Red Nails
Conan's iron arm about the woman's waist half lifted her; her feet
scarcely touched the earth as she was borne along at a speed she could
never have attained herself. If he could keep out of the beast's way for
a bit, perhaps that betraying wind would shift--but the wind held, and a
quick glance over his shoulder showed Conan that the monster was almost
upon them, coming like a war-galley in front of a hurricane. He thrust
Valeria from him with a force that sent her reeling a dozen feet to fall
in a crumpled heap at the foot of the nearest tree, and the Cimmerian
wheeled in the path of the thundering titan.
Convinced that his death was upon him, the Cimmerian acted according to
his instinct, and hurled himself full at the awful face that was bearing
down on him. He leaped, slashing like a wildcat, felt his sword cut deep
into the scales that sheathed the mighty snout--and then a terrific
impact knocked him rolling and tumbling for fifty feet with all the wind
and half the life battered out of him.
How the stunned Cimmerian regained his feet, not even he could have ever
told. But the only thought that filled his brain was of the woman lying
dazed and helpless almost in the path of the hurtling fiend, and before
the breath came whistling back into his gullet he was standing over her
with his sword in his hand.
She lay where he had thrown her, but she was struggling to a sitting
posture. Neither tearing tusks nor trampling feet had touched her. It
had been a shoulder or front leg that struck Conan, and the blind
monster rushed on, forgetting the victims whose scent it had been
following, in the sudden agony of its death throes. Headlong on its
course it thundered until its low-hung head crashed into a gigantic tree
in its path. The impact tore the tree up by the roots and must have
dashed the brains from the misshapen skull. Tree and monster fell
together, and the dazed humans saw the branches and leaves shaken by the
convulsions of the creature they covered--and then grow quiet.
Conan lifted Valeria to her feet and together they started away at a
reeling run. A few moments later they emerged into the still twilight of
the treeless plain.
* * * * *
Conan paused an instant and glanced back at the ebon fastness behind
them. Not a leaf stirred, nor a bird chirped. It stood as silent as it
must have stood before Man was created.
"Come on," muttered Conan, taking his companion's hand. "It's touch and
go now. If more dragons come out of the woods after us----"
He did not have to finish the sentence.
The city looked very far away across the plain, farther than it had
looked from the crag. Valeria's heart hammered until she felt as if it
would strangle her. At every step she expected to hear the crashing of
the bushes and see another colossal nightmare bearing down upon them.
But nothing disturbed the silence of the thickets.
With the first mile between them and the woods, Valeria breathed more
easily. Her buoyant self-confidence began to thaw out again. The sun had
set and darkness was gathering over the plain, lightened a little by the
stars that made stunted ghosts out of the cactus growths.
"No cattle, no plowed fields," muttered Conan. "How do these people
live?"
"Perhaps the cattle are in pens for the night," suggested Valeria, "and
the fields and grazing-pastures are on the other side of the city."
"Maybe," he grunted. "I didn't see any from the crag, though."
The moon came up behind the city, etching walls and towers blackly in
the yellow glow. Valeria shivered. Black against the moon the strange
city had a somber, sinister look.
Perhaps something of the same feeling occurred to Conan, for he stopped,
glanced about him, and grunted: "We stop here. No use coming to their
gates in the night. They probably wouldn't let us in. Besides, we need
rest, and we don't know how they'll receive us. A few hours' sleep will
put us in better shape to fight or run."
He led the way to a bed of cactus which grew in a circle--a phenomenon
common to the southern desert. With his sword he chopped an opening, and
motioned Valeria to enter.
"We'll be safe from snakes here, anyhow."
She glanced fearfully back toward the black line that indicated the
forest some six miles away.
"Suppose a dragon comes out of the woods?"
"We'll keep watch," he answered, though he made no suggestion as to what
they would do in such an event. He was staring at the city, a few miles
away. Not a light shone from spire or tower. A great black mass of
mystery, it reared cryptically against the moonlit sky.
"Lie down and sleep. I'll keep the first watch."
She hesitated, glancing at him uncertainly, but he sat down cross-legged
in the opening, facing toward the plain, his sword across his knees, his
back to her. Without further comment she lay down on the sand inside the
spiky circle.
"Wake me when the moon is at its zenith," she directed.
He did not reply nor look toward her. Her last impression, as she sank
into slumber, was of his muscular figure, immobile as a statue hewn out
of bronze, outlined against the low-hanging stars.
_2. By the Blaze of the Fire-Jewels_
Valeria awoke with a start, to the realization that a gray dawn was
stealing over the plain.
She sat up, rubbing her eyes. Conan squatted beside the cactus, cutting
off the thick pears and dexterously twitching out the spikes.
"You didn't awake me," she accused. "You let me sleep all night!"
"You were tired," he answered. "Your posterior must have been sore, too,
after that long ride. You pirates aren't used to horseback."
"What about yourself?" she retorted.
"I was a _kozak_ before I was a pirate," he answered. "They live in the
saddle. I snatch naps like a panther watching beside the trail for a
deer to come by. My ears keep watch while my eyes sleep."
And indeed the giant barbarian seemed as much refreshed as if he had
slept the whole night on a golden bed. Having removed the thorns, and
peeled off the tough skin, he handed the girl a thick, juicy cactus
leaf.
"Skin your teeth in that pear. It's food and drink to a desert man. I
was a chief of the Zuagirs once--desert men who live by plundering the
caravans."
"Is there anything you haven't been?" inquired the girl, half in
derision and half in fascination.
"I've never been king of an Hyborian kingdom," he grinned, taking an
enormous mouthful of cactus. "But I've dreamed of being even that. I
may be too, some day. Why shouldn't I?"
She shook her head in wonder at his calm audacity, and fell to devouring
her pear. She found it not unpleasing to the palate, and full of cool
and thirst-satisfying juice. Finishing his meal, Conan wiped his hands
in the sand, rose, ran his fingers through his thick black mane, hitched
at his sword-belt and said:
"Well, let's go. If the people in that city are going to cut our throats
they may as well do it now, before the heat of the day begins."
His grim humor was unconscious, but Valeria reflected that it might be
prophetic. She too hitched her sword-belt as she rose. Her terrors of
the night were past. The roaring dragons of the distant forest were like
a dim dream. There was a swagger in her stride as she moved off beside
the Cimmerian. Whatever perils lay ahead of them, their foes would be
men. And Valeria of the Red Brotherhood had never seen the face of the
man she feared.
Conan glanced down at her as she strode along beside him with her
swinging stride that matched his own.
"You walk more like a hillman than a sailor," he said. "You must be an
Aquilonian. The suns of Darfar never burnt your white skin brown. Many a
princess would envy you."
"I am from Aquilonia," she replied. His compliments no longer irritated
her. His evident admiration pleased her. For another man to have kept
her watch while she slept would have angered her; she had always
fiercely resented any man's attempting to shield or protect her because
of her sex. But she found a secret pleasure in the fact that this man
had done so. And he had not taken advantage of her fright and the
weakness resulting from it. After all, she reflected, her companion was
no common man.
* * * * *
The sun rose behind the city, turning the towers to a sinister crimson.
"Black last night against the moon," grunted Conan, his eyes clouding
with the abysmal superstition of the barbarian. "Blood-red as a threat
of blood against the sun this dawn. I do not like this city."
But they went on, and as they went Conan pointed out the fact that no
road ran to the city from the north.
"No cattle have trampled the plain on this side of the city," said he.
"No plowshare has touched the earth for years, maybe centuries. But
look: once this plain was cultivated."
Valeria saw the ancient irrigation ditches he indicated, half filled in
places, and overgrown with cactus. She frowned with perplexity as her
eyes swept over the plain that stretched on all sides of the city to the
forest edge, which marched in a vast, dim ring. Vision did not extend
beyond that ring.
She looked uneasily at the city. No helmets or spear-heads gleamed on
battlements, no trumpets sounded, no challenge rang from the towers. A
silence as absolute as that of the forest brooded over the walls and
minarets.
The sun was high above the eastern horizon when they stood before the
great gate in the northern wall, in the shadow of the lofty rampart.
Rust flecked the iron bracings of the mighty bronze portal. Spiderwebs
glistened thickly on hinge and sill and bolted panel.
"It hasn't been opened for years!" exclaimed Valeria.
"A dead city," grunted Conan. "That's why the ditches were broken and
the plain untouched."
"But who built it? Who dwelt here? Where did they go? Why did they
abandon it?"
"Who can say? Maybe an exiled clan of Stygians built it. Maybe not. It
doesn't look like Stygian architecture. Maybe the people were wiped out
by enemies, or a plague exterminated them."
"In that case their treasures may still be gathering dust and cobwebs in
there," suggested Valeria, the acquisitive instincts of her profession
waking in her; prodded, too, by feminine curiosity. "Can we open the
gate? Let's go in and explore a bit."
Conan eyed the heavy portal dubiously, but placed his massive shoulder
against it and thrust with all the power of his muscular calves and
thighs. With a rasping screech of rusty hinges the gate moved
ponderously inward, and Conan straightened and drew his sword. Valeria
stared over his shoulder, and made a sound indicative of surprise.
They were not looking into an open street or court as one would have
expected. The opened gate, or door, gave directly into a long, broad
hall which ran away and away until its vista grew indistinct in the
distance. It was of heroic proportions, and the floor of a curious red
stone, cut in square tiles, that seemed to smolder as if with the
reflection of flames. The walls were of a shiny green material.
"Jade, or I'm a Shemite!" swore Conan.
"Not in such quantity!" protested Valeria.
"I've looted enough from the Khitan caravans to know what I'm talking
about," he asserted. "That's jade!"
The vaulted ceiling was of lapis lazuli, adorned with clusters of great
green stones that gleamed with a poisonous radiance.
"Green fire-stones," growled Conan. "That's what the people of Punt call
them. They're supposed to be the petrified eyes of those prehistoric
snakes the ancients called Golden Serpents. They glow like a cat's eyes
in the dark. At night this hall would be lighted by them, but it would
be a hellishly weird illumination. Let's look around. We might find a
cache of jewels."
"Shut the door," advised Valeria. "I'd hate to have to outrun a dragon