Conan The Freelance (5 page)

“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 god, Conan?”

“My god? 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 god 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 god 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 god?”

“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.”

Conan nodded. Certainly there were worse ways to die than wrestling with your god; there could hardly be a harder challenge. Not that he intended to lose.

Conan gathered his muscles for a leap, took two more quick steps, and leaped for Crom

And jumped right off the platform into empty air.

Conan had time to hear Crom laugh and see him vanish as he fell toward the ground, so far below as to be invisible in the night. He also had time to remember that Crom was supposedly most fond of jesting and that this joke was certainly well played upon Conan ….

Kleg directed the bulk of his force to a position some distance away from the target tree. He handed the subleader a stubby candle protected from stray breezes by a thin, hollow crystal open at the top and bottom. The small light within was hidden by a cover of ray hide. “When the flame reaches the second ring, start your attack. Make a lot of noise, bang shields and spears together, start little fires, I care not, only be certain to attract a lot of attention. Wait until the flame touches the second ring so that we shall have time to reach our goal.”

“As you command, Prime.”

With his two strongest troopers, Kleg returned to the target, moving with great care. The whole of his force wore dark clothing over their already-dark skin, and the chances of being seen were slight, at least until they were into the tree itself.

The three put on their shark-hide-and-teeth gloves and boots and began to climb. The sharp teeth bit into the smooth bark like claws, allowing them to inch their way upward. Once they attained the lower branches, it would go much faster.

Nearing the place where a guard stood on a limb, Kleg had one of his troopers move around where he might be seen. Sure enough, the guard heard or saw something.

“Who’s there? Is that you, Jaywo? I am not amused at your antics!” This was one of the males, a gruff-voiced and older one. When no answer came, the guard grew suspicious. “Jaywo? Answer!” The guard lifted the short spear and pointed it at the climbing selkie.

But before the guard could thrust downward, Kleg reached the branch behind the guard. Kleg pulled his knife, a razoredged sliver of obsidian, and leaped upon the guard. A quick slash opened the guard’s throat before he could cry out a warning, and a shove launched the dying man into the air. The noise of his landing was louder than Kleg had thought, but not so loud as to draw notice from above.

“Hurry,” Kleg said. “We have but a short time.”

The two selkies obeyed their leader, and all three moved quickly along the thick limb, angling upward.

Conan awoke with his head threatening to burst this time, and found himself dangling in midair by a rope around his left ankle. Even as he realized this, somebody started to haul him up toward the platform above.

Conan lifted himself and caught the rope with his hands so that he was upright, and he began to climb. It was but the work of a moment to reach the platform.

On the other end of the rope stood Cheen, Tair, and two other men. Tair said, “By the great Green One, you are as heavy as that branch we moved.”

Conan was confused. “How came I to be down there? I recall seeing-seeing … Crom. We-he-I offered to wrestle him.”

Cheen said, “The potion sometimes causes disorientation. We all wear safe lines once the ceremony begins.” She pointed at her ankle.

Indeed, all of the people wore such ropes, at least the ones Conan could see. Those coils he had seen earlier. That was what they were for. Wise.

“Since you are a stranger to our ways, I put the line on for you while you slept.”

“I am in your debt,” Conan said.

“And was your visit with your god a good one?”

“It was … instructive,” Conan said. Aye. One had best be wary of challenging a god, be he real or an illusion. Especially one with a sense of humor as had Crom.

To his left, someone on the ground began yelling. A number of them, did Conan’s ears not lie, making quite a racket.

“What … ?” he began.

“Intruders in the grove!” Cheen said. “We are under attack. It must be the selkies again!”

“Selkies?”

“To arms!” Tair yelled. “To arms!”

Conan saw his sword, lying where he had left it. He hurried toward it. He did not know who or what selkies were, but if there was fighting to be done, he knew well how to swing a blade.

Kleg watched as the people on the platform, now below his position, began to stream toward the sound of his troops. There was one who did not seem to belong here, a large and bulky man with square-cut black hair and a large sword, but that was of no import now. The talisman he sought was only a few steps away, past two female guards armed with spears.

Kleg nodded to his two selkies. They each drew a pair of obsidian knives and rushed along the narrow branch one behind the other.

The two guards caught sight of the approaching selkies. One of them threw her spear; the weapon’s point pierced the throat of the first of his selkies. The trooper fell wordlessly, but even as he did, he threw both of his knives. His dying action served only to wound one of the guards, but it was enough so that the second selkie could get close enough to launch himself at the two women. The selkie and one of the women fell; she screamed all the way down.

The second woman managed to catch the limb with one hand, but her action was wasted, for Kleg arrived and stamped on her fingers with his toothed boot. She lost her grip and fell.

Kleg was at the entrance to the building and he used his blade to slice open the ceremonial knot binding the door closed.

Inside was a single chest, also bound with a special knot, and his blade made short work of it as well. He opened the chest and in the dim light saw the talisman.

It was a seed, hard and eye-shaped, the size of a small apple, warm and moist to his touch. He looked at it for a second, then jammed it into his belt pouch and hurried from the chamber. He had lost two selkies and he might lose others when they were attacked from the trees, but it did not matter. He had what he had come for!

As Kleg was letting down the ladder rope for his descent, he caught sight of a small form darting along a branch. He had been seen.

Quickly, Kleg climbed and hid behind an outcropping of foliage. After a moment, one of the males, a small one, scooted along the branch just in front of him. Kleg reached out and clouted the boy with the butt of his knife, knocking him senseless. He started to cut the boy’s throat, then stopped. No. He would take the boy along. There might be something to learn from interrogating him; besides, should they encounter the Pili on their return home, the boy might be made to serve other purposes. The Pili, he knew, were more than passing fond of eating human flesh. Perhaps they could buy safe passage with such a tidbit.

Kleg was very strong compared to a man, and shouldering the boy’s weight and climbing down the vine was not difficult in the least.

Once on the ground, he hurried to the prearranged meeting place where he would be joined by his troops.

He had accomplished his ordered task and he was jubilant. It had almost been too easy, but he was not one to tempt fate by dwelling on that thought.

Conan followed Tair, winding through the trees toward the sounds of battle. Several times the big Cimmerian almost lost his balance on some of the smaller limbs, but each time managed to recover in time to maintain the chase. Along their route other armed men and women joined the procession. After a final short sprint, they arrived at the tree edging the far end. of the grove.

The members of the besieged tree had dropped dozens of flaming balls of pitch, so that the scene below them was easily viewed. Conan saw perhaps a dozen shadowy shapes darting about, and their behavior seemed more than passing strange. They made much noise, the attackers, screaming and slinging stones and hurling spears upward, ‘out there seemed to be much ado about little. At first, those below looked to be men, but as Conan drew nearer, he was able to detect an inhuman aspect to their shape and movements. They were the right size and general shape, they had faces and hands and yelled in manlike tones, but they were somehow alien. Selkies, Tair had called them.

Tair slid to a stop on a broad limb and leaned forward, his spear held high and ready to cast. But he held the throw, hesitating.

Conan came to stand next to him. The air was heavy with the sharp stench of the sputtering pitch below. He looked at Tair.

“What are they doing?” Tair said. “Have they gone mad?”

Indeed, Conan thought. Those in the trees were in no danger from those capering below. In fact, several of the selkies lay sprawled on the ground, outlined in flickering yellow from the burning resin globs lying about, Tree Folk spears sprouting like stiff weeds from their corpses. “A diversion?” Conan offered.

“Aye.” Tair nodded. “But-from what are they diverting us?”

“Perhaps we should capture one and ask it.”

“A good idea, Conan.”

Tair moved to a coil of climbing vine and kicked it over the edge of the branch. He moved down the rope even before it completely stretched out, and Conan had never seen a man climb with such speed; a spider could have done it no better on his own line of webbing.

Conan immediately followed Tair down the cable of plaited vine.

If the selkies took any notice of Tair and Conan, they gave no sign, but as Conan neared two spans above the ground, the yelling attackers abruptly turned and squinted into the darkness.