In that steading died Chamta, our greatest champion. His heart had been torn from his breast and devoured. On the sword of Chamta were found scales clotted thick with black blood. These were not metal scales, such as the Vanir wear for armour, but more like the scales of giant fish or serpents. As no one would touch such unclean things, they were burned where they lay.'
'Tomorrow,' Canach went on, 'we shall send out the Bloody Spears to summon the fighting men of all the clans to the Standing Stone in the Field of the Chiefs.' He pointed to the half-disk of the moon, perched on the shoulder of the mountain to the east. 'When the moon shines full once more, all the fighting men of the clans shall be assembled before the Standing Stone.'
'Not all!' said Conan as he strode forward into the full light of the fire.
'I'll not be with you. I have other matters to attend to.'
There were expressions of dismay and disgust from the assembled men.
Several of those nearest him drew back, as if avoiding defilement. Canach glared at him in mixed anger and disbelief. 'You were always a wild one, Conan, but you were never a coward ere now!'
'I am not afraid,' Conan growled, 'but I have a previous commitment.'
In as few words as possible he described the mission he had undertaken for Hathor-Ka. 'So you see,' he concluded, 'if I wait for a gathering of the clans and a march through the Field of the Dead, I will not reach the peak of Ben Morgh before the equinox. I go thither on the morrow.'
Canach spat. 'Would I had died before I saw the day when a kinsman of mine held loyalty to a foreign witch higher than the good of his clan.'
'My loyalty is to my word!' Conan bellowed. 'I swore by Crom, and if any man seeks to make me false to my oath, he'll eat steel, though he were my own brother!' Conan clapped a hand to his hilt and a hundred men drew their weapons and the rasp of a hundred swords clearing their sheaths echoed through the glen.
'Hold!' Canach shouted. The clansmen froze where they stood. The chieftain continued to glare at Conan. 'You are a mighty fool, Conan, and you always were; but a coward you are not. It takes a man of heart to challenge the whole armed strength of Clan Canach. Go on your cursed mission, which I doubt not is part and parcel of the woes that have befallen us. If you learn anything of use to us, make haste to join the clans on the march. And if you are captured '—he pointed a finger at Conan and spoke in a voice as grim as doom—'you shall die under torture without speaking of our gathering.'
'I'll not talk,' rumbled Conan. 'When did this clan ever breed weaklings? And Canach, I charge you, when you send around the Bloody Spears, to send one to Wulfhere of the Æsir, if he still lives. Tell him to fetch his band to fight beside us. Say Conan summons him. It is a debt of long standing between us.'
A warrior stood to speak. A great scar slanted from brow to chin, the knotted scar tissue almost closing one of his eyes. 'When did we ever need help from the yellowhairs?' he demanded.
'Now,' said Twyl of Tunog. 'Now we need all the aid we can get, by Crom. With what we face, I would accept aid from the Vanir!'
A tall youth strode from the shadows into the firelight. 'Conan does not go alone upon the morrow,' Chulainn said. 'I go with him.'
'You had better have a good reason,' Canach said. 'If you seek the glory of being first to strike against our foe, you disgrace your house. Your place is with your kinsmen.'
'I, too, swore an oath,' said the youth with simple dignity. 'I have waited too long to honour it. Conan's words have reminded me of my duty.''
'Ah, well,' Canach sighed, 'go if you must. I cannot fault a man for standing by his word.' His stern eyes pierced the gloom beyond the circle
of firelight. 'But these two only! All other men of fighting age shall go with me to the Standing Stone!'
Then, pointing to a young man far back from the fire, he ordered: 'My son, take your younger brothers and a few cousins and seek the three families who have not yet arrived. See if these monsters have done away with them. The rest of you'—he stared fiercely about him—'prepare for a hard march and a harder fight!'
In the darkness of midnight Conan, Chulainn, and Milach walked silently to their hut at the far edge of the encampment. At the door they turned and looked back over the village, faintly illuminated by the dying fires before many of the dwellings. To them came a sound like the steady droning of a swarm of insects. It was a scraping, singing sound, and they, knew that no insects made it. It was the grinding of whetstones upon the edges of sword and dagger, axe and spear. Fierce at their most peaceful, the Cimmerians prepared for war with a deliberation that was truly awesome.
'There will be blade-wetting in plenty for all,' Milach said. He turned to Chulainn. 'Are you sorry now that you missed Venarium, lad?'
'At least you fought a human enemy that time,' Chulainn said. 'I would sooner face ten thousand men than these nameless creatures on Ben Morgh.'
'We know from Chamta's sword that they bleed when cut with steel,'
said Conan. 'And if they cut and bleed, they'll die, by Crom! Now let's get some sleep. Before the sun is over the mountain, we'll be on our way to Ben Morgh.'
IX
In the Field of the Dead
Starkad slapped his arms for warmth, for even his great cloak of wolf and marten fur did not serve to keep out the highland chill. His breath streamed out upon the morning air as steam between the cheekplates of his polished iron helm, embossed with plates of silver. Cold it was on the mountain. When Starkad's freebooters had awakened that morning, every man's armour was grey with frost.
The chieftain stared up past his noseguard at the form seated on a bare rock high overhead. It was Jaganath, up to some devilment, Starkad did not doubt. Ordinarily, the Vendhyan was far more sensitive to the cold than any Nordheimer, but there he was, sitting cross-legged on ice in the teeth of the bitter wind, dressed only in a loincloth and turban. His obscenely fat body was exposed to weather as evil as any Starkad had ever known.
The younger Vendhyan, Gopal, wrapped in furs so thick he might have been a small bear, came sidling up to Starkad. 'My uncle works powerful magic, northman,' he said.
'He looks asleep,' Starkad replied. 'Why does he not chant and shout?
He is making no sacrifices. I see no flames or smokes.'
'Those things are for simple children,' Gopal said. 'The truly great feats of magic are performed here.' He tapped a gloved forefinger against his fur-hatted temple. 'Truly great mages, such as my uncle, can spend many months in a trance, communing with the gods and working mighty sorcery.'
Starkad looked down at the little man and snorted, sending twin streams of vapor to either side of his noseguard. 'At our great festivals we hang as many as a hundred prisoners in the sacred groves, and cut the thoats of others over the holy stones. That is what pleases Ymir, and brings us victory in war. That is the kind of magic I trust, none of this mumbling and meditating.' The younger man just kept his superior smile.
Starkad's mind was not eased by his own words. How did the man stand the cold?
'This cold is unnatural,' Starkad said, to change the subject. 'Even this high in the mountains the air should not be so cold. It is not yet midautumn, and the cold is that of the depths of winter.'
'There are great sorcerous matters afoot,' said Gopal. 'The gods are uneasy; the powers of heaven and Earth and the underworld struggle for supremacy. At such times the great wheel of eternity pauses in its turning, and accustomed things are no longer as they were.'
Gopal waved his arm skyward. 'Behold! In the heavens have appeared ten new stars this year. Comets have flared in the constellations of the
Scorpion and the Dragon, only to disappear without warning. Strange creatures are seen in the sea, and winters of exceptional severity are followed by summers of great heat and dryness. Twice this year heavy rains have flooded Stygia, something not seen in generations. The very Earth has shaken with the battles of restless dragons in its depths.'
Starkad shuddered. 'Say no more. I regret that I ever
agreed to escort you and your mad uncle on this fool's mission.'
'Can it be,' Gopal taunted, 'that the mighty warriors of Vanaheim know fear after all?'
Starkad reached out to seize the little man, then thought better of it and let his heavy arms drop. 'Every warrior fears black sorcery, you fool.
There is no dishonour in that. To buy the favour of a god with sacrifice is one thing. This playing with powers beyond human ken is another. I like it not.'
'But you do like gold.' Gopal smiled.
'Aye, I like gold very much. If you had not so much of it, I would not be here, but back in my hall like any sensible chief. It is a good thing for you that I fear your uncle's sorcery, else I should have long since slain the two of you and gained your treasure.'
Gopal laughed. 'And well for you that you fear him so. Think you that such a mage has aught to fear from a petty pirate chieftain? The great Jaganath has sent great armies down to bloody ruin.'
'Then why does he need an escort?' asked Starkad triumphantly.
'Not because he has aught to fear from your savage Cimmerians,' said Gopal haughtily. 'But because he has great magic to perform when we reach our destination, and he does not wish to be distracted in the midst of his rites.'
Their discussion was interrupted by the arrival of a glowering group of Vanir, led by the huge warrior who had questioned this expedition in Starkad's hall. 'Starkad, we must speak,' he said.
Starkad turned his back on the apprentice sorcerer and leaned casually on his axe. 'What must we speak of, Gurth?'
'The men and I have been talking together,' Gurth rumbled. 'This is no natural weather we have come upon. This is a false winter caused by demons. And it is bad luck to travel with sorcerers. So we have decided to kill these outlanders, take their gold, and go back to our hall.'
'So, we have decided, have we?' Starkad said with a murderous gleam in his eye. 'And were these discussions so important that your chieftain could not be allowed to take part in them?' He glared at his men, but none save Gurth would meet his eye.
Without warning Gurth raised his axe, aimed to split Gopal's skull. As the Vendhyan stood in shock, mouth open and eyes wide, Starkad swung his own axe across and caught Gurth's descending weapon in the angle between the head and the haft of the chieftain's axe. In almost the same move the chieftain swung the butt of his weapon into the side of Gurth's helmet. Gurth sprawled on the ground in a rattle of scales, and Starkad raised his axe to split him on the ground, but the downed man rolled swiftly aside and the blade rang against the frozen earth.
Then Gurth was on his feet again and the two men circled, each with one hand near the butt of his weapon, the other near its head. The rest of the hirelings maintained a diplomatic silence, knowing that a cheer for the loser would be long remembered by the winner. They formed a wide circle around the struggling warriors, for axe fighters required much room; With a howl of demented rage Gurth swung at Starkad as the chieftain was backed against a crag of rock; but Starkad leaped nimbly aside, and the axe head struck sparks from the stone. In that instant, while Gurth was off balance, Starkad's axe came around in a hard, vicious arc and bit into the scales that protected Gurth's spine. Gurth cast up his hands, his axe flying away. As Starkad wrenched his weapon free, Gurth toppled stiffly to lie facedown upon the cold ground. Starkad stepped forward and swung his axe a final time. Gurth's head rolled away from his body, the red beard severed just below the chin. Tufts of red whiskers were carried away on the chill breeze.
Starkad hefted his bloody weapon and spoke with deceptive casualness to the watchers. 'If there are others who wish to dispute my leadership, I am warmed up now, and this is a good time to settle the matter.' He looked around, but none of his men seemed inclined to challenge him.
'Good. We shall resume our march into Cimmeria.'
Jaganath, now dressed in his heavy furs, stepped around the corpse, fastidiously avoiding the widening pool of blood. 'Have we been set upon by enemies while I meditated, Starkad?'
'Just a small dispute concerning our course of action,' said the Vanir chief. 'All is now settled. Are you ready to march?'
'I am,' Jaganath assured him.
'Today we will cross into Cimmerian land,' Starkad said. 'From here on, the hand of every man we see will be turned against us. With luck we'll get close to Ben Morgh without being seen, for Cimmeria is thinly settled compared to Vanaheim. We may even reach our destination without trouble. But we shall not leave without a fight.'
To his surprise, Jaganath laughed. It was a huge rumble that came from deep within his vast belly. 'Just get us there, Starkad, and have no fears about our return.' His nephew joined in his laughter, and the Vanir stood mystified, sure that both were mad.
Conan and Chulainn set out before first light. They took nothing with them save their weapons and heavy cloaks, flint and steel for making fire, and a bag of black bread, dried meat, and slabs of hard cheese. They did not bother with water bottles, since a traveler in the Cimmerian highlands was never more than a few paces from fresh water. They walked with the hillman's long stride that covered the miles more efficiently than a horse's uncertain hooves yet left them unfatigued at the end of a day's travel.
They had plotted the straightest possible line of march, and were able to use the best routes and all the daylight hours because of the truce with the other clans. Even so, it was a long and arduous journey, taking them ever higher into the fastness of the mountains.
Late in the afternoon of the fifth day they saw, silhouetted against the lowering sun along a mountain ridge, men marching in single file.
Instinctively, Chulainn started to dive for cover. Then, remembering the truce, he sheepishly rejoined Conan.
'Old habits are hard to break.' Conan grinned. 'Those must be the Galla, by the look of their topknots.'
'Perhaps we had better take cover anyway,' Chulainn said. 'They are a
distant clan, and the Bloody Spear may not have reached them yet.'
At that moment the men on the ridge caught sight of the travelers and waved their spears overhead as a sign of peaceful intentions. Had they meant harm, they would have howled a war cry and charged. 'Let's go talk to them,' Conan said. 'They may have seen or heard something of use.'
The two men trotted to the ridge.
The Galla were considered wild and primitive even among Cimmerians.
Their warriors were tattooed all over their bodies in intricate whorls and spirals, and the hair knotted high on their heads was ornamented with carved bone amulets and charms. They bore long, flat shields of wood, and, alone among the Cimmerian tribes, their favoured weapon was a knotty-headed club, made from the stone-hard wood of a stunted tree native to their clan territory. A few bore iron-headed spears. Their only garments were brief kilts of wolfskin, and their tattooed feet were bare.
Without preamble the leader of the Galla said, 'Why are you not going to the Standing Stone?'
'We have another mission,' Conan said. 'We go to Ben Morgh.'
'What business have you on the sacred mountain?'
'Business of our own,' Conan said gruffly. 'How long have you been on the march?'
'A runner came to us with the Bloody Spear two nights gone. We have been on the path since first light yesterday.'
'Most armies would take a week to cover the distance between here and Galla land,' muttered Conan.
'Have these demon-things struck in Galla land?' Chulainn asked.
'Four families wiped out,' answered the leader. 'We are eager to see if they have brains to scatter.' He shook his fearsome club, whipping the massive weapon about his head as easily as if it were a wand.
'We'll not keep you from the gathering of spears, then,' Conan said.
Without a further word the Galla set off at a steady trot, which they
could maintain all day. Late as it was, they would put many more miles behind them before darkness forced a halt.
'Those will be good men to have beside us when the battle comes,'
Conan said as he and his companion resumed their march.
'I am sorry to miss the gathering,' Chulainn said wistfully. 'Never have I seen a great army in one place. It would be something to tell my grandchildren.'
'You'll see them, if we survive our mission,' Conan assured him. 'If not, then no sense worrying about armies and grandchildren.'
That night they rested beneath a rock overhang while a light snow began to fall. Beneath the sheltering rock they found a few turves of peat left from some herdsman's store, and they quickly struck a fire with flint and steel. The cheering flames pressed against the dark. The two men stared brooding into the fire for a while, each occupied with his own dark thoughts.
'Conan,' Chulainn asked at last, 'what do you think we may be up against? What will we find on Ben Morgh?'
'How should I know? Monsters, demons, tribal spirits out of Kush, for all anybody has seen of them.'
'But why do they take prisoners?' Chulainn persisted.
'For slaves, maybe,' Conan said. 'Or for food.'
'Then why only women and children?'
'Perhaps they make better eating,' Conan hazarded. 'Grown Cimmerian men may be too tough for them.'
Chulainn stared into the fire, a picture of despondency. He did not want to picture his Bronwith as a feast for some nameless horror from a madman's nightmare.
As they approached the Field of the Dead they could see a lurid glow in the sky above the hulking form of Ben Morgh. In the dimness they could just make out the stark outlines of cairns raised to Cimmerian chieftains
and heroes in ages past. A light dusting of snow still lay on the ground, but the sides of the cairns were bare and dark.
'What is the cause of that glow?' Chulainn said. 'Can it be fire? There is neither wood nor peat on Ben Morgh.'
'You ask a great many questions,' Conan said, 'and you ask them of one with no more answers than you have yourself. Were I you, I would save my breath for more important things, such as fighting.'
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