Conan The Freelance (4 page)

Shadizar awaited.

Abruptly, Dimma became solid.

It came upon him unexpectedly as always, and it had been years since he’d worn the flesh, so for a brief moment, he was overwhelmed with the sensations that arrived. He felt a coolness on his skin, a heaviness as vapor froze into muscle and bone and coursing blood, and even the itch on one arm was welcome. He was a man again!

There in his throne room, Dimma shouted for his selkie guards. They came on the run. There was no way to predict how long it would last, his return to real substance, and he knew he wanted to experience as many pleasures of the flesh as possible, as soon as possible.

“Bring me food, anything with taste! Call the witch woman Seg to me, hurry! A chamber pot! My meridian needles! Move! Now!”

The selkies sprinted to comply. They had been drilled in this exercise dozens of times, so that not an instant would be lost should Dimma coalesce from his normal state into that which he had once been.

As his servants rushed to obey him, Dimma stood and stretched, feeling the crackle of cartilage in his joints, the fibers of muscles throughout his form. -Ah, this was bliss! His legs quivered at the unaccustomed weight upon them, his feet gloried in the coldness of the floor beneath them, he was aware of every inch of himself, of the air he breathed, the pull of the earth, the sounds of his heart pumping blood through his vessels. Gods, no man better appreciated his body than did Dimma in that moment.

A selkie rushed in carrying a tray piled high with steaming fish, a haunch of some denizen of the Sargasso, some greenish red fruit. For being the first to bring Dimma such a treat, the Mist Mage would reward the selkie with anything in his power to grant. Dimma grabbed at the food with both hands and savagely bit into whatever was topmost.

The scent of it nearly took his head off; the taste of fish brought tears it was so good.

The selkie stood holding the tray as Dimma grabbed at the contents and thrust hands full toward his mouth. The texture, the taste, the heat, the smell!

A second selkie arrived with Dimma’s meridian needles, and the Mist Mage turned from the food, grease running down his chin, and snatched the po needle up and jammed it into his wrist, interrupting the flow of see energy in the invisible channel, causing a flowering of hot pain that raced through him. Even to feel pain again was a joy!

Seg arrived. in the chamber, naked save for a hastily thrown-on cloak of sealskin. “To me, quickly!” Dimma ordered.

The witch started to shrug away the cloak.

“Leave it! I would touch it and you together.”

Seg complied. He had not been able to lie with her for twenty years, but she was no less beautiful now than she had been then: her skin was ivory, her hair a raven’s wing, her breasts and thighs and womanhood lush and inviting.

“Hurry,” he said. The last time, he had become mist while with Seg, before he could accomplish what he set out to do. “Hurry!” he said as he pulled her toward him. By all the Gods, she felt so good! They fell to the floor together.

Prudently, the selkies looked away.

Kleg stopped his troops a few hours away from the Tree Folk’s grove. They had passed a band of the Pili’s hunting beasts, those nasty upright reptiles, only a short way back, but the dogs had been few in number and had declined to offer the selkie group any resistance. Doubtless they rushed to report the passage to their masters, but by the time that happened, the selkies were long out of Pili territory.

One problem was solved, but the major one remained: how were they to obtain the talisman He Who Creates desired? It was, Kleg knew, the most holy of the Tree Folk’s relics, and they were not apt to part with it willingly. Kleg could have fielded an army ten times the number of the band he had brought, but he also knew that such an effort would have been pointless. The trees were too well fortified to storm by main force. The last time they tried a direct attack had been a disaster.

No, this called for guile, and he had only brought enough help to give the Tree Folk something upon which to focus while he worked out a means to obtain by subterfuge that which he must have. Kleg had not risen to be Prime due to a lack of wits. There had to be a way, and he would find it. Else he would no longer be Prime-or anything else. Such a spur provided him with excellent motivation. Achieve or die, that was the whole of it.

Kleg looked into the distant valley. He had several ideas; time, then, to winnow them and see what remained.

Cheen went off to make preparations for a ceremony scheduled for that night, leaving Conan in the company of her brothers, Tair and Hok. Their meeting had been amicable enough, though Conan was more than a little amused at the puffery of both the older and younger males.

“Ah, the giant barbarian of which I have heard,” Tair said. Standing next to him, Conan realized how small the man was; he barely reached the center of Conan’s chest in height; he was shorter than Cheen by half a handspan. “I myself am the largest among the Tree Folk, both in what you see and what is covered.” He dropped a hand to his breechcloth and winked at Conan.

“I shall leave you men to your lies,” Cheen said.

After she departed, Tair and Hok took Conan on a tour of the trees. Each was linked to at least one other, Tair said, by vine bridges, so that one could move from one side of the grove to the other without difficulty. He, Tair, had personally built the highest and best of the bridges, with, he admitted, some small help from insignificant others.

Conan grinned. The bragging was so overt that it was not offensive. Tair could not open his mouth without crowing, and the boy Hok strived mightily to emulate his older brother.

“You saw my spring dance?” the boy said. “Tair says I am the best of all my age and better than many who are winters older, and it .must be so for him to say it.”

Conan nodded and tried not to laugh.

As they wended their way through the branches and across the bridges, Conan saw that indeed this was an entire village amongst the boughs, lacking little, if anything, that a similar town on the ground would have. Here, leaf-eating creatures were penned in small corrals; there, small gardens grew from dirt carefully mounded on thick tree limbs; over there, a platform large enough to hold fifty people was built and centered around one of the trees. Only such giants of the forest would support so much activity, but the Tree Folk had adapted themselves to a life in the air quite well. In Cimmeria, Crom lived under a mountain. What manner of gods would a tree people worship?

The three came to a bridge upon which there were four men. A dead limb had apparently fallen from some height, landing upon the bridge, and the angle of it made passage difficult. The four men were attempting to remove the obstruction, without apparent success. The limb was as thick as Conan’s thigh and quite long, and the bridge was bent low under the weight.

“I am the strongest in the grove,” Tair said. “I shall show these weaklings how a man moves a twig.” He puffed up his chest and walked to where the four men were. There was a brief exchange, which became rather heated. Apparently the four did not wish for Tair to move the limb, thereby making them look ineffectual. Conan grinned.

After a moment, though, Tair squatted next to the branch and made as if to lift it. To his credit, he was able to move it slightly upward, but even as he sputtered and strained, it was apparent to Conan that the little man did not have the required strength.

Conan moved to where Tair grunted and heaved at the limb. “Heavy?” Conan said.

Tair desisted from his labor. “Indeed. If I cannot move it, no man among us can.”

“Let me try.”

“You are large, but size does not always mean strength.”

“True.”

“Still, you may try.”

Conan took a wide stance and gripped the limb. He strained as his mighty legs began to straighten, and he felt the weight and knew he could lift the branch, albeit not easily. The weight began to move, then Conan glanced at Tair, and saw the man’s worried frown. It came to Conan suddenly that if he managed the task, then Tair would no longer be the strongest man in the trees.

Conan considered it for a moment. He could move the branch and such would make him admired for his power by most, but Tair would suffer a loss of pride. And since such things were so highly valued among these men, Conan decided upon a second course of action.

The big Cimmerian relaxed and the branch settled. He saw a look of relief pass over Tair’s features. “It is very heavy,” Conan said.

Tair nodded.

“Those four could not move it, nor could you. And you have seen what I have done.”

Tair said, “Aye.”

“Perhaps the two of us can do what the four of them could not?”

The little man grinned. “Surely so.”

Tair moved to stand next to Conan, and the two of them heaved upward against the branch. Conan took care not to lift too much, so that Tair felt his share of the weight. The dead branch came up and flipped over the side of the bridge to crash to the ground far below. The bridge sprang upward at the loss of weight, but none on it had trouble maintaining his footing.

Tair turned to the four. “See what men with real strength can do? This is Conan from the top of the world, and he is my friend!”

Tair slapped Conan on the back, and they and Hok proceeded upon their explorations.

Conan knew he had made a friend and not an enemy by his action, and he felt good for having done so.

Thayla moved from her pile of furred cushions where her husband slept the sleep of exhaustion. She smiled to herself as she went to see the root witch for a potion that would ensure she did not conceive from her just-finished activity with Rayk. Now was not the time to be great with child. No, soon her ambition to be queen of much more than a patch of scrub desert would begin to realize itself, and she needed to be able to guide that endeavor without any complications. There was much out there in the world that she would enjoy; Thayla would not be content to lie back and miss all the pleasures that power had to offer her. She had developed a liking for the forbidden and she would indulge herself more in it. One pleasure in particular fascinated her.

When the occasional human was captured, it meant for the Pili a feast. There was no taste to compare with manflesh, properly prepared, and all the Pili relished such treats. But sometimes, before the captives were cooked and eaten, they were kept alive for a time, to be fattened or flavored by special diets. And as queen, Thayla had access to these captives.

The idea at first had repelled her, but over time, she came to see certain desires as being her right. Rayk did not know, of course; only few of her trusted servants knew, but thrice, Thayla had taken her pleasure with human men in the same way she had just taken it with her husband. Such a thing was forbidden by Pili law, but she was, after all, queen, and in her mind, above the laws. Human men were different from Pili males, they smelled differently, acted differently, and they were … larger in certain areas. Considerably so. Her first encounter with an aroused man had amazed her. She had not thought it possible to manage him, but she had, and she had found the sensation more pleasurable than ever it had been with Rayk, or any of the other Pili she sometimes took as lovers.

Alas, human captives were few and far between. Most of that race either did not know the Pili existed, or they had sense enough to avoid Pili territory. But if the Pili could grow in numbers, if they could find a place wherein they would not be bothered until they could become strong again, why, then, they could venture forth to ensnare unwary humans with more frequency. It would please her greatly should this come to pass, and she was just the person to manipulate it into happening. Rayk was strong and brutal, but he was a fool; she was the power behind him, and with sufficient prodding, he would do as she wished. He always had, and she had no intention of being thwarted in this desire.

As she approached the root witch’s cave, Thayla smiled again. Life was easy for those who knew how to live it.

Night stole into the valley like a master thief and draped her ebon and starry cloak over the giant trees. The sounds of chittering birds and insects formed a shifting web in the dark foliage, and torches guttered in their holders around the large platform Conan had seen earlier.

Cheen had invited him to the ceremony-there was to be a feast and plenty of wine-and Conan, never one to turn down a celebration, agreed to attend. He could return to his journey in the morning.

Only the leaders of each tree and their spouses would be allowed to partake of the potion Cheen had created this time, she told Conan. Eventually all of the Tree Folk would have their chance, but due to the scarcity of the ingredients, only small numbers could enjoy the Seeings at each ceremony.

When they arrived at the platform, at least thirty or forty people were already there, with others occupying a smaller platform nearby. Some of the celebrants sang, low and droning melodies, accompanied by musicians on drums and with wooden flutes. Conan noticed a number of coils of thin rope stacked near one edge of the platform, but before he could ask about these, Cheen said, “I must go to honor my mother. Will you be all right alone?”

Conan laughed. “The day a Cimmerian cannot manage to survive a friendly celebration will be the day the sun ceases to shine.”

With Cheen vanished into the crowd, Conan wandered to a large table replete with food and drink. He sampled various roasted meats, tasted several wines, and decided that the Tree Folk were adept at both cooking and vintnery.

There was a large wooden bowl of dark red wine in the center of the table that was as good as any Conan had ever had. He dipped one of the wooden cups with the ornately carved handles into the wine for a second serving, and decided that there certainly must be worse places for a man to spend his time than in these trees.

A short while later, Cheen returned to find Conan. He was feeling extraordinarily good, and he grinned widely at her.

“The ceremony is about to begin,” she said. “Are you certain you do not wish to partake?”