Shadows in the Moonlight
'What are you talking about?' he demanded. 'I woke at your cry, but
before I had time to look about me, I saw you rush out through the crack
in the wall. I pursued you, lest you come to harm. I thought you had a
nightmare.'
'So I did!' she shivered. 'But the reality was more grisly than the
dream. Listen!' And she narrated all that she had dreamed and thought
to see.
Conan listened attentively. The natural skepticism of the sophisticated
man was not his. His mythology contained ghouls, goblins, and
necromancers. After she had finished, he sat silent, absently toying
with his sword.
'The youth they tortured was like the tall man who came?' he asked at
last.
'As like as son to father,' she answered, and hesitantly: 'If the mind
could conceive of the offspring of a union of divinity with humanity, it
would picture that youth. The gods of old times mated sometimes with
mortal women, our legends tell us.'
'What gods?' he muttered.
'The nameless, forgotten ones. Who knows? They have gone back into the
still waters of the lakes, the quiet hearts of the hills, the gulfs
beyond the stars. Gods are no more stable than men.'
'But if these shapes were men, blasted into iron images by some god or
devil, how can they come to life?'
'There is witchcraft in the moon,' she shuddered. '_He_ pointed at the
moon; while the moon shines on them, they live. So I believe.'
'But we were not pursued,' muttered Conan, glancing toward the brooding
ruins. 'You might have dreamed they moved. I am of a mind to return and
see.'
'No, no!' she cried, clutching him desperately. 'Perhaps the spell upon
them holds them in the hall. Do not go back! They will rend you limb
from limb! Oh, Conan, let us go into our boat and flee this awful
island! Surely the Hyrkanian ship has passed us now! Let us go!'
So frantic was her pleading that Conan was impressed. His curiosity in
regard to the images was balanced by his superstition. Foes of flesh and
blood he did not fear, however great the odds, but any hint of the
supernatural roused all the dim monstrous instincts of fear that are the
heritage of the barbarian.
He took the girl's hand and they went down the slope and plunged into
the dense woods, where the leaves whispered, and nameless night-birds
murmured drowsily. Under the trees the shadows clustered thick, and
Conan swerved to avoid the denser patches. His eyes roved continuously
from side to side, and often flitted into the branches above them. He
went quickly yet warily, his arm girdling the girl's waist so strongly
that she felt as if she were being carried rather than guided. Neither
spoke. The only sound was the girl's quick nervous panting, the rustle
of her small feet in the grass. So they came through the trees to the
edge of the water, shimmering like molten silver in the moonlight.
'We should have brought fruit for food,' muttered Conan; 'but doubtless
we'll find other islands. As well leave now as later; it's but a few
hours till dawn--'
His voice trailed away. The painter was still made fast to the looping
root. But at the other end was only a smashed and shattered ruin, half
submerged in the shallow water.
A stifled cry escaped Olivia. Conan wheeled and faced the dense shadows,
a crouching image of menace. The noise of the night-birds was suddenly
silent. A brooding stillness reigned over the woods. No breeze moved the
branches, yet somewhere the leaves stirred faintly.
Quick as a great cat Conan caught up Olivia and ran. Through the shadows
he raced like a phantom, while somewhere above and behind them sounded a
curious rushing among the leaves, that implacably drew closer and
closer. Then the moonlight burst full upon their faces, and they were
speeding up the slope of the plateau.
At the crest Conan laid Olivia down, and turned to glare back at the
gulf of shadows they had just quitted. The leaves shook in a sudden
breeze; that was all. He shook his mane with an angry growl. Olivia
crept to his feet like a frightened child. Her eyes looked up at him,
dark wells of horror.
'What are we to do, Conan?' she whispered.
He looked at the ruins, stared again into the woods below.
'We'll go to the cliffs,' he declared, lifting her to her feet.
'Tomorrow I'll make a raft, and we'll trust our luck to the sea again.'
'It was not--not _they_ that destroyed our boat?' It was half question,
half assertion.
He shook his head, grimly taciturn.
Every step of the way across that moon-haunted plateau was a sweating
terror for Olivia, but no black shapes stole subtly from the looming
ruins, and at last they reached the foot of the crags, which rose stark
and gloomily majestic above them. There Conan halted in some
uncertainty, at last selecting a place sheltered by a broad ledge,
nowhere near any trees.
'Lie down and sleep if you can, Olivia,' he said. 'I'll keep watch.'
But no sleep came to Olivia, and she lay watching the distant ruins and
the wooded rim until the stars paled, the east whitened, and dawn in
rose and gold struck fire from the dew on the grass-blades.
She rose stiffly, her mind reverting to all the happenings of the night.
In the morning light some of its terrors seemed like figments of an
overwrought imagination. Conan strode over to her, and his words
electrified her.
'Just before dawn I heard the creak of timbers and the rasp and clack of
cordage and oars. A ship has put in and anchored at the beach not far
away--probably the ship whose sail we saw yesterday. We'll go up the
cliffs and spy on her.'
Up they went, and lying on their bellies among the boulders, saw a
painted mast jutting up beyond the trees to the west.
'An Hyrkanian craft, from the cut of her rigging,' muttered Conan. 'I
wonder if the crew--'
A distant medley of voices reached their ears, and creeping to the
southern edge of the cliffs, they saw a motley horde emerge from the
fringe of trees along the western rim of the plateau, and stand there a
space in debate. There was much flourishing of arms, brandishing of
swords, and loud rough argument. Then the whole band started across the
plateau toward the ruins, at a slant that would take them close by the
foot of the cliffs.
'Pirates!' whispered Conan, a grim smile on his thin lips. 'It's an
Hyrkanian galley they've captured. Here--crawl among these rocks.
'Don't show yourself unless I call to you,' he instructed, having
secreted her to his satisfaction among a tangle of boulders along the
crest of the cliffs. 'I'm going to meet these dogs. If I succeed in my
plan, all will be well, and we'll sail away with them. If I don't
succeed--well, hide yourself in the rocks until they're gone, for no
devils on this island are as cruel as these sea-wolves.'
And tearing himself from her reluctant grasp, he swung quickly down the
cliffs.
Looking fearfully from her eyrie, Olivia saw the band had neared the
foot of the cliffs. Even as she looked, Conan stepped out from among the
boulders and faced them, sword in hand. They gave back with yells of
menace and surprize; then halted uncertainly to glare at this figure
which had appeared so suddenly from the rocks. There were some seventy
of them, a wild horde made up of men from many nations: Kothians,
Zamorians, Brythunians, Corinthians, Shemites. Their features reflected
the wildness of their natures. Many bore the scars of the lash or the
branding-iron. There were cropped ears, slit noses, gaping eye-sockets,
stumps of wrists--marks of the hangman as well as scars of battle. Most
of them were half naked, but the garments they wore were fine;
gold-braided jackets, satin girdles, silken breeches, tattered, stained
with tar and blood, vied with pieces of silver-chased armor. Jewels
glittered in nose-rings and ear-rings, and in the hilts of their
daggers.
Over against this bizarre mob stood the tall Cimmerian in strong
contrast with his hard bronzed limbs and clean-cut vital features.
'Who are you?' they roared.
'Conan the Cimmerian!' His voice was like the deep challenge of a lion.
'One of the Free Companions. I mean to try my luck with the Red
Brotherhood. Who's your chief?'
'I, by Ishtar!' bellowed a bull-like voice, as a huge figure swaggered
forward: a giant, naked to the waist, where his capacious belly was
girdled by a wide sash that upheld voluminous silken pantaloons. His
head was shaven except for a scalp-lock, his mustaches dropped over a
rat-trap mouth. Green Shemitish slippers with upturned toes were on his
feet, a long straight sword in his hand.
Conan stared and glared.
'Sergius of Khrosha, by Crom!'
'Aye, by Ishtar!' boomed the giant, his small black eyes glittering with
hate. 'Did you think I had forgot? Ha! Sergius never forgets an enemy.
Now I'll hang you up by the heels and skin you alive. At him, lads!'
'Aye, send your dogs at me, big-belly,' sneered Conan with bitter scorn.
'You were always a coward, you Kothic cur.'
'Coward! To me?' The broad face turned black with passion. 'On guard,
you northern dog! I'll cut out your heart!'
In an instant the pirates had formed a circle about the rivals, their
eyes blazing, their breath sucking between their teeth in bloodthirsty
enjoyment. High up among the crags Olivia watched, sinking her nails
into her palms in her painful excitement.
Without formality the combatants engaged, Sergius coming in with a rush,
quick on his feet as a giant cat, for all his bulk. Curses hissed
between his clenched teeth as he lustily swung and parried. Conan fought
in silence, his eyes slits of blue bale-fire.
The Kothian ceased his oaths to save his breath. The only sounds were
the quick scuff of feet on the sward, the panting of the pirate, the
ring and clash of steel. The swords flashed like white fire in the early
sun, wheeling and circling. They seemed to recoil from each other's
contact, then leap together again instantly. Sergius was giving back;
only his superlative skill had saved him thus far from the blinding
speed of the Cimmerian's onslaught. A louder clash of steel, a sliding
rasp, a choking cry--from the pirate horde a fierce yell split the
morning as Conan's sword plunged through their captain's massive body.
The point quivered an instant from between Sergius's shoulders, a hand's
breadth of white fire in the sunlight; then the Cimmerian wrenched back
his steel and the pirate chief fell heavily, face down, and lay in a
widening pool of blood, his broad hands twitching for an instant.
Conan wheeled toward the gaping corsairs.
'Well, you dogs!' he roared. 'I've sent your chief to hell. What says
the law of the Red Brotherhood?'
Before any could answer, a rat-faced Brythunian, standing behind his
fellows, whirled a sling swiftly and deadly. Straight as an arrow sped
the stone to its mark, and Conan reeled and fell as a tall tree falls to
the woodsman's ax. Up on the cliff Olivia caught at the boulders for
support. The scene swam dizzily before her eyes; all she could see was
the Cimmerian lying limply on the sward, blood oozing from his head.
The rat-faced one yelped in triumph and ran to stab the prostrate man,
but a lean Corinthian thrust him back.
'What, Aratus, would you break the law of the Brotherhood, you dog?'
'No law is broken,' snarled the Brythunian.
'No law? Why, you dog, this man you have just struck down is by just
rights our captain!'
'Nay!' shouted Aratus. 'He was not of our band, but an outsider. He had
not been admitted to fellowship. Slaying Sergius does not make him
captain, as would have been the case had one of us killed him.'
'But he wished to join us,' retorted the Corinthian. 'He said so.'
At that a great clamor arose, some siding with Aratus, some with the
Corinthian, whom they called Ivanos. Oaths flew thick, challenges were
passed, hands fumbled at sword-hilts.