drew a small silver dagger. "Enough to cover the blade of this
knife, but it must be from a fresh cut."

"Hack away, Scyra," Conan said. "But be quick about it. The Picts may
gossip all night. They may also attack before we're done with this
witchery."

Scyra drew her own dagger, tested the edge on her thumb, then drew a
line down the Cimmerian's arm, over bruises, small cuts already clotted
over, and half a score of old scars. This man, she realized, had seen
more war and battle than any two men twice his age.

The blood welled out, of a normal human color. Somehow, she had been
expecting it to be green, or sparkling like certain Nemedian wines, or
otherwise apart from nature.

***

Between offering his blood for a sorcerer's tricks and taking his
chances with the Picts, Conan would have preferred to be drinking the
cheapest wine in the lowest tavern in Aghrapur. Lacking that choice,
and his people likewise, he chose to aid the sorcerer. Three of his men
had died already tonight. If the Owls and Snakes made common cause
against him, he would be lucky to escape the wilderness with three yet
living.

Smeared thin, enough blood to cover the dagger was no great loss. He'd
lost as much several times in his youth when his beard began to sprout
and his mastery of the art of shaving was yet uncertain.

But giving your true name or anything from your body to some sorcerers
gave them ultimate power over you. Power that Lysenius might not gain,
and if he did, might not use—but who could be sure?

Conan was sure of one thing. He could slay both Lysenius and his
daughter before they could unman him or the Bamulas. If wizardry
offered a worse death than death among the Picts, he would choose the
latter.

The thud of Pictish drums floated into the cave. Bowenu came back to
report that the Picts had neither fled nor advanced. They seemed in
great strength at the foot of the hill and in the forest around it.

"Excellent," Lysenius said. "The more that are on hand, the fewer to
impede your passage afterward."

Bowenu looked from Lysenius to Conan, then made to Conan the Bamula
gesture of inquiring about madness. Conan shrugged and returned the
Bamula gesture for ignorance. This did not seem to raise Bowenu's
spirits.

Scyra was trying not to smile at the exchange. Conan shot her a sour
look. "What's so funny, woman?"

"Yes, indeed," Lysenius said. "Dignity, please, Scyra. It honors those
about to die."

Conan did not ask who those might be. He would know soon enough.

It did not improve his temper to be sitting and waiting while sorcerers
who called themselves his friends finished the battle. He wanted to
have a hand in the final victory himself, and with Pictish blood on his
sword instead of his own on a sorcerer's dagger.

But what a captain wanted for himself had to give way to what those who
followed him needed. That was a lesson he had learned in the rude
school of the battlefield, as well as from more civilized
teachers—Belit not least among them. He could sit and wait without
anger now—but not yet with pleasure.

It seemed for a long while that nothing had happened, natural or
magickal, except for louder drumming from the Picts. Conan did not much
like that; it now sounded less like a parley than like whipping up the
courage of warriors for a desperate charge. The thunderbolts still
crashed and sizzled, and the witchfire still glowed, but the statue was
not all-conquering. Enough Picts past it and—

The air in the cave turned a familiar golden hue and began to swirl
toward the cave mouth as if a giant were sucking it out. Conan went
with the golden wind because he had no choice. His strength was as a
child's against that wind.

He fetched up hard against a boulder, and for a moment he feared the
wind would reach down behind the stone and pluck him out, to carry him
onward to the hillside. Instead, he sat with his back braced against
the rock, snatching at ankles and wrists as the Bamulas struggled past.
One by one he pulled them from the wind, or they found their own
niches, or on some outcropping they took a death-grip that the wind
could not break.

Conan did not dare move to look at what was happening beyond. He saw
the golden light swamp the blue of the witchfire, so that even the
blazing thunderbolts from the statue were lost in the new light. The
whole mouth of the cave now seemed the mouth of a giant's forge, whose
fire burned stark gold.

Everyone in the cave knew the moment when the golden wind reached the
Picts. None could have imagined that such screams could come from human
throats, even Picts', and there were hundreds of men screaming at once.
It seemed to Conan that the wind might be rending the warriors limb
from limb, or disemboweling them, or crushing them slowly under massive
weights—but they would not have been screaming so had they been
crushed.

How long the screaming went on, Conan could never afterward say. In
time, the golden wind ceased to blow and darkness returned to the mouth
of the cave. It was a deeper darkness than before, and the statue had
fallen silent. As cautiously as a cat sneaking past fierce watchdogs,
Conan crawled farther out into the boulders, then onto the hillside.

It was the hour of false dawn. When he regained his night-sight, he saw
a hillside bare of living Picts. The statue's prey still lay there, now
cold ashes, and scattered weapons showed where living Picts had been
before they departed.

Departed, along with a good part of the forest at the foot of the hill.
The ground there was churned as if by a giant plow, and Conan's eyes
made out gaping holes, that looked as if trees two men thick and a
hundred years old had been plucked from the ground like carrots.

If Owls or Snakes remained alive, they were either running or, if very
hardy, lying in wait on the new edge of the forest. Conan doubted the
second. He would not have huddled beside that nightmare of churned
ground for the wealth of a kingdom. Besides, if they were there, they
were out of bowshot of the cave mouth. The statue remained, now
lifeless to all appearances, but it would be a bold Pict who dared
approach it tonight.

Conan left Govindue to watch the hill and went back inside the cave. It
had been long since he'd heard a sound from Lysenius or Scyra. He no
longer feared treachery. Instead he feared that they might not be alive
to receive his thanks. He and the Bamulas owed to Lysenius their best
chance of seeing another sunrise.

***

Lysenius coughed again. Scyra moistened a clean rag with the last of
the water and wiped the fresh blood from his lips.

"It… does no… good, Scyra. I asked… too much of this old body."

"You aren't old, Father."

"It's… too late for lies," Lysenius said. His gaze shifted, and Scyra
saw a shadow fall on the cave floor. Conan stepped up beside her, then
knelt.

"Our thanks, Lysenius. What did you do with the Picts?"

"Oh… took them with… the world-walker. More power than ever before.
Everyone out there… gone."

"You must not talk, Father."

"I… suppose not. Be… be wiser than I have been."

They waited for Lysenius to speak more, but those were his last words.
After a while, Scyra closed his eyelids and crossed his hands—hideously
burned where his rings had melted from the power of the spell—across
his chest.

"Scyra, gather whatever you need to take and be ready to move out. We
can chant for your father or do whatever other rites he needs when
we're beyond reach of the Picts."

"They will not come here soon, Conan." She stood up and leaned against
him. His arms went around her with unexpected gentleness, which was her
great need now.

"But they will come," she went on, speaking half to herself and half
into the Cimmerians chest. "You will not win free of the wilderness on
foot. Not with Vuona and the wounded."

"Perhaps not, but the sooner we begin, the better the odds. Come,
Scyra. I wouldn't care to waste your fathers death."

"Nor would I. But I know better how that may be avoided." She felt him
stiffen. "No trust in sorcerers even now, Conan?"

"It's been a long night, woman. Whatever you wish, say it quickly."

"I can command the world-walker. With the Crystal of Thraz, I can send
you back to the Black Kingdoms. You need hardly walk a step."

"Nor did those Picts, and where are they?"

"Scattered the world over, all too far to ever see their homeland
again. But that was my father's intent. I intend to see you safely
home!"

"The Black Kingdoms—never mind. I must ask the Bamulas. They have more
at stake than I do."

"Ask, while I make ready."

***

Conan was never sure afterward if the Bamulas had come to trust Scyra
or if they were so desperate to be done with the Pictish Wilderness
that they would have mounted dragons bound for the moon to be out of
it. Certainly none, even Kubwande, protested strongly against walking
once more through the demon's gate.

"Remember, hold on to me but make your minds blank," Conan said. "Scyra
says she can send us anywhere that one of us pictures in our mind. I
intend to picture the bank of the Afui—"

"As long as its the bank," Bowenu said. "I've no wish to swim among the
crocodiles."

"I've no wish to repeat myself," Conan said. "Hold your tongue. I will
picture the bank of the Afui, and the world-walker should take us
there. Anyone who pictures something else may end up there himself, or
he may end up nowhere… or he may kill us all. So think of nothing, not
even the beer you'll drink when we get home, and we may just—"

The harsh grating sound of rock against rock filled the air. Something
loomed up in the mouth of the cave. Then a shadow stretched out across
the blue-lit floor as the statue walked into sight.

"Crom!"

The statue walked slowly, like a man drunk, weary, or sick almost to
death. It was blackened, and even burned in places, from the power it
had wielded and the blood it had drunk. It also had a new face—the one
Conan saw in any mirror.

As one man, he and the Bamulas stood aside as the statue lumbered past
and into the cave. It ignored them, and likewise Scyra, who came
hurrying out. She stood beside the Cimmerian, who was scowling down at
her. He had just noticed that the walls of the cave now showed carvings
unmistakably in the Stygian style.

"That—it was not my doing," Scyra said. "The statue and you—your spirit
gave you a bond—"

"I am bonded by Stygian magick to that slab of rock?"

"That slab of rock is the image of a mighty warrior of times past. Why
should it not bond to the spirit of a mighty warrior of today?"

Conan saw no reason why it should not, and did not suspect Scyra of
flattering him. He also saw no reason why, the decision made to depart,
any of those here should wait longer on the edge of unleashed magick.
Unleashed, and clearly not altogether under Scyra's control.

"You're coming with us—" he began. Her eyes halted him even before her
lips formed words.

"I must remain behind here, to cast the spell properly and command it
until you are safely passed. If I do otherwise, it could go as much
awry as when my father cast it."

"Can you follow us, or at least take yourself to safety?"

"When I have made this cave and my father's body safe, I will think
about it."

"Stubborn woman!" He wanted to use harsher terms, but knew they would
not move her.

"I think you do not fear such."

The Cimmerian laughed. "Likely enough. I'd not miss Belit half as much
if she'd been some docile lap-kitten." He kissed her soundly. "Remember
that you're wasted in a wilderness, Scyra, and get yourself out of it
as soon as you can."

"As soon as I can—that I swear."

***

Scyra was as good as her word. The golden wind swirled about them, the
cave vanished, and before anyone who remembered the Picts could cry out
in fear, they were stumbling along the riverbank they had left. Thunder
died away, the dizziness faded, and Conan's band looked about them and
saw that they were all present.

All, that is, except for Kubwande. They searched up and down the
riverbank until men from the village came and nearly ran away again,
thinking they were seeing ghosts. Conan's people proved that they were
indeed real and pressed the newcomers into the search parties.

They searched until sunset, when the villagers led them back and filled
empty stomachs with porridge, roasted yams, and beer. They asked no
payment and were given none; the band had sworn itself to silence about
their treasure until they were closer to home.

It was then that Bowenu came over to Conan and made a confession.
"Kubwande, I think, had the notion of going back to the chiefs of the
Bamulas before the rest of us. At least he said he was going to put in
his mind the picture of their Great Hall."

"The fool!" Conan swore. "Scyra told me, and I told all of you—"

"Ah, but Kubwande always thought he was wiser than other men. He wanted
me to go with him, and put himself ahead of me in the line. But at the
last moment, I stepped forward, so that he was last. Wherever he has
gone, he has gone alone."

Bowenu poured himself more beer and wandered off.

After a moment, Vuona rose gracefully and followed him. Govindue
watched her go.

"Perhaps I do not want her as a wife after all."

"Perhaps you don't," Conan said. "Perhaps you too need more beer."

Govindue drank, but his eyes were old in his young face. "Do you think
we will ever see Kubwande again?"

"No, nor Scyra. She—curse it, one of the few witches who's honest
enough to pay for her mistakes, and it had to be her!" Although she had
probably not begrudged the price, with her father dead. Conan had
seldom seen more acceptance of death in anyone's eyes than he had seen
with his last look into Scyra's.

"Honesty in women is like a strong will," Govindue said. He stared as
solemnly as a temple image at the smoke swirling in the hut. "It lets
them do wonders."

"The only wonder I care about right now is more beer!"

"I will have some more brought," Govindue said solemnly. "But there is
a price."

"What?"

"You must allow us to call you by the name of Amra."

Conan looked into the smoke. Belit was becoming a fond, warm memory
rather than a pain he felt every day. The name no longer felt strange,
and these folk meant its use as an honor.

"As you like."

Govindue wasted no time. He leapt to his feet, snatched a gourd of beer
from a girl, and raised it high.

"Hear me, warriors who followed Conan! Tonight and afterward, we name
him—Amra! Ohbe Amra!"

"Ohbe Amra!" The other warriors took up the chant, then the villagers,
first those inside the hut, then those outside, until the jungle night
seemed to throb with it.

Conan looked into the smoke and saw a dark-haired woman welcoming an
auburn-haired one into the shadows. He wondered what Belit would tell
Scyra, not that he would ever have much chance of knowing… and here was
good beer going to waste!

"Ohbe."

Epilogue

The Pictish Wilderness, many years later:

We listened to Vasilios's tale right through to the end, in a silence
broken only by the beat of the rain outside. The last Pictish drums
were stilled; the drummers were most likely sheltering from the rain,
as much as one wished to believe they had departed.

"How certain is it that the warrior leading the demon-men was Conan?"
someone asked. I thought it was Sarabos, but the Black Dragon was
sitting as silent as the statue.

Vasilios shrugged. "My mother said that some of the Picts who saw him
survived the casting of the demon's gate. A few lived long enough to
fight again at Velitrium, and recognized the Aquilonian general."

It would be a very few. Apart from wars, the life of a Pict had always
been harsh and short, perhaps more so since Aquilonia had begun pushing
hard through the Marches into the wilderness. Also, memories could play
tricks on anyone, Hyborian, Stygian, or Pict.

But it made a good story.

It was not the only story we listened to during the two days we spent
in the cave. There was little to do except keep watch for a Pictish
attack that never came and search the cave as far as a rope and our
scant supply of torches would allow. We found water just beyond the
chamber of the statue, so we had little need and less curiosity to know
about what might lie beyond in the bowels of the hill.

We were more curious about how soon help would come. Doubtless our
company would send for reinforcements when the watering party did not
return; we prayed that they would not try to rescue us unaided and fall
prey to the Picts.

It was well on into the afternoon of the second day when we heard the
Picts drumming again. Then the drums faded, bird and animal calls rose
as warriors passed messages back and forth, and the sentries said they
could see Picts moving about in the fringes of the trees. (If the story
was true, the second growth must have come back thick and fast after
the virgin timber was magicked away.)

All this might have heralded an attack, and taboos be cursed, but those
with more experience in wilderness fighting said it sounded like the
Picts were assembling the warriors for a march. Certainly the noise
died away soon enough, and as the silence drew on, the sentries
reported that the Picts were gone.

I had just come out to see this for myself when the silence ended in
Bossonian war horns. Three times more they sounded, each time closer.
Then half a dozen scouts in their green tunics and trousers scampered
out of the trees and raced up the hill to us.

We were saved. With our company and those who had joined it, three
hundred men were on the way, a force much larger than the Picts usually
cared to face at this time of year. We would need to move on swiftly,
and there was no more time for investigating the cave, no matter how
many torches our rescuers brought, but that was a small loss.

Not so small was the mystery of how the commander at Fort Nyaro—who had
sent our rescuers—had heard we needed rescuing. Scouts, sergeants, and
captains all said the same thing: a messenger had come in reporting our
party beseiged by the Picts at a place he so carefully described that a
child could have found it.

No one, however, had actually seen the messenger. A few said they had
seen a man who might have been he, but no two descriptions of the man
agreed. Also, all did agree that the message had come during the first
night of heavy rain—the very evening we found the cave!

A bird could hardly have flown in that rain. Even if it had, it could
scarcely have traveled so fast. Nothing on legs—and above all, nothing
human—could have carried a message to Fort Nyaro in a single hour.

After a while, I came to realize that I was raising more questions than
receiving answers. I was already uneasy; it seemed futile to make
others so. I left gathering the wounded and the remaining supplies for
the march to the sergeants and walked back to the statue.

Sarabos was already there, sitting cross-legged on the floor, looking
at nothing in particular. I stood beside him, and before either of us
found words, Vasilios joined us.

"Ah… I thought you might be here, Captains. I was hearing of the
messenger who wasn't."

"I think the less said about that, the better," I admonished him.

"Well, sir, it's a cat out of the bag and not to be put back in without
more trouble than it's worth."

"Judge trouble after I see how much I can make for loose tongues," I
said. I wanted to be alone, but Sarabos raised a hand.

"Let him speak his mind."

One did not argue with a Black Dragon of Sarabos's blood, as much as I
wished it. "Speak, then, Vasilios, but briefly."

"Oh, it's nothing long. Just that I'm sure I'm not the only one who
knows who Captain Sarabos's father is. Others might know, and I didn't
want to get their hopes up. I wasn't any too sure myself about that
part of the story."

"Which part?" I snapped. "Something you left out?"

"Aye. The story goes that the statue—the statue will come to help when
the warrior's blood-kin need it."

I looked at the statue. It showed no signs of having moved a
hair'sbreadth, let alone being fully animated. No charred Pictish
corpses lay about the cave.

But would it show any traces if all it had done was to send a message
that Conan's son Sarabos needed rescuing? That was help, in any sense
of the word that gods or men might use.

"I stand by what I said before: the less this is noised about, the
better," I said.

"True," Sarabos agreed, rising. "The priests of Mitra are grown rigid
and fusty in recent years, not liking magickal mysteries. They might
ask us to either cast the statue down or bring it out of the wilderness
to one of their temples."

The statue had to weigh as much as two or three warhorses. The idea of
hauling that deadweight through the Pictish Wilderness was too
appalling to contemplate. I thought impious thoughts about the
priesthood of Mitra.

"Except—what if the Picts learn to command it?" I asked.

"If it is bonded to a certain blood, that blood alone commands itself.
It and the other children of my—of that blood. And that includes Conan
the Second, a good steward of what he inherited, but one who may need
some help to hold it."

We looked at one another and at the statue, standing there as we were
in the darkness broken only by Sarabos's single candle and my torch.
Perhaps it was only a trick of that uncertain light, but I thought I
saw that the statue's face had changed its expression. Before, it had
shown a grim mask to the world. Now I could have sworn it wore a wry
smile, not unlike one so often seen on the face of Sarabos's
father-who-could-not-be-named.

That was enough for me. "I repeat, let there be silence about this. It
is our duty to the House of Conan."

"Our duty," the others intoned, almost keeping their faces blank. We
turned and walked away from the statue, out of the chamber, and up the
tunnel to the fading daylight of the outer cave.
