Roland Green - Conan and The Gods of The Mountains

Even those days might come again when the two-legs brought living creatures to the Golden Serpent, that it might feed on flesh. To have both the living flesh and the life-force from it— If one could use the word "ambition" of a creature without human wits, one might say that this wily scheme was the Golden Serpent's greatest ambition.

As he hauled the canoe onto the shore, Conan noticed that there were fewer people about than usual. He found nothing amiss in that, until he saw that the same was true all along the path leading up to the village.

When he saw what seemed half of the tribe around the hole where the hearthstone had been, he knew that something was wrong. Emwaya had been sweating and tight-lipped all the way up from the shore, but Conan had taken this as weariness after her strenuous swimming. Now he suspected worse.

He knew worse when he saw women and children loading stones and earth into baskets, and fanda warriors carrying the loaded baskets to the edge of the village. To ask a fanda warrior on duty to perform women's work could mean a death-duel, or at least a harsh judgment from the council of the tribe. Yet here was everyone old enough or young enough to stand on their feet unaided, digging out the shaft which led to the tunnels.

"I think Dobanpu has spoken," Valeria said, almost whispering.

"Likely enough," Conan agreed. "Are you game for another little ramble in the depths?"

"To go hunting Emwaya's life-force eater?" She looked both weary and disgusted with herself. "Ah, well. I have heard they have a proverb in Khitai: 'Be careful what you wish for. The gods may grant it.' It seems we wished a trifle too hard for the opening of the tunnels."

"It's done past undoing," Conan said. He unbuckled his belt and handed it and his weapons to Valeria. "Take these to the hut. I've some knowledge of this kind of work that the Ichiribu may find handy."

THIRTEEN

The last of the fifty warriors vanished into the jungle just as dawn touched the hills to the east. Wobeku looked after them, his face set. He doubted that he would deceive Chabano, and indeed, he did not.

"So fearful of the lives of men not of your tribe?" the chief asked. The note of mockery was plain. So was his real intent.

"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.