Limbs as thick as a man’s body wove a canopy above their heads, and the decaying leaves of the past season rustled beneath their feet. Abruptly a clearing appeared before them, where a broad, low grassy mound lay bare to the sky. A rough slab of granite, as long and as wide as the height of a man, lay partially buried in the side of the mound before them.
“Attempt to move the stone,” Boudanecea commanded.
Eldran stared at her. He was head and shoulders taller than most men of the village, well muscled and with broad shoulders, but he knew the weight was beyond him. Then, remembering her first instructions, he obeyed. Squatting beside the great stone, he tried to dig down with his hands to find the lower edge. The first handfuls moved easily, but abruptly the dirt took on the consistency of rock. It looked no different than before, yet his nails could not scratch it. Giving up on that, he threw his weight against the side of the slab, attempting to lever it over. Every sinew of him strained, and sweat ran in rivulets down his face and body, but the granite seemed a fixed part of the mound. It did not stir.
“Enough,” Boudanecea said. “Come and kneel here.” She indicated a spot before the slab.
The acolyte had laid open the top of the chest, revealing stoppered vials and bowls of a glaze that seemed the exact green of mistletoe. Boudanecea firmly turned Eldran’s back to the plump woman and made him kneel. From the white pitcher she poured clear water over his hands, and wiped them with soft white cloths. Other cloths were dampened and used to wipe sweat from his face.
As she cleansed his face and hands the graying priestess spoke. “No man or woman can move that stone, nor enter that mound save with Wiccana’s aid. With her aid … .”
The acolyte appeared at her side, holding a small green bowl. With her golden sickle Boudacenea cut a lock of Eldran’s hair. He shivered as she dropped it into the bowl. Taking each of his hands in turn, she pricked the balls of his thumbs with the point of the sickle and squeezed a few drops of his blood on top of the hair. The acolyte and bowl hurried from his view again.
Boudanecea’s eyes held his. He could hear the plump woman clinking vials, murmuring incantations, but he could not look away from the priestess’ face. Then the acolyte was back, and Boudanecea took from her the bowl and a long sprig of mistletoe, which she dipped into the bowl.
Head back, the priestess began to chant. The words she spoke were no words Eldran had ever heard before, but the power of them chilled him to the bone. The air about him became icy and still. A thrill of terror went through him as he held out his hands, palms up, without instruction. It was as if he suddenly had known that he must do it. Mistletoe slapped his hands, and terror was replaced by a feeling of wholeness and wellbeing greater than any he had ever known before. Boudanecea chanted on, her paean rising in tone. The dampened sprig of mistletoe struck one cheek, then the other. Abruptly his body seemed to have no weight; he felt as if he might drift on the lightest breeze.
Boudanecea’s voice stilled. Eldran wavered, then staggered to his feet. The peculiar sense of lightness remained with him.
‘‘Go to the stone.” Boudanecea’s voice hung like chimes in the crystallized air.”Move the stone aside.”
Silently Eldran moved to the slab. It had not changed that he could see, and rather than feeling stronger, he seemed to have no strength at all. Still the compulsion of her words was on him. Bending beside the stone, he fitted his hands to it, heaved … and his mouth fell open as the stone rose like a feather, pivoted on its further edge, and fell soundlessly. He stared at the stone, at his hands, at the sloping passage revealed in the side of the mound, at Boudanecea.
‘‘Go down,” she told him. Tension froze her face, and insistence made her words ring more loudly. ‘‘Go down, and bring back what you find.”
Taking a deep breath, Eldran stumbled down the slanting, dirt-floored passage. No dust rose beneath his feet. Broad, long slabs of stone had been carefully laid for walls and roof to the passage, their crude work showing their age. Quickly the passage widened into a round chamber, some ten paces across, walled and roofed in the same gray stone as the way down. There were no lamps, but a soft light permeated the room. Nor were there the cobwebs and dust he had expected. A smell of freshly grown green things hung in the air, a smell of spring.
There could be no doubt as to what he was to bring up, for the chamber was bare save for a simple pedestal of pale stone, atop which rested a sword of ancient design. Its broad blade gleamed brightly, as if it had just come, newly made and freshly oiled, from the smith’s hand. The bronze hilt was wrapped with leather that could have have been tanned that season. Its quillons ended in claws that seemed designed to hold something, but they were empty now.
A sense of urgency came on him as he stared at the sword. Seizing it, he half-ran back to the sunlight above.
As he took his first step onto the ground of the clearing he heaved a sigh of relief. And suddenly he felt as he had before coming there. All the strange sensations were gone. Almost against his will he looked over his shoulder. The great stone rested where it had originally lain, with no sign that it had ever been disturbed. Even the place where he had dug beside it was no longer there.
A shudder ran down his bones. Only the weight of the sword in his hand—an ordinary seeming, if ancient, blade—remained to convince him something had actually happened. He clung hard to sanity, and did not wonder about what that something had been.
“Flame Slayer,” Boudanecea said softly. Her hand stretched toward the sword, but did not touch it. “Symbol of our people, sword of our people’s heroes. It was forged by great wizards nearly three thousand years ago, as a weapon against the beasts of fire, for the evil of Acheron had launched a plague of them, creations of their vile sorceries, upon the world. Once those claws held two great rubies, the Eyes of Fire, and the sword could control the beasts as well as slay them. For it can slay the beast.”
“Why didn’t you tell me of it?” Eldran demanded. “Why did you bring me here unknowing, like a sheep to … .” His voice trailed off, for he did not like the thoughts that image brought back.
“It is part of the geas laid on the sword,” the priestess replied, “and on we who keep it. Without the aid of a priestess, no one can reach the sword. But no priestess may speak of the sword to any who does not hold it. Great care must be taken in choosing to bring a man to the blade, for as well as its uses against the beasts of fire it can be a locus of great power to one who knows the ways of such things.”
He hefted the sword curiously. “Power? Of what kind?”
“Do you seek power, Eldran?” she asked gravely. ‘‘Or do you seek to slay the beast?”
“The beast,” he growled, and she nodded approval.
“Good. I chose you when first I knew what the beast was. You are acknowledged the finest man in Brythunia with sword or horse or bow. It is said that you move through the forest, and the trees are unaware of your passage, that you can track the wind itself. Such a man will be needed to hunt down the beast of fire. And this you must remember. Do not allow the sword to leave your possession, even while you sleep, or you will never regain its hilt. Instead the sword will, Wiccana alone knows how, return to its place beneath the stone. Many times it has been lost, but always, when it is needed and the stone is lifted aside, the sword is there. That will not help you should you lose it, though, for the sword may be given to any man but once in his life.”
“I will not lose it,” Eldran said grimly. “It will do its work, and I will return it here myself. But now I must take it from here.” He began to move toward the trees, out of the sacred grove; his first nervousness was returning, as if this was not a place for men to remain long. “There is no time to waste, so I must choose the rest of my party quickly.”
“Rest?” Boudanecea exclaimed, halting him at the edge of the trees. “I intended you to go alone, one swift hunter to slay the—”
“No. There must be blood price for Aelric and Ellandune, and for any others who fell
to the hillmen. You know it must be so.”
“I know,” she sighed. “Your mother was like my own sister. I had hoped to hold her grandson one day, hoped for it many a day before this. Now I fear I never shall.”
“I will come back,” he said, and laughed suddenly, shocking himself. “You will get to see me wed yet, Boudanecea.”
She raised the mistletoe in benediction, and he bowed his head to accept it. But even as he did he was listing in his mind the men he would take into the mountains with him.
Chapter 9
Easing himself in his high-pommeled Zamoran saddle, Conan studied the country toward which the hunting party traveled. The flat, rolling hills through which they rode had changed little in the three days since his rescue of Jondra, except that the short grass was more abundant here and a brown tangle of thornbushes occasionally covered a stony slope. Ahead, though, the hills rose quickly higher, piling up on one another till they melded into the jagged, towering peaks of the Kezankians.
These were an arm of that range that stretched south and west along the border between Zamora and Brythunia. Conan knew of no game in them that would attract a hunter like Jondra save for the great spiral-horned sheep that lived amid the sheer cliffs in the heart of the range. In the heart of the mountain tribes, as well. He could not believe she meant to venture there.
The hunting party was a vile-tempered snake twisting its way among the low hills, avoiding the crests. Spearmen muttered oaths as their sandaled feet slipped on stony slopes, exchanging insults with mounted archers. Pack animals brayed and muleteers cursed. Ox drivers shouted and cracked their long whips as the oxen strained to pull the high-wheeled supply carts. The string of spare horses, raising an even taller plume of dust than all the rest of the party, was the only part of the column not adding to the tumult. Jondra rode before it all with Arvaneus and half a score other mounted hunters, oblivious of the noise behind them. It was no way to enter the country of the hill tribes. Conan was only thankful the dogs had been left behind in Shadizar.
Tamira, perched precariously atop lashed bundles of tenting on a lurching cart, waved to him, and Conan moved his horse up beside the cart. “You surprise me,” he said. “You have avoided me these three days past.”
“The Lady Jondra finds many labors for me,” she replied. Eying the carter, walking beside his oxen, she edged more to the rear of the high-wheeled vehicle. “Why did you follow me?” she whispered fiercely.
Conan smiled lazily. “Followed you? Perhaps I seek the country air. Invigorating rides are good for the lungs, I’m told.”
“Invigorating—” She spluttered indignantly. “Tell me the truth, Cimmerian! If you think to cut me out—”
‘‘Already I have told you my plans for you,” he broke in.
‘‘You … you are serious?” she said, a rising note of incredulity in her voice. As if fearing he might seize her on the instant, she wiggled to the far side of the cart and peered at him over the top of the rolled tenting.”The Lady Jondra requires that her handmaidens be chaste, Cimmerian. You may think that saving her life will gain you license, but she is a noble, and will forget her gratitude in a moment if you transgress her rules.”
“Then I will have to be careful, won’t I?” Conan said, letting his horse fall behind. She peered after him anxiously as the cart trundled on. Conan wore a satisfied smile.
He was sure she did not believe that he had no interest in Jondra’s jewels—she was no fool, or she could not have thieved as long as she had in Shadizar—but she would at least think his mind was divided between the gems and her. Most women, he had found, would believe that a man lusted after them on the slightest provocation. And if Tamira believed that, she would be nervously looking over her shoulder when she should be getting her hands on the gems.
A blackened hillside caught the big Cimmerian’s eye, off from the line of march, and he turned his horse aside from curiosity. Nothing was left of the thornbushes that had once covered the slope save charred stumps and ashes. It did not have the look of lightning strike, he thought, for the bolt would have struck the hilltop, not its side.
Abruptly his mount stopped, nostrils flaring, and gave a low, fearful whicker. Conan tried to urge the animal closer, but it refused, even taking a step back. He frowned, unable to see anything ominous. What would frighten a horse he had been told was trained for the hunting of lions?
Dismounting, he dropped his reins, then watched to be sure the animal would stand. Its flanks shivered, but training held it. Satisfied, Conan approached the burn. And loosened his sword, just in case.
At first his booted feet stirred only ashes over blackened soil and rock. Then his toe struck something different. He picked up a broken wild ox horn with a fragment of skull attached. The horn was charred, as were the shreds of flesh adhering to the bone, but the piece of skull itself was not. Slowly he searched through the entire burn. There were no other bones to be found, not even such cracked bits as hyenas would leave after scavenging a lion’s kill. He extended his search to the area around the char.
With a clatter of hooves Arvaneus galloped up, working his reins to make his horse dance as he stared down at Conan. “If you fall behind, barbar,” the hawk-faced man said contemptuously, “you may not be so lucky as to find others to take you in.”
Conan’s hands tightened on the horn. The gems, he reminded himself firmly. “I found this in the ashes, and—”
“An old ox horn,” the huntsman snorted, ‘‘and a lightning strike. No doubt it signifies some portent to one such as you, but we have no time for wasting.”
Taking a deep breath, Conan went on. “There are tracks—”
“I have trackers, barbar. I have no need of you. Better you do fall behind. Leave us, barbar, while you can.” Wheeling his mount in a spray of rocks and dirt, Arvaneus galloped after the fast-disappearing column.
There was a sharp crack, and Conan discovered that the ox horn had broken in his grip. “Zandru’s Nine Hells!” he muttered.
Tossing the shattered remnants of horn aside, he knelt to examine the track he had found. It was only part of an animal’s print, for the stony soil did not take tracks well. At least, he thought it was an animal’s print. Two toes ending in long claws, and scuffings that might have indicated the rest of the foot. He laid a forefinger beside one of the claw marks. The claw had been easily twice as large as his finger.
He had never heard of a beast that made tracks as large as these. At least, he thought, Jondra did not hunt this. Nor did he think he would warn her of it. What he knew of her suggested she would leap at the chance to hunt an unknown creature, especially if it was dangerous. Still, he would keep his own eyes open. Swinging into the saddle, he galloped after the hunting party.
Sooner than Conan expected, he caught up with them. The column was halted. Men held the horses’ heads to keep them silent, and the carters held the oxen’s nose-rings so they would not low. Tamira paused in beating dust from her short white tunic to grimace at Conan as he walked his horse past the cart of tenting. From somewhere ahead came a faint, steady pounding of drums.
At the front of the line Jondra and a handful of her hunters lay on their bellies near the crest of a hill. Leaving his horse at the foot of the slope, Conan made his way up to them, dropping flat before his head overtopped the hill. The drumbeat was louder here.
“Go, barbar,” Arvaneus snarled. “You are not needed here.”
“Be silent, Arvaneus,” Jondra said softly, but there was iron in her tone.
Conan ignored them both. A third of a league distant another column marched, this one following a knife-edge line, caring not whether it topped hills or no. A column of the Zamoran Army. Ten score horsemen in spiked helms rode in four files behind a leopard-head standard. Behind came twenty drummers, mallets rising and falling in unison, and behind them … . The Cimmerian made a rough estimate of the numbers of sloped spears, rank on rank on rank. Five thousand Zamoran infantry made a drum of the ground with their measu
red tread.
Conan turned his head to gaze at Jondra. Color came into her cheeks beneath his eyes. “Why do you avoid the army?” he asked.
“We will camp,” Jondra said. “Find a site, Arvaneus.” She began moving backwards down the slope, and the huntsman slithered after her.
Conan watched them go with a frown, then turned back to peer after the soldiers until they had marched out of sight beyond the hills to the north.
The camp was set up when Conan finally left the hill, conical tents dotting a broad, flat space between two hills. Jondra’s large tent of bright scarlet stood in the center of the area. The oxen had been hobbled, and the horses tied along a picket line beyond the carts. No fires were lit, he noted, and the cooks were handing out dried meat and fruit.
“You, barbar,” Arvaneus said around a strip of jerky. “I see you waited until the work was done before coming in.”
“Why does Jondra avoid the army?” Conan demanded.
The hawk-faced man spit out a wad of half-chewed meat. “The Lady Jondra,” he snapped. “Show a proper respect toward her, barbar, or I’ll … .” His hand clutched the hilt of his tulwar.
A slow smile appeared on Conan’s face, a smile that did not extend to suddenly steely eyes. There were dead men who could have told Arvaneus about that smile. “What, huntsman? Try what is in your mind, if you think you are man enough.” In an instant the black-eyed man’s curved blade was bare, and, though Conan’s hand had not been near his sword hilt, his broadsword was out in the same breath.
Arvaneus blinked, taken aback at the big Cimmerian’s quickness. “Do you know who I am, barbar?” There was a shakiness to his voice, and his face tightened at it. “Huntsman, you call me, but I am the son of Lord Andanezeus, and if she who bore me had not been a concubine I would be a lord of Zamora. Noble blood flows in my veins, barbar, blood fit for the Lady Jondra herself, while yours is—”
“Arvaneus!” Jondra’s voice cracked like a whip over the camp. Pale faced, the noblewoman came to within a pace of the two men. Her close-fitting leather jerkin was laced tightly up the front, and red leather boots rose to her knees. Arvaneus watched her with a tortured expression on his face. Her troubled gray eyes touched Conan’s face, then jerked away. “You overstep yourself, Arvaneus,” she said unsteadily. “Put up your sword.” Her eyes flickered to Conan. “Both of you.”
Conan the Magnificent Page 8
