A spear thrust past Conan's ribs, nearly gouging his side, and he whirled again to chop the spear-shaft in two with his sword. Then he charged the man like a bull, driving the shield back against his opponent's chest until the man lowered it to see clearly. The man's last sight was of Conan's broadsword descending to split his headdress, hair, and skull.

Valeria cut down another opponent, and the last of the Kwanyi warriors took only a brief look at the odds they faced after the death of their friends before fleeing into the night. Conan swung his shield hard into the back of one man holding Emwaya and heard the spine crack. Valeria leaped on the other, jerked his head back with fingers twined in his hair, and slashed his throat.

Emwaya stood free, clasping her arms across her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her eyes on the ground for a moment. Then she seemed to shrug a great weight from her shoulders.

"Father?"

Dobanpu strode up and put out a hand to touch his daughter as if not quite believing she was real. She gripped the hand and smiled.

"I am well, I think."

"Time to be sure later," Dobanpu said. He gripped his amulet with one hand and his belt pouch with the other. "The G.o.d-Men may not be what they were. I have sensed quarrels that perhaps have weakened them. But if they still command the Living Wind-"

Kwanyi war cries interrupted him. Conan threw down the shield, wiped his sword on it, and drew his dagger.

"The Living Wind can wait. Someone close at hand still commands warriors!" He pushed Emwaya into her father's arms, then called to Valeria.

"Find a path to the sh.o.r.e and see if we can draw back toward it. This place is worthless now. We want our backs to the water!"

Fleet-footed as ever, Valeria vanished into the night. From the jungle beyond, Kwanyi warriors came bursting through the undergrowth.

Wobeku led the warriors attacking the enemy who had sprung from the earth. Not only his honor drove him forward to that place; he knew that if the Kwanyi gained the victory with him at their head, he would have a warrior's name among them.

Had he run faster, he might have plunged among the Ichiribu before they could order their ranks. He would then have died but would have won with his life sufficient time for his comrades to strike the scattered enemy. Then not even the Cimmerian's swiftness, skill, and steel might have saved them.

Wobeku instead brought his men to the field as Chabano had taught. He put them into their proper line before he ordered the advance, and only darted out ahead of it at the last moment.

Behind him, the Kwanyi line came out of the trees somewhat disordered by encounters with the underbrush. The first volley of light spears went mostly astray. One spear even gouged Wobeku's leg. He howled out his fury at that fool in a war cry and let the Kwanyi come up with him.

A swung stone cracked against his shield. Wobeku stepped forward and ducked his head. This time, the stone-swinger looped the line around the top of Wobeku's shield and jerked. Wobeku did not let go of the shield. Instead, he let himself be drawn forward, then leaped and lunged. The stone-swinger died with Wobeku's spear in his belly.

"Yaygo!" Wobeku cried, the ritual proclamation of a man's first kill of a battle.

The next moment, someone nearly won the right to cry that over him. The Kwanyi at his right suddenly vanished, fallen into the crack in the earth. An Ichiribu warrior darted forward in his place, locking shields with Wobeku and thrusting desperately over, under, and around.

Wobeku took two minor flesh wounds before he was able to riposte with his own spear. It gashed the Ichiribu's belly, but not mortally. The man did not flinch from the pain, either. He kept on thrusting, less skillfully with each pa.s.sing moment, but with no diminished courage.

This was the kind of battle that to Wobeku showed Chabano to be a wise chief. When engaged in an each-man-for-himself fight, Wobeku had often been unable to press home for the kill. He had feared, with reason, for his flanks and rear. In the Kwanyi shield-line, his flanks were safe, even in such a small battle as this. Had there been the usual second line behind him, his back would also have been guarded.

Wobeku thrust again-and nearly stumbled as his thrust encountered empty air. He stared at the s.p.a.ce where his opponent had been, then saw other Kwanyi doing the same. As if by magic, the Ichiribu had vanished.

Before the Kwanyi sprawled only a few bodies and fallen weapons, barely half of them Ichiribu.

Chabano's warriors lived, with no one to fight. Wobeku waved his great spear, ordering a few men over to the crack in the ground to see what might lie within. They found nothing, save footprints that made it plain how the Ichiribu had come.

Come by magic? And if come by magic, had they vanished by the same way?

Wobeku knelt and began searching the ground with a hunter's skills. In the dark it was not easy, but he knew that torches would only give any lurking Ichiribu a mark.

His nightsight at last pierced the darkness, showing footprints leading off toward the sh.o.r.e. There were many of them, and some showed the heel scarifications of Ichiribu clans.

Wobeku called the best trackers forward, gave them fresh spears, and sent them on. Their orders: to find where the Ichiribu had gone and send word back, but to refrain from fighting them. A messenger also ran back to the drummers, and soon the drums began talking again.

Whatever the Ichiribu had done below the earth, it was done. Now they likely intended to hold the sh.o.r.e for their oncoming comrades. Wobeku intended to show the enemy band that it needed more than its back to the sh.o.r.e for safety.

A retreat at night over unknown ground was the hardest of all maneuvers in war, or so Conan had heard claimed by those who had earned the right to speak. He had also been both warrior and captain in enough such affairs to believe this the truth.

With ill-ordered men, it was said to be impossible, but the Ichiribu were not ill-ordered. Every man still on his feet when they broke off the battle reached the sh.o.r.e. Some were stumbling, two were carried by comrades, but all were present.

Of warriors fit to fight, however, Conan saw that he had barely twenty.

The battle with the Golden Serpent had taken its toll even before the Kwanyi had struck. Many Kwanyi had also surely died, but nevertheless, he did not doubt that his band faced heavy odds.

The plan for this battle called for the Ichiribu to command the trails to the sh.o.r.e so that they might ambush Chabano's warriors as they hurled themselves into battle. Coming to the sh.o.r.e in disarray, Chabano's men would lack time to form their potent shield-line.

Plans, Conan sometimes thought, were for G.o.ds, priests, and clerks.

Warriors had to make do with luck and a keen edge on their blades.

A glance lakeward encouraged the Cimmerian. With torches blazing, the Ichiribu canoes were racing toward the sh.o.r.e. They would be visible now all across the Kwanyi land, even as far as to Thunder Mountain. The Kwanyi would know what they faced, but that knowledge might drive them to haste.

Haste in war was a two-edged sword. Be there first, and victory might be yours. Be there first but disordered or weak, and your vanguard at least was men thrown away.

A sc.r.a.ping sound made Conan whirl, sword ready to slash at the darkness. A shape took form out of that darkness, and Conan lowered his blade.

"Seyganko. Well met."

"As are you, Cimmerian. How fares Emwaya?"

Conan smiled. The war leader of the Ichiribu would ask for his woman first. The Cimmerian wondered if he himself would have such a woman again. There had not been one such since Belit-and Valeria was not the sort to fill those shoes!

"Weary, but well. Valeria guards her. How came you here without our seeing you?"

"The canoes with me doused our torches and paddled in silence, I have brought thirty warriors. Surprise is worth much."

So it was, but the hundreds of other warriors now doubtless paddling in circles while waiting for Seyganko's signal were also worth something.

Did Seyganko seek surprise or glory-glory bought with the Cimmerian's blood?

No good ever came of a quarrel between chiefs on the verge of a battle to the death. Conan held his tongue, knowing that if Seyganko had been overbold, the young chief would also not see another sunrise.

"Good. Go ask Dobanpu how far forward it is wise for them to come."

"Dobanpu?"

"Also weary, but well. He fears that the G.o.ds of Thunder Mountain may be taking a hand in matters tonight. Best not send your men beyond his protection."

Seyganko clearly wanted to know more, but Conan urged him off to the Spirit-Speaker, who could make more sense in relating the battle underground than could the Cimmerian. Conan himself found a stump not too rotten to support his weight and sat down to clean his steel.

It was not in nature for this lull to last. His band had thrown down a challenge to both men and more than men, and both sorts of foe would be coming on in strength before the night was much older. Conan knew, however, that no man was ever the worse for facing any foe with a clean sword.

SEVENTEEN.