Chapter FOUR.

Night stole into the valley like a master thief and draped her ebon and starry cloak over the giant trees. The sounds of chittering birds and insects formed a shifting web in the dark foliage, and torches guttered in their holders around the large platform Conan had seen earlier.

Cheen had invited him to the ceremony-there was to be a feast and plenty of wine-and Conan, never one to turn down a celebration, agreed to attend. He could return to his journey in the morning.

Only the leaders of each tree and their spouses would be allowed to partake of the potion Cheen had created this time, she told Conan. Eventually all of the Tree Folk would have their chance, but due to the scarcity of the ingredients, only small numbers could enjoy the Seeings at each ceremony.

When they arrived at the platform, at least thirty or forty people were already there, with others occupying a smaller platform nearby. Some of the celebrants sang, low and droning melodies, accompanied by musicians on drums and with wooden flutes. Conan noticed a number of coils of thin rope stacked near one edge of the platform, but before he could ask about these, Cheen said, "I must go to honor my mother. Will you be all right alone?"

Conan laughed. "The day a Cimmerian cannot manage to survive a friendly celebration will be the day the sun ceases to shine."

With Cheen vanished into the crowd, Conan wandered to a large table replete with food and drink. He sampled various roasted meats, tasted several wines, and decided that the Tree Folk were adept at both cooking and vintnery.

There was a large wooden bowl of dark red wine in the center of the table that was as good as any Conan had ever had. He dipped one of the wooden cups with the ornately carved handles into the wine for a second serving, and decided that there certainly must be worse places for a man to spend his time than in these trees.

A short while later, Cheen returned to find Conan. He was feeling extraordinarily good, and he grinned widely at her.

"The ceremony is about to begin," she said. "Are you certain you do not wish to partake?"

"Thank you, but nay. Your people set a fine table, Cheen, and I have sated myself with both food and wine. That dark wine is especially potent."

"Dark wine?"

"In the large wooden bowl." Conan waved at the table behind him.

"You drank from that bowl?"

"Aye. Two cups' worth. I was sorely tempted to have more, so good was it, but I thought not to be greedy."

"Who is your G.o.d, Conan?"

"My G.o.d? Why, Crom the Warrior, who lives under the Mountain of Heroes. Why do you ask?"

She laid one hand on his solid shoulder and smiled at him. "Because the wine in the sacred bowl from which you drank is the same in which the Seeing medicine was mixed."

That took a moment to sink into Conan's consciousness. "What?"

"If the potion works for you as it does for us, you shall have an opportunity to see, your G.o.d shortly."

Conan stared at her. "Is there an antidote for your potion?"

"I am afraid not."

Conan considered that for a moment. To see Crom? He was not at all certain that he desired to do that.

Kleg lay hidden by the night only a few paces away from one of the large trees, considering his options. There appeared to be some kind of ritual going on in the trees; a large number of the Tree Folk sang and danced on a large platform twenty times his height above the ground. His own troops rested less than half an hour behind him. The talisman he sought was, he knew, in this very tree. The capture and torture of one of the residents had revealed this knowledge sometime past, and the revelry above might well play into Kleg's hands. Under the dark's helpful cover, a few of the selkies might ascend the trunk of the giant tree, using the special gloves and boots made of shark-brother's hide and teeth. While a distraction on the other side of the grove drew their attention, he could try for the prize. Probably some of the guards would be sober, but with that many drunks wandering around, surely their vigilance might be lax?

Abruptly, Kleg decided. Yes. He would take two of his brothers with him and the rest would raise a din elsewhere once he and his two soldiers reached a position from which they could strike at their goal.

Kleg hurried back through the dark toward his hidden troops. The night was young, and in an hour or two, they could be ready to move.

Conan awoke suddenly. His head hurt, and he felt muzzy. He sat up. What had happened . . . ?

Ah. He recalled. That dark wine, the potion . . .

He observed his surroundings. He was on the platform, and there were perhaps two dozen of the Tree Folk lying asleep or sitting groggily around him; night still held sway, and Conan could not say how long he had slept. Apparently Cheen's potion did not affect Cimmerians in the same manner as it did her people. Just as well

"Ho, Conan!" The voice was loud, impossibly deep, vibrant with power, alive with force.

Conan turned.

Standing on the end of the platform was a giant of a man, half again Conan's height, thickly muscled, clad in fur boots and a wolfskin codpiece, his bare chest gleaming with oil in the flickering light of the dimming torches. The man had a full beard, his teeth shining whitely in a huge smile, and upon his dark red hair he wore an ornate bronze helmet bearing a pair of long and curved horns. Here was a warrior, no doubt of it, a man to inspire awe.

Conan got to his feet. "Who calls Conan?"

The giant laughed. "Do you not recognize me?"

Conan felt a fluttery sensation in his bowels, as if something alive were being kept captive there and had suddenly grown most unhappy about it. Surely it could not be? In that moment, however, he felt certain that indeed it was.

"Crom," he said, his voice very soft.

"In the flesh, boy. Come to see what I have made."

Conan licked suddenly dry lips. One did not meet a G.o.d every day. "What would you have of me?"

"Why, nothing, boy. You have nothing to offer. You are a weakling."

Anger welled in Conan, and the dullness in his smoldering blue eyes vanished, growing preternaturally sharp. "No man calls Conan a weakling!"

"No man has, fool."

Conan removed his sword and sheath from his belt and set it upon the platform.

"What think you are doing now?" Crom asked.

Conan flexed his hands, rolled his shoulders to loosen them, and took a step forward. "I would show you that you are in error," Conan said.

Crom laughed again. "You would grapple with me? You would dare wrestle a G.o.d?"

"Aye. There is little a Cimmerian will not dare."

"I think perhaps I gave you too much bravery and not enough wits."

"Perhaps." Conan continued stalking toward the giant.

"Very well, then, Conan of Fooleria. Come and pit your strength against mine."