Conan the Savage by Leonard Carpenter Page A

mutterers and fidgeters; most of all, he regarded the sweating, apprehensive face of the stumble-footed fool they chose to call Amulf the Good.
    “Your divinity,” the farm oaf ventured at last, “I will have to speak for my stepdaughter. Since the day her parents were slain, she has not uttered—”
    “Tamsin,” a firm, clear voice interrupted him. “Record the name Tamsin.”
    It was the girl. As she spoke, she extended her hand submissively over the altar. From the stir and murmur in the thatch-covered gallery, the priest could guess that something remarkable had happened. An instant later, he understood; she had been playing mute all these years, and had handed him a miracle.
    “Tamsin—” he affected a weighty pause “—do you swear eternal obedience to the High God Amalias?” Epiminophas added the question as a further prod, to remove any doubt in the onlookers’ minds as to what had happened.
    “I swear obedience to the High God.”
    Again a sigh of wonder swept through the assembled worshippers; there was no question who had spoken. By the bell-like resonance of the child’s voice, it was hard to say that she had not been schooled in temple oratory the while. Yet Epiminophas knew better; here stood a gifted performer. At his nod, the girl’s extended arm was steadied by the waiting acolyte. The priest himself grasped her frail hand in one of his own, with her palm upraised, and brought the copper knife down to her fingertip.
    Was it his imagination, or did the pale, soft skin begin to bead with thick, ruby drops even before the razored edge had touched it? Could the lass have palmed a blade somehow... or did she possess the power to will such stigmata? Or was it only the steady gaze of those green eyes, momentarily distracting him from his task?
    “Tamsin, of Sodgrum hamlet.” He made the declaration less firmly and resoundingly than he would have liked. The hooded scribe bent forward, ritually dabbed his quill-point in the spot of fresh blood on the altar, then transcribed the name with a special flourish to the parchment resting on the nearby scroll-rack.
    “May you live in Amalias’s blessing,” Epiminophas proclaimed. Hearing the sigh of gratification from the audience, he felt vaguely relieved that this youngster, vexingly pretty as she was, would now be leaving his sight.
    But she did not turn away. Though the acolyte had released her arm, she continued to stand before the altar expectantly, fixing him with that green-lit stare.
    “You can go, child,” he condescended quietly, glancing with meaning from Tamsin to her stepfather.
    The farm dolt hovered nervously over the girl. Though obviously eager to leave, he seemed afraid to touch the little enchantress and guide her away. Epiminophas turned his gaze back to her, sternly.
    “The naming rite is over.”
    “No, it is not,” she assured him with a compelling steadiness in her look. “There is one more.”
    “One more?” Epiminophas shot a quick gaze around the crescent of gawking onlookers. He followed with a glance to his scribe, who frowned in the negative.
    “—my friend,” Tamsin was saying. “Her name must be recorded too.”
    The witch-girl’s meaning became obvious as she raised her unbloodied hand before her, holding forth her preposterous doll in all its garish finery. She shook it imperatively with a practised motion of her wrist.
    “Ninga,” the word came then in a flat, rasping voice, one that blended eerily with the sibilant rattle of the dry gourd and the jingling of trinkets; it sounded as if the doll itself were talking. “Name me Ninga, please, Epiminophas!”
    The demiuige had heard of witch-dolls being used in primitive magic, but they certainly had no place in the enlightened worship of Amalias. This pantomime struck him as moronic and shameless. And bandying his own name thus... why, it was nothing but a sly, sacrilegious jape.
    “Ingrate,” Epiminophas began. “Lord Amalias did not grant you a tongue