Conan The Freelance (3 page)

There at the bottom of the tree was a skin the size of a shield stretched tightly over what seemed a hollow. Cheen used the butt end of her spear to rap the skin, which boomed like a drum. She tapped on the tree drum for a time, a rhythmic musical pattern. A few moments after she finished her drumming, something dropped from the lower branches toward them.

Instantly Conan drew his sword and made ready to cut the falling mass.

“Hold,” Cheen said. “There is no danger.”

Indeed Conan saw this even as she spoke. What fell from above was a kind of ladder. Conan moved closer to examine it and saw that it was plaited from strands of flexible vine, a thick rope with hollow knots that formed foot and handholds. He sheathed his blade.

“What if some attacker came and pounded up your drum?”

“Each of the Tree Folk has his or her own song,” she said. “No two are alike. The watch knows them all. A strange song would likely draw a spear or shower of arrows.”

Conan nodded. Attacking those who lived in the trees would be a difficult task. A dozen men with axes might labor a day to chop down a single tree, and a rain of arrows, spears, or even rocks would make such a chore dangerous and unpleasant at best. The lack of undergrowth would keep a fire from being a threat to those above, and it would take a large fire indeed to light one of the trunks. Conan took all this in with a practiced, albeit young military eye. He would not wish to lead the army of men who would make war on these Tree Folk.

“Shall we go up?” Cheen asked.

“After you,” Conan said.

His courtesy was rewarded when he looked up as Cheen climbed a span above him. Her legs were not unpleasant to look upon.

As they left the vine rope, a short, stout woman greeted Cheen. This was the watch, and she was armed with a spear and an obsidian dagger as long as Conan’s forearm. A bow and a quiverful of arrows leaned against the main trunk nearby, and a pile of rocks each as big as a man’s head was held in place by vines next to the bow. As Conan had surmised earlier, coming up uninvited might be a perilous adventure.

Even a normal man would have little trouble balancing upon the thick branch upon which Conan followed Cheen. It was as wide as Conan’s shoulders and the smooth bark had been shaved so that it was flat under his bare feet. He had removed his sandals and hung them over one shoulder for the climb and he saw no need to replace them.

Ahead loomed a large structure. This had been built from a platform on the branch upon which Conan now trod, and the edifice extended upward to connect to several other limbs. Conan noticed that the house was structured of the same wood that formed the giant tree, various-sized branches lashed together with vines like the one they’d ascended on. It was obviously of human construction, but looked like nothing so much as a giant wasp nest or beehive. Standing at the doorway to the building were two women dressed similarly to Cheen. Each woman was as well thewed as the medicine woman, and each held a short spear that rested its butt upon the wooden platform that formed a stoop to the house.

More women. Where were the men?

The guards nodded at Cheen, and she entered the house. Conan followed her. Holes in the roof provided sufficient light so that the Cimmerian could see. The room bore a long, low pallet against one wall and a carved chair in the center that faced a window opposite the door. Seated in the chair was an old woman, hair like snow, face eroded by time and sun. She wore a multihued green cloak wrapped about her body, the bright dyes almost luminous in the dim light. Her arms were bare, and though she was old, the lines of her arms and shoulders were deeply etched with tight muscle.

“Ho, Vares!” Cheen called.

The old woman turned away from her window and smiled at Cheen. “Ho, Cheen! It went well, your quest?”

Cheen lifted the bag containing the mushrooms she had shown Conan. “Yes, mistress. We can call the gods once again.”

Vares nodded. “This is good. I had thought the next time I saw them might be after crossing the Gray Lands.” She looked pointedly at Conan. “You have brought us a guest?”

“Aye, mistress. This is Conan of Cimmeria. When I was beset by the Pili’s dogs at Donar Pass, he came to my aid.”

The old woman smiled. “Accept my gratitude, Conan of Cimmeria. I should have hated to lose my eldest daughter.”

“It was a mutual effort,” Conan said.

Vares laughed. “What is this? A man who does not brag?”

Conan looked at Cheen, one eyebrow raised in question.

Cheen said, “Among our people, the men are great … storytellers. Sometimes they embroider their tales with, ah, exaggerations.”

“I have seen no men here,” Conan said. This was perhaps blunt, but in Cimmeria, no one was faulted for directness. In some of the more so-called civilized lands through which he had traveled, it seemed that lying was a virtue, a thing that Conan could not understand.

“Ah. Come and look, then,” Vares said. “Tair is teaching Hok the spring dance.” She pointed toward the uncovered window.

Conan moved to look.

Leading away from Vares’s house was a branch that thinned considerably after only a short distance. The limbs of the next tree intertwined with those of the one in which Conan stood, passing above and below; indeed, there was within his sight a virtual forest of arm-and leg-thick branches, mostly bare of leaves.

Running at speed along one of the branches was a short, well-made man dressed only in a sea green breechcloth. He ran as if the branch were as wide as a town road, and he laughed as he moved. Behind him a few paces, also running, was a boy. Conan guessed the boy’s age at perhaps twelve winters, and he, too, was dressed in no more than a simple wrap of cloth about his loins.

Conan watched, intrigued, as the man leaped high into the air and came down near the end of the tree limb. That far out, the branch was very thin indeed, and it bent under the man’s weight. Surely he would fall … ?

But-no. The bent branch recoiled, and the man flew upward into the air, propelled by the springy wood, so that he soared briefly like a bird. Still rising, he tucked himself into a ball and somersaulted, flipping forward much like an acrobat Conan had seen at a fair as a boy.

The man opened from his tuck and extended his arms and hands. He caught a tree limb fully three spans higher than the one from which he had leaped, and spun around it. All of a single move, he twirled, his legs up and in a heartbeat hung head down by the backs of his knees, body outstretched, arms extended again.

Under the man, the boy sprang, using the limb for thrust. He, too, tucked into a tight ball and spun, turning once, twice, snapping open, arms outstretched. The man and boy met sharply, palms on each other’s wrists, and swung back and forth for a second until the man flexed and tossed the boy up and overhead to perch lightly on the limb. After a moment, the man pulled himself up to sit next to the boy.

“The man is Tair,” Cheen said, “the boy Hok. My mother’s second child and her youngest.”

“Your brothers,” Conan said.

“Aye.”

“A dangerous game they play. What if Tair should miss catching the boy?”

“There are many branches between there and the ground,” Cheen said, shrugging. “Hok would likely find one.”

“And if he did not?”

“Life is full of risks, is it not?”

Conan nodded. “Aye.” Not every Cimmerian reached adulthood, either. A hardy people, these.

“Come,” Cheen said, “you have shared your food and drink with me, it is only right that I offer you the hospitality our poor tree can provide.

Kleg did not like being so far away from water, and he especially did not like this particular kind of land, the dry and sandy region men called desert. True, he and his brothers had only a short stretch of the desert to cross, a finger of the land belonging to the lizards. Were the Pili to discover Kleg and his troop, they would no doubt be unhappy to the point of a killing attack, but this strip of their territory was far from the main concentration of the foul-smelling reptiles and likely to be unnoticed. And if not, well, too bad. He Who Creates had ordered that Kleg go to the forest folk’s domain by the fastest route; a detour to avoid all the Pili’s lands would add two days to the journey. He Who Creates was not to be disobeyed. Those who dared to trifle with Him usually lived only just long enough to regret it.

Kleg sat perched uncomfortably upon the back of the scrat, a stupid, mean-spirited beast with four thick stumpy legs, a hide like moss-covered rock, and a tendency to bite anything it could reach. Half again Kleg’s own height, they were grass-eaters, the scrats, and would spend all their time feeding if allowed to do so; they could, however, store vast quanties of fat in the big humps they carried over their hindquarters, and could go weeks without eating or drinking. Would that He Who Creates had given the packbeasts a better disposition and a body odor other than that of week-old dead fish.

Kleg turned to look at his troop. A score of his brother selkies followed his lead, many on scrats, some on foot, and all looking as uncomfortable in this barren, dry land as Kleg himself felt. He would prefer to be in the cool waters of home, his body shifted into the smooth and powerful form that was his natural shape. Ah, to be long and sinuous with rows of sharp teeth to rend his prey, his fins cutting powerfully through the water, feeding, then chasing the willing females for other pleasures ….

You dream, Kleg. He Who Creates did not make you for your pleasure, but to serve. Maybe once you fetch this thing He desires, you may be allowed some measure of relaxation; until then, best you take care of your task. Recall what happens to those who fail Him.

Kleg shuddered at the memory of the last Prime Brother. He Who Creates had set the Prime to some chore and the Prime had failed. When He Who Creates had finished with the Prime, the bits and pieces that remained had been fed to the scavengers. Horribly, even those scraps had seemed aware, wanting to scream, right up until they were consumed.

No, dream of swimming the dark waters after you achieve your goal, Kleg. Not before.

In the deep rock of the Pili’s main cave, Rayk hissed at Thayla, his queen and mate. “Witch! What would you have of me?”

The Queen of the Pili reclined on a mound of furred cushions, her pale blue skin bare save for a gossamer gown of translucent red. Long ago, the Pili had been scaled, but after a million years of change, they could pass for men in dim light. They had no hair, their ears were somewhat smaller, but their blood was warm and they bore their young alive and nursed them as did mammals. Thayla’s shape was that of a woman, her hips wide, her breasts heavy and full, and the thinness of her lips and the catlike pupils of her eyes did not detract from her exotic beauty.

Thayla smiled. “Why, I would have you do nothing, husband and King. The same as you always do.” She watched ,him fume, his anger growing. Thayla knew precisely how to enrage Rayk. He was the strongest of the Pili, the fastest runner, without fear when facing an enemy, but in her hands, he was as a child.

“Thayla-“

“No, husband, you are right. The Tree Folk are strong in their high perches. Of course, had we the Talisman of the Forest, we, too, could fill our desert with lush growth and no longer have to scratch out a bare living.”

“You lie on your cushions wrapped in the finest silks and talk about scratching out a bare living?”

“I am queen,” she said. “Luxury is my right. Others of us are not so fortunate.”

“And they would be less fortunate still were I to have them slaughtered under the big trees for your ambition.”

“Surely there must be another way.”

“Surely there must, but no Pili has discovered it in a thousand years.”

“And would not the bards sing your glory forever were you the one to devise such a way?”

He stood there staring at the tapestry woven by the Seventh Queen of the Pili more than twelve centuries past. The cloth painting showed the legendary Stak, the First King, leading a great army of Pili against humans in the Battle of Aranza. The bards still sang of the battle, in which men were driven from the Pili kingdom. Alas, that was long ago, and the numbers of the Pili had decreased even as those of men had grown. Now, only a few hundred of the Pili remained.

“Aye,” Rayk finally said. “With such a magical device, we could move to the middle of the Great Desert, far from the reach of men, and regain our former strength.”

“Well, then,” Thayla said, “perhaps we can devise such a plan together, you and L”

She shifted her legs, allowing the red silk to fall away, revealing her body to Reyk. She smiled, and this one was of invitation and not scorn.

Reyk took a deep breath and released it, then moved toward her. “Perhaps,” he said. His voice was little more than a whisper when he said, “You are a Paphian witch.”

She laughed. “Aye, husband, come to your whore.”

There was nothing humble about the feast spread before Conan. Upon a platform higher in the tree lay fruits, meats, a kind of bread, cheeses, and several wooden jars of wine. Steam rose from the cooked foods, and as Conan ate, he remarked on this to Cheen. “I would think fire a danger here.”

“We floor our fireplaces with stone, as do ground dwellers. The wood of our trees is living, and therefore less likely to burn than the dead and dry timbers used for houses upon the earth.”

Conan chewed on a bite of bread, then washed it down with a gulp of red wine. That made sense. “So, your people stay in the trees all the time?”

“Only most of the time. It is a rite of passage among us to descend to the ground for testing. And there are certain plants for medicines, materials such as stone and so forth, that must be gathered. Most of what we need is provided by the trees. We are content with our lot.”

“How did these giant trees come to be?”

Cheen looked away, then back at Conan. “They have always been here,” she said.

Something changed in her voice as she said this, and Conan knew she was lying. Some secret connected to the tree dwellers’ homes. Ah, well. It was not his business. He would eat and rest and be on his way.