"Be grateful for my mercy," Chabano said. "You will carry a spear again for the war, but avoid my sight until then."

The warrior rose, unaided, for his comrades drew back from him as if he carried pox on his skin. Bent and stumbling like one sick or aged, he lurched down the path and out of sight.

Wobeku did not watch him go. His instincts told him that this clash was not yet done, and that the heart of the matter was still Geyrus's will. He did not dare watch the First Speaker too closely, but he tried to follow the man's eyes from one warrior to another. If Geyrus raised his staff, or if his eyes lingered on one man longer than on the others...

Neither staff nor eyes gave Wobeku a clue. But he was fortunate nonetheless. He was well out to the left of Chabano and so could see the men behind the chief without appearing to look at them. There were three of them, and now one of them was breathing with unnatural slowness. His eyes seemed to have turned crimson and sapphire. His spear was rising into throwing position, as if drawing his arms with it.

Then suddenly the spear leaped up. The warrior leaped with it-or rather, his death-grip on the weapon drew him with it until his feet no longer touched the ground.

Those who saw the spectacle were mute from surprise, or perhaps from magic. All except Wobeku.

"Chief! Behind you!" he screamed. The warning did its work. Chabano whirled, flinging up his shield and thrusting with his spear.

The chief's spear only stabbed air. Wobeku, with more time to aim, struck home.

His spear sank into the warrior's side, halfway up his rib cage. The man reeled, turned halfway toward Wobeku, and seemed about to laugh at the sight of the Ichiribu warrior cringing away.

Wobeku could not help it. The other's eyes were now pools of crimson-and-sapphire fire, and a faint mist in the same hues seemed to cling to both his weapon and his hands. Then the crimson of the G.o.d-Men's magic gave way to the crimson of blood, pouring from the man's side and mouth. He choked, reeled again, and fell with the spear still protruding from his side.

Wobeku knew that the man would shortly have company in death: Chabano and all his companions. Nor would Chabano seek to escape that fate by fleeing. It would be futile. Geyrus would have his life, no matter where he fled.

Wobeko himself also had fled once before. It was not in him to do so again, any more than he could have slain the bidui boys.

He was so concerned with meeting a warrior's death that he did not see Chabano step forward, perhaps with the same thought in his mind. The chief had his spear raised, and the muscles of his right arm tautened as he made ready to hurl it into Geyrus's throat.

Wobeku saw the First Speaker raise his staff in both hands, holding it out in front of him. He saw Chabano's spear stop as if it had encountered the rock of a mountain. He saw the iron point begin to smoke-and a chill hand seemed to grip his heart and bowels as he saw that the smoke was crimson and blue.

Then he saw the Silent Brother stride up, swing his staff high in both hands like a woman swinging a mortar, and bring it down across the First Speaker's staff.

Wobeku knew in the next moment that death had come for him. Flames shot up from the First Speaker's staff. They also rose from the Speaker himself, as if his body were a pile of straw. They were of all colors and no colors, without smoke but not without heat.

The leaves above the First Speaker turned brown and would have burned had they not been sodden with rain. Common, lawful smoke rose from the jungle floor where the heat seared the mat of dead leaves and vines. Somehow the color of the smoke consoled Wobeku for his coming death. He would not die in a place abandoned by the G.o.ds.

Then a moment came when he began to think that he might not die after all.

Chabano staggered back, dropping his spear with its half-melted point but seeming otherwise unharmed. He stumbled over Wobeku's victim and nearly fell, but two of his warriors caught him.

Three others, Wobeku among them, saw that the flames enveloped the two staves and the First Speaker, but not the Silent Brother. They also saw that this did not please the other Speakers. Indeed, they were staring with their pale eyes at the spectacle as if it went against all they had been taught was possible.

It very likely was. Wobeku s.n.a.t.c.hed a spear from a warrior too gape-jawed and wide-eyed to tell one end of it from another, raised the weapon, and threw it.

This time he took his victim, the Speaker just to the right of Geyrus, in the throat. The man dropped his staff, went to his knees, clawed at his torn throat and the spear in it, then bent so far forward that his headdress fell off. As it struck the jungle floor, so did he, toppling onto his side and kicking out what remained of his life.

Wobeku's swiftness seemed to restore life to the other warriors-that, and a few sharp words from Chabano in the tone that meant disobedience could yield death.

In moments, the remaining Speakers were surrounded by warriors holding spear-points at their throats or stomachs. The warriors kept them motionless until the First Speaker was only ashes on the jungle floor.

The Silent Brother gathered the staves from the surviving Speakers' unresisting hands, then spoke to them in a tongue Wobeku did not understand. He only sensed in the voice age beyond anything he had dreamed of. It held echoes of times before Atlantis, of times even before the G.o.ds had judged that men, not beasts, should rule the earth.

This done, the Silent Brother turned and knelt to Chabano. It seemed to Wobeku that he would have prostrated himself had that not meant setting down his armful of staves or turning his eyes from the Speakers. The Ichiribu renegade also noticed for the first time that the Silent Brother's eyes had the pallid hue of a full Speaker's.

Chabano looked from Wobeku to the Silent Brother and nodded. Respect for a chief was all very well, yet keeping those Speakers bound by fear, never mind of what, was more needed now.

"I am Ryku," the Silent Brother said. Understanding came to Wobeku. Such a name had come to his ears without his knowing what it meant. So had tales of Chabano's spy on Thunder Mountain, although these were whispered. Ryku and the spy, it seemed, were one and the same.

"Hail, Ryku, friend to the Kwanyi," Wobeku said. It seemed the least foolish thing he could say.

"You are not of the Kwanyi," Ryku said. "Are you the eyes and ears of Chabano among the Ichiribu?"

"Before I answer that question," Chabano said with dangerous mildness, "you must answer one."

"Ask, my chief."

Chabano seemed to take the words at their value and to ignore Ryku's tone. "What did you say to your comrades?"

"I told them that if they did not swear obedience to me in all matters concerning aid to the Kwanyi, I would allow your warriors to slay them here and now."

"And did they swear?" Chabano waved a hand, and warriors' hands tightened on spear-shafts.

Whatever the Speakers swore, they swore it fervently and at length. Before the oath was half over, Ryku bade the Kwanyi warriors to lower their spears. When it was done, he spoke a sharp word and the Speakers scurried off up the trail as fast as their aged legs could carry them.

Chabano looked eloquently at his warriors, and they retreated with similar speed in the opposite direction. The chief, the G.o.d-Man, and the spy were alone in the jungle.

"My thanks to both of you," Chabano said. "A chief's thanks is worth much, and it will be worth more the longer I rule." He cast a sharp look at Wobeku.

"Although had you been as swift some time ago as you were today, you would not be here."

Ryku asked that this be explained; Chabano acceded to the request with a mildness that amazed the fugitive warrior. But then, even a Paramount Chief did not stand upon rank with a G.o.d-Man who seemed to have made himself a full Speaker upon his own whim.

Or was it that becoming a G.o.d-Man was easier than the tribes had been led to believe? That would have been a cheering thought, had Wobeku wished to follow in Ryku's footsteps.

As his ambition was to be high among the Kwanyi when they ruled all this land, he was not so cheered. Fumble-fingered G.o.d-Men would not be of much use to the Kwanyi in the face of Dobanpu's Spirit-Speaking. Dobanpu's mastery was no tale, and the vengeance he would wreak on Wobeku would be no light one!

TWELVE.

The Ichiribu and the Kwanyi took time to gird themselves for battle. This did not entirely arise because of each of their new allies, although those played a part.

Wobeku found that while the warriors kept their distance, few doubted him. He had, after all, saved Chabano, the Paramount Chief whom all had followed for twelve years. Even those who followed Chabano out of fear more than from love knew that the Kwanyi would be doomed without him. The man who saved him had placed the tribe greatly in his debt.

Ryku was also regarded with some grat.i.tude, but likewise with more than a little fear. He also had saved Chabano, and moreover, had cast down the greatest of the G.o.d-Men. In so doing, however, he had made himself a yet greater G.o.d-Man.

It was as well for Ryku that he did not go among the warriors more often than when Chabano summoned him. He remained, nine days out of ten, in seclusion on Thunder Mountain, putting the Speakers, the Silent Brothers, and the servants and slaves in as much order as his powers and the time allowed. Had he come to the villages too often, someone might have served him as Wobeku had served one of the Speakers-which would have saved the Kwanyi a deal of trouble in days to come, but they were only a tribe of stout fighters, not seers who could foretell the future.

Conan had a busy time among the Ichiribu, for all that most of them thought him favored by the G.o.ds, if not in truth sent by them.

The Kwanyi had been invincible on land since Chabano had taught them the art of fighting in a line, with the tall shield and the great spear that a man could thrust as well as throw. It was not to be expected that the Ichiribu could learn that art, even from the Cimmerian, well enough and soon enough to face their foes in full array.

So Conan set about teaching them how to use their old weapons in new ways. They had a fair number of archers and slingers, who could gall and torment the flanks of the Kwanyi ranks. Their fishing tridents were not despicable weapons against the Kwanyi spear, either, if they could contrive to fight two warriors against one.

Valeria also taught them how to fight from their canoes with more skill than before. What she did not know about the handling of small boats, it was probably not given to men-or women-to know. Even the most seasoned fishermen of the Ichiribu soon said loudly that Conan's shield-woman and vowed lover was worth almost as much as the Cimmerian himself.

"We must be the ants, and the Kwanyi the warthog," Conan said, until even Seyganko wearied of hearing it for all that he knew it was true. "They are a bigger warthog than we can be. Fight them tusk to tusk, and we are doomed. Sting them a thousand times, and the doom will be theirs."

The skill the Ichiribu showed in learning what he taught left Conan in good heart. He would have been still more confident had the matter of marching through the tunnels not remained dangling in the wind.

Dobanpu agreed that if the spirits allowed, this would be a cunning and deadly trick, that of making warriors sprout from the ground. He would not say more, other than that he waited for a sign from the spirits.

He continued to demur, and Conan's temper grew short. "Is it the spirits who've turned mute?" he asked Emwaya one morning. "Or is it your father?"

"If I knew the answer to that, it would still not help us," the girl replied.

"No man can force the spirits, and my father is almost as difficult to make speak when he chooses to be silent."

"If he chooses to be silent for too long, he may be choosing the end of his folk," Valeria snapped. Both the visitors could see that Emwaya herself was uneasy at her father's reluctance to speak. Neither doubted that she told the truth.

"He knows this also," Emwaya said, and withdrew with as much dignity as she could contrive, "Wizards!" Conan said. He made the word sound like a particularly foul obscenity. Then he looked at the sky. The sun shone, although through a haze that promised rain for later in the day.

The rainy season drew closer with each sunrise, and Conan was of a mind to leave the tribes of the Lake of Death to their own devices if Dobanpu did not speak before the downpour began in earnest. The rivers would run high then, and the rain would make pursuit difficult.

"If you have no work before noon, let us take a canoe and go fishing," Valeria suggested. "One of the large ones, I think."

Conan laughed. The large canoes, they had discovered, were something of a burden for two paddlers. But they were also broad of beam. With a sleeping mat or two laid in the bottom, they made a good place for hot loving.

They paddled closer to the Kwanyi-held sh.o.r.e than usual on a fishing expedition.

This was not Conan's notion, still less Valeria's. It had come from Emwaya, who had appeared at the sh.o.r.e as they were loading the fishing gear and mats into the canoe.

"May I come with you?" she had asked.

Conan and Valeria had frowned. They would have more gladly been alone, but neither wished to offend Dobanpu's daughter and Seyganko's betrothed. Also, Conan, at least, had heard in Emwaya's voice a hint of something more than wishing to amuse herself on a tedious day.

"Be welcome," Valeria had said, and had sent a bidui boy for an extra mat and water gourd.

Emwaya proved herself a strong if not an overly skilled paddler, and the canoe made good time to the usual fishing spot. As Conan and Valeria slackened their stroke, Emwaya pointed toward the Kwanyi sh.o.r.e.

"Can we go closer?"

This time, Conan did more than frown. "The Kwanyi are not complete landlubbers.

If they see suspicious-looking folk bobbing about off their sh.o.r.e, they may find a canoe or two to fill with warriors."

"I will lie down, so that none may recognize me."

"What about us?" Valeria asked. "Or have Conan and I turned your hue from the sun without anyone's telling us?"

Emwaya might know potent magic herself, and to offend her was to offend a master of still more potent spells. But neither she nor her father seemed quite as wise in matters of war as Conan could wish.

They bargained, as Valeria said afterward, like a captain and a ship's chandler haggling over the price of a galley's fittings. In the end, they had drunk half the water to ease throats dry from talking, and agreed on where to go. It was nearer the sh.o.r.e than Conan liked, farther than Emwaya wanted, but would serve the purposes of both.

Above all, they could not readily be caught against the sh.o.r.e by canoes coming in from the lake. Canoes coming out from the land they could see in time to keep their lead, and having a third paddler would help.

"Remember, too, that I can summon aid from the island if we seem to be pursued too closely," Emwaya said. She said no more, and Conan did not ask further. He was still none too easy over having such as Dobanpu as a friend. Sorcerers, he had to admit, might remain friendly, or at least harmless-but he could count the ones who had done so on the fingers of one hand. Those who had sooner or later been deadly foes, on the other hand-all the fingers and toes in the canoe could hardly number them.

They reached their intended spot. Conan, having the sharpest eyes of the three, studied the sh.o.r.e. It showed no sign of human presence and precious little sign of any other animal life. Only a spit of sand with furrows where crocodiles had basked hinted that these placid waters might hold peril.

Conan and Valeria threw over their lines and readied their tridents. Emwaya lay down on her mat in the bow and appeared to fall asleep. To Conan, her breathing seemed less regular than sleep commonly yielded. The way her hands spread palm-down, fingers opened, against the hull of the canoe also hinted of an unrestful mood.

To the Cimmerian, she seemed to be listening for something. What, he did not know. Remembering that the tunnels might well honeycomb the bottom of the lake, holding the-G.o.ds-knew-what ancient evil, he chose not to try to guess.

The sun climbed to its peak, then began sinking. No fish had taken the bait.

Indeed, Conan had seen no sign that anything at all lived in this part of the lake. That was not an agreeable thought, but one he kept to himself. Valeria, easier in her mind, had actually gone to sleep.

Suddenly Emwaya sat up, brushing tangled hair out of her eyes, one hand gripping the side of the canoe. She looked wildly about her, then seemed to discover something off to port. Conan looked where she did, but saw nothing save the lake's surface, unrippled by even a breath of wind or a leaping fish. He was still staring when Emwaya sprang up, threw off her waistcloth, and plunged over the side of the canoe.

Conan's roar would have stunned any fish within a good distance. It woke Valeria. Instantly alert, she took in the danger at a glance. She clutched the anchor stone, wriggled clear of the coiled line, then flung the stone overboard.

"Two will be better at finding her than one, Conan. The canoe can fend for itself."

The anchor line hissed as it ran out, but when it reached its end, the canoe still drifted freely. Conan looked into the lake, sensing a depth there he had never before encountered. A depth into which Dobanpu's daughter had plunged, and into which Conan and Valeria had to follow her if they were to- Emwaya's head broke the surface. In a few strokes she was alongside, pulling herself half out of the water. Drops sparkled in her hair, sleeked down from the dousing, and glowed on her shoulders and b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Her countenance took away any thoughts of her beauty, however.

"Come and see for yourselves," she said. "Be warned. You will not like what you find."

"My life's been full of unpleasing sights and it's not over yet," Conan said. He swung his legs over the side of the canoe, slipped into the water, then held the craft steady while Valeria dove over the side.

"Stay close to me," Emwaya ordered when Valeria surfaced. "It is my intent to protect you from what lies down there."

Conan could not help but feel that he would rather be sure of more than her intent. But Emwaya had at least this virtue, rare in magic-wielders: she would not promise miracles. Conan filled his lungs and plunged under the surface, Emwaya behind him and Valeria in the rear. They were a canoe's length below when Conan saw what Emwaya meant.

It was as if they were suddenly swimming through a vast globe of liquid crystal.

The water was utterly transparent, utterly without color, all the way to the bottom of the' lake.

That bottom, Conan judged, had to be twice the height of a ship's mainmast below them. No wonder the anchor had not found purchase. Indeed, he could see the anchor stone dangling uselessly from its line, well clear of the bottom.

In that transparent void, nothing moved. Nothing lived, either-not the smallest fish, not even a sc.r.a.p of the weeds that choked some portions of the lake. Conan looked down at the bottom.

It, too, was bare of life. But it was not featureless. Across the Cimmerian's field of vision ran what looked like a deep trench. Into that trench had tumbled blocks of stone that showed the unmistakable signs of human shaping. Even from high above, Conan saw that much. He also thought that he saw carved on some of the stones the writhing serpent-shape he had seen rather too often in the tunnels.