in her tone.
For the barest moment Tamira hesitated, giving Conan a well-honed look, then she darted for the tent.
Arvaneus’ face was still a mask of malignity, but Conan neither knew the reason nor cared. All that mattered was that he would now surely reach the necklace and tiara before the young woman thief. That and nothing more. With a rasping chuckle he tilted up the waterskin and drank deeply.
Chapter 8
The tall, gray-eyed young man kicked his horse into a trot as the lay of the country told him he neared his village. The last wisps of morning fog lingered among the towering forest oaks, as it often did in this part of Brythunia, not far from the Kezankian Mountains. Then the village itself came in view. A few low, thatch-roofed houses of stone, those of the village’s wealthiest men, were dotted among the wattle structures that clustered around two dirt streets that lay at right angles to each other.
People crowded the street as he rode into the village. “Eldran!” they shouted, and dogs ran beside his horse, adding their barking to the uproar. “You have come! Boudanecea said you would!” The men were dressed as he, their tunics embroidered at the neck, with cross-gaitered fur leggings that rose to the knee. The women’s dresses were longer versions of the tunics, but in a profusion of scarlets and yellows and blues where the men’s were brown and gray, and embroidered at hem and at the ends of the sleeves as well.
“Of course I’ve come,” he said as he dismounted. “Why should I not?” They gathered about him, each trying to get close. He noticed that every man wore a sword, though few did in the normal course of days, and many leaned on spears and carried their round shields of linden wood rimmed with iron. “What has happened here? What has the priestess to do with this?” A tumult answered him, voices tumbling over each other like brook water over stones.
“ … Burned the farmsteads … .”
‘‘ … Men dead, women dead, animals dead … .”
‘‘ … Some eaten … .”
‘‘ … Devil beast … .”
“ … Went to hunt it … .”
‘‘ … Ellandune … .”
‘‘ … All dead save Godtan … .”
“Hold!” Eldran cried. “I cannot hear you all. Who spoke of Ellandune? Is my brother well?”
Silence fell, save for the shuffling of feet. No one would meet his eyes. A murmur spread from the rear of the crowd, and they parted for the passage of a tall woman with a face serene and ageless. Her hair, the black streaked with gray, hung to her ankles and was bound loosely back with a white linen band. Her dress was of pristine linen as well, and the embroideries were of the leaves and berries of the mistletoe. A small golden sickle hung at her belt. She could walk anywhere in Brythunia and the poorest man in the land would not touch that sickle, nor the most violent raise a finger against her.
Eldran’s clear gray eyes were troubled as they met hers of dark brown. “Will you tell me, Boudanecea? What has happened to Ellandune?”
“Come with me, Eldran.” The priestess took his arm in a strong grasp.”Walk with me, and I will tell you what I can.”
He let her lead him away, and none of the rest followed other than with sympathetic eyes that made fear rise in him. In silence they walked slowly down the dusty street. He kept a rein on his impatience, for he knew of old she would not be rushed.
Before the gray stone house where she lived, Boudanecea drew him to a halt. “Go in, Eldran. See Godtan. Speak with him. Then I will tell you.”
Eldran hesitated, then pushed open the door of pale polished wood. A short, slight woman met him inside, dressed like Boudanecea, but with her dark, shiny hair braided in tight spirals about her head as a sign that she was still an acolyte.
“Godtan,” was all he could say. What of Ellandune, he wanted to shout, but he had begun to fear the answer.
The acolyte silently drew aside a red woolen door-hanging and motioned him to enter the room. A stomach-wrenching melding of smells drifted out. Medicinal herbs and poultices. Burned meat. Rotting meat. He swallowed and ducked through. She let the hanging fall behind him.
It was a simple room, with a well-swept floor of smooth wooden planks and a single window, its curtains pulled back to admit light. A table with a glazed pottery basin and pitcher stood beside the bed on which lay the naked shape of a man. Or what had once been a man. The right side of his face was burned away, a fringe of gray hair bordering what remained. From the shoulder to the knee his right side was a mass of charred flesh, crimson showing through cracks in the black. There were no fingers on the twisted stick that had once been his right arm. Eldran remembered that right arm well, for it had taught him the sword.
“Godtan.” The name caught in his throat. “Godtan, it is I, Eldran.”
The horribly burned man’s remaining eye flickered weakly open, swiveled toward him. Eldran groaned at the madness in it.
“We followed,” Godtan said, his voice a gurgling croak. ‘‘Into—the mountains. Kill it. We were—going to—. We didn’t—know. The colors—of it. Beau—tiful. Beautiful—like death. Scales—turned—our arrows—like straws. Spears wouldn’t—. Its breath—is fire!”
That mad eye bulged frantically, and Eldran said, “Rest, Godtan. Rest, and I’ll—”
“No!” The word came from that twisted mouth with insistence. “No rest! We—fled it. Had to. Hillmen—found us. Took Aelric. Took—Ellandune. Thought—I was—dead. Fooled them.” Godtan gave a rasping bark; Eldran realized with a shiver that it was meant to be laughter. ‘‘One—of us—had to—bring word—what happened. I—had to.” His one eye swiveled to Eldran’s face, and for a moment the madness was replaced by bewilderment and pain. ‘‘Forgive—me. I—did not—mean—to leave him. Forgive—Eldran.”
“I forgive you,” Eldran said softly. “And I thank you for returning with word of what happened. You are still the best man of us all.”