Chapter TWO.

The morning broke crisply, the sun's rays slanting over the eastern hilltops to paint pink and yellow the ledge upon which Conan and Cheen lay. Conan stirred easily from sleep, alert and a bit stiff from his bed on solid rock.

The woman awakened as Conan rekindled the fire and began to warm his hands against the morning's chill.

"Slept you well?" she asked.

"Aye. As always."

After sharing the last of Conan's dried meat and rinsing it down with water from his skin, they descended the cliff face. Once again, Conan was impressed by the woman's agility. She moved like the snow monkeys of Cimmeria, never a slip or slide as she clambered downward.

Conan, never loath to recognize a notable skill, remarked upon Cheen's ability as they attained the trail.

She smiled. "We do some climbing where I come from. But I confess that I am least among those who have real talent at it. It is good that I am a medicine woman, for I would make a poor hunter."

Conan did not speak to this, but he was surprised. If she were the least climber among her people, what must the best be like? Perhaps they could even rival Cimmerians for agility.

As the sun rose to his highest perch, Conan followed Cheen downward toward a green valley in the distance. Aye, it was as if some G.o.d had a particular fondness for the hue, splashing verdaccio and emerald and olive everywhere.

The path twisted and turned upon itself as it worked its serpentine way around the mountain's side. Because of the circuitous nature of the hike, Conan did not see the forest until it practically stared them in the face. For a moment, he wondered if perhaps his hearing had gone bad, for to be so close to such a large wood, surely there should have been sounds his ears could detect?

But, no. The Cimmerian's eyes gave him the truth after a moment. The forest was in fact much farther away than first he had thought. The trees were of such proportions that they appeared like a glen of normal oaks, but Conan quickly realized that these trees were much larger than any he had seen before. There were hundreds of them, and unless Conan was very much mistaken, this grove of trees was full of giants, thrice the height of the tallest he had ever seen before. Crom, they must be fifty times the height of a man or more, ma.s.sive plants that reached for the roof of the world.

As the pair drew nearer the grove of giants, Conan saw that there were houses built in the branches, an entire village mounted in the sky. Some of the constructions were relatively low to the ground, not more than ten spans up; some were much higher. There was no undergrowth, the ground being bare save for a carpet of dead leaves. He wondered whether this was because the thick canopy stopped light and rain from reaching the ground or if it were from design.

Had Conan half a dozen brothers his own size, it would have been impossible for them to link hands and surround the largest of the wooden monsters; even the smaller trees dwarfed the biggest normal trunk Conan had ever beheld.

"My grove," Cheen said.

"Your people live in the trees," Conan said.

"Aye. We are born, we live, and we die there."

"I can see how it is you know something of climbing."

"For a groundling, you have no small ability yourself." She smiled at him. "Especially seeing how ... large you are. None of our men approach your size."

They reached the base of the nearest tree. Conan looked up into the crown. The mighty limbs extended from the trunk in a rough circle, narrowing as they went up. The bark was smooth to his touch, a reddish color with patches peeled away to show a lighter color underneath. The leaves were long, triple-pointed, and the size of a man's hand, a dark, waxy green that was almost black in color.

There at the bottom of the tree was a skin the size of a shield stretched tightly over what seemed a hollow. Cheen used the b.u.t.t end of her spear to rap the skin, which boomed like a drum. She tapped on the tree drum for a time, a rhythmic musical pattern. A few moments after she finished her drumming, something dropped from the lower branches toward them.

Instantly Conan drew his sword and made ready to cut the falling ma.s.s.

"Hold," Cheen said. "There is no danger."

Indeed Conan saw this even as she spoke. What fell from above was a kind of ladder. Conan moved closer to examine it and saw that it was plaited from strands of flexible vine, a thick rope with hollow knots that formed foot and handholds. He sheathed his blade.

"What if some attacker came and pounded up your drum?"

"Each of the Tree Folk has his or her own song," she said. "No two are alike. The watch knows them all. A strange song would likely draw a spear or shower of arrows."

Conan nodded. Attacking those who lived in the trees would be a difficult task. A dozen men with axes might labor a day to chop down a single tree, and a rain of arrows, spears, or even rocks would make such a ch.o.r.e dangerous and unpleasant at best. The lack of undergrowth would keep a fire from being a threat to those above, and it would take a large fire indeed to light one of the trunks. Conan took all this in with a practiced, albeit young military eye. He would not wish to lead the army of men who would make war on these Tree Folk.

"Shall we go up?" Cheen asked.

"After you," Conan said.

His courtesy was rewarded when he looked up as Cheen climbed a span above him. Her legs were not unpleasant to look upon.

As they left the vine rope, a short, stout woman greeted Cheen. This was the watch, and she was armed with a spear and an obsidian dagger as long as Conan's forearm. A bow and a quiverful of arrows leaned against the main trunk nearby, and a pile of rocks each as big as a man's head was held in place by vines next to the bow. As Conan had surmised earlier, coming up uninvited might be a perilous adventure.

Even a normal man would have little trouble balancing upon the thick branch upon which Conan followed Cheen. It was as wide as Conan's shoulders and the smooth bark had been shaved so that it was flat under his bare feet. He had removed his sandals and hung them over one shoulder for the climb and he saw no need to replace them.

Ahead loomed a large structure. This had been built from a platform on the branch upon which Conan now trod, and the edifice extended upward to connect to several other limbs. Conan noticed that the house was structured of the same wood that formed the giant tree, various-sized branches lashed together with vines like the one they'd ascended on. It was obviously of human construction, but looked like nothing so much as a giant wasp nest or beehive. Standing at the doorway to the building were two women dressed similarly to Cheen. Each woman was as well thewed as the medicine woman, and each held a short spear that rested its b.u.t.t upon the wooden platform that formed a stoop to the house.

More women. Where were the men?

The guards nodded at Cheen, and she entered the house. Conan followed her. Holes in the roof provided sufficient light so that the Cimmerian could see. The room bore a long, low pallet against one wall and a carved chair in the center that faced a window opposite the door. Seated in the chair was an old woman, hair like snow, face eroded by time and sun. She wore a multihued green cloak wrapped about her body, the bright dyes almost luminous in the dim light. Her arms were bare, and though she was old, the lines of her arms and shoulders were deeply etched with tight muscle.

"Ho, Vares!" Cheen called.

The old woman turned away from her window and smiled at Cheen. "Ho, Cheen! It went well, your quest?"

Cheen lifted the bag containing the mushrooms she had shown Conan. "Yes, mistress. We can call the G.o.ds once again."

Vares nodded. "This is good. I had thought the next time I saw them might be after crossing the Gray Lands." She looked pointedly at Conan. "You have brought us a guest?"

"Aye, mistress. This is Conan of Cimmeria. When I was beset by the Pili's dogs at Donar Pa.s.s, he came to my aid."

The old woman smiled. "Accept my grat.i.tude, Conan of Cimmeria. I should have hated to lose my eldest daughter."

"It was a mutual effort," Conan said.

Vares laughed. "What is this? A man who does not brag?"

Conan looked at Cheen, one eyebrow raised in question.

Cheen said, "Among our people, the men are great . . . storytellers. Sometimes they embroider their tales with, ah, exaggerations."

"I have seen no men here," Conan said. This was perhaps blunt, but in Cimmeria, no one was faulted for directness. In some of the more so-called civilized lands through which he had traveled, it seemed that lying was a virtue, a thing that Conan could not understand.

"Ah. Come and look, then," Vares said. "Tair is teaching Hok the spring dance." She pointed toward the uncovered window.

Conan moved to look.

Leading away from Vares's house was a branch that thinned considerably after only a short distance. The limbs of the next tree intertwined with those of the one in which Conan stood, pa.s.sing above and below; indeed, there was within his sight a virtual forest of arm- and leg-thick branches, mostly bare of leaves.