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night was young, and in an hour or two, they could be ready to move.
    Conan awoke suddenly. His head hurt, and he felt muzzy. He sat up. What had happened … ?
    Ah. He recalled. That dark wine, the potion …
    He observed his surroundings. He was on the platform, and there were perhaps two dozen of the Tree Folk lying asleep or sitting groggily around him; night still held sway, and Conan could not say how long he had slept. Apparently Cheen’s potion did not affect Cimmerians in the same manner as it did her people. Just as well
    “Ho, Conan!” The voice was loud, impossibly deep, vibrant with power, alive with force.
    Conan turned.
    Standing on the end of the platform was a giant of a man, half again Conan’s height, thickly muscled, clad in fur boots and a wolfskin codpiece, his bare chest gleaming with oil in the flickering light of the dimming torches. The man had a full beard, his teeth shining whitely in a huge smile, and upon his dark red hair he wore an ornate bronze helmet bearing a pair of long and curved horns. Here was a warrior, no doubt of it, a man to inspire awe.
    Conan got to his feet. “Who calls Conan?”
    The giant laughed. “Do you not recognize me?”
    Conan felt a fluttery sensation in his bowels, as if something alive were being kept captive there and had suddenly grown most unhappy about it. Surely it could not be? In that moment, however, he felt certain that indeed it was.
    “Crom,” he said, his voice very soft.
    “In the flesh, boy. Come to see what I have made.”
    Conan licked suddenly dry lips. One did not meet a god every day. “What would you have of me?”
    “Why, nothing, boy. You have nothing to offer. You are a weakling.”
    Anger welled in Conan, and the dullness in his smoldering blue eyes vanished, growing preternaturally sharp. “No man calls Conan a weakling!”
    “No man has, fool.”
    Conan removed his sword and sheath from his belt and set it upon the platform.
    “What think you are doing now?” Crom asked.
    Conan flexed his hands, rolled his shoulders to loosen them, and took a step forward. “I would show you that you are in error,” Conan said.
    Crom laughed again. “You would grapple with me? You would dare wrestle a god?”
    “Aye. There is little a Cimmerian will not dare.”
    “I think perhaps I gave you too much bravery and not enough wits.”
    “Perhaps.” Conan continued stalking toward the giant.
    “Very well, then, Conan of Fooleria. Come and pit your strength against mine.”
    Conan nodded. Certainly there were worse ways to die than wrestling with your god; there could hardly be a harder challenge. Not that he intended to lose.
    Conan gathered his muscles for a leap, took two more quick steps, and leaped for Crom
    And jumped right off the platform into empty air.
    Conan had time to hear Crom laugh and see him vanish as he fell toward the ground, so far below as to be invisible in the night. He also had time to remember that Crom was supposedly most fond of jesting and that this joke was certainly well played upon Conan ….
    Kleg directed the bulk of his force to a position some distance away from the target tree. He handed the subleader a stubby candle protected from stray breezes by a thin, hollow crystal open at the top and bottom. The small light within was hidden by a cover of ray hide. “When the flame reaches the second ring, start your attack. Make a lot of noise, bang shields and spears together, start little fires, I care not, only be certain to attract a lot of attention. Wait until the flame touches the second ring so that we shall have time to reach our goal.”
    “As you command, Prime.”
    With his two strongest troopers, Kleg returned to the target, moving with great care. The whole of his force wore dark clothing over their already-dark skin, and the chances of being seen were slight, at least until they were into the tree itself.
    The three put on their shark-hide-and-teeth gloves and boots and began to climb. The sharp