A sense of urgency came on him as he stared at the sword. Seizing it, he half-ran back to the sunlight above.
As he took his first step onto the ground of the clearing he heaved a sigh of relief. And suddenly he felt as he had before coming there. All the strange sensations were gone. Almost against his will he looked over his shoulder. The great stone rested where it had originally lain, with no sign that it had ever been disturbed. Even the place where he had dug beside it was no longer there.
A shudder ran down his bones. Only the weight of the sword in his hand—an ordinary seeming, if ancient, blade—remained to convince him something had actually happened. He clung hard to sanity, and did not wonder about what that something had been.
“Flame Slayer,” Boudanecea said softly. Her hand stretched toward the sword, but did not touch it. “Symbol of our people, sword of our people’s heroes. It was forged by great wizards nearly three thousand years ago, as a weapon against the beasts of fire, for the evil of Acheron had launched a plague of them, creations of their vile sorceries, upon the world. Once those claws held two great rubies, the Eyes of Fire, and the sword could control the beasts as well as slay them. For it can slay the beast.”
“Why didn’t you tell me of it?” Eldran demanded. “Why did you bring me here unknowing, like a sheep to … .” His voice trailed off, for he did not like the thoughts that image brought back.
“It is part of the geas laid on the sword,” the priestess replied, “and on we who keep it. Without the aid of a priestess, no one can reach the sword. But no priestess may speak of the sword to any who does not hold it. Great care must be taken in choosing to bring a man to the blade, for as well as its uses against the beasts of fire it can be a locus of great power to one who knows the ways of such things.”
He hefted the sword curiously. “Power? Of what kind?”
“Do you seek power, Eldran?” she asked gravely. ‘‘Or do you seek to slay the beast?”
“The beast,” he growled, and she nodded approval.
“Good. I chose you when first I knew what the beast was. You are acknowledged the finest man in Brythunia with sword or horse or bow. It is said that you move through the forest, and the trees are unaware of your passage, that you can track the wind itself. Such a man will be needed to hunt down the beast of fire. And this you must remember. Do not allow the sword to leave your possession, even while you sleep, or you will never regain its hilt. Instead the sword will, Wiccana alone knows how, return to its place beneath the stone. Many times it has been lost, but always, when it is needed and the stone is lifted aside, the sword is there. That will not help you should you lose it, though, for the sword may be given to any man but once in his life.”
“I will not lose it,” Eldran said grimly. “It will do its work, and I will return it here myself. But now I must take it from here.” He began to move toward the trees, out of the sacred grove; his first nervousness was returning, as if this was not a place for men to remain long. “There is no time to waste, so I must choose the rest of my party quickly.”
“Rest?” Boudanecea exclaimed, halting him at the edge of the trees. “I intended you to go alone, one swift hunter to slay the—”
“No. There must be blood price for Aelric and Ellandune, and for any others who fell
to the hillmen. You know it must be so.”
“I know,” she sighed. “Your mother was like my own sister. I had hoped to hold her grandson one day, hoped for it many a day before this. Now I fear I never shall.”
“I will come back,” he said, and laughed suddenly, shocking himself. “You will get to see me wed yet, Boudanecea.”
She raised the mistletoe in benediction, and he bowed his head to accept it. But even as he did he was listing in his mind the men he would take into the mountains with him.
Chapter 9
Easing himself in his high-pommeled Zamoran saddle, Conan studied the country toward which the hunting party traveled. The flat, rolling hills through which they rode had changed little in the three days since his rescue of Jondra, except that the short grass was more abundant here and a brown tangle of thornbushes occasionally covered a stony slope. Ahead, though, the hills rose quickly higher, piling up on one another till they melded into the jagged, towering peaks of the Kezankians.
These were an arm of that range that stretched south and west along the border between Zamora and Brythunia. Conan knew of no game in them that would attract a hunter like Jondra save for the great spiral-horned sheep that lived amid the sheer cliffs in the heart of the range. In the heart of the mountain tribes, as well. He could not believe she meant to venture there.
The hunting party was a vile-tempered snake twisting its way among the low hills, avoiding the crests. Spearmen muttered oaths as their sandaled feet slipped on stony slopes, exchanging insults with mounted archers. Pack animals brayed and muleteers cursed. Ox drivers shouted and cracked their long whips as the oxen strained to pull the high-wheeled supply carts. The string of spare horses, raising an even taller plume of dust than all the rest of the party, was the only part of the column not adding to the tumult. Jondra rode before it all with Arvaneus and half a score other mounted hunters, oblivious of the noise behind them. It was no way to enter the country of the hill tribes. Conan was only thankful the dogs had been left behind in Shadizar.
Tamira, perched precariously atop lashed bundles of tenting on a lurching cart, waved to him, and Conan moved his horse up beside the cart. “You surprise me,” he said. “You have avoided me these three days past.”
“The Lady Jondra finds many labors for me,” she replied. Eying the carter, walking beside his oxen, she edged more to the rear of the high-wheeled vehicle. “Why did you follow me?” she whispered fiercely.
Conan smiled lazily. “Followed you? Perhaps I seek the country air. Invigorating rides are good for the lungs, I’m told.”
“Invigorating—” She spluttered indignantly. “Tell me the truth, Cimmerian! If you think to cut me out—”
‘‘Already I have told you my plans for you,” he broke in.
‘‘You … you are serious?” she said, a rising note of incredulity in her voice. As if fearing he might seize her on the instant, she wiggled to the far side of the cart and peered at him over the top of the rolled tenting.”The Lady Jondra requires that her handmaidens be chaste, Cimmerian. You may think that saving her life will gain you license, but she is a noble, and will forget her gratitude in a moment if you transgress her rules.”
“Then I will have to be careful, won’t I?” Conan said, letting his horse fall behind. She peered after him anxiously as the cart trundled on. Conan wore a satisfied smile.
He was sure she did not believe that he had no interest in Jondra’s jewels—she was no fool, or she could not have thieved as long as she had in Shadizar—but she would at least think his mind was divided between the gems and her. Most women, he had found, would believe that a man lusted after them on the slightest provocation. And if Tamira believed that, she would be nervously looking over her shoulder when she should be getting her hands on the gems.
A blackened hillside caught the big Cimmerian’s eye, off from the line of march, and he turned his horse aside from curiosity. Nothing was left of the thornbushes that had once covered the slope save charred stumps and ashes. It did not have the look of lightning strike, he thought, for the bolt would have struck the hilltop, not its side.