The two Bamula chiefs each had to go apart and talk to their followers, while Conan and Scyra sat cross-legged facing one another. She assumed that posture as easily as any Pict or Khitan, and seemed as calm as if she had been waiting in a nobleman's hall for the horses to be brought up.
Out of the corner of his eye, Conan saw Vuona flatten herself against a tree, as she thought out of his sight. He wanted to go over and shake some sense into her. If she wandered about by night in this land to spy on him out of jealousy, the Picts would be making magick with her skull before three dawns, if they found anything in it.
The other chiefs returned.
"Will the wise-woman swear blood-oath to treat us with honor, even if she must go against her father?" Kubwande asked.
"That demands too much!" Govindue exclaimed. "The gods would frown on
"The gods would spit on us from a high cloud if we did not at least ask," Kubwande said. "Lad”young chief”not all fathers are as yours was.
I learned that before my manhood ordeal."
There was some dark secret about his childhood lurking in Kubwande's voice, one Conan would have given a barrel of good Nemedian wine to know. Doubtless also it was something that torture could not wring from the warrior.
Conan turned to Scyra and translated the question. He saw her flinch, and even in the darkness he could see her face lose some of its color.
"Please. If my father knew
"Does your father not know about your coming here?" Conan wanted to roar loud enough to crack branches and shake birds' nests out of the trees. He had wits enough to realize that would only frighten Scyra out of hers, besides warning Picts half a days march away.
"He doubtless knows by now that I am not in the cave," Scyra said.
Conan heard the effort it took for her to control her voice.
"Then you do not come here by his command?"
"I do not come here against it, either."
"You might have said that."
"You, my friend, might have asked." She had the impudence to grin.
Conan resisted the urge to shake her, then suddenly could not resist the urge to grin back.
"Scyra, I think you'd have the courage to go against your father if needs be. If these chiefs will take my word for it, you need swear no oath."
He translated. Govindue was almost eager to forget the oath, Kubwande reluctant. The older man at last yielded”however, muttering as he did, that he seemed to spend all his time running about on matters begun by women¦
***
About this time, Lysenius's ghost-ear came within hearing of the meeting place by the cliff. Tonight it was carried within an owl, because the Picts most likely to be about were of the Owls and the bird was taboo to their hunters. Lysenius had not forgotten the time he sent a ghost-ear hawk into the land of the Snake Clan and next saw it as feathers on a chiefs headdress.
The sorcerer had enough command of the owls keen night-sight to recognize Scyra. He also saw what proved his judgment about the men of the band with whose leaders Scyra was meeting. Their ghost-voice was that of folk of the Black Kingdoms. The world-walker had finally won him what he wished most of all: warriors with no kin in the Pictish lands or anywhere close enough for them to reach him before he had done his work.
He would brew his vengeance with their blood, and then his daughter would see him as he truly was.
Was she, in her delusions about him, warning them? And if she was, were they believing her? The ghost-ear should warn him of that much, even in the modest brain of an owl. Better by far was a man, even a Pict, but Lysenius had decided against that before he went into his ghost-ear trance. The Owl Clan would not be pleased if these black warriors slaughtered one of their men while he was too bespelled to defend himself.
The owl swooped low, as it might have swooped chasing a squirrel on a low branch. It passed within easy ghost-ear hearing of Scyra and those sitting with her.
The bird should have sent all their secrets across the nighted forest to Lysenius, waiting on his pallet of scented needles. Instead, it heard nothing closer than the warriors by the cliff.
It was as if Scyra and those sitting opposite her had no ghost-voices, which was impossible. Everyone had a ghost-voice, from the gods down to the lowest insects, even to the worms crawling beneath the earth.
Sometimes it was all but impossible for Lysenius to separate the voices of those he wished to hear from the din of all the rest.
Now, however, Scyra and three men might have been outside the common world for all that the ghost-ear could hear them. On his pallet, Lysenius twitched, writhed, bit his lip for self-command, and contrived to avoid losing his mastery of the spell.
He sent the owl past them again, and this time he watched through the bird's bodily eyes. He saw Scyra, he saw two black warriors facing her, he saw a black girl hiding behind a tree.
He also saw in the middle a man taller than all the others by at least a head, of a northern fairness, with cold blue eyes and ragged black hair. The man's muscles were in proportion to his stature, and when he moved, it was with the control and mastery of a warrior. The scars on his tanned skin would have said as much had he remained perfectly still.
Was this the man with no ghost-voice? Did he not only lack one himself, but bind those close to him into the same silence? Mystery piled upon mystery, and none of them to Lysenius's liking.
No, that was not altogether true. The man might have no ghost-voice, but everything else about him suggested a warrior's spirit. A strong warrior's spirit, able to feed the sacrifice more than any other two men put together.
The northern warrior with Scyra might remain a mystery, but he would have his place in Lysenius's plans, as little to his liking as that place might be.
***
Conan was not entirely persuaded that Scyra had merely wished to surprise her father with the gift of the service of the Bamula warriors. His two chiefs were still less so. None of them cared to call her a liar to her face. She still held out a better hope of a passage home than any they could make for themselves. The later the hour, the more the two Bamulas shivered”three, counting Vuona, who had not moved from her place by the tree.
A soft hoot and the thump of a falling body made all turn. An outsized owl lay on the ground, a spear through its breast. Its outspread wings were broader than Conan's shoulders. Its beak clicked twice, its eyes stared about with what seemed to Conan more than a bird's intelligence, then it shuddered and lay still.
"Good throw, eh?" came a cheerful voice from behind a tree. Bowenu stepped into sight, knelt, and retrieved his spear. Only then did he seem to notice that Scyra was regarding him with a face of distaste, even of fear, that needed no translation.
"Why did you kill it?" Conan asked.
"It was swooping so low I could hardly miss, and it is big enough to make a meal after a good plucking and roasting."
Scyra looked as if she wished to spew. Bowenu's gestures had also needed no translation.
"What's dead is dead, Bowenu," Conan said. "But this is a new land. We don't know what's safe to eat and what is not. This wise-woman would rather you had not killed the owl. I will trust her. And if you do not trust her, then trust me to leave bruises everywhere Govindue did not.
And hold your spear!"
Bowenu went through the most elaborate of the four Bamula rituals for craving pardon, and Conan finally granted it. He had some difficulty keeping a straight face, and Vuona behind her tree was struggling to hold in giggles. Conan vowed to spank her soundly if her laughter broke the peace with Bowenu. They needed even warriors whose arms were swifter than their wits.
"We are in the lands of the Owl Picts," Scyra said. "The only worse thing you can do in their eyes than kill an owl is to kill a warrior in hunting paint and hang his head up."
"Just as well we were too busy to take heads this afternoon," Conan said dryly. "Although I seem to remember they were in war paint, if I know anything about Picts."
"They
were, and they were of the Snakes, who have a long feud with the Owls. But I did not think they would trespass on our land."
That told Conan more than he had known before about the sorcerers'
friends and foes among the Picts, if not as much as he would have chosen to know. It seemed to him that Scyra was no great hand at hiding secrets, at least not from one who had survived the intrigues of gilded Aghrapur in Turan.
"Well, Scyra. I think we've talked as much as makes any sense when there's neither wine nor beer to wet our throats. I trust you've no plans for returning to your father tonight?"
"The Owls would not
"The Owls may not be able to see in the dark as keenly as their totem.
They might mourn after they feathered you with arrows, but you'd not get up from the bier for all that. I also much doubt that we've seen the last of the Snakes, and they'll be no friendlier to you after today than they were before."
Scyra nodded. "There is truth in that." She sounded both reluctant and gracious.
"Good. Then come share our fire, if you won't share the owl. All the warmth that's about here tonight is with us, and most of your hope of waking up with your throat unslit."
Scyra followed Conan to the camp, but she lay down well away from both the fire and the pile of sleeping Bamulas, huddled together to share the warmth of their bodies. Conan thought she was watching him as he also lay down, with Vuona curled against his chest, but sleep took him before he could be sure.
Twelve
By good fortune, the Bamulas were either dead or fit to march, even to fight. They performed as best they could the rites for their dead, gathered their weapons, and departed camp with Scyra as guide.
Conan's band came to Lysenius's caves on a fine spring evening, after two days of stiff marching for the barefooted Bamulas. The Cimmerian noted the need for footgear in this rock-strewn land; some said a host marched on its stomach, but they were bards, not captains in war.
The frowning rocks made the Bamulas look at one another, and Conan knew that some were looking within themselves to find the courage to continue. A hillman born, he had scaled such cliffs and explored such caves before he had seen his tenth summer. The Bamulas were hardy enough in their own land, but their own land was not as harsh as the north, and they were as their homeland had made them.
"Come along, brothers," he called. "Most of us have crawled into lions'
dens and come out alive, and no sorcerer is worse than a lion."
He did not entirely believe that himself, but the cheerful ring of confidence in his voice inspired the Bamulas. They began climbing the ladder to the mouth of the cave Scyra had said would be their quarters.
Conan and Scyra were the last to go up. They stood briefly side by side, gazing at the forest that lapped like an emerald sea against the foot of the sorcerers hill. Conan knew that Pictish eyes watched them”had been watching them, indeed, all during the two days of the journey.
There had to be some truth in Scyra's tale of peace with the Owl Picts.
In two days, a hostile tribe could have conjured out of the ground a hundred warriors for every Bamula and buried Conan's band alive under arrows and stones. But though black eyes had watched from behind trees and under bushes all along the trail, no arrow or spear had flown, no war cry had risen, and no drum had throbbed except far off toward the sunset, as a signal.
As if Conan's thoughts had called to them, the drums began to thud again, barely heard above the wind even by the Cimmerian's lynx-keen ears. Scyra shuddered, and without thought save to warm her, he put an arm around her. She shuddered again but did not shake off the arm, and after a moment, relaxed into his comfort.
"It is still no easy thing," she said, "to hear those drums and not be afraid. When I grew up, to hear them meant running for the horses if you had them, snatching boots and bread if you didn't. The Picts were never far, or at least not far enough."
"What did your father learn that gives him a hold over the Picts?"
Conan asked. "Or is that a secret?"
"It is. He has not shared all of it with me, and would not be happy if I shared even what I know with you without his permission."
Conan thought the happiness of a sorcerer would never be high among his cares, but then, he was not a sorcerers son, Crom be praised! Also, this sudden reticence aroused a fighting man's suspicion. Scyra had been frank enough before Conan's band had entered her father's domain.
What did she need to hide, to keep them there?
But it was as true as it had ever been that through this domain lay the best road home. A score of stout and wary Bamulas might daunt even a sorcerers urge to treachery, and if worse came to worst, they were as well off dying here as among a howling horde of Picts.
"The more I learn, the happier I will be," Conan said plainly. "And the happier I am, the happier the Bamulas. They expect to leave here bound for home, and will be angry otherwise. Your father may have arts, but are they equal to twenty angry Bamulas?"
"I pray to Mitra that none of us ever need learn that," Scyra said. She climbed onto the ladder and scurried quickly out of sight.
Conan watched her go, then watched briefly as an eagle circled against a western sky rapidly turning blood-hued as the sun sank. He did not tarry long; this land was uncanny enough by day. By night, one did not need a barbarian's fine-honed instincts to sense awful evil creeping about on unwholesome business.
Even a sorcerer's cave had something over the Pictish forests by night.
***
The western hills swallowed the sun. Only stars, and a moon too new to give much light, served the world beyond the illuminated circle around fires.
This was as well for the thing that hunted in the darkness. The chakan had been sent by the shaman of the Owls, to trail the band of demon-men going to the rock house of the white shaman. It had a man's form but an ape's hair and a great-ape's strength, enough to snap most men in two as a boy snaps a twig.
It had no command to kill, however. Or at least not tonight. It was to trail, climb, and if it found a suitable place, to hide. What it heard, saw, and above all, smelled, the shaman Itha Yarag would draw from its mind with his magick.
When he had done that, the Owls would know more of the mage who had served them so well. They might even know if he would continue to serve them as well in the future, or if the coming of the demon-men meant he had found new friends.
If so, it would be time to take all of the loot in the cave, sacrifice the white mage in the old way, and pass his daughter round among the chiefs of the Owls, and even of friendly Picts such as the Lynxes and Eagles.
***
Spring turned into summer, and summer ripened the life of the forest.
Fruits and berries began to show other hues than green. Streams lost their spring fullness, and the hunting around the remaining ponds was bountiful. The Picts gorged on the summer's plenty and lay about, sated and as at peace with the world as it was in the nature of Picts to be.
Conan and his Bamulas were quite content to let sleeping Picts lie, save for those they joined in raids toward the east and south. This they did with some effect, as they were well-furnished from the storerooms of Lysenius's caves.
They saw little enough of the sorcerer himself, which was not altogether good, to Conan's mind. The more they saw of him, the more they would learn. Lysenius had other senses than the common human ones with which to learn about the Bamulas; he could know without seeing.
When first they came to the cave, they heard that Lysenius was ill.
Scyra told Conan that someone had slain the bearer of his ghost-ear and that he had been in a healing trance since.
Conan passed that tidbit on to his band, and Bowenu began to crow about his spearwork. Govindue promptly told him that he would be wrestled into submission again if he did not keep his tongue between his teeth”
"”if he has any left when I'm done with him," the Cimmerian added. "A good warrior's tongue is bold, Bowenu. It does n
ot charge about like an elephant drunk on overripe pears!"
Bowenu held his peace for some days thereafter.
He might well have done so because, like the others, he was too busy accustoming himself to the new clothing, weapons, and food the Bamulas had received so lavishly. Clearly, Lysenius was not stinting his new allies, and had not stinted his former ones.
Just as clearly, he had been gathering more than the loot of Pictish raids in these caves. Magicks, trade, or friends beyond the border?
About the first, Conan would not even hazard a guess; he left in peace sorcerers who did him the same favor.
Trade was possible; there was one chamber so heavily sealed that it practically shouted its name as the treasure-house. With the eyes of a seasoned thief and a prudent captain alike, Conan noted at least three ways of breaking in. But he made no attempt on the chamber now. He wished peace with Lysenius and Scyra, and opted for no encounter with the magickal protections the sorcerer had surely put on his treasure.
Friends beyond the border seemed almost as likely a source of Lysenius's hoard. It was no secret to Conan that there were Hyborians who dealt with the Picts at the expense of their own kind, although there had never been many such in Cimmeria, and fewer still long-lived.
That harsh land had its own harsh punishments for those who went against their blood.
In other lands, such men flourished, or at least were not spied out as readily. They were a kind that made Conan wonder more than once if the southern men had bred true. He would leave them to their intrigues, however, and keep his Bamulas free of them, the gods allowing. The intrigues of the Black Kingdoms would be enough for him for some years to come, if he and his band ever returned thence.
Clothing of rawhide and fur, tanned-leather sandals and woolen leggings, Pictish spears and war-axes, Bossonian bows and Gunderman armor”all came forth in abundance. So did more jerked meat, dried nuts and berries, and a pungent ale. The Bamulas pronounced the ale as good as their native beer, and were not backward about draining a whole barrelful before Conan put a halt to that.
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