`Nobody followed us,’ he answered.
She sat up, still clinging to him, and looked fearfully about. Her blind flight had carried her to the southern edge of the plateau. Just below them was the slope, its foot masked in the thick shadows of the woods. Behind them she saw the ruins looming in the high-swinging moon.
`Did you not see them? – The statues, moving, lifting their hands, their eyes glaring in the shadows?’
`I saw nothing,’ answered the barbarian uneasily. `I slept more soundly than usual, because it has been so long since I have slumbered the night through; yet I don’t think anything could have entered the hall without waking me.’
`Nothing entered,’ a laugh of hysteria escaped her. `It was something there already. Ah, Mitra, we lay down to sleep among them, like sheep making their bed in the shambles!’
`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 grassblades.
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 molly 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 earrings, and in the hilts of their daggers.