Conan pulled the looped rope over his head and set it firmly under his armpits. "Pray that these are no pygmies," he said, "or I may be down again faster than I went up!"
Then, to the folk above: "Haul away!"
"Whoever is down there knows the True Tongue," Seyganko said. "That says human to me."
"Spirits can take human form, is that not so?" Aondo offered.
Emwaya looked as if she would prefer to lie, but nodded.
"Then why not speak so?" Aondo asked.
Emwaya frowned. She had explained to Seyganko the reasons why Spirit-Speaking did not use human tongues, so he knew that the folk below had to be human. She could not explain the same to Aondo without giving the whole fanda too much knowledge of Spirit-Speaking.
Then the man below shouted again: "Well, are you going to haul away or not?"
Seyganko raised his club and struck it against his shield three times.
On the third blow, the men on the rope began to move back from the pit.
"Heavier than a man!" someone called, taking one hand from the rope to wipe his forehead.
"Either pull or let one who will take your place!" Seyganko snapped.
The man looked ready to quarrel, then seemed to think better of it and returned to his work.
If what rose from the pit that yawned where the hearthstone had stood was a man, he was larger than any Seyganko had ever seen, save only Aondo.
A closer look told the warrior that the newcomer's skin was pale under its coating of filth, his hair straight, and his eyes an eerie blue.
There were tales of lands to the north that were inhabited by such blue-eyed giants, a race considered human for all that. Here, no doubt, was such a one.
"Now will you tell us your name?" Seyganko ordered.
"When I have drunk, and you have brought up my woman," the giant replied.
"Your woman?" someone asked.
"You think I travel this forest with no comforts?" the man said, laughing. His teeth were very even and none of them filed into points.
"Also, if you want more of these" he pointed at the fallen jewel "they are down there."
Someone clutched at Seyganko's arm. It was Emwaya, staring at the jewel as if it were a cobra about to strike. Seyganko put a hand on her shoulder and turned her around so that the giant could not see her face. Then he waved to the men to lower the rope again and shouted to the nearest hut for women to bring water.
"What is it, woman?" he whispered when he was sure that none paid him and Emwaya any attention.
"Those are Fire Eyes of the Golden Serpents," Emwaya said. Her breath seemed to come quickly, as if she had been running. "The man says they have more of them."
"So? They are fine to look at, not as fine as you when oiled and lying on a pallet, but"
"The Golden Serpents bred in Xuchotl. The tales of the city say the folk adorned themselves with the Fire Eyes."
"Then"
"It could be that we have taken the destroyers of Xuchotl among us!"
"We have done no such thing," Seyganko protested.
"You think we can put them back in the hole and cover them up easily if you are wrong?"
Seyganko studied the man's heavily muscled limbs, his iron weapons, and the easy, alert way he stood. "No. If they are spirits, they would not go. If they are human, they might not go and it would be unlawful to force them."
"Then what"
"Have your father summon the spirits to the dance-drum. At once, before these folk have spent a night among us. The man knows the True Tongue.
He may know our ways as well."
For the first time in Seyganko's memory, Emwaya obeyed one of his orders without hesitating, let alone disputing him. She ran off, for this was no message to be given to one who might take it to others than Dobanpu.
Then Seyganko stepped forward to greet the woman who rose from the pit.
She was even fairer than the man, with hair the color of fresh grain and a form that a goddess would not have disdained.
She had strange-looking footwear of leather slung about her neck, and from the way she unslung it, it was heavy. Then Seyganko and all of the fanda saw the Fire Eyes within the footwear and it made it seem like two tiny volcanoes bubbling with molten green stone.
The warriors sucked in their breath, and some gripped weapons. The woman bringing water did more; she halted in mid-stride and barely caught the water jug as it toppled from her head. The water itself made a puddle at her feet. She looked at it for a moment, then turned and ran.
The foreign woman looked ready to draw a weapon. The giant laid a hand on her bare shoulder and smiled thinly. "You kept your promise, up to the moment when the woman took flight. I'll keep mine." Then he turned to face Seyganko.
"I am Conan of Cimmeria, a free lance." He used the word for a warrior whose vows set him apart from any tribe or clan. It was an honorable status, and claiming it falsely was heavily punished.
"The woman is Valeria of the Red Brotherhood," Conan went on. "She is a free woman, oath-bound to me. She speaks not the True Tongue, save in her heart, which I know is good. We both ask for guest-friendship among the Ichiribu, and promise to aid them as far as it is in our power to do so."
Seyganko tried not to look at the Fire Eyes. If their power had been great enough to snatch those from Xuchotl…
It could be great enough to make the Ichiribu rulers of all the lands about the Lake of Death, even to the slopes of Thunder Mountain. It could also cast them down more completely than Chabano or the God-Men dreamed of.
Seyganko felt a chill, as of oncoming rain, when he next looked into Conan's blue eyes.
SEVEN
Ryku had often wished to be an insect upon the wall of a conclave of the Speakers to the Living Wind, as the God-Men called themselves. Now he had all but achieved that wish. He had at last attained the self-command that let a man's presence pass unnoticed by the Speakersor even, it was said, by the Living Wind itself.
He clung like an ape on a branch to a pinnacle of rock that forked just enough to offer a man-sized niche. One side of the fork supported his back, the other hid him from what lay below.
Eight of the Speakers were gathered in a circle around a great globe of something that could be no natural substance. The globe was as tall as a man and as clear as water, likewise seeming as hard as rock. Yet it was also light enough that two of the Speakers' servants had borne it on a litter into this cave and placed it where it now stood.
It said much about the power which the Speakers expected from the globe that the servants were mute and deaf slaves, used only for the most secret matters. Once, it was said, the Living Wind had given the Speakers spells that would silence tongues and block ears, but could also be removed when the need for them had passed. Now that knowledge was lost, and hot knives and needles served in place of magic.
That meant there were fewer of the secret servants with each passing year. The Kwanyi gave up a fair number of stout young men and women, some came from the lesser clans, others had been slaves and prisonersall of them now in the service of the God-Men on Thunder Mountain. The clans expected that at least the free tribesfolk would be returned alive and healthy, and they were not generous even with slaves to be mutilated or slain. They had become less generous in such matters since Chabano became the Paramount Chief.
A First Speaker who could wield the ancient knowledge might gain a stronger friendship from Chabano. Or if the Paramount Chief continued to insist that he himself rule in the alliance of wizards and warriors, the First Speaker might cause the Kwanyi to turn to another to lead them.
A breeze stirred the dank air of the cave. Ryku felt it blow cool on his skin, drying the sweat on his brow. He knew that the Living Wind could be called out from its cave by sufficient Speakers' magic. It was not lawful that he know this, being only a Silent Brother, but he did, and he knew much else of the Speakers' arts. Law had always lain lightly upon Ryku, called Son of Nkube.
Ryku had never
seen the calling of the Living Wind, however. He would not have known that the Wind would be called had one Speaker not been indiscreet. Even now he wondered that the Speakers had no spells by which to learn of the presence of spies and eavesdroppers.
Perhaps that, too, was magic so ancient that living men no longer commanded it. Or perhaps the Living Wind was enough alive that it could seek out enemies itself, and punish them.
That thought so disturbed Ryku that he nearly toppled from his perch, and sweat broke out all over him though the wind grew stronger with each moment. He should not be hereand when the Wind had come and gone, he would not be here.
The tunnel on the far side of the cave began to glow in the crimson and sapphire hues of the Living Wind. The light did not flicker; the swirling essence of the Living Wind was not yet in the tunnel. It could not be far, though.
Ryku licked lips suddenly as dry as month-old porridge and fought his way back to some measure of self-command.
The serving wench held out two wooden bowls to Valeria. One held salted fish, scaled, gutted, and beheaded as deftly as Valeria had ever seen in the captain's room of a waterfront tavern. The other held a pungent stew of more fish, boiled together with grain and nuts that she had never tasted. Behind the wench, a boy held a third bowl, of piping hot yams.
"No more, thank you," Valeria said. She used some of what little she knew of the Black Kingdoms' tongue. The girl seemed not to understand, only smiling and shaking her head, then holding out the bowls again.
Valeria frowned. Had the Ichiribu sent a witling to serve her and the Cimmerian? She tried patting her stomach, then holding her hands together well out in front of it. She wanted to tell the girl that she had eaten of their excellent fare nearly to the bursting point.
The girl smiled and almost pushed the bowls into Valeria's lap. Valeria raised a hand to push the girl away, then felt her wrist seized with a familiar iron grip.
"Wait, Valeria."
The Cimmerian used more Black Kingdoms' speech, as well as hand language. The girl looked at Valeria and shook her head. Conan nodded.
Then girl and Cimmerian both erupted in laughter.
Valeria flushed and covered her anger by holding out a hand for the salted fish. She probably would burst if she ate more, certainly if she drank any more of the Ichiribu beer to wash down the fish. She would still be cursed if she would seem loutish.
The girl served Valeria, kneeling gracefully. She wore a waistcloth that revealed nearly all of a long-legged, firm-breasted figure, with the supple waist and firm arms of a girl only just turned woman.
Valeria noticed that Conan's eyes roved over the girl with unmistakable admiration.
She prodded him in the ribs, nearly spraining a finger against his layered muscles. "I thought you didn't care for black wenches," she whispered.
"Remember the ones about the fort? They file their teeth to points.
These folktheir wenches look more like women and less like sharks."
"If you are so wise about woman, Conan, tell me what the wench was doing. I thought I said 'no more' plainly enough."
"Oh, you did. Then you used the gestures that said you were with child.
The wench thought you needed more, for yourself and the babe."
"With child?" Valeria's jaw dropped so that she was not sure the words came out in sensible speech. Conan's grin told her that, unfortunately, they had. "I've not had a chance in years!"
"Small wonder, then, you're out of temper with men. None have shown they can tell a fine woman when they see one, so of course"
"You clatterjawed Cimmerian oaf!" Or at least Valeria started to say that, with the intent of following it with a slap. Instead, she doubled up with laughter, upsetting her bowl. Conan patted her on the shoulder.
"Easy, woman. I was jesting."
Valeria almost wished he were not. She did wish that his hand would linger, so she reached up and held it with both of her own. She knew that Conan could break her grip as if she were a child, but she hoped he would do no such thing.
He did not. He left his hand on her bare shoulder long enough for the serving wench to raise her eyebrows, then wink at the boy. A moment later, Valeria and Conan were alone.
"They'll be listening," he whispered. "If you come closer, they'll hear nothing of what we say."
Valeria was ready to come as close as the Cimmerian could wish, but she sensed that this was not the time. She also heard a warning in his voice, and wanted to curse aloud in frustration. Had they, after all, not found safety among the Ichiribu?
Now the air in the cave whirled and moaned, as if it sought to flee the Living Wind and cried out in fear of its pursuer. Ryku clung to his perch with arms and legs alike, and could have wished for a tail like a monkey. All thought of concealment had long since left him.
It did not matter, for the Speakers had no care or thought to give to anything save the globe in the center of their circle. The globe… and the Living Wind they were bringing into it.
The light of the Living Wind now seemed an eye-searing flood, pouring from the tunnel like a stream in the rainy season. But no stream ever leaped like a fountain to pour downward and vanish into a globe that somehow remained as clear as a mountain pool for all the light that it swallowed.
Then Ryku saw the globe quiver, once, twice, three times. He looked at the eight-footed bronze bowl that held it, each foot of the bowl wrought in the form of a gilded fish, and saw that the bowl was also quivering. Then he blinked and spared a hand to rub his eyes, for he thought he saw pale green smoke rising from the vessel.
A moment later, the wind seemed to redouble, something that Ryku would not have believed possible. He came within a hair of losing his perch.
He resumed a two-handed grip, closed his eyes… and opened them again when he smelled smoke.
Shadowy shapes now danced furiously within the clear globe, which was turning an angry crimson, with hardly a tint of sapphire. Some of the shapes might have been called human, others were serpents, still others things for which there was no name outside of nightmares… where Ryku most earnestly hoped they would remain.
But even if they came forth from the globe as living flesh, he must face them open-eyed and unflinching. How otherwise could he hope for the power of a Speaker, that would gain him what he most craved?
The smoke was rising from the bowl, and from the eight legs. The legs seemed to glow as if they had been heated over a forge, and Ryku thought he saw one of them bending. Had the weight of the globe suddenly increased out of all measure, because of the Living Wind entering it?
The eight Speakers certainly saw the smoke, and from their looks, it was obvious they knew that it meant something fearful. Or perhaps it was only the smell; when a whiff blew past Ryku, he nearly spewed.
He had barely commanded his stomach when all eight legs of the bowl seemed to melt at once. Smoke disgorged from the dissolving supports, from the bowl, and, as it seemed, from the globe itself.
Courage worthy of front-rank warriors and a lifetime of dedication held the Speakers to their task about the globe. Neither availed them against the Living Wind run wild.
The smoke vanished as if a giant mouth had sucked it all in at one gulp. The bowl and the eight legs became a bubbling pool of molten bronze, searing the eyes as would the mouth of a volcano. The globe wavered, impossibly enough held in midair by powers Ryku dared not imagine.
Then the Speakers or their powers, or both, failed, and the globe fell.
It splashed into the molten metal, and gobs of liquid bronze flew about. The Speakers' discipline could not hold against such pain. They screamed and leaped like monkeys beset by bees, or like warthogs attacked by driver ants.
The globe wavered again. The shadow shapes within took a more solid formtwo humans, a man and a womanand then vanished. By this time, the substance of the globe was melting down into the searing metal and feeding a great tongue of liquid fire that reached out toward the circle of Speakers.
>
The Speakers' silence had broken; now their courage faltered. Yet still they did not run. They opened their circle wider and held their staves with both hands at waist level. Their chanting grew louder, for all that it came from throats raw with pain and fear.
The tongue of fire gathered itself and leaped. Crimson flames as thin as the air wrapped themselves about one of the Speakers' staves. The Speaker dropped it with a cry, but it did not fall.
Instead, the flames whirled the stave up to the ceiling of the cave and held it there while they consumed it. Not even an ash drifted to the floorbut when the flames fell back, they seemed sated, like a well-fed animal.
Far worse was the feeding of the liquid metal. It, too, leaped, to land in a spreading pool about the feet of another Speaker. In a moment, the man had no feet; in another moment, no legs.
In the moment after that, knowledge of what was happening reached the Speaker's brain, as did the agony of being burned alive. Burned? Ryku wished that so innocent a word could describe what was happening to the Speaker.
The Living Wind had this much mercy: the Speaker did not take long to die. Before he began to scream, the fire had already eaten him almost to the waist. Then it swept up past his belly and to his chest, and when it ate his lungs, he fell silent.
His head bobbed briefly on the surface of the liquid fire, now shot with streaks of black as well as crimson. Then it vanished, too, and smoke in a dozen colors swirled over the metal, hiding any bubbles.
Like the flames, the liquid fire made Ryku think of a sated animal as it withdrew toward the tunnel. The crimson flames followed, and as both elements vanished from the cave, the wind died.
The seven living Speakers stumbled out the way they had come. Some seemed blinded; they gripped the shoulders of those ahead to guide their stumbling feet. Others coughed as if mortally sick in the lungs.
Half-blinded, stifled, his own eyes and lungs assaulted by inconceivable stenches and smoke, Ryku clung to his perch until the last Speaker was gone. It would have been much simpler to let go, fall to the floor of the cave, and die a clean and natural death by breaking his head.
The Conan Compendium Page 609