Roland Green - Conan and The Gods of The Mountains

The judges' canoes were keeping up well, but Valeria did not expect much of the judges. She was many things that were strange to the Ichiribu, and honor might not outweigh ignorance when it came to deciding her fate. She would do as she had done before—wager all on her own skill and strength and leave the rest to the gods.

Dip, thrust, lift, twist slightly to the other side, dip, thrust, lift, twist again. Her thigh and belly muscles joined her arms and shoulders in shrieking protests. Dip, thrust, lift, twist a little harder this time to shake sweat from her eyes, which had begun to burn as if they were filled with hot wax.

Aondo's canoe had been steering an uncertain course for some time now. His thrusts seemed almost frantic, but they had lost none of their power. His canoe was no longer settling. Had he somehow managed to bail it out when Valeria's eyes were elsewhere? Or had it been only her wishful fancy that it was low in the water?

It was no fancy that his steering was growing still more erratic. Valeria stared at the Ichiribu warrior. In a moment when he thought himself unobserved, she caught him staring back at her. The malice in that stare chilled her blood and seemed to turn the sweat upon her into ice. If he had any voice in her fate, she would be begging for death long before death took her.

Her sweat-dimmed eyes made out something else, too. Aondo was steering a course that was gradually taking him across her bow. Before they reached the next mark, she would have to either back water or strike him—and if she struck him, she would forfeit the race.

Rage did not blunt Valeria's wits. She had to surprise her opponent. Aondo was as strong as an ox, but not much quicker of thought. She wondered who had counseled him to this treachery, doubted she would learn, but knew one thing: the man was not in Aondo's canoe.

Valeria subtly altered the force and angle of her strokes so that her canoe began to drift quite as subtly to starboard. She felt a surge of strength as she saw Aondo actually slow his pace, and she knew that her deception was working. He thought she was exhausting her strength and would have no reply to his scheme.

As they approached the fourth mark, the canoes were barely a sword's length apart. Aondo was halfway across Valeria's bow now, paddling only hard enough to keep the distance. A few missed strokes and he would be lying across her path like a log.

But it was Valeria who missed a stroke, by intent, but making it seem the error of one at the end of her strength. She lost ground, but only by a few paces— then her paddle churned the water, and she shot under Aondo's stern.

Aondo screamed something that Valeria doubted was praise and stabbed wildly at the lake with his paddle. It struck the water on the wrong side, and he had completed his stroke before he realized this.

His canoe swerved sharply, until it had almost reversed its course.

Valeria was clear by then, past Aondo and into open water. She did not care if he spent the rest of the day spinning around in circles, or jumped overboard to be eaten by the lionfish and crocodiles. She only cared that the fourth mark was passing her to port, and now it was time to spend her strength freely. She would not allow herself even a moment's doubt that she still had that strength.

Her paddle seemed to dive now, then leap over the canoe to dive on the other side. Each thrust seemed to raise the canoe as well as thrust it forward. Water gurgled at the stern, spray made rainbows at the bow, and Valeria knew she was kneeling in a hand-breadth of water in the bottom of the craft.

She would not allow herself a moment to look back at Aondo, either. She was already giving the race everything that was in her. Aondo could no longer make any difference. The world shrank ever more swiftly to the endless rhythms of her paddle strokes, the water churning past, the fifth mark vanishing astern, the sixth and last now in sight—

Aondo was there again, to port now. He seemed to have no treachery left, but too much strength for Valeria's comfort. Comfort no longer mattered. Her world was no more than one stroke after another, and nothing else mattered as long as each stroke carried her toward the mark.

Was Aondo larger, meaning that he was closer? Valeria would not waste a single moment to even look. It would make no difference. None at all. She would dip the paddle, lift it, twist—and it had begun to seem that a white-hot band was locked about her waist and thighs—

"Hoaaaaa, Valeria!"

There was only one voice in the world like that. Valeria did not know if Conan was hailing her victory or urging her to greater efforts. She had not thought she had any more strength in her, but the Cimmerian's thunderous cry proved her wrong.

She raced along in a cloud of spray, her paddle flying from side to side and up and down, almost too fast for her eye to follow. She was only muscle and sinew, bone and breath, with no human senses left in her.

"Valeria!"

She heard Conan's voice again, but this time it was almost instantly lost in the din of other voices. They were shouting her name from the shore, from the lake, even, it seemed, from the sky.

"Valeria!" The Cimmerian cut through the din. "You won!"

Valeria wanted to join the shouting. Instead, she found that her mouth seemed packed with wool. She opened it, but only a frog's croak came out. She bent forward, cautiously because she feared that her eyes would pop from her head and roll about on the canoe's bottom.

The canoe rocked and spun about. She clawed for her dagger, in the half-mad notion that Aondo was seeking to avenge his defeat by murder in plain sight of all his tribe.

Then a large, sword-calloused hand gripped her wrist and pulled her around. Conan stood beside her canoe, up to his chest in the water. With his free hand, he plucked the paddle from her grip and tossed it into the bottom of the canoe. She saw it float.

Then she saw the cloud-flecked blue sky as the Cimmerian lifted her out of the craft and carried her in his arms toward the shore. She felt the cool water of the lake soothing her feet and arms, and found the breath for a long sigh.

They reached the shore. The servant girl Mokossa ran forward with a gourd of water. Valeria sipped, fearing that her throat and stomach would never be the same again. The water stayed down, however, and she drank thirstily.

By then, she could even stand, with Conan's help. She leaned comfortably against him as the Ichiribu began shouting her name again.

In the middle of the shouting, she heard a familiar growl in her ear. "You didn't have to go to such lengths to have me carry you ashore! Some women haven't the sense the gods gave a fly!"

It was too much effort to even think of gelding him, and as for biting or kicking him—there was a victor's dignity to think of.

Thoughts of that dignity also kept Valeria from falling senseless, as pleasant as the idea seemed. Instead, she held out her hand for another gourd, and this time emptied it over herself.

Wobeku entered Aondo's hut with care, hands in front of him and his weapons left at the door. Aondo was not easy-tempered at the best of times, and these were anything but that.

A slave girl leaped up and ran into the corner of the hut at the sight of Wobeku. She made the sign against the evil eye as she did so.

Casually, Aondo.sat up and reached for the girl. She squealed in unfeigned terror as his massive hand closed on her ankle. She did not dare fight, however, as Aondo drew her to him and across his lap.

"Wobeku does not have the evil eye. Repeat that ten times."

"Wobeku-u-u-u does n-n-not—aiyeee!"

Aondo's hand had come down hard on the girl's bottom. She squealed again and tried to wiggle free.

Wobeku cast his eyes up at the smoke-reeking shadows at the roof of the hut. It was no concern of his how Aondo treated his women. However, he did not have much time, even if the last rounds of the duel between Aondo and Conan the Tribeless had been put off until tomorrow.