Wobeku took two minor flesh wounds before he was able to riposte with his own spear. It gashed the Ichiribu's belly, but not mortally. The man did not flinch from the pain, either. He kept on thrusting, less skillfully with each passing moment, but with no diminished courage.
This was the kind of battle that to Wobeku showed Chabano to be a wise chief. When engaged in an each-man-for-himself fight, Wobeku had often been unable to press home for the kill. He had feared, with reason, for his flanks and rear. In the Kwanyi shield-line, his flanks were safe, even in such a small battle as this. Had there been the usual second line behind him, his back would also have been guarded.
Wobeku thrust againand nearly stumbled as his thrust encountered empty air. He stared at the space where his opponent had been, then saw other Kwanyi doing the same. As if by magic, the Ichiribu had vanished.
Before the Kwanyi sprawled only a few bodies and fallen weapons, barely half of them Ichiribu.
Chabano's warriors lived, with no one to fight. Wobeku waved his great spear, ordering a few men over to the crack in the ground to see what might lie within. They found nothing, save footprints that made it plain how the Ichiribu had come.
Come by magic? And if come by magic, had they vanished by the same way?
Wobeku knelt and began searching the ground with a hunter's skills. In the dark it was not easy, but he knew that torches would only give any lurking Ichiribu a mark.
His nightsight at last pierced the darkness, showing footprints leading off toward the shore. There were many of them, and some showed the heel scarifications of Ichiribu clans.
Wobeku called the best trackers forward, gave them fresh spears, and sent them on. Their orders: to find where the Ichiribu had gone and send word back, but to refrain from fighting them. A messenger also ran back to the drummers, and soon the drums began talking again.
Whatever the Ichiribu had done below the earth, it was done. Now they likely intended to hold the shore for their oncoming comrades. Wobeku intended to show the enemy band that it needed more than its back to the shore for safety.
A retreat at night over unknown ground was the hardest of all maneuvers in war, or so Conan had heard claimed by those who had earned the right to speak. He had also been both warrior and captain in enough such affairs to believe this the truth.
With ill-ordered men, it was said to be impossible, but the Ichiribu were not ill-ordered. Every man still on his feet when they broke off the battle reached the shore. Some were stumbling, two were carried by comrades, but all were present.
Of warriors fit to fight, however, Conan saw that he had barely twenty.
The battle with the Golden Serpent had taken its toll even before the Kwanyi had struck. Many Kwanyi had also surely died, but nevertheless, he did not doubt that his band faced heavy odds.
The plan for this battle called for the Ichiribu to command the trails to the shore so that they might ambush Chabano's warriors as they hurled themselves into battle. Coming to the shore in disarray, Chabano's men would lack time to form their potent shield-line.
Plans, Conan sometimes thought, were for gods, priests, and clerks.
Warriors had to make do with luck and a keen edge on their blades.
A glance lakeward encouraged the Cimmerian. With torches blazing, the Ichiribu canoes were racing toward the shore. They would be visible now all across the Kwanyi land, even as far as to Thunder Mountain. The Kwanyi would know what they faced, but that knowledge might drive them to haste.
Haste in war was a two-edged sword. Be there first, and victory might be yours. Be there first but disordered or weak, and your vanguard at least was men thrown away.
A scraping sound made Conan whirl, sword ready to slash at the darkness. A shape took form out of that darkness, and Conan lowered his blade.
"Seyganko. Well met."
"As are you, Cimmerian. How fares Emwaya?"
Conan smiled. The war leader of the Ichiribu would ask for his woman first. The Cimmerian wondered if he himself would have such a woman again. There had not been one such since Belitand Valeria was not the sort to fill those shoes!
"Weary, but well. Valeria guards her. How came you here without our seeing you?"
"The canoes with me doused our torches and paddled in silence, I have brought thirty warriors. Surprise is worth much."
So it was, but the hundreds of other warriors now doubtless paddling in circles while waiting for Seyganko's signal were also worth something.
Did Seyganko seek surprise or gloryglory bought with the Cimmerian's blood?
No good ever came of a quarrel between chiefs on the verge of a battle to the death. Conan held his tongue, knowing that if Seyganko had been overbold, the young chief would also not see another sunrise.
"Good. Go ask Dobanpu how far forward it is wise for them to come."
"Dobanpu?"
"Also weary, but well. He fears that the gods of Thunder Mountain may be taking a hand in matters tonight. Best not send your men beyond his protection."
Seyganko clearly wanted to know more, but Conan urged him off to the Spirit-Speaker, who could make more sense in relating the battle underground than could the Cimmerian. Conan himself found a stump not too rotten to support his weight and sat down to clean his steel.
It was not in nature for this lull to last. His band had thrown down a challenge to both men and more than men, and both sorts of foe would be coming on in strength before the night was much older. Conan knew, however, that no man was ever the worse for facing any foe with a clean sword.
SEVENTEEN
The drums, the messengers, and the sightings of his own eyes were giving Chabano uncertain tidings. He nonetheless kept his place at the head of the warriors racing downhill toward the shore.
The drums and his eyes told him that the Ichiribu were on the way across the lake. Messengers told him that by some treachery, or perhaps by some magic, an enemy war band had sprung from the earth and was holding a landing place for the main body of oncoming warriors.
Chabano hoped it was not treachery. It would make enemies for him among the kin of those warriors who had died if trusting Wobeku had shed Kwanyi blood. At least the dead could not number more than a handful, even if Wobeku had contrived their demise.
At Chabano's back there trotted more than five hundred Kwanyi warriors.
Each bore the shield and three spears he had devised and taught them to use so well. When they reached the shore, it would hardly be a battle at all.
He did wonder that he had not heard from Ryku. The First Speaker certainly had to know all that was happening, including the magic being unleashed and not all of it by that doddering Spirit-Speaker Dobanpu!
It did not matter greatly. Dobanpu might have power over Wobeku's blowgun. He would hardly have as much power against five hundred of the Kwanyi's best. There would be spears through the man's throat, heart, and belly before he could speak enough spirits to slay a goat!
Conan had led the Ichiribu ambush party up the path from the shore. Now he crouched under an arching root, trying to find the men he had led.
The fewer he found, the better they had learned the art of concealment.
He found one and whistled softly, then pointed to a bush that would hide him better. The man thumped his head three times on the ground.
Conan was ready to curse him for putting courtesy before obedience, but then the man half rolled, half slid into his new hiding place.
He had just vanished when the stamping of many fast-moving feet reached the Cimmerian's ears. Conan drew his dagger and rested his free hand on a pile of small stones he had chosen from a stream-bed.
This would be close work, too close for swords, and the more silent, the better. If a few-score Kwanyi died before they even knew they faced death, Chabano would have a busy time rallying those who survived before Seyganko had all of his men ashore.
That would strain even Chabano's discipline, although the ambush party would be all but juggling live vipers. But
then, most battles ended that way, no matter how one began them.
The sound of the Kwanyi on the march swelled, then began to fade. In moments, silence had taken its place. Few ears but Conan's could have heard the softer sound of many men breathing, and commands given in whispers instead of in shouts.
"They're still coming," he murmured to the man next to him. "Pass the word, and have every man look to his rear as well."
If Chabano had grown suspicious, he might well be halting his main column while light-footed scouts beat the bushes ahead and on either side. The Kwanyi would lose time that way, but they might save warriors. They would certainly put Conan and his men in peril.
Conan whispered another command. "When you attack, forget silence!
Shout and scream, crack your lungs, burst your throats"
"Make them think a score are a thousand?" his companion whispered back.
The Cimmerian nodded.
Now the sound of marching Kwanyi came again, this time a shuffle as the warriors advanced at a walk. Conan gripped a stone and balanced it, ready to throw.
The first Kwanyi appeared. Conan let him pass, and likewise the nine men after him. The tenth man took the flung stone in the mouth. He staggered back, spitting blood and teeth, into the reach of another Ichiribu. This one held a short spear, which he thrust into the Kwanyi's back.
"Yah-haaaaaa!" Conan roared as he leaped onto the path. He thrust over a lunging spear-point and into a man's chest before the victim could get his shield positioned. He snatched another stone and flung it far up the path, into the shadowy mass of warriors now crowding forward to the attack.
The faster the warriors crowded forward, however, the less room there was for them to move and fight. Conan had done his best to find a place where the trail was narrow and the ground to either side of it nearly impassable. Chabano was helping by letting the need for haste rule his judgment.
Conan and half a dozen companions kept the head of the column in play for a good while. A moment came when Conan threw his last stone, heard it strike a shield, and drew his sword. With sword and dagger both leaping in his hands as if they had life of their own, he carved away at the front rank of the Kwanyi.
Through the gap Conan made, his companions plunged, thrusting with spears and lashing about with war clubs. Meanwhile, stones, tridents, fallen branches, and any other weapon that came to hand also made their mark on the Kwanyi flanks.
What Conan hoped the most now was that Chabano himself would come forward. Tribal custom and the Paramount Chief's own temper would drive him into a duel with Conan. For that duel, there could be only one outcome.
The ambush could end the battle, and even the war, in an Ichiribu victory. Conan drew back a trifle, keeping his guard up, shirting about to make himself a difficult target for spears, and seeking for any sign of Chabano.
At last he caught sight of a man who undoubtedly was the chiefin the very same moment that the earth shook underfoot.
Ryku had performed all of the rituals for calling up the Living Wind as if he had sucked them in with his mother's milk. Pride and courage flowed through him. He knew he courted no danger in performing the rituals alone, such was his power at last.
Yet the colors of the Living Wind had not returned to their normal hues, save briefly. Again there was an umber tint in the crimson, a paleness in the sapphire. The strange sounds and stranger scent were gone, but the memory of them lingered in Ryku's thoughts. He had to force these thoughts back, as one forced back a boar caught on one's spear, lest they disturb his confidence.
Now came the most demanding ritual of all. Sending the power of the Living Wind entirely outside Thunder Mountain had been done. It could be done again. If it was done, the Living Wind would fall on the Ichiribu and they would be gone without the wetting of a single Kwanyi spear.
No, Ryku told himself, he would not allow the word "if" in his mind. He would call up the Living Wind and send it forth.
He sat straighter and raised his staff in one hand, a gourd of cunningly mixed herbs in the other. He hung the gourd from the end of the staff and dipped into it, catching a pinch of the herbs between thumb and forefinger.
Ritual and good sense alike told a Speaker to begin with only a small measure of the herbs. Ryku leaned forward, opened thumb and forefinger and let the herbs float out into space. They vanished almost at once, lost against the swirling colors of the Living Wind, so that he did not know when they reached it.
He did know, though, when the whole cave shook like a gourd flung against a stone wall. He clutched his staff with one hand and reached for the gourd to draw it to safety.
A whirling column of crimson and sapphire, as bright as ever, leaped upward from the Living Wind. It approached the gourd, touched it, then snatched it from the end of Ryku's staff.
Ryku cried out, rose to his feet and hastened to the ledge to see, amazement bordering on fear sweeping through him, weakening the discipline of his mind. He lunged for the gourd as the column began sinking, taking the gourd with it.
He touched it, toobut the column rose again, and now it had become crimson-and-sapphire flames that wrapped themselves around his wrist.
He cried out, an animal scream of agony, as the flames ate through his wrist.
The pain and his all-encompassing fear made him forget that he stood on the very brink of the ledge. He staggered, and one foot came down on empty air. He threw out his remaining hand toward the stone, felt fingernails scrabble and break, then plunged.
What Ryku had felt before was as nothing to what he felt when the Living Wind swallowed him. But by then, the roaring of the tumult was too loud for anyone to hear his screams.
"To me! Back down the trail! Now, you goats' bastards!"
Conan's shouts rallied the Ichiribu ambushers. Some of them plunged off into the forest, their way back to the path barred by the enemy. At least half of the survivors joined the Cimmerian.
With more speed than dignity, they sprinted down the trail, for all that it was shaking beneath them. A tree toppled across their rear, mercifully striking no one. Conan halted then, letting the others go on while he studied the Kwanyi.
He had been afraid that in a panic to leave the hillside, the enemy would rush his men, sweeping them away by sheer weight of numbers. Now that was not to be, for all that Chabano had taken the lead. They were coming on at a good pace, leaving older warriors and boys to gather up the wounded and dead, and perhaps to protect their line of retreat.
Very surely, Chabano's death would take not merely the heart, but the head from the Kwanyi… which would all be very well if Conan had the faintest notion of how to bring it about. A personal challenge would only end with the Cimmerian sprouting a score of spears before Chabano even heard him!
The Cimmerian brought up the rear of the ambush party as it ran down the trail to rejoin its comrades. He had never cared for running, but there were times when a good pair of legs was a man's best weapon.
As the Ichiribu ran, they noticed that the earthquake seemed to have passed, but a strange glow was rising into the sky from the direction of Thunder Mountain.
Chabano let a dozen or so warriors go before him, leaping over the fallen tree ahead. This was no time for him to risk a spear from some desperate Ichiribu lying behind the tree.
No spears came. Chabano leaped high, as he had done when a boy. Landing sent a sharp pain through one knee that reminded him he was not a boy, but he did not stumble. His spear was over one shoulder and his shield on the other arm, and he was well in front of his warriors when he saw the sky change color.
It turned crimson and sapphireand Chabano remembered that those were the colors of the Living Wind. It seemed that Ryku had sent his powers forth after all, and not a moment too soon! If the Kwanyi had to fight all the way down the trail and then face the full strength of unshaken foes, tonight's battle would leave neither tribe with enough men to people a village!
"Waaa-yeh!" he shouted. The Kwanyi took up the cry and obey
ed the command. Feet drummed on hard earth, men screamed in sheer animal delight, and spears clashed on shields.
Meanwhile, the glow above no longer covered half the sky. It was shrinking as the colors grew clearer and brighter. It also seemed that the colors whirled and danced, like an eddy in a stream. Then they shrank still further, into a globe almost too dazzling to look at.
Chabano raised his spear and shield so that the Living Wind might see his marks of rank and know who to obey. Ryku had done well indeed. He was giving over the power of the Living Wind to Chabano himself! The poor fool Rykuhe could not imagine how little hope there was of ever having it returned.
Chabano's joy overcame him. He flung his spear straight into the sky as the globe of whirling crimson and sapphire plunged for him. Light and spear metand where the spear had been, only charred splinters and drops of melted iron remained. They showered down about Chabano, and surprise as much as pain made him cry out when a drop of metal burned through skin into the flesh of his shoulder.
The warriors behind him cried louder, and he knew that some of them were turning to run. He whirled, unslinging his light throwing spear, vowing to put it through the first man he saw breaking from the column.
But instead of one, he saw a dozen men running, and that was the last thing he saw. Before he could throw his spear, the Living Wind was all about him.
As Ryku had done, Chabano screamed while the Living Wind devoured him, but no one heard his screams. With some, it was because they also were dying, but with most, it was because they heard only the blood thundering in their ears as they fled.
Most of Conan's men had reached the shore when they saw the fire on the hill. The Cimmerian himself was still on the trail, with one companion.
He sent the man onward and sought a good hiding place to see what might come next.
The earth shook again, more fiercely than before. Conan heard the crackle of falling trees and the screams of Kwanyi warriors caught under them. He also heard other Kwanyi crying out, and not with war cries.
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