He thought he heard Valeria mutter again. "If they don't think I'm a witch or a madwoman, no doubt it will." Then the Cimmerian tossed his weapons and garments through the gap, lay down, and began his pa.s.sage. The grease helped. He was almost through this time before he became wedged firmly in place. He stretched out both arms for Valeria to grip, and she added her strength and weight to his.

He did not budge. Conan groped with his feet, seeking a stout rest that would let him use the full power of his ma.s.sive legs. One foot flailed in the air; the other found the wall. Conan willed all the strength of his body into the muscles of that leg, felt himself moving even as the rock flayed skin from his back and shoulders, then felt the rock itself move.

If he had summoned all his strength before, he now summoned that and half again as much. He heaved upward and forward, ignoring the wrenching of muscles and the creaking of bones. More skin vanished, and his lungs seemed filled with red-hot sand as he fought for the breath not merely to live by, but that he might fight and prevail.

The Cimmerian's strength was equal to the task. The stone did not slip and crush him. Instead, it held firm for a moment-then, incredibly, it opened wider.

Conan thought he heard Valeria utter what might have been either a prayer or an oath. He knew he felt her long fingers gripping his wrists again, and as the grip tightened, she flung herself backward.

For one more moment, the rock held Conan, and he was not sure which would happen first-his pulling free, or his arms wrenching out of their sockets. Then the tiny widening of the opening, the grease on skin and rock, his own strength, and Valeria's desperate efforts all joined to send him flying out of the gap-He landed almost on top of Valeria, and it was a while before either of them caught their breath enough to notice it. Even then, the woman did not protest. She only smiled and threw an arm around Conan's neck.

He returned the smile and rolled off, then fought breath back into his lungs and stood up. He felt as if he had been wrestling one of the Golden Serpents. His skin was sc.r.a.ped from flesh in half a score of places, and muscles and joints were cursing him roundly. The filth from the tunnel itched and stung wherever it fell on raw places, and altogether he had hardly felt worse during some of the times he had escaped from slavery.

But he had ignored pain even then because he was free, and now he did the same for much the same reason. That magic-haunted maze and its monsters had done their best to make an end of him, or at least to make the maze his and Valeria's tomb. Now they were free of it, even if to do no more than to die on their feet, their blades in hand.

Conan judged that all of his limbs were still attached and could perform their duties. Then he resumed his garments, except for his boots, which he hung about his neck as Valeria carried hers.

Valeria meanwhile had propped her head on one elbow and was contemplating him with what appeared to be amus.e.m.e.nt. Conan returned her contemplation, although with more than amus.e.m.e.nt as she had not yet donned even her one scanty garment.

"If you've done looking at me like a buyer at a donkey-" Conan said at last.

"I'd have you bathed before I bought you," Valeria replied. She held her nose.

"Or maybe boiled."

"You could put a he-goat to flight yourself," Conan said. He reached down. "Up, woman. We're not done yet."

While standing in the open on the far side of the gap, he had seen at least two more tunnels leading off from the chamber. The magic light seemed to glow dimly far down one of them; the other was dark and no higher than Conan's waist. The stone at its mouth also seemed curiously worked, not so much carved as eaten, as if by the acids that the sword-makers of Khitai were said to use upon fine blades to etch cunning patterns upon them.

He thought of acids that could eat stone, and he remembered what had nearly taken Valeria, leaving its mark on her ankle. The mark was still there, beneath the filth. The thing that had made it might have also made the tunnel. No, he and Valeria were not done with this ancient maze until they stood in the sunlight again.

The first sign that Seyganko had of anything amiss was Emwaya's stumbling. That would not have told another man much, for Emwaya was dancing in a circle in the center of Seyganko's hut. It was, moreover, a dance so swift and complex that her feet seemed to spurn the earth; even the warrior's keen eye could hardly follow their movements.

She leaped-and instead of landing on her toes, she went to hands and knees.

Seyganko sprang forward to help her rise. She shook off his hand and remained kneeling, then stretched her full length on the reed-strewn floor of the hut.

Again Seyganko offered aid; again Emwaya spurned it. Then she turned her head so that one ear was against the floor, and stretched out both arms. Her fingers writhed in gestures the warrior knew came from the Spirit-Speaking rituals.

Emwaya was not sick or hurt, it seemed. But if she had sensed some threat to the Ichiribu from deep within the spirit world, this was small consolation. Seyganko gripped his club and measured the distance to his spears, although reason told him that mere wood and iron could do nothing against such menaces as Emwaya might have heard.

At last she stood, brushing dried reeds from her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Now she allowed Seyganko to support her, lead her to a sleeping mat, pour beer from a jug and offer it. But she sat with the wooden cup in her hand, licking her lips, eyes staring beyond Seyganko into places where he knew he could not follow.

"From below," she said. "It comes from below." "What is it?"

"Have you never heard of the Stone City?"

"That legend?"

"I begin to think it is no legend. It could lie beneath this very village, with spirits from before men were men guarding it."

"It could. But then, it might not-" The wish to banter left Seyganko as he saw Emwaya's face harden.

"Something has made the spirits uneasy. I cannot say which spirits, or where, but I feel danger to the Ichiribu."

"I shall call out the fanda," Seyganko said. The fanda consisted of six warriors of each clan, who took turns being armed, girded, and painted for war. Seyganko was not painted, but his war luck was so proverbial that no one thought he needed the adornment except in great battles.

"Send a messenger," Emwaya said. "You must stay here while I paint you."

"There is need for haste more than for paint."

"Not when the enemy is unknown spirits."

"If the spirits are coming, then you and your father are needed, not the fanda."

"We will be needed before long, but the fanda has work, too. They must guide folk away from danger, keep them from panic, watch for thieves who might find untended huts a temptation-"

"Perhaps I should do your work and you mine, since you know it so well."

Emwaya looked hurt, as she seldom did when reminded of the sharpness of her tongue. Then she actually clung to him. "We each have our duties, I fear. Now, have you your war paint about here?"

"Yes. You are going to paint all of me?" Emwaya lowered her eyes. "All. Do not hope that we will have time, though."

Seyganko grinned and began undoing his loincloth. The full ritual battle-paint included a warrior's loins and manhood. In times past, Emwaya's painting him had ended with much pleasure to both.

Yet something told him that this would not be one of those times. Emwaya spoke of spirits she had not encountered; Seyganko had little doubt that she spoke the truth.

"Hold on, Conan. My grip is slipping."

Valeria felt the Cimmerian's ma.s.sive shoulders tighten under her feet. Free to move one hand without falling, she groped for a better purchase on the stone. It was slick with her own blood, issuing from where her first grip had gashed the hand.

At last she thought she had found what she sought. Many years of swordplay and climbing rigging had given her long arms more strength than commonly found in a woman. She did not fear falling as long as she had a good grip.

She had judged correctly, but she was dripping sweat by the time she rolled onto the ledge above. For the tenth time since they had begun their climb, she had to brush her hair out of her eyes. Yet she was perched on the ledge as securely as its crumbling stone allowed. Beyond her lay only the chimney, which both of them could climb with little trouble, and then solid stairs began again.

She tore a strip from her garment and bound her hair with it. This reduced the already tattered covering to hardly more than a shred of cloth about her loins.

She had, however, quite ceased to care about her garb as long as it included a sword-belt and her steel.

Having done with Valeria, Conan handed up his boots and weapons, then sprang high and found purchase for both fingers and toes. A moment later, he was beside the woman on the ledge.

"We'd do better with a thong or a rope to tie to all this," he said, waving a bruised and filthy hand at their scanty gear and the boots holding a lord's ran-som in each toe. "Then we could draw it up afterward."

"There's not enough left of my garment for that," Valeria said. "Of course you could always sacrifice the rest of your breeches-"

"Or we could forget about those-"

Valeria put one hand protectively over the boots and the other on the hilt of her heavy dagger. Conan drew back in mock fear.

"By Erlik's untiring tool, woman, don't you know a jest when you hear one?"

"When I hear one, I do. I know not what I heard from you just now."

Conan shrugged and said no more. Valeria hoped he had heard her true meaning-that she would leave those fire-stones only to save her life. That a dead pirate had no use for loot, she would gladly admit, but she was not dead yet. Dusty-throated from thirst, hollow-bellied from hunger, filthy, all but naked, and far from home, or even from safety, she surely was- but not dead.

Then from above they heard a sound, familiar to anyone who had traveled this far south, yet strange, even unearthly in these surrounds.

Close to the cook fire, someone was beating a war drum. As another drum joined the first, the warm yellow glow of the cook fire died and darkness engulfed the voyagers in the depths.

One drum began the call to the Ichiribu of the Great Village. A second joined it, then a third. Seyganko stood by the hearthstone as the cook-women emptied pots, gourds, and jugs of water onto the flames. They did this with sour looks at him. Not only was quenching the cook fire a dirty task, it was an evil omen. The women feared the spirits... as well as what their kin would say to cold meals.

Fortunately, they also feared Seyganko and his warriors of the fanda too much to disobey. Or was it Emwaya they feared? She stood by a hut on the edge of the hearthfield, arms crossed over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, watching the work with an unsmiling face.

Indeed, she had not smiled since she had stumbled. Since she had told Seyganko that the hearth-field was the heart of the danger, she had looked almost an evil spirit herself. Fine work it would be if her face drove folk into the panic she feared and made more enemies for Seyganko.

Do you then think unknown spirits are nothing to be feared?

He heard the question in his mind, but used his body to reply, shaking his head.

He did not wish to reply mind-to-mind when so many other folk might suddenly demand his attention. Aondo, for one.

Aondo was a warrior in the fanda, and beside him stood another-what was his name? Oh, Wobeku the Swift, one who had gone with Seyganko on the raid that brought back those Kwanyi captives, who told such dire tales. Wobeku was one of the fastest runners among the Ichiribu, as well as a friend of Aondo.

Today Wobeku was not running. He stood lightly on his long legs, and it seemed to Seyganko that his eyes roved about more than was customary. Now he looked at Seyganko, now at the hearthstone- especially the lower end, where the channel fed melted fat into the earth to nourish the spirits there-and now at Emwaya. A man could not be blamed for wondering what Wobeku was seeking.

Seyganko realized that he was about to do what he had just thought unwise in Emwaya. Nonetheless- Have you warned your father?

He needed no warning. He knows what the spirits do, as much as any man.

Seyganko's reply was a broad smile. Then he waved at Wobeku.

"Your wish, Honored One?"

"A messenger has gone to Dobanpu Spirit-Speaker. Yet he was not as swift on his feet as you. Will you take another message?"

Wobeku's smile was a mask of obedience and pleasure covering discontent that a child could have seen. Seyganko did not smile back. Whatever Wobeku had in mind, it demanded his presence here-which did not prove it unlawful, of course.

It was part of the price for the t.i.tle of Honored One among the warriors of the Ichiribu. Baring one's back to treachery lest one do injustice to loyal warriors was a sacred duty. Spirits, as well as wronged kin, might avenge neglecting it.

"Good. Emwaya, daughter of Dobanpu, will tell you what to say."

Emwaya's message was short-just long enough, Seyganko judged, not to make Wobeku suspicious. The warrior saw the messenger nod, then unbind his feet, set aside all garb and girding save for his headdress, loinguard, and paint, then run. He was beyond the huts in a few breaths, outside the village wall in a few more, and out of sight before the drumming stopped.

By then, the hearthfield was empty of all but the fanda, Seyganko, and Emwaya.

From cracks in the nearest huts, children peered, too curious to be frightened even if the earth was spewing spirit-serpents. More young ones seemed to be perched in trees and on the wall, and Seyganko heard their mothers calling them down.

Then he heard nothing more, save a swelling rumble from underfoot as the earth trembled and the hearthstone that had stood for five men's lives began to crack apart.

Even Conan's eyes took a moment to respond to the sudden darkness. For a moment, he could hear only Valeria's breathing, coming in quick pants like those of a thirsty dog. She was commanding herself well in the face of this new menace, but could not hide all of her disquiet.

Crom did not love the fearful, nor did they live long in Cimmeria. Otherwise, Conan himself might have volleyed oaths. It seemed that someone or something was toying with them, s.n.a.t.c.hing away each promise of escape the moment they had come to trust themselves to it.

"Mitra's crown!" Valeria snapped. "If this is the work of the folk above, they'd best be very friendly when we appear. Otherwise, I'll not be."

Conan only grunted. She had spoken for both of them, and any more noise might be unwise. The folk above might not only be unfriendly, they might have listeners giving ear to what lay below.

He also did not trust this pit's walls to stand firm if shaken by loud noises.

Not that they would remain unshaken if he and Valeria continued to climb-as they must-the road back now being closed. But it made little sense to shake them otherwise.

A moment later, Conan knew that his caution had had no purpose. A thunderclap tore at his ears, earth streamed down about him, and light reappeared above.

Then a chunk of stone the size of a good ale barrel plummeted past him.

Without a word, Conan s.n.a.t.c.hed Valeria back against his chest, then flung himself hard against the wall. Even a shallow niche might save them from being crushed like grapes in a winepress by the next stone. The wall that had seemed to be raw earth was as unyielding as the stone of the tunnels below. Conan groped with a free hand and felt more of the same under his fingers.

Perhaps there was rock under the soil. Perhaps roots had bound the soil as hard as rock. And perhaps the binding was magical, and if the spells vanished, the whole shaft would come down on their heads.

Another, smaller piece of stone came down, and after that, hardly more than coa.r.s.e gravel. It came in a steady stream, though, mingled with clods of earth.

Dust filled the shaft; Conan clapped his free hand over his face, and Valeria tried to make a mask of her hair.

It was not enough; the dust set her to coughing desperately. Nothing more fell, but Conan had guessed the truth about the listeners above. A head appeared, silhouetted against the blessed sunlight shining through the enlarged hole.

"Who goes there? Name yourselves, or be called enemies of the Ichiribu."

The tongue was close enough to what Conan had learned in the Black Kingdoms that he could understand the meaning. The voice was that of a leader and a warrior, accustomed to being obeyed. Conan saw no reason to argue at length, not when the shaft might yet come down on his head.

But he and Valeria would not begin well by seeming to be beggars. In this land, only beggars or weaklings gave their true names for the asking. Wise men knew not to give that precious knowledge to those who might work magic with it.

"We are no enemies to the Ichiribu, whatever our names. Let us climb up to you, and you may see for yourselves."

Conan could not make out the man's look, but his reply was to silently draw his head back from the opening. The brighter light showed the upper portion of the shaft clearly, in spite of the drifting dust. The mouth lay a distance a good ten times the Cimmerian's height, and the shaft offered few handholds.

Once there had been a stairway spiraling up to the surface. Conan saw the holes where its beams had been thrust into the walls, and even the remnants of one or two of the beams themselves. None of this was of the slightest use to him and Valeria as long as the magic binding the shaft walls did not weaken. When it did, the shaft would doubtless fall on their heads, with more stones from above to mark their tomb.

"Conan," Valeria whispered, "do we go back?"

"How?" Conan asked. "Even if we could, the folk up there have heard us, likely enough seen us, too. They'll think we were demons and block the pit. What would you wager on finding another way out before we starve?"