Conan and The Gods of The Mountains

by Roland Green

  "The Kwanyi are my tribe now," Wobeku said. "Does its chief doubt oaths sworn to him in the presence of Ryku the First Speaker?"

  "No."

  There was nothing else that Chabano could say. He might doubt Ryku, as Wobeku certainly did. To put these doubts into words that others might hear was not a chief's wisdom.

  "I trust the men you are sending against the herd-lands and grainlands of the Ichiribu," Wobeku said. "They will do the work of far more than their num-bers in confusing the enemy. They can neither lose those lands without starving, nor defend them without so many of them at hand that they can defend nothing else. No, what grieves me is that I cannot go with them."

  "You are needed here, Wobeku." Left unsaid was that Wobeku was not yet so trusted by the Kwanyi warriors that he would be safe out of the chief's sight.

  "I was a bidui boy for years, in the herdlands," Wobeku insisted. "Then I was of the fanda that guarded the grainlands. I know every hut, every valley, every spring in those lands. If I went, even as a simple guide, the men you have sent will do better work. More of them will also live to boast of it to their women."

  "Wobeku, when we have won, there will not be enough women to hear all the boasting we shall do. Nor will there be enough beer to keep our throats wet for it."

  Wobeku knelt, rose when dismissed, and turned away. Not until he was out of the chief's sight did he dare make even the smallest gesture of aversion.

  Chabano might tempt the gods. That was a chief's right. Wobeku was no chief, and much doubted that he ever would be, even if Chabano came to rule all the lands to the Salt Water. He had dreamed of such things when he had agreed to serve Chabano, but those were the dreams of a younger man.

  Now he had seen more years, and more truths about the world. Wobeku would be quite content to end his life with sons to sing the death-song for him, women to wash his body, and cattle and fields enough to provide a feast for his friends when the smoke of his burning had risen to the gods.

  He thought he would ask for the woman Mokossa as his first prize of the victory. She seemed not only a pleasure to the eye, but intelligent and healthy, a breeder of worthy sons.

  Conan was inspecting the warriors of the tunnel band when a bidui boy came to summon him to Seyganko. From the boy's face, it was urgent that the Cimmerian lose not a moment.

  He motioned to Valeria, and she laid her pouches on her shield and ran over. Even after a night spent with little sleep, Conan took pleasure in her lithe grace and sure movements. He took even more pleasure in the knowledge that she would be at his back when they plunged into the magic-haunted passages beneath the lake once again.

  "Valeria, can you finish my work here? Will you see that all the men have what they were ordered to bring and are sober, not astray in their wits and the like?"

  "I think that only a drunkard or a madman would have offered himself to this quest," she said with a wry smile.

  "Or men who think Dobanpu speaks the truth," Conan said.

  "I am surprised to find you among them," Valeria whispered.

  Conan shrugged. "Call me one who has not caught Dobanpu or his daughter in a lie as yet. That puts them leagues ahead of most of the sorcerers I've met." He patted her shoulder. "Just pretend to know what you are doing—"

  "The way you do on the mats?"

  "Woman, was it my pretending that made you howl like a she-wolf last night? Half the village heard you, or so I've been told."

  Valeria made a sound that was half curse, half laugh, and turned away. Conan saw her bare shoulders quivering as silent laughter took her. Then he hurried off to Seyganko.

  He found the war leader on hands and knees beside an upturned canoe, studying the bottom as though the secrets of the gods, or at least of victory over the Kwanyi might be found there.

  Seyganko seemed drawn with doubt as he led Conan aside. Part of it had to be the burden of leading so many men into a war that neither they nor their tribe might survive. Conan was not vastly older than Seyganko, but he had borne that burden more often than the other, and knew that it grew no lighter with the years.

  The other part of Seyganko's unease came out swiftly. "We have seen Kwanyi warriors in the forest on the edge of the herdlands and grainlands. Goats have been found slain, and at least one herdsman has vanished."

  Conan nodded. This was a matter of the higher art of war, of which he knew more than he cared to admit, less than he wished. What he both knew and could admit to, however—

  "Never fight a war believing that the enemy will wait for you to descend on him like a chamber pot from a high window. Chabano seeks to draw warriors away from the attack on him."

  "He will do so if we are not to leave our herds and fields defenseless."

  "Herds can walk, can they not?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "Send enough warriors to protect the herdsmen while they drive the herds and flocks south into the hills by the river. Then the Kwanyi will have to make a two-day march across open ground to come at them. You have archers, and they do not. How many of the Kwanyi do you think will reach the hills alive?"

  "Ah." Seyganko's smile was brief. "But the fields are not yet harvested. If they are burned—"

  "And are the burners to be allowed to do their work without having their throats slit by night?" Conan asked, acting more patient than he felt. He hoped that the burden of leadership had not fuddled Seyganko's wits.

  "That also can be done," Seyganko said. This time, his smile lasted. "Some of the grain, indeed, we can harvest and carry off to feed the herds and flocks. We shall eat it in one form or another, and perhaps also the herds and flocks of the Kwanyi."

  Conan clapped Seyganko on both shoulders, and the two men exchanged vows to guard each other's women if one of them did not survive the war. Then Conan returned to the shaft more swiftly than he had gone, and just in time to see Emwaya fall in line with the warriors about the hole.

  Conan rolled his eyes up to the sky, muttered something that might have been "Women!" and frowned at Valeria. She shrugged and made a gesture eloquent of the futility of arguing with either her or Emwaya.

  "Very well," Conan growled. He turned to face the troop, forty stout warriors and Emwaya.

  "I'll go down first. Anything that will support my weight or let me pass will be enough for any of you. Aondo was the only one among you bigger than I, and he's now food for the crocodiles."

  "I never thought I'd feel sorry for a crocodile," a warrior called, "but the creature's doubtless died by now."

  The men's laughter was good to hear. "No one else start down until I call and the ladders and ropes are in place," Conan added. "If I catch anyone using the bracing timbers for a ladder, I'll pluck him off them myself and throw him down. Then anyone who slips will have a soft cushion on which to land!"

  The men were still laughing as Conan knotted the rope about his waist and began his climb down into the darkness.

  It had come again, the presence that meant both flesh and life-force for the Golden Serpent. It was, as far as the serpent could judge, in the same place as before. But it seemed stronger, as if the creature were larger.

  Or could there be more of the two-legs? Were they coming down from above to offer themselves to the hunger of the Golden Serpent? Or could they perhaps be coming down to hunt the Golden Serpent itself?

  The serpent did not have a mind that could hold . thoughts shaped into such words. But it knew the difference between prey and enemies.

  It also knew that when the time came for it to strike, even those who came to hunt would find themselves the hunted. This had been so for as long as it could remember—and those memories went back to before it lived in these burrows far below the earth.

  One of the warriors, with instincts sharpened in the jungle, hunting and fighting, began gathering up the fallen clods of earth. Conan held up a hand to stop him.

  "Leave be, friend. There are no Kwanyi down here to track us by what we leave behind. If anything lives down here, it will have
other ways of finding us. Save your strength to see that we find it first."

  The magic light still illuminated the tunnels. It seemed dimmer, though. Or was that merely because the light below the stairs had died along with their guardian spells? Farther along the tunnel, the glow seemed as bright and unnatural as ever.

  Conan and Valeria were the only ones of the band who looked to be at ease. The Cimmerian saw hands clenched on spears, or fingering amulets, or even held behind backs to make gestures of aversion in the hope that the Blue-Eyed Chief; as they called him, would not see.

  Conan coughed dirt and dust from his throat and stood before the men. "I won't say there's nothing to be afraid of. That's calling you fools, which you are not. What you are is stout warriors of the Ichiribu, a folk who are among the best fighters I've ever seen."

  That would not pass any spell of truth-sensing, but nobody down here except Emwaya was fit to cast one, and she would hold her peace.

  "Watch where you put your feet. Hold your tongue and send messages with your hands. Drink lightly of your water, and eat sparingly. Do not wander off, even if you think you see a whole kingdom down that side tunnel.

  "Remember above all that surprising the enemy doubles your strength. We'll be surprising the Kwanyi by coming from a place they don't even know exists. Imagine what that will do for our strength!"

  The warriors imagined it, and the thought seemed pleasant. They were still looking above and to their rear as they formed their line of march, but they were also smiling. All except Emwaya.

  The Golden Serpent set its teeth into the first of the stones in its path and began dragging it to one side. It sought to do this quietly, knowing that most of the prey beneath the earth were keen of hearing.

  Except for the two-legs, of course. Its memories of those were not as sharp as of beasts who had shared the burrows with it more recently. It did remember that the two-legs were nearly blind without light, and almost deaf under any circumstance.

  If the flesh and life-force it sensed belonged to two-legs, it could work swiftly. The stones could be moved about until, at the right moment, the serpent could strike even more swiftly. Again, the thoughts of the Golden Serpent did not take those exact words, but one such as Emwaya would have interpreted them so.

  One such as Emwaya would also have discerned that the work of the Golden Serpent was agitating the spells in the tunnels beneath the lake. The agitation spread out like ripples around a thrown stone, to reach far along the tunnels in all directions, even to the shores of the Lake of Death.

  Chabano was entangled with one of his slave women when the messenger entered. He intended to finish with the woman; then he saw the messenger's face. The man was a proven warrior, a leopard-tooth wearer, and what could give him such a countenance could not be a light matter.

  He slapped the woman on the rump. "Go, and swiftly."

  The woman looked stricken, perhaps with disappointment, and certainly with fear. Displeasing Chabano had meant death to slave women, even in the past year.

  "Go!" he shouted and raised a hand for a less gentle slap. "It is not your fault that the gods have sent bad news!"

  The woman could not depart swiftly enough. Even her necklace of beads and her waistcloth remained behind. Chabano sat up and glowered at the warrior. As befitted one of his rank, the man did not flinch.

  "The earth has cracked in two places along the shore."

  "I felt no earth-trembling."

  "Nor did anyone else, my chief. I have sent for your principal warriors—"

  "Wobeku?"

  "No."

  "Send for him at once!" The man turned to flee, now at last frightened. "Wait!" Chabano commanded. "How wide are the cracks?"

  "One might be natural. It is no deeper than a man's height and no wider than a boy's arm. The other is wide enough to swallow an ox, and no one can see the bottom.' Yet…"

  The man licked his lips. Chabano felt the urge to strike him but knew that would only make him more fearful.

  "If they cannot see the bottom, what can they see?"

  "Worked stone, perhaps—perhaps stairs."

  "Stairs," echoed Chabano. He stood and girded on his loinguard, then pointed to his headdress. The warrior handed it to him, likewise spear and war club.

  Accoutering himself gave Chabano time to think. There were legends of cities beneath the lake, or even below the jungle… and there was Dobanpu's power, no legend. Yet if the legends held a grain of truth, the magic of those old cities had made Dobanpu's magic seem that of a child.

  This was not the Spirit-Speaker's work, likely enough. But it smelled of magic, and in matters of magic—

  "Go and summon Wobeku to the council. Then you yourself go to Thunder Mountain and bear the news to Ryku. Take warriors you trust when you go to the mountain, so that if Ryku wishes to come among us, he will have proper guarding."

  And so that any treachery he may be devising can be seen at once.

  The messenger thumped his head five times on the floor, then ran as if all his kin would be impaled if he slowed.

  Alone, Chabano took down his finest shield, the one with strips of gold and ivory woven into the ox hide. It soothed him to feel the richness under his hands, and his thoughts now came swiftly and clearly.

  Gods or men might have opened these cracks. Both fissures would bear watching, and he would set warriors to that task. Meanwhile, the greater part of his warriors, as well as Ryku, would draw back to the slopes of the mountain. Then when the enemy showed himself, it would be time to strike—with Ryku's command of the Living Wind, or with the spears of the warriors, as might seem best.

  A battle was certain, and in Kwanyi lands, which Chabano had hoped to avoid. But there was this to ease his mind: the lion bites more easily one who thrusts his head into the lion's jaws.

  FOURTEEN

  Beyond where the light began again, the tunnel broadened so much that Conan's band could trot four or five abreast. A spear held upright would hardly touch the ceiling, and the floor was of the familiar sullen, grayish rock, without beauty but as smooth as marble.

  Conan cared for none of this. Such spaciousness hinted that they were coming to the heart of whatever lay beneath the Lake of Death. That also had to be the heart of whatever magic had for centuries kept the earth from taking back this underground maze.

  The Cimmerian dropped back to speak to Emwaya, who was keeping up with the warriors, for all that she seemed to be sleepwalking for long stretches. She was so when Conan fell in beside her. He matched his stride to hers and left her in peace; no good ever came of disturbing even the most benign sorcerer at work.

  After time enough to consume a small joint of mutton, Emwaya shook herself like a wet dog and looked at Conan with waking eyes. Then she nodded her head.

  "It lives, and it is ahead of us. I think it has grown stronger than it was."

  No need to ask what "it" was, or if it was dangerous. The life-force eater was about the only living thing that Emwaya would be sensing, and likely enough the thing most to be feared. But to forty warriors, a Golden Serpent—or one of those beasts that were kin to both dragon and rhinoceros—would be only healthy exercise.

  Conan hurried back to the head of the line. Seeing him hasten thus, some of the warriors quickened their pace. He drew his sword and held it at arm's length across the front rank of Ichiribu.

  "Pass that and you may get the flat of it across your thick skull!" he said, pitching his voice to carry without being loud. Even so, it raised echoes that made a few men look uneasily about them. It also caused the eager ones to slow their pace.

  "Well and good," Conan said. "This tunnel may go straight under the lake to bring us out in the quarters of Chabano's women. It may also wind like the trail of a drunken crocodile. Reckon that we've a good way to go, and guard your wind!"

  After that, Conan had no problem with the over-eager and was able to follow his own advice, stalking along in silence. Nothing seemed to hint of danger, but his eyes were
never still and his hand never far from the hilt of his sword. From time to time, he also looked back to see if Emwaya had sensed anything else untoward.

  The band's pace was that of the Ichiribu warrior when the ground was level and endurance rather than great speed was most urgently required. Conan judged that they must have covered a good two leagues before they halted for a brief rest.

  The Cimmerian set guards and put those warriors carrying gear—ropes, hooks, torches, and heavy hunting spears—to inspecting their burdens. The others he allowed to sprawl at their ease. A black look or two discouraged broaching water gourds, and no one as yet was hungry.

  "We must be a good halfway to the Kwanyi shore," Valeria whispered. "If we are marching in the direction I think we are."

  "I think we're on that route myself," Conan said. "Of course, we could both be—"

  He broke off as a sound that was neither sob nor scream but had something of both in it reached him. He whirled to see two warriors drop weapons and shields and leap to support Emwaya. Her legs were trembling, unable to hold her upright, her eyes were closed, and as Conan watched, she clapped both hands over her ears.

  What she was hearing might have been heard with the ears of her magic. The next moment, everyone heard it with the ears of his body.

  Stones cracked and crumbled, then fell with crashes that filled the tunnel with thundering echoes. Emwaya was not the only one now with hands held over ears.

  Conan's bellow rose above the stone-noise and raised echoes of its own. "The next man who drops a weapon, I'll give it back sideways!" Warriors hastily slung shields and raised spears.

  Then, without orders, they began taking battle formation. The baggage bearers dropped their loads and formed a circle around the gear. Emwaya was half carried, half dragged into that circle and deposited with little ceremony on a rolled-up rope ladder.

  "See to Emwaya," Conan said. That was his last order for a time. None of his words could have been heard, and indeed, none were needed. Something far too close and far too large was slithering over rock, hissing as it came.