[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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 not 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.
"The Picts are still out there, those who pretend friendship and those who do not even pretend. We
are more fit to meet them than we were, but they are still a hundred to our one and they know this land."
The Bamulas learned quickly, being seasoned warriors eager to begin carving a road home through
Lysenius's enemies. Thrice Conan led them out on raids, and brought them all back.
They did not march with Picts on these raids, save one or two who acted as guides. This was as
well. Conan knew the Pictish way of war, and would not have his Bamulas learn it. His people would
return to their land with no screaming girl-children violated before their burning homes, and no
graybeards left with skulls broken and unseeing eyes staring at the sky.
Then the day came when they raided across the borders into the Marches, and the Picts marched
with them.
***
From a high branch, Govindue's birdcall came. It was the call of a Black Coast bird, not a native of
this wilderness. Conan doubted that the caravan guards were woods-wise enough to notice the
difference. Or if they were, that they would have the time to put their knowledge to any good use.
Forty Picts lay in wait along one side of the road. Conan's Bamulas lay in wait along the other side.
This let both bands attack at once, but kept them apart until the moment of the attack.
That was just as well. The Picts looked askance at the "demon-men" as much as the Bamulas
looked askance at the Pictish warriors. Bad blood had been avoided; although Conan and the Pictish
chief had not a word in common, each was a seasoned captain who could plan a battle with gestures and
scratches in the dirt.
The caravan was well into the trap now. Definitely its guards were not woods-wise, or perhaps the
raiders had truly outrun their warning. The Bamulas had attacked nowhere and the Picts set upon only
one isolated farmstead on the way across the border, and the forest could hide sixty men from even the
most keen border patrol.
Now, if only the Picts would not shoot arrows with their eyes closed (as it sometimes seemed they
did), and the Bamulas would remember that even a friendly arrow could kill
A Pictish war yell gave the signal for the attack. Conan leapt from cover, brandishing his sword. He
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]