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imagine, far even from any shore where a ship might have landed her?
The answer was plain. The world-walker had linked the Black Kingdoms with the Pictish
Wilderness, whether by Lysenius's intent or by pure chance. This woman had wandered into it or been
drawn like so many others by the mind-compelling power of the spell. Had she come alone?
The woman wore neither clothing nor weapons. Hardly garb for flinging oneself into the unknown.
A madwoman? Scyra looked at her companion's eyes again.
They were still wide and fearful, but no madness as Scyra recognized it showed in them. She
pointed at herself. "Scyra," she said.
The other's eyes widened farther. She pointed at her breast. "Vuona," she said.
"Vuona," Scyra repeated, pointing at the woman. The dark one nodded vigorously.
All this while, the battle had faded into the back of Scyra's mind. Now it returned to the forefront as
a man's death-scream cut through the trees and seemed to soar into the sky like an arrow.
"Wayo, wayo, wayo!" Scyra heard. It came from the direction of the battle, an exuberant chant
from a dozen robust male throats. She had heard the victory chants of Picts before, but this was nothing
like theirs. Deeper, fuller, and somehow more wholesome, it was like nothing she had ever heard or
imagined.
Vuona jumped as if bitten by a serpent.
"Bamula!" she cried. Scyra tried to restrain her. Picts three clans away must have heard that cry, if
they had not already heard the battle. Rushing off to where you thought friends were was often a short
way to death in a Pictish ambush.
The woman fought with surprising strength, and now Scyra wished for a Pictish war hammer. A
good buffet on the head
"You Bamula?" Scyra asked. Could that be the name of Vuona's tribe? Had a war party come
through the demon's gate and fallen among the Picts?
The chant went on, now almost as loud as the battle. Not a Pict could be heard, only the Bamulas.
Perhaps it was a case of the Picts falling among the Bamulas?
Silence swallowed the hillside. It lasted long enough for a deep breath, then a new chant was taken
up.
"Ohbe Bessu, ohbe Bessu, ohbe Bessu!" The new chant was no softer than the first, but slow and
dirgelike. Vuona listened attentively, then scratched a shallow trench in the ground, pushed in a small pine
cone, and covered it up.
"Bessu," she said, pointing at the mound.
The victory had not been without cost, it seemed. A warrior named Bessu was honorably dead.
Again the chanting sounded more worthy of a warrior than did the Pictish howling.
Vuona pointed up the hill. Scyra sighed. It appeared that the woman wanted to go up there, badly
enough to face the arrows of any lurking Picts alone if there was no other way.
Scyra studied her intended path again. At least Vuona would not have to go alone. Then perhaps
she might in turn be grateful enough to return to the caves with Scyra, for a hunting smock to cover her
skin and lotions for her bruises, if nothing else!
Then, who could know what might follow? Scyra lacked spells for learning Vuona's tongue or
teaching her Bossonian, let alone reaching into her thoughts and reading them without words. Those were
in scrolls she had never touched, let alone read, if indeed her father had not so firmly embedded them in
his memory that he needed no scrolls to cast them.
But if they were embedded in his memory ? Vuona might speak, might see Scyra and Lysenius as
friends, might lead the other Bamulas to them the other Bamulas, who had survived a passage through
the demon's gate in a condition to fight Picts!
Scyra had long since vowed to either defeat or win over her father. Old love let her prefer the
second. The Bamulas might give her the key.
Ten
Govindue allowed Conan to lead the way down the hill toward the place of the Bamula warriors.
The village lad walked proudly, for this day he had won a name that would last even if this was his final
fight. He wondered if Conan's tribe the Kimmerala, was it? had the custom of praise-songs, and if
Govindue of Dead Elephant Village of the Lesser Bamulas would ever be mentioned in the praise-songs
about the fires of the Kimmerala.
It was as well for Govindue that he allowed Conan to lead. The Cimmerian was first to see the
leaves trembling, revealing a lurking live Pict where others might have seen only the dead. There was no
shortage of dead Picts, and from one of them Conan snatched up a short-handled axe. Not well
balanced for a swift throw, it still plunged through the concealing bush.
A pantherlike scream froze all except Conan. He was still moving when the mortally wounded Pict
leapt into the open. One arm dangled useless, but the other held a spear and retained its strength and
cunning. The spear flew toward the oncoming Bamulas.
Most of the men had the wits or the time to fling themselves to the ground or to raise their shields.
Bessu had the wit and the swiftness of eye and hand to fling his own spear, but he had no shield, having
given it to a warrior who had lost his. Before he could think to defend himself, the Pict's spear was in his
throat.
Bessu fell backward, half-flung by the spear, half-falling as strength deserted his legs. His own spear
sank clean through the Pict's broad chest, so that the weapon burst out his back. It was slaying a dead
man, but the Bamulas shouted as if Bessu had killed the enemy's war chief.
Govindue knelt beside his father while all the rest joined in the chant of "Wayo, wayo, wayo," then
moved on to "Ohbe Bessu___"
"Honor to Bessu." Yes, much honor to a man who had followed his son through the demon's gate
and into a strange land, to die there in battle. Honor Bessu would not hear except with his spirit ears. His
face was set and his eyes wide and staring; he must have died as he struck the ground.
Govindue set his own face into a mask as hard as polished wood over his grief and gripped the
spear. It was custom that if a dead warrior had blood-kin in the band, that kin should draw out the
death-weapon and do whatever else might be needful for the dead man. If blood-kin was not present,
then the eldest living warrior bound to the dead man by a blood-oath had this duty. Either man still
received a spirit-burden that needed lifting after the battle, but a lesser one than would some total
stranger.
The lifting would be far in the future, Govindue realized. He saw trouble from that, not far in the
future, when the other warriors also realized it. They too might be uneasy about the fate of the body of
Bessu and of any other dead in this distant, cold land of savage men who seemed near-kin to demons.
"We must also honor Conan," Govindue said. "Without his arm and sword, we would have suffered
more. Without his knowledge of this land, we might still be in danger."
Govindue looked at the black-maned warrior, hoping he had kept the desperation out of his voice
and eyes alike. Conan shrugged.
"I can't do much about the Picts, for I've heard they swarm like wild bees and are about as hard to
kill. But yes, this land is more like my homeland than yours. I know something of what a man needs to
live and fight here.
"Also, we're better placed in one way than I expected. This is not some demon's realm from which
the only way back is through the demon's gate. The gate's sorcerous master may not be our friend, but
we may not need his friendship. Somewhere at the end of this wilderness is the sea. On the sea are ships,
to be hired or, if needs be, taken. Remember that I have sailed as Belit's right hand, and I know ships."
Idosso stepped forward. He was shaking his head. Govindue hoped it was because he was still
befuddled by Conan's blows, not because he was working himself up to a fighting rage.
Idosso's first words dashed that last slender hope. "Are you saying that you lead here now,
Amradulik?" One did not call a man one wished peace with "Lion Dung," not even as a jest and it did [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]