by Roland Green
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.
The girl was rubbing her bottom with one hand and her eyes with the other when Aondo was done with her. She crawled into the farthest corner of the hut and cowered there. Wobeku wasted no sympathy on her. Had she seen any of several women who had seriously displeased the huge warrior, she would have called herself fortunate.
"She must go," Wobeku said.
"Who are you—" Aondo snarled. Then he frowned. "Only outside?"
"Yes. Did you think I was fool enough to come between you and one of your women?"
"You do not know as much as you do by being that big a fool, I must say." Aondo turned to the girl. "Go! I will send Wobeku to bring you back."
The girl did not seem much pleased at this prospect, but obeyed. Wobeku himself was hardly pleased at being called on to carry messages for this overgrown boy, whom the gods had given two men's strength and half a man's wits. Like the wench, though, he would obey, but out of hope rather than from fear.
"Aondo," he said when the two warriors were alone, "you were shamed today."
"You dare—"
"I dare repeat what all will say before tomorrow's sunset."
"Who cares what they say before sunset? After the next sunrise, no one will say anything against me. They will be too busy burning the witch-man Conan."
"You are confident."
"I am Aondo."
"Being Aondo did not make you faster than the woman Valeria."
"I know ways to slow any woman."
That much was truth. Aondo knew how to slow a woman so that she never moved again, save when her kin bore her to the burning ground.
"I know how to slow any man. Above all, the man who will dance on the drum with you tomorrow night."
"I need no such help."
"Who said anything of help? You are Aondo, who can win without help. What I offer is friendship."
"You, a friend to any man? I will tell all the Ichiribu that you have promised friendship. Then they will laugh until they choke."
Wobeku grew hot, and his hands became fists. He dared show no more anger before Aondo. He was indeed a man alone more often than not, and few would even think of avenging him should Aondo slay him here.
"If friendship is a word that rings false in your ear, call it a trading of favor for favor."
"I do not give up Valeria."
"Who said anything of asking mighty Aondo to give up his chosen vengeance?" Wobeku assumed a look of vast innocence. "She will not be harmed, I swear it. But without harming her, I can make your victory even more sure than it is already."
"Suppose you did this favor?" Aondo asked. "What do I do for you?"
Wobeku wanted to dance in triumph. The trident had sunk deep. Now to heave on the line and haul in this lionfish!
"There are many among the Ichiribu who will talk to you, but not to me."
Wobeku did not add that many of those did not talk as much to Aondo as in his presence, thinking the hulking warrior too foolish to remember what they merely said. There was truth in that thought, but not so much that Aondo would be useless as a fresh pair of eyes and ears.
"This is so."
"It is also true that sometimes I need to know about matters that people will not speak of before me. I will tell you when such matters arise. You will watch and listen, and tell me what you see and hear."
"Who else learns what I tell you?"
"The gods alone."
"Not Dobanpu?"
"Never the Spirit-Speaker, nor any of his kin!"
That was another truth. Aondo looked so relieved to hear that Wobeku was not spying for Dobanpu that Wobeku knew the big man would not think any further. The moon would turn to mealie porridge before Aondo wondered if Wobeku might be spying for the Kwanyi.
"Gods! Put me on the rack rather than let me endure this!"
Emwaya made soothing noises as Mokossa rubbed oil into Valeria's aching limbs. Conan laughed. Valeria glared.
"You'll not be laughing this time tomorrow night, Cimmer
ian. Aondo will take a deal of dancing down."
"Not more than I'm fit for, I'll wager."
"How much?"
"What are you wagering, woman?"
This time Valeria's glare ended in laughter. "I know what you would have me wager, Conan."
"Has Emwaya taught you the art of hearing thoughts?"
. "Conan, some of your thoughts make such a din a babe could hear them, and I'm well past that age!"
"Indeed you are," Conan said, running his eyes approvingly over Valeria's nude form. She might say that every one of her muscles ached as if she had been racked, but nothing of this showed on the clear skin.
"Pity you can't take my place on the dance-drum," he continued. "You dance better than I, and clad as you are now, you'd fuddle the wits of a better man than Aondo."
"I already have," Valeria snapped. "Or have you honestly forgotten that the drum-dance is man's magic among these folk? They would not take my dancing as a jest, I am sure."
Conan made a rude suggestion as to where the Ichiribu could take anything they did not like. Emwaya seemed to catch his tone, if not his meaning. She raised her eyebrows but could not hold back laughter.
At last Valeria—as slippery as an eel, her body laved with scented oil—was half-asleep on her pallet. The Ichiribu women departed; Conan sat down besiae Valeria and rested a hand on her hair.
Drowsily, she rolled over, and with eyes still half-closed, nipped his hand lightly. He snatched it away and glowered at her in mock fury.
"Oh, have it your way, woman. Anyone would have thought you cared about what happened to me tomorrow night!"
Valeria bit her lip. "Would you believe me if I said that I do?"
"Any man who believes a woman deserves to be bitten harder than I was."
"That would not be difficult to contrive, Conan."
The Cimmerian sat down on his own pallet and kicked off his boots. "Tomorrow night we can drink late and laugh long over these fears. Tonight I'm for a good sleep."
Valeria was snoring even before the Cimmerian lay down. As Conan rolled over on his pallet, he heard a distant murmur that swelled to an angry drumming of rain on the hut.
The sky had vanished twice over, once behind the clouds and a second time behind the rain, when Ryku slipped through the darkness to meet Chabano.
He had no fear of being tracked on such a night, save by the magic of the Speakers. The rain would do for any natural enemies, and the First Speaker should guard against any idle curiosity by his underlings. If he did not, or if Dobanpu Spirit-Speaker had become curious, then Ryku's hopes of realizing his ambitions would end before they were well begun.
Ryku told himself that this bleak mood was due only to the rain, not to the promptings of spirits. Then lightning flashed, illuminating a solid figure standing against a tree. So solid did the Kwanyi chief appear that it was hard to tell who upheld whom, the tree or the warrior.
"Hail, Chabano. You came swiftly."
"Your message came in good time. Now I am here. Speak."
"I have news. I may promise more aid to the Kwanyi—"
"You will have no place among us for mere promises, Ryku."
"That is not my hope. You asked me to speak. Will you listen if I am brief ?"
"You sing loudly for so small a bird."
"The honey-finder also has a loud song, and the bear does well to listen."
Chabano imitated a bear's growl, but thereafter was silent as Ryku explained what the First Speaker wished and what he was promising.
"My spies among the Ichiribu did not swear to serve the God-Men," Chabano said at last.
Ryku wished the spies' oaths devoured by lionfish, but aloud said only, "Then can they not swear new oaths? If they are wise enough to be your spies, they must also be wise enough to know that the God-Men mean the Kwanyi no harm."
"I myself do not know that," Chabano said. "Or do you say I lack wisdom?"
Ryku judged that almost any words he spoke now were likely enough to be his last. He shrugged instead.
Chabano laughed. It was laughter that drowned out the rain and even warred against the thunder. "I do not know much about the God-Men," he said at last. "But you will tell me more, true?"
Ryku nodded.
"I rejoice. And my spies swore oaths to me, so they will obey even if it aids the God-Men. Did. you not know that?"
Ryku confessed ignorance.
"Then you have as much to learn about the Kwanyi as I have about the God-Men. Perhaps more.
Remember that, and guard your tongue when next we meet."
Ryku was ready to swear potent oaths to do so when he realized that he was about to swear to the darkness. Chabano had vanished, as silently as a cobra for all that he more resembled the honey-seeking bear.
TEN
The verdant hills on the western shore of the Lake of Death had long since swallowed the sun. Now moon-silvered clouds were swallowing the stars. A wind blew from the lake onto the island of the Ichiribu, gentle for now, but with a hint of strength to come.
On the summit of the highest hill on the island, Conan stood on one side of the dance-drum, contemplating Aondo standing on the other side. Both wore no more than loinguards, leather braces on their ankles and wrists, and looks of grim determination.
At least Aondo had donned such a look. Conan had merely allowed his face to assume its natural expression, which others had told him was grim enough for any occasion.
"You look ready to challenge the gods themselves if they give you half an excuse," a woman had told him some years ago in a distant land. She had intended it as praise, being one who doubted the gods' very existence.
Conan's own beliefs did not go that far. He merely doubted everything the priests said about the gods, and waited for the gods to speak for themselves. As they had so far remained silent, he felt he had good cause to rely on his own skill and strength.
He took on a more lighthearted expression and studied Aondo. The man's wits were nothing to boast of, but his look of being as slow as a mired ox was deceptive. Conan had seen too much of Aondo's swiftness in their previous contests. Also, Aondo knew the art of the drum-dance from boyhood, while Conan's life—and now Valeria's, curse the woman!— hung upon the Cimmerian's learning it within a few moments.
There was nothing more to learn about Aondo. Conan turned his attention to the drum itself.
It was a monstrous creation, a rough circle a good twenty paces across. The drum-frame was made of timber stout enough for building a war galley or the roof of a temple. In the torchlight, the drumhead had the russet hue of well-tanned oxhide, but a sheen as of tiny scales hinted of some other origin. Knowing how many strange beasts this part of the jungle seemed to harbor, the Cimmerian refused to let this unsettle him. If the drumhead would support his weight until he had won life and freedom for himself and Valeria, he did not much care if it was made of the hide of creatures from the moon!
From behind the circle of onlookers, Dobanpu and Seyganko stepped forward. Conan though he saw Emwaya and Valeria somewhere in the circle, but the crowd was too thick for him to be certain. It seemed that everyone who could walk or be carried had contrived to be here tonight, from babes in arms to venerable grandsires.
The wind gusted, and the torches flared, their smoke coiling serpentlike about Conan. He smelled exotic resins and herbs, like nothing he had encountered in the Black Kingdoms. The tribes of the Lake of Death, he would wager, were apart even from their kinsfolk nearer the coast.
Time to learn more about them when he had won. He raised his arms and clasped his hands over his head in the signal that he .was ready. Aondo did the same.
From somewhere beyond the circle of torchlight, a drumming began. It was not that of one of the great talking drums, this one—it might have been a child tapping ;away. But it was the ritual signal for the dancers to take their place.
Conan found the notched timber that served for a ladder, but disdained it. Instead, he gripped the edge of the drum, flexe
d at the knees, and soared onto the drumhead in a single leap.
The drum boomed like all the drums of all the war galleys in all the fleets of the world sounding the stroke at once. It seemed to Conan that the flames of the torches themselves froze for a moment. Certainly he could read surprise on every face… including Aondo's.
The Ichiribu champion at least had the wits not to attempt Conan's feat. He climbed by way of his notched log, and only then leaped into the center of the drum.
Once more the thunderous booming rolled out across the hilltop until it was lost in the darkness over the lake. Conan rode the drumhead by again flexing his knees, for now the art seemed no more difficult than balancing oneself on a ship's deck, easier than standing on the back of a horse. He did not expect it to remain that easy.
Wobeku watched with a sober eye as the two dancers began the serious work of the night. He doubted that Aondo's greater experience would outweigh his natural arrogance. Nothing could keep him from underestimating his opponent—and against this Conan, that would be folly.
So much the better. The more Aondo owed to Wobeku, the more pliant a tool in the hands of Chabano's spy the warrior would be. The more tales Wobeku could bear to the Kwanyi chief, the higher his place when the other tribe at last ruled the lands about the Lake of Death.
Wobeku patted the pouch at his belt. It seemed the common warrior's pouch, which might contain a spoon and eating gourd, a bone needle and sinew for mending garments, or a few strips of sun-dried meat and salted fish.
It contained all of these things, to deceive the casual searcher. Below them, it also held the two lengths of a short blowgun and a fish-skin pouch of darts for it.
The blowgun was not the man-tall weapon of the tribes of the forests to the south. Its range was less than half that of a good spear-throw. But it would not need range tonight, when its victim suspected nothing.
Nor would it need to do more than pierce her bare skin for the poison to do its work. The art of keeping cobra venom potent in the air was known only to the God-Men, and the darts were part of their gifts to Chabano. A small part, considering that Wobeku had only three darts. Was the spell for preserving the venom so difficult to bring about, or were the God-Men merely being closefisted with their magic as was their custom? Yet when one dart would do the work, three should be ample. The prey would suspect nothing, and cobras were not so rare on the island that anyone would suspect more than ill fortune, until it was too late. Too late for both Wobeku's prey and her bond-mate on the dance-drum.
