Although the sea was turbulent and foamy as far as vision could reach, the ship floated placidly in an unnatural patch of calm water. Gradually, the green glow of the water was transformed to a lurid blood red. The lesser beings of the deep ceased to appear and the waves became quiet.
A shadow darkened the glowing water, shapeless and vast. Slowly, it grew larger, as if some unthinkably huge creature were arising from the farthest depths of the sea. The shadow widened until it seemed impossible that it could be made by any living thing.
Then it broke surface. A titanic, humped shape arose from the water, and the sea cascaded from its sides in foaming torrents. Big as an island, it continued to rise until its crest was far higher than the tip of the mast.
The rounded bulk was corrugated like an eroded hill, and it was splotched and rough, with dense growths of barnacle and coral. Smaller creatures crawled or scuttled amid its growths and protuberances.
A cluster of insanely glaring eyes appeared, and below them a wide, toothless mouth mat slobbered a foaming green scum. Last of all appeared a cluster of hundreds of tentacles that seemed to completely encircle the thing's horrid bulk. Coming from it was a stench so awful that all that had gone before was trivial by comparison. The prisoners who had not yet passed out from fear retched helplessly upon the deck.
Jaganath's chanting continued, and after a few minutes the thing from the bottom of the sea began to respond, its flabby lips working in an obscene parody of human speech, its voice a rumble so deep that it did not register upon the human ear as sound but rather was felt in the flesh and bones. In its horrible fashion it was speaking the same words as Jaganath.
This unnatural communication continued until the moon was high, then it stopped abruptly.
In silence the thing came closer to the ship until its cluster of eyes stared down into the knot of insanely gibbering men who writhed helplessly against their bonds in a futile effort to get away from this horror.
"You now have the privilege," Jaganath said, "of entertaining my guest at dinner."
A tentacle slipped over the rail and wrapped itself about the waist of a shrieking man. It raised him high, holding him close to the eyes, like a man examining some exotic delicacy before tasting it. Other tentacles took him by the limbs and, one at a time, tore them off, thrusting them into its gaping mouth. Last of all it twisted his head off, ending his sufferings, and held up the limbless carcass like an obscene wineskin, squeezing it dry of blood and then popping it, too, into its mouth.
One by one it consumed the rest of the crew in the same fashion, last of all taking the unfortunate Kasavo. Gopal had given the man a drug to ensure that he would not pass out from the horror of the proceedings, but his face was perfectly mad even before the creature began to dismember him.
When all was done, the thing from the deep spoke a single word to Jaganath, then slowly sank beneath the surface. A broad, churning whirlpool marked its passing, then the red glow faded as the shadow shrank in its descent. Soon all was calm again, and the moon shone down placidly upon the ship that sailed the calm waters. Mindlessly, the spared ones continued to work the vessel, having taken no notice of the past hours.
"I had never thought to see the great god of the deep," said Gopal when he felt he could trust his voice to be steady. Never before had his uncle allowed him to witness such a thing.
"That was not the great one," Jaganath corrected. "This was one of his minions. The great god sleeps in his city beneath the sea. Even I, as I am now, could not bear the sight of him! Soon, though, I may be able to speak to him as an equal. Surely, the events which lie before us shall rouse him from his age-long slumber."
"If this was, as you say, a trivial matter for such as you," Gopal said in wonderment, "then my mind reels at the thought of the power you
command already."
"Yes," Jaganath said complacently, "I am already one of the greatest of mages. Soon I shall be greatest of all, and infinitely more powerful than I am now. 1 am somewhat fatigued, nephew. Let us sleep now. These slaves will sail the ship safely. Tomorrow we shall be near Kordava."
The next morning, within sight of the city, the mage and his nephew lowered a ship's boat into the water and deposited their belongings into it.
As they rowed away from the ship, the automatons hauled the yard around and set sail to the west.
"What will they do now?" Gopal asked.
"They will sail until they are far from sight of land. Then, in obedience to my instructions, they will fire the ship and burn or drown with her.''
Gopal set himself to the oars and began pulling strongly for shore.
"What shall be our story when we reach the port?"
"We need none. I shall simply render us invisible as we enter. Kordava is a large port, and there will be much shipping there. All will assume that we have come in on one of the vessels. That way we do not need to make up a story of a disaster at sea to explain our arriving in a small boat. After all, we wish to take passage on another ship, and we do not want to arrive with a reputation for bad luck at sea, do we?" At this both men laughed loud and long.
In the great hall of Starkad, the Vanir chieftain was holding revel for his fighting men. Along the benches the Vanir warriors sang and drank ale or mead from silver-mounted oxhorns and ripped great dripping hunks of half-raw meat from the bones of boar and stag with their strong teeth.
They were big men, and their hair and beards ranged in color from bright orange to reddish-brown, but always the red tint proclaimed their Vanir ancestry, just as gold hair identified their kinsmen and deadly foes, the Aesir. Behind each man's place on the bench hung his round shield, his horned helm and shirt of scales or mail, and his sword, spear, and bow.
At the head of the long trestle table, elevated on a dais, sat Starkad and his guests. The Van was studying the two arrivals who had come off the ship that had put into the fiord of Starkadsgarth this very morning. They were as odd a pair as he had laid eyes on in many a year. Dark they were,
and beardless. One was large and fat, the other small and delicate. They were from some far eastern land he had never heard of, and there was something strange about the fat one that proclaimed him a wizard. More to the point, the man was rich and seemed to desire some service of the Van.
"That is a most interesting cup you drink from, King Starkad," said Jaganath.
"I'm not a king," Starkad grumbled. "I'm a chief. If my men hear you name me a king, they will wax angry and kill you." He raised his cup and looked at it. It was a human skull, the top of which had been removed and the braincase lined with gold. The eye sockets had likewise been filled with gleaming gold, and it had a stem and base of the same precious metal.
"Yes, it is fine, is it not? This was Hagmund of the Aesir, and he slew my father, wherefore I was obliged to put him to death in a leisurely fashion.
Whenever I drink from it, my father's spirit is comforted. Somehow, wine is always sweeter when drunk from the skull of an enemy."
"So I presume," Jaganath said.
Starkad was a little disappointed that the Vendhyan was not more impressed or intimidated. The reason, though, was simple: Jaganath's sorcerous studies had led him into practices compared to which the simple brutalities of the Vanir were the merest child's play. Although Starkad knew naught of this, the easterners made the chieftain uncomfortable in some obscure fashion. He thought of simply killing them and taking their gold, but he wanted no curse laid on him and his house.
The Vendhyans sat picking daintily at their food, now and then tugging loose a small morsel of bread or piece of fruit while ignoring the steaming slabs of meat laid before them on trenchers of flat, twice-baked bread.
Their eyes were reddened from the abundant smoke of the fire that burned in a long trench down the center of the hall. Chimneys were unknown in Nordheim, and the smoke was left to find its own way out through the holes left in the gables at either end of the longhouse. Despite the presence of the fire, both men were bundled i
n heavy woolens and furs, being unaccustomed to the biting weather of the northern autumn.
At the far end of the hall two Vanir were having some sport, tugging at a wet sheepskin stretched over the fire pit at a spot where the flames had burned down to glowing coals. With a shout of dismay the slightly drunker
loser was tugged into the pit. The victor, in traditional fashion, then threw the sheepskin over the loser and jumped up and down on the unfortunate man before allowing him to scramble out, scorched and singed. All around the board the men roared with laughter at this sport.
"I'll wager you have no such amusements down in the soft lands of the South," Starkad said when his laughter had subsided.
"I fear not," said Jaganath. The stench of singed hair and burning fleece was overpowering. "But then, you have probably never seen a losing army of some ten thousand staked out and stamped to death by elephants."
"Hmm," Starkad said, "I've never even seen an elephant, for that matter." He thought of sending south for an elephant so he could have his enemy prisoners trampled.
"You have spoken of your Aesir enemies," Jaganath said, "but do you not also raid among the Cimmerians?"
"Yes, by Ymir, we do! It's a trading of hard swordstrokes with them too."
"Do you raid them to take wealth?" Jaganath queried further.
"Wealth, no. The Cimmerians are a poor folk, with little silver or gold.
The poorest As or Van is a chieftain compared to the richest Cimmerian."
"Then what is the advantage of warring with such redoubtable foes when they have nothing worth taking?"
"Did I say they had nothing? We raid their villages to take their children! A grown Cimmerian is useless as a slave. Men and women, they fight to the death or kill themselves rather than be enslaved. But Cimmerian children bring a high price in the South. Properly brought up, they make the best of slaves. Work them as hard as you like, on short rations, and beat them to your heart's content. Nothing seems to kill them. Why, I've seen a Cimmerian householder, with his hut surrounded, slay his wife and children before running out to meet us with his bloody sword. Yes, they're a hard people." He sat back in his great chair and took a long drink from his skull goblet. "But we Vanir are harder."
"Then," Jaganath said, "you will not fear to make a little expedition into Cimmeria?"
"Fear?" roared Starkad, outraged. "We Vanir fear nothing!" Then, more quietly: "However, we venture nowhere if there's no profit to be had, especially this late in the year. This is the feasting time, when we hold revel in our halls. Soon, I will take the hospitality of my fellow chieftains, and they mine, until the great feast of midwinter. We shall need strong persuasion to leave the warmth and the hall joys and go death harvesting among the Cimmerians."
At this unsubtle cajolery Jaganath opened the bag at his side and let Starkad see the massive golden coins therein. Idly, Jaganath's fingers wandered among the shining, clinking pieces. "Is this not a splendid bag?"
he said.
Starkad's mouth went dry, and his palms began to itch. He was already rich in gold, but greed was as much a part of him as blood lust, and as the glittering metal he could never have enough of. "What is the nature of this journey which you wish to undertake?"
"A mere trek to a certain mountain. It need not involve the shedding of Vanir blood. We must have an escort, and we must be upon this mountain by the coming equinox."
Starkad chuckled mirthlessly. "We'll not walk on Cimmerian soil without a fight. What mountain is it you wish to find?"
"In the Cimmerian tongue, it is called Ben Morgh."
Starkad went pale beneath his windburn. "Ben Morgh," he half-whispered. "Why in the name of Ymir do you want to go there?"
"My business there is my own concern. Is it so fearsome a place?"
"It is the Cimmerian's sacred mount, where dwells Crom, their god. I care nothing for Crom; Ymir is my god. But to get to the foot of Ben Morgh we must go up Conall's Valley and cross the Field of the Dead. All the great war-chiefs of Cimmeria are buried in the Field of the Dead. If they know that we are coming, there could be a gathering of the clans. To protect the bones of their ancestors they will put aside the feuds of generations, as they did when they put Venarium to the sack."
"But," Jaganath protested, "we will do their graves no injury. We will just pass between them."
"The ground itself is sacred to them," Starkad told him. "Besides, once we were there I could never prevent my men from toppling the cairns of the Cimmerians any more than the Cimmerians will spare our sacred groves when they invade our land. The hatred is bred too deep."
"Well," Jaganath said, closing his bag, "if you cannot do this thing, I will not impose further on your generous hospitality. I have heard of a chieftain, farther up the coast, named Wulfstan. Perhaps he will have more stomach for a little adventuring among the mountains."
"Be not so hasty," Starkad said as he saw the bright glimmer of gold disappear. "Perhaps a few of my bolder lads would not mind a bit of brisk work among the blackhairs." He looked down at the paunch that was beginning to bulge over his broad belt. Slapping the hill of flesh, he said, "I myself could use a little exercise. I have not plied my ax this year. Let us see."
Starkad roared for silence, and gradually the noise in the hall abated.
"Our honored guests," he bawled, "have come from afar. They have heard that we Vanir are the mightiest and bravest people in all the world!" His statement was greeted with a roar of approval and agreement. "They have a journey to make, and for an escort of fearless Vanir, they are willing to pay rich golden treasure!" This time the roar was even louder. "Who is with me for a little tramp inland and perhaps a bit of ax play?" There was much cheering and many volunteers, but then a broad-bearded warrior stood and addressed the chief.
"Where do these outlanders want to go?"
"To Cimmeria," answered Starkad. The cheering abated somewhat.
"Who would go into those misty hills this time of year?" demanded the standing warrior. "The snows will be coming soon, the blackhairs will be down out of their mountain pastures and all together in their villages.
Nothing there but hard fighting and no captives." Others nodded and muttered that these were true words.
Starkad leaned forward. "Gurth," he said, his voice dangerously quiet and low-pitched, "this is an escort I propose, not a raid. Every man here is
free to have his say, but if you would rather be sitting in this chair, my ax is here." He gestured toward a magnificent silver-inlaid weapon propped against his seat. "And there is yours." He pointed to a similar weapon hanging from a peg behind Gurth. 'This chair is always open to a man bold enough to take it.''
Among the fierce Vanir, a chieftain held his position so long as he could defend it with the strength of his arm. Abashed, the man named Gurth resumed his seat on the bench. Starkad smiled with amusement but no humor.
By ones and twos and in small groups men came forward to volunteer for the undertaking. Mostly, they were younger men, eager to seek adventure and prove their courage. The chief praised them and promised them gold and gifts. When all had finished giving their oath of service, he said to Jaganath, "Tomorrow I will send to the outlying holdings, and we'll get more men. I wouldn't set foot in Cimmeria without at least a hundred."
"Very well," Jaganath said, "but we have little time if we are to be there by the equinox." Then, after a little thought: "I will pay you well, but you will pay your own men. Even this much gold will not go far when spread among a hundred men."
Starkad slapped his knee and roared with renewed mirth. "Fear not, stranger. There will not be a hundred when we return!"
Four
In the Border Kingdom
Belverus lay far behind Conan. He was fully recovered from his injury and rode effortlessly through the last hot days of early autumn. His bronzed skin shone glossily in the full sunlight, for he rode clad only in boots, loincloth, and swordbelt. A headband of scarlet leather kept his unshorn mane out of his eyes as h
e scanned the horizon restlessly. At any moment the nearby ridges could be aswarm with strangers of unclear intent.
Ten days' riding had taken him from the plain surrounding Belverus into the hilly land that would eventually rise into the great mountain
ranges of the northern lands. The grasslands of the south lay behind him, and the hills all about him were clad in a verdure of open forest, most of it hardwood, that would give way to pine as he journeyed northward.
Already, leaves were changing color and beginning to fall, presaging an early winter.
This was the Border Kingdom, an area bordered by Nemedia, Brythunia, Hyperborea and Cimmeria, with a finger of land thrust into Gunderland and the Bossonian Marches. It was a land too diffuse and primitive for the strong kingship of the south, and although it was termed a kingdom, it could seldom be determined just who was king of the place.
Frequently, there were several claimants to the title, leading to inevitable warfare. The eastern sector through which he now rode was the domain of petty chieftains and he hoped to avoid their squabbles if he could.
The sun of noon looked down upon him as he came to the ruins of a village. Its wooden stockade was little but a circle of charred stumps, and all the huts within had been burned to the ground. There was no smoke, but Conan's nose informed him that the burning had taken place no more than two days past. His mount shied at the smell of blood-soaked ground.
A litter of broken arrows and several sword-hacked shields told him that this place had put up a fight. He cursed silently. This was just the kind of thing he had hoped to avoid. His comfortable lead on the solstice was already narrowing, and he wanted no more delays.
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