"Heavier than a man!" someone called, taking one hand from the rope to wipe his forehead.

"Either pull or let one who will take your place!" Seyganko snapped.

The man looked ready to quarrel, then seemed to think better of it and returned to his work.

If what rose from the pit that yawned where the hearthstone had stood was a man, he was larger than any Seyganko had ever seen, save only Aondo.

A closer look told the warrior that the newcomer's skin was pale under its coating of filth, his hair straight, and his eyes an eerie blue.

There were tales of lands to the north that were inhabited by such blue-eyed giants, a race considered human for all that. Here, no doubt, was such a one.

"Now will you tell us your name?" Seyganko ordered.

"When I have drunk, and you have brought up my woman," the giant replied.

"Your woman?" someone asked.

"You think I travel this forest with no comforts?" the man said, laughing. His teeth were very even and none of them filed into points.

"Also, if you want more of these-" he pointed at the fallen jewel "-they are down there."

Someone clutched at Seyganko's arm. It was Emwaya, staring at the jewel as if it were a cobra about to strike. Seyganko put a hand on her shoulder and turned her around so that the giant could not see her face. Then he waved to the men to lower the rope again and shouted to the nearest hut for women to bring water.

"What is it, woman?" he whispered when he was sure that none paid him and Emwaya any attention.

"Those are Fire Eyes of the Golden Serpents," Emwaya said. Her breath seemed to come quickly, as if she had been running. "The man says they have more of them."

"So? They are fine to look at, not as fine as you when oiled and lying on a pallet, but-"

"The Golden Serpents bred in Xuchotl. The tales of the city say the folk adorned themselves with the Fire Eyes."

"Then-"

"It could be that we have taken the destroyers of Xuchotl among us!"

"We have done no such thing," Seyganko protested.

"You think we can put them back in the hole and cover them up easily if you are wrong?"

Seyganko studied the man's heavily muscled limbs, his iron weapons, and the easy, alert way he stood. "No. If they are spirits, they would not go. If they are human, they might not go and it would be unlawful to force them."

"Then what-"

"Have your father summon the spirits to the dance-drum. At once, before these folk have spent a night among us. The man knows the True Tongue.

He may know our ways as well."

For the first time in Seyganko's memory, Emwaya obeyed one of his orders without hesitating, let alone disputing him. She ran off, for this was no message to be given to one who might take it to others than Dobanpu.

Then Seyganko stepped forward to greet the woman who rose from the pit.

She was even fairer than the man, with hair the color of fresh grain and a form that a G.o.ddess would not have disdained.

She had strange-looking footwear of leather slung about her neck, and from the way she unslung it, it was heavy. Then Seyganko and all of the fanda saw the Fire Eyes within the footwear and it made it seem like two tiny volcanoes bubbling with molten green stone.

The warriors sucked in their breath, and some gripped weapons. The woman bringing water did more; she halted in mid-stride and barely caught the water jug as it toppled from her head. The water itself made a puddle at her feet. She looked at it for a moment, then turned and ran.

The foreign woman looked ready to draw a weapon. The giant laid a hand on her bare shoulder and smiled thinly. "You kept your promise, up to the moment when the woman took flight. I'll keep mine." Then he turned to face Seyganko.

"I am Conan of Cimmeria, a free lance." He used the word for a warrior whose vows set him apart from any tribe or clan. It was an honorable status, and claiming it falsely was heavily punished.

"The woman is Valeria of the Red Brotherhood," Conan went on. "She is a free woman, oath-bound to me. She speaks not the True Tongue, save in her heart, which I know is good. We both ask for guest-friendship among the Ichiribu, and promise to aid them as far as it is in our power to do so."

Seyganko tried not to look at the Fire Eyes. If their power had been great enough to s.n.a.t.c.h those from Xuchotl...

It could be great enough to make the Ichiribu rulers of all the lands about the Lake of Death, even to the slopes of Thunder Mountain. It could also cast them down more completely than Chabano or the G.o.d-Men dreamed of.

Seyganko felt a chill, as of oncoming rain, when he next looked into Conan's blue eyes.

SEVEN.

Ryku had often wished to be an insect upon the wall of a conclave of the Speakers to the Living Wind, as the G.o.d-Men called themselves. Now he had all but achieved that wish. He had at last attained the self-command that let a man's presence pa.s.s unnoticed by the Speakers-or even, it was said, by the Living Wind itself.

He clung like an ape on a branch to a pinnacle of rock that forked just enough to offer a man-sized niche. One side of the fork supported his back, the other hid him from what lay below.

Eight of the Speakers were gathered in a circle around a great globe of something that could be no natural substance. The globe was as tall as a man and as clear as water, likewise seeming as hard as rock. Yet it was also light enough that two of the Speakers' servants had borne it on a litter into this cave and placed it where it now stood.

It said much about the power which the Speakers expected from the globe that the servants were mute and deaf slaves, used only for the most secret matters. Once, it was said, the Living Wind had given the Speakers spells that would silence tongues and block ears, but could also be removed when the need for them had pa.s.sed. Now that knowledge was lost, and hot knives and needles served in place of magic.

That meant there were fewer of the secret servants with each pa.s.sing year. The Kwanyi gave up a fair number of stout young men and women, some came from the lesser clans, others had been slaves and prisoners-all of them now in the service of the G.o.d-Men on Thunder Mountain. The clans expected that at least the free tribesfolk would be returned alive and healthy, and they were not generous even with slaves to be mutilated or slain. They had become less generous in such matters since Chabano became the Paramount Chief.

A First Speaker who could wield the ancient knowledge might gain a stronger friendship from Chabano. Or if the Paramount Chief continued to insist that he himself rule in the alliance of wizards and warriors, the First Speaker might cause the Kwanyi to turn to another to lead them.

A breeze stirred the dank air of the cave. Ryku felt it blow cool on his skin, drying the sweat on his brow. He knew that the Living Wind could be called out from its cave by sufficient Speakers' magic. It was not lawful that he know this, being only a Silent Brother, but he did, and he knew much else of the Speakers' arts. Law had always lain lightly upon Ryku, called Son of Nkube.

Ryku had never seen the calling of the Living Wind, however. He would not have known that the Wind would be called had one Speaker not been indiscreet. Even now he wondered that the Speakers had no spells by which to learn of the presence of spies and eavesdroppers.

Perhaps that, too, was magic so ancient that living men no longer commanded it. Or perhaps the Living Wind was enough alive that it could seek out enemies itself, and punish them.

That thought so disturbed Ryku that he nearly toppled from his perch, and sweat broke out all over him though the wind grew stronger with each moment. He should not be here-and when the Wind had come and gone, he would not be here.

The tunnel on the far side of the cave began to glow in the crimson and sapphire hues of the Living Wind. The light did not flicker; the swirling essence of the Living Wind was not yet in the tunnel. It could not be far, though.

Ryku licked lips suddenly as dry as month-old porridge and fought his way back to some measure of self-command.

The serving wench held out two wooden bowls to Valeria. One held salted fish, scaled, gutted, and beheaded as deftly as Valeria had ever seen in the captain's room of a waterfront tavern. The other held a pungent stew of more fish, boiled together with grain and nuts that she had never tasted. Behind the wench, a boy held a third bowl, of piping hot yams.

"No more, thank you," Valeria said. She used some of what little she knew of the Black Kingdoms' tongue. The girl seemed not to understand, only smiling and shaking her head, then holding out the bowls again.

Valeria frowned. Had the Ichiribu sent a witling to serve her and the Cimmerian? She tried patting her stomach, then holding her hands together well out in front of it. She wanted to tell the girl that she had eaten of their excellent fare nearly to the bursting point.

The girl smiled and almost pushed the bowls into Valeria's lap. Valeria raised a hand to push the girl away, then felt her wrist seized with a familiar iron grip.