"Not the first one, at least. It was Emwaya crying out. She caught a poisoned blowgun dart aimed at me."

Conan felt strength flowing back into his limbs, but his wits seemed as slow as Aondo's. "Darts?"

"It was Wobeku," Valeria said, then continued with an explanation that gradually penetrated Conan's understanding. By the time she was finished, he had regained not only strength, but breath.

"Where's my sword?"

"Conan-"

The Cimmerian picked Valeria up with a hand under each armpit and held her with her feet off the ground. "Woman, I asked for my sword. I wish to use it to kill Aondo and Wobeku. Is that so hard to understand, or have you taken something to addle your wits?" Valeria threw her head back and laughed until Conan had to join her, which broke his grip. She landed lightly and turned.

"Conan, here is your sword."

It was Seyganko holding out the Cimmerian's blades, belt, and sheathes. Behind him stood a half dozen Ichiribu warriors, none of them carrying less than two spears and a trident, and many carrying clubs, throwing sticks, or cords with stones knotted into the end.

Conan's first thought was that he had forfeited his life in some way, and that they were handing his weapons back to him so that he might wage an honorable fight at the end. Then he saw that the bleak looks of the warriors were not aimed at him. All except Seyganko's, at least.

Conan prudently armed himself before speaking. "Seyganko, I hope I may join your warriors in pursuing those dishonorable-"

"The Ichiribu will judge their dishonor even more harshly than you, I swear,"

Seyganko said. Indeed, he swore several oaths that Conan knew well to be highly potent in the Black Kingdoms, and several more the Cimmerian did not know but which rang true.

His help in the pursuit would plainly be unwelcome. What else was there to do?"

"How fares Emwaya?"

Seyganko seemed to struggle for self-command. Then: "She is in the hands of her father and the G.o.ds. It would have been an easier matter to heal her had Wobeku not dropped the weapon that wounded her. It would also have been child's play to destroy him."

The fallen weapon of Wobeku was something the Cimmerian did not altogether understand. But then, the whole thing reeked of magic, so perhaps he lost nothing thereby. He resolved not to treat Wobeku as helpless prey merely because the man was weaponless, and continued his attention to Seyganko.

"As it stands, Wobeku has fled," Seyganko continued, "and Emwaya lies without suffering, but also in much danger in spite of her father's best skill. If you think your G.o.ds have power in this land, pray to them."

Conan nodded. Seyganko lifted a hand, and one of his warriors gave him a spear.

"I swear by this weapon-this bringer of death to the treacherous- that I will not harm you or your shield-woman. Whatever comes of tonight, you and she may leave these lands unharmed. But if Emwaya dies, do not think to find a friend in me, or in any who follow me."

Seyganko whirled then, as lightly as a dust devil of the Kozaki steppes. The band strode off into the darkness, which seemed twice as deep now that the golden fire was gone.

Wobeku ran as though the Living Wind was howling at his heels. He knew that there would be no hiding on the island; the women and children would gladly join the hunt for him if necessary. Indeed, imagining what the women would do to him if Emwaya died nearly made him stumble.

He prayed, as much as he had the breath to do, that he would either reach his hidden canoe or that the warriors would catch him before the women did. He crossed the ridge above the north sh.o.r.e of the island before he realized that his prayer had been answered. Now it was all downhill to the canoe.

The easier going made it possible to trade speed for silence. It was hard to believe that any warriors could have crossed the island in time to be beating him to the sh.o.r.e, but men often died from what they did not believe. Wobeku kept away from the trails, and from slopes with loose stones or thick brush that might betray him with the sound of his pa.s.sage.

It helped more than a little that halfway down the slope the rain began in earnest. The lightning flashed about him as brightly as the golden spirit-fire Dobanpu had hurled.

The G.o.d of Manhood deliver him! He had missed both victory and death so narrowly that he wanted to howl like a hyena at the thought. Had Emwaya not caught the dart, Valeria would now be dead. Dobanpu would never have spoken to the spirits for her, and her death would have been the end of Conan. Even had they not been spirit-bonded, clearly the two were vowed companions, and the heart would have gone out of the big man, leaving Aondo with an easy victory.

Had Wobeku not then dropped the blowgun, however, Dobanpu would have turned the death tearing through Emwaya's body back on him! He would be dying the death of the cobra's bite, knowing-if he knew anything-that when he breathed his last, the whole tribe would be cheering and drinking ale, Emwaya most of all!

He did stumble, in fear and fury, and nearly went full length on the rain-slick ground. The misfortune was his salvation, though.

From where the canoe was hidden, two boys sprang up, spears held ready. They were just old enough to guard the flocks and carry the lesser spears, the bidui boys, as the Ichiribu called them.

It was taboo for a full warrior such as Wobeku to slay them, or even to fight them. Wobeku had not broken any taboos as yet tonight, as Valeria was clanless, if not a witch. He also did not care to start making any transgressions now.

Worse things than being given to the women would come to him if he slew these boys, and most of them would come after he died.

Wobeku crept forward with his hunter's skill, using the bushes for cover, and also to protect himself somewhat from the rain still pouring down. The thunder and rain drowned out any sound he made.

Closer to his canoe, he saw that the craft was safe, even if half filled with rainwater. A smaller canoe was drawn up on the sh.o.r.e next to it. The boys must have been caught in the downpour and paddled for sh.o.r.e, then seen the hidden canoe and thought it marked a secure landing place.

Bold boys, to be out on the lake after dark, especially on a night like this, with a drum-duel being fought on the hill. They would not frighten easily. Did he have anything with him-?

The brush crackled and crunched behind Wobeku, as if a great stone was rolling downhill. He looked behind him, nearly fell out from beneath the bush, and cursed aloud.

Aondo was stumbling down the hill, blood running from half a score of cuts. He must have run blindly into a thorn thicket at some point in his flight, for he was not only b.l.o.o.d.y, but next to naked. He held a spear in one b.l.o.o.d.y hand, and a club was thrust through the belt that was nearly his only garment.

The bidui leaped up as Aondo burst into the open. Both boys raised their spears, and one also unslung a stone-rope tied around his waist.

"Give me that canoe," Aondo said. At least that was what Wobeku thought he said; it sounded more like a beast's growl than a human's voice. The boys looked at the big man as if he were indeed less than human, and therefore something that they might have to fight.

It happened in the s.p.a.ce between one breath and the next. The bidui with the stone-rope began to whirl it about his head, while his comrade stepped forward.

He held his light spear aimed boldly at Aondo's chest, hoping to give his friend time for a good cast. Perhaps he also hoped to penetrate Aondo's madness and remind him of the taboos.

Aondo's fist smashed into the boy's face. The youth flew backward as if tossed by an ox. The sound of his skull striking a rock on the sh.o.r.e was even louder than the crashing of the thunder, or so it seemed to Wobeku.

The second boy made his cast, but the rope only caught Aondo's arm and the stone bounced harmlessly against the big man's chest. Aondo tossed his spear to his unhampered hand and flung it. The boy died, pinned to a tree like a mouse pierced by a snake's fangs.

Wobeku gave Aondo no time to savor victory or to lament the doom he had earned.

The smaller man burst from his cover, covering the ground toward the sh.o.r.e in strides that were almost leaps.

Half-mad as he was, Aondo still sensed another's presence. Both strength and speed had left him, though. He could do no more than draw his club and begin to raise it before Wobeku flung his own spear.

It pierced Aondo's belly, and the warrior's breath hissed out of him. Then he gripped the spear-shaft and seemed to realize what it was, and where it was.

Wobeku, meanwhile, reached his canoe and slashed at the vine rope. It parted, he lifted the paddle and thrust at the water, and Aondo gave a cry such as the ears of men were not meant to hear, nor likely enough the ears of the G.o.ds, either.

Then the big warrior leaped from the bank straight into the stern of Wobeku's canoe.

The canoe shattered like a stick struck with an ax. Aondo plunged under the water, then thrashed to the surface, blood and splinters spreading around him.

Wobeku flew through the air, landing headfirst in water so shallow that he nearly dashed his brains out on the rocks at the bottom.

Aondo screamed now at the pain of his belly wound. Then he screamed again as something vast, dark, and long slipped out of the night and gripped him around the waist. He rose half out of the water, arms thrashing wildly at what held him; he even pulled the spear from his belly and thrust it down.

Nothing helped. Spray mingled with the rain as the crocodile thrashed its tail, moving away from the sh.o.r.e. Aondo went with it. For a moment, his chest and head were still above water, then only his head; then Wobeku heard a gurgle and saw nothing but a swirl of foam.

Wobeku staggered out of the water, knelt on the sh.o.r.e, and spewed. When he could stand, he could see only the rain and the biduis' canoe. It was small even for him, and would never have held Aondo, but Aondo would never again need a canoe.

Wobeku did. No one on the island, after the boys' bodies were found and no sign of Aondo was seen, would doubt that it was Wobeku who had cursed himself by the three deaths. Out on the lake, Wobeku would not need to submit to any judgment save the G.o.ds'. They knew that he was innocent, at least of the boys' blood.

If the G.o.ds knew anything, which was a question Wobeku did not expect to have answered tonight. He slid into the canoe, tested the balance of the boy-sized paddles, cast off the vine, and pushed hard away from the sh.o.r.e. By the time he had settled to a steady rhythm, sign of the sh.o.r.e itself was lost in the rain.

Wobeku was alone with the lake, the G.o.ds, and his fear of what Chabano would say of this night's work.

The clay jug in the corner of the hut held good ale-almost as much as it did when it had first arrived this morning. Conan's throat was as dry as the Iranistani uplands, and he doubted that Valeria's was otherwise, but neither of them seemed ready for drink stronger than water. A clear head for a fight was always as well, but had they to fear any more fighting tonight? Conan trusted Seyganko, who had sworn oaths it would shrivel a man to break that the Cimmerian and Valeria would not be harmed even if Emwaya died.

Conan was not much for prayers, but what few he remembered of how to remind the G.o.ds that somebody needed help, he was muttering to himself. Valeria had prayed aloud to all those G.o.ds lawful in her native Aquilonia, and was now embarked on prayers to the G.o.ds of Shem and Zingara.

Whether she believed or not, she was praying so fiercely that even a G.o.d could likely enough not tell the difference. Also, Conan thought that even a G.o.d would think twice before rejecting a prayer uttered by anyone with such a look upon her face.

Footfalls loud enough to challenge the rain thudded outside. A war party coming for them after all? Conan laid his sword across his knees, saw Valeria do the same, then realized that it was only two pairs of feet. The rain had slackened.

"Enter!" he called, his voice sounding like a dotard's. He pointed at the beer jug and the cups, and Valeria was filling the cups when the gra.s.s curtain at the door parted and Seyganko and Mokossa entered.

One look at their faces told Conan the news they brought. He leaped up, feeling as if he could dance down Aondo all over again and then hunt Wobeku all the way to the sea. He gripped the visitors' hands so hard that the girl squealed, and even Seyganko fought not to wince.

"Yes, it is true. Emwaya will live, heal, and be my bride."

"How fares her father?" Valeria asked. "I owe him my life, too."

"It will be as well if the Ichiribu need no Spirit-Speaking for some days,"

Seyganko said dryly. "This night has not ended as we had expected when it began."

"Meaning that Conan and I aren't dead?" Valeria snapped. Conan put a hand on her shoulder; she shook him off.

Seyganko looked genuinely ashamed. "My tongue fails me in my time of need. No.

We wished Conan to win. But we did not wish such disorder among our folk." He seemed to need his spear as a staff for a moment.

"Aondo and Wobeku have both fled. In their flight, they killed two bidui boys and stole their canoe. We must find the taboo-breakers, or their spirits will curse the Ichiribu. Our fields on the island and the mainland alike will be barren. Our cows will go dry. The fish will swim downriver, beyond our reach."

He went on reciting a litany of disasters until Mokossa boldly gripped his arm.

"Oh," Seyganko said as if suddenly awakened from a daze. "There can be no welcoming feast, not until the taboo-breakers are taken. But the G.o.ds will forgive us for offering you and your shield-woman companions, for this night and for any other nights as you may choose."

Conan held laughter inside; Seyganko was clearly in no merry mood. Now he knew why Mokossa had interrupted Seyganko's lamentations... and also whom she intended that Conan's partner should be tonight.

Then the Cimmerian could not hold back laughter, because Seyganko was gazing at Valeria as if she were a rather distasteful duty that he must perform for the good of his tribe. Mercifully, Seyganko had enough sense to join in the laughter instead of taking offense.

"My thanks to the Ichiribu, and I mean no insult to their fine women, not to any of them," Conan said. "But my shield-woman and I are vowed, as I have told you.

Also, we know each other's ways." "May we at least send more beer?" Seyganko seemed to be almost pleading as he looked at Valeria.

"As you wish," Conan replied. He glanced at the door-curtain, and in a moment he was alone with Valeria. A Valeria who had, while his back was turned, removed the waistcloth that was her only garment. He saw nothing he had not seen a score of times before... but now, for the first time, it made his blood sing.

He stepped forward; Valeria held up one hand. He gripped it, and she pressed her other hand hard against his chest.

"You are going to have to prove that, you know," she said as he drew her closer.

"Prove what?"

"That you know my ways."

He laughed and kissed her, and this time, her lips opened under his. "We have all night. If I don't know them at first, by Erlik's bra.s.s tool, I'll know them by morning!" He lifted her, and she nestled against his chest for a moment before raising her face for more kisses.

ELEVEN.

Something's taken the bait," Conan said.

Valeria sat up in the stern of the canoe and reached for her trident. She was clad in an Ichiribu waistcloth, a necklace of lionfish teeth, and a broad hat made of leaves tied with vine to a reed frame.

Conan squatted amidships, letting the fishing line feed over the side. He wore a leather bin'ding to protect his hand from the flax-and-sinew line, a loin-guard, and a dagger. His sword and Valeria's, as well as her bow, lay in the bottom of the canoe, wrapped in fish skin, inside oiled leather, inside waxed linen.

Neither of them cared to leave their weapons ash.o.r.e on such an expedition as today's. Nor did they care to risk them rusting or taking up dampness. Wobeku might not be the only traitor among the Ichiribu, and there were still warriors with doubts about the two strangers. The nearest smith who could replace, or even repair their blades was at least a month's travel from the Lake of Death.

At last the fish finished its run. Conan braced himself and began hauling it in.

Valeria crouched, trident ready, its line coiled lightly in the stern and knotted firmly to a peg driven into the bottom of the canoe.

The fish was a fighter, but Conan wasted no time playing with it. He judged the line would bear any strain the fish could put on it, and hauled away with a will.

Ripples spread around the canoe as the fish's thrashing reached the surface.

Valeria's eyes roved about, watching for the first patch of scales large enough to give her trident a mark. Her movements lifted her b.r.e.a.s.t.s in a way Conan would have found agreeable, had he spared attention for such matters now.

Suddenly, the fish leaped. The trident was as swift, and blood and foam took the place of the ripples as the fish thrashed out its life an arm's length from the boat. With Valeria gripping the tail and Conan the head, they heaved it aboard, a grisku, as the tribe called it-a third the length of the canoe and weighing as much as a newborn calf.

Valeria made a face as the grisku gave its last wriggle. "All that work for one of those? You know they taste like glue."

"The Ichiribu like them, so we won't have to eat it. Besides, you know well that the more fish we bring back, the less anybody will suspect us." "I trust the Ichiribu. Don't you?"

"Most of them, yes, as much as I trust any foreigners when I'm nearly alone among them. It takes few enemies to make trouble then."