Conan and The Gods of The Mountains

by Roland Green

  Valeria had the look of one who doubts she is hearing the truth, but the Cimmerian's blue eyes were steady and he smiled. After a moment, the Aquilonian woman smiled back, turned on her side, and lay down. The display of breasts now gave way to a display of well-rounded buttocks.

  Conan had no eye for them. He sat cross-legged, sword in his lap, waiting with the patience of one who has watched a Zamboulan counting house for three days to learn the comings and goings of its watchmen. He also waited with more knowledge of the jungle than he had admitted to Valeria. Nothing in nature had made that sound, and what was not in nature was, more often than not, dangerous.

  In time, Valeria's breathing steadied as she slipped deep into sleep. Conan's breathing also slowed, until he might have seemed an iron statue in the jungle night. Only the relentless flickering of his eyes about him betrayed life.

  Whatever stalked them would gain no help from him in its quest, and only sharp steel if it found them.

  TWO

  Seyganko, son of Bayu, was not the swiftest, strongest, or tallest of the warriors of the Ichiribu. He was the best swimmer, which was not a small matter in his people's wars against the Kwanyi.

  He was also a longheaded sort of man, in spite of his lack of years. He thought before he used the speed, strength, and height that he had. Thus he made shrewder use of them than his better-endowed comrades.

  This earned him some jealousy, and at least once a death-duel, from which he had emerged not merely victorious, but unhurt. It also earned him rather more respect from the day of his manhood ceremony to the day Dobanpu Spirit-Speaker read the signs and declared Seyganko worthy to be followed in battle.

  From that day forward, Seyganko led. He always led in war when the whole manhood of the Ichiribu was called forth. He also led as often as not in raids and skirmishes, when no custom or taboo required that someone else lead.

  Seyganko did not survive all this fighting as unscathed as he had the duel. No man could, against a foe such as the Kwanyi. Their Paramount Chief Cha-bano would have made his warriors formidable with his spear-and-shield art, even without the aid of the God-Men. With that aid, the chief might have swept the shores and islands of the Lake of Death clean of all tribes save his own, then marched downriver on a campaign of conquest.

  It was as well for others besides Seyganko that the God-Men and Chabano could seldom work together for long, and often barely spoke to one another. It was necessary at all times for the Ichiribu to know of Chabano's schemes and whether or not he was on a friendly footing with the God-Men.

  So that is how Seyganko came to the western shore of the Lake of Death on the night that Conan sat keeping watch beside the spicebush where Valeria slept.

  He and the four men in the canoe paddled as silently as wraiths to within a hundred paces of the shore. They drove the canoe forward with steady, practiced strokes, lifting their paddles so skillfully that no splash or drip betrayed their presence. Clouds veiled the moon, and this was not the season for the lampfish, whose glow when disturbed often betrayed canoe-borne warriors.

  A hundred paces from the shore, all five men lifted their paddles as one. The canoe glided forward on its own momentum for another fifty paces. By then, its bow was sliding in among the weeds that grew so thick in places that a child might walk upon them.

  Seyganko led his comrades over the side of the craft with as little noise as they had made in paddling. Gripping the sides, they kicked silently until they could sink their feet into the oozy bottom.

  Each man wore only his headdress and a snake-skin loinguard, besides his weapons: a club or a trident, a knife of stone chips set in wood, and a net. Each also wore a generous coating of rancid fish oil. Its reek made any except the Ichiribu gag. It also hid the odor of living flesh from the small fish known as the eunuch-maker which swarmed along the shores of the Lake of Death.

  "Remember," Seyganko whispered, "we need no women prisoners. If they flee, do not chase them."

  "And if they stay?" one warrior asked with a grin that showed even in the darkness.

  "Remember, too, that a man taking a woman turns his back on the world," Seyganko said.

  "He—" the largest of the warriors said. "You need not think where to find your next woman, Seyganko. Not when—"

  "Hold your tongue, Aondo," a third man said. "Or if Seyganko does not challenge you, I will. You are jealous as well as foolish."

  Seyganko could add nothing to those words of wisdom, although he knew that his betrothal to the shaman's daughter Emwaya had indeed aroused much jealousy. Emwaya was the finest woman of the Ichiribu and deserved nothing less than their finest warrior, but not all men saw that as clearly as she did.

  The young chief vowed to look to his back when the huge Aondo was near, then crept to the left to his chosen hiding place. The other warriors followed, with only the faintest rustling of the damp grass and the soft chrrr of insects to mark their passage.

  They had been in hiding barely long enough for the grass to rise again when they heard voices and footfalls on the trail. As was most often the case, the sounds were those of women and men together— warriors guarding a band of women, taking food and other comforts to the camp where the Gao River flowed out of the Lake of Death.

  The Kwanyi also kept warriors in the south, guarding their herdlands and grain fields on the other side of the lake. Chabano would gladly have kept much more strength there, to raid through the pass into the riverlands beyond the mountains. That the Ichiribu ruled the Lake of Death with their canoes stood in his way and made his hatred for them burn like a live coal.

  Now someone among the Kwanyi on the trail, wiser than his fellows, called for silence. But he called for it in a voice as loud as the others'. Seyganko's keen ears let him measure the distance to the speaker almost as if he had stretched a length of vine between them. If the enemy advanced another twenty paces farther, they were as doomed as a dog in the jaws of a leopard.

  The, Kwanyi advanced that distance, and Seyganko let them go another twenty paces before he put the bone whistle to his lips and blew. If the women could run in either direction up the trail, there would be fewer of them at hand to distract men like Aondo.

  The high-pitched shriek of the bone whistle silenced human foes and jungle creatures alike for a moment. In that moment, the five Ichiribu warriors leaped from their hiding places and flung themselves at their enemies.

  Seyganko had just enough time to see that none of his comrades were holding back before he faced two men. Both had the heavy hide shield and three spears Chabano had given each of the Kwanyi. On open ground, by daylight, they would have been the Ich-iribu warriors match, and even now they were no foe to despise. It was not in Seyganko to despise any foe, for which reason he still lived and his foes mostly did not.

  He feinted with his club to draw one man's shield up, then flung his net over the top of the other's shield and pulled hard. The spiked weights on the edge of the net caught in both flesh and hide. The man howled and stumbled forward, his shield dropping until it no longer protected him.

  This time, Seyganko's stroke with his club was no feint. It splintered the man's wooden headdress and the skull beneath it. Instantly Seyganko whirled to stamp on the shaft of a spear thrust at him by the second warrior, then closed until his chest was hard against the man's shield.

  The warrior was strong; he pushed hard, flinging Seyganko backward. Seyganko pretended to lose his balance and fall on his back. The warrior charged forward, his second spear poised to thrust downward.

  It thrust, but struck only grass and earth. Seyganko had rolled sideways, and as he rolled, he lashed out with both feet. The warrior stumbled, abandoning his spear in a fight for balance, and had no attention to spare for Seyganko's club. Sweeping in a vicious, low arc, the club darted under the shield and crushed a knee.

  The man reeled again, and this time there was no regaining his balance. Seyganko himself was in behind the shield, and a moment later the shield fell as the arm holding it
shattered under another blow of the club.

  With no foes ready to hand, Seyganko could spare attention for his comrades. It was hard to pick them out from among the mass of screaming, fleeing

  Kwanyi women and bearers. Most of them were, as he had hoped, running off inland. Not a few of the Kwanyi warriors were following.

  Seyganko called the spirits of his ancestors to curse those Kwanyi cowards. Or were they cowards? Might they not be obeying the commands of Chabano, who could have guessed that such Ichiribu raids had as their purpose the taking of captives ?

  Seyganko added Chabano to those he cursed. The enemy chief was shrewd enough to be dangerous even when he could hold few secrets. If he could teach his warriors to prefer flight to capture, he might keep many of them, and each one deadly to the Ichiribu.

  An outcry like that of mating leopards returned Seyganko's attention, to the trail. A spear's length away, Aondo had a woman backed against a tree. He had jerked her waistcloth from her and was now stuffing it into her mouth. And just as he had been warned not to do, he had turned his back on all else but the woman. A Kwanyi warrior lying bloody on the ground rolled over, gripped a spear, and thrust upward.

  The thrust failed to be deadly, because at the last moment, Seyganko tapped the warrior lightly with his club. The spear's point sank only a thumb's width into Aondo's buttocks. He leaped into the air with a cry more of surprise than of pain, clapping a hand to his wound.

  One hand was not enough to hold the woman. Disdaining any thought of garbing herself, she fled into the night. Aondo started in pursuit, dashed head-on into the shield of a Kwanyi warrior too surprised to raise a spear, and found himself in a bare-handed fight for his life.

  Seyganko snatched up the fallen spear, the only.

  weapon that could reach the pair in time. It was the kind of weapon ill-balanced for throwing; he could have done better with a fishing trident. But his arm was strong and his eye was true. Also, he did not need to kill.

  The spear drove through the Kwanyi's thigh with such force that the point burst out on the other side. The man howled as if stung by fire ants and flung Aondo away. Seyganko closed the distance to the man, gripped the spear-shaft with one hand, and swung his club with the other. The man toppled, Seyganko jerked the spear loose, and Aondo regained his wits enough to start bandaging his prisoner's thigh with the fallen waistcloth.

  With two captives who would live until Dobanpu could speak to them, the raid was already a victory. Seyganko blew the whistle again and promised the spirits a generous sacrifice when the other men of his band answered.

  They not only answered, they came swiftly, and with two more prisoners, one of them a woman who seemed not unwilling. She was hardly more than a girl, the tattoos of womanhood barely healed on her arms and throat. She wore nothing but those tattoos and a feather that was bound into her hair behind one ear.

  Aondo had already plunged into the water to bring the canoe in close enough to allow the lifting of the senseless captives into it. He seemed to wish to stay as far from Seyganko as possible.

  The canoe rode noticeably lower in the water when the last captive was aboard. Seyganko looked at it, seeking to keep doubt off his face. The next time he led such a raid, he vowed, there would be a second canoe lying off, to bring help if needed, and to carry captives. As it was—

  "We have no need of you," he told the girl. "Take a garment from one of the dead and rejoin your people."

  The girl's face twisted in horror and rage, and for the first time, Seyganko had a clear look at her tattoos. They were none he had seen before among Kwanyi women.

  "You are not of the Kwanyi?" he asked.

  The girl seemed to understand nothing except the last word, but at that word, she made a gesture none could mistake. If all the Kwanyi in the world had their hearts eaten by leopards and the manhood of all the warriors devoured by jackals, it would gladden her heart.

  Seyganko decided that the girl could come after all. He would not have on his spirit the memory of leaving her to the vengeance of her captors.

  Also, she was rather more comely than most, although far from equal to Emwaya. It would not please Emwaya if he kept the girl himself, but the Spirit-Speaker's daughter had spoken of needing a new maidservant. The girl would do well enough for that, and in time she could be dowered and offered in marriage to a warrior who might not otherwise be able to offer bride-price.

  He motioned toward the canoe. The girl looked at the water, no doubt fearing what it might hide. Then she looked back at the land, and her face showed far more fear of what might wait for her there. She splashed into the water, arose dripping, and leaped into the canoe so eagerly that she nearly capsized it.

  The canoe remained upright, however. It even remained above water after Seyganko climbed aboard with the care of a woman sewing bark for a headdress. With no need for silence, the paddles were swiftly at work, and the laden craft was soon well away from shore.

  By then, the warriors were beginning to babble in triumph and relief. All except Aondo. He sat amidships, wielding his paddle with the best but saying no more than did the senseless captives lying in the slimy water in the bottom of the boat.

  That sight made Seyganko uneasy, and to hide this, he gave only short answers to his comrades. They were halfway back to the island before he could bring himself to join in the banter. Even then, it was mostly out of prudence; too long a silence and his warriors would think he was displeased with their work this night. This would shame and anger them, until they might be less willing to follow him. Leave the loyal unrewarded for long enough and there would be no more loyal warriors. Then such as Aondo would have their moment—nor would they likely be honorable enough to offer an open challenge.

  "He," Seyganko said. "I have never seen the women run off like that. Do you suppose it was catching sight of Aondo that drove them away?"-

  "If so, I will go without my loinguard next time. They will run to me then, not from me," Wobeku the Swift said. He patted the girl on the shoulder, and did not appear to notice that she stiffened at his touch.

  Seyganko hoped that her time among the Kwanyi had not turned her witless. Emwaya would have enough to do, tending her father after he had worked his magic on the captives. She would not thank her betrothed for casting the girl at her hut door like an abandoned puppy—and when Emwaya was not grateful, Seyganko and half of his tribe knew it!

  Valeria awoke from a pleasant dream of being once again aboard a ship at sea. The touch of the Cimmerian's mighty hand on her shoulder was an intrusion. She wanted to shake it off, go back to sleep, and try to find the dream again.

  Instead, she put the memory of sun-dappled water and a salt-tangy breeze from her and sat up. She saw Conan's eyes roving and knew that she was still as near to unclothed as made no difference.

  A brief pass of her fingers through her hair told her that comb and brush would have been useless even had she possessed either one. A stout knife, or perhaps a small ax, would be needed to reduce her hair to order.

  "Are you well, Valeria?" '

  "Awake and ready to take my watch, Conan. Is that not well enough?"

  "If you doubt—"

  "I do not doubt my fitness to mount guard. I may doubt your reasons for wishing me asleep and helpless."

  Even in the darkness, she could see Conan's massive shoulders quiver as he tried not to laugh. She realized that in truth she had been sharp-tongued with little cause… and this in reply to an offer made out of kindness.

  Or was it kindness? Valeria had not risen as high as she had in the ranks of the Red Brotherhood with-' out knowing much of the ways of intrigue between men and women, even when the prize was no more than bedsport. When the prize could be gold enough to buy a ship, or fifty women, the intrigues soon grew bloody, and those who did not learn swiftly, died— as often as not, anything but swiftly.

  One thing she had learned: a man who offered to spare a woman her share of needful duties was apt to have a price in mind for th
is favor. It was a price she had no mind to pay to the Cimmerian.

  Unless he was unlike other men? She had truly met none like him—so far from home, yet seemingly equal to any danger, as if he were at home everywhere. Which was perhaps not far from the truth, if half the tales he told were so.

  No. In such matters, the Cimmerian would be as other men. Unless he was a eunuch, and Valeria was quite sure he was nothing of the kind. The witch Tascela had made that plain enough; she would never have pursued a eunuch as she had pursued Conan.

  Valeria stood up, which did further mischief to her trousers. She looked down at herself in disgust, then wrinkled her nose at the odor of the monkey's hide.

  "How long will it take that hide to be fit for a garment?"

  "In this damp heat, curing goes slow. We might have to take it with us, let it cure on the march. Unless we can find a salt lick—"

  Valeria spat, not quite hitting the pegged-out monkey hide. Then she peeled off her trousers and shirt and stood nude for a moment while she arranged the shirt into a loincloth.

  "There," she said. "If we'll be in the forest for the most part, the trees will guard my skin."

  She could not mistake the admiration in Conan's voice and eyes. "There are insects as well as sun, Valeria."

  "What of the spicebush? I thought you said the berries kept away both fliers and crawlers."

  "Rubbed on your skin, yes, it does. But it brings some folk out in blisters."

  "Better blisters than insect bites everywhere," she said.

  Conan shrugged. "You choice, woman. Make yourself a smelly armful, for all that I care. Best be about it quickly, though. I'd like a trifle of sleep after you're done."

  Valeria wished that Conan had not seemed quite so determined not to embrace her. She remembered the moment of their final victory in Xuchotl, when his massive arm's around her had seemed not only proper, but pleasant.

  If a time like that ever came again, it would certainly not come tonight. She began plucking berries, crushing them and rubbing the juice on her skin, not excepting those parts of her body that would be guarded, she hoped, by the shirt-turned-loincloth.