QUEEN OF THE BLACK COAST

[Transcriber's Note: This ebook was first published in Weird Tales in May 1934. Extensive research did not find any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

Hooves pounded down the street that sloped toward the wharfs. The people who shouted and scattered only caught a brief glimpse of a armored figure on a black stallion, a wide scarlet cloak billowing in the wind. Far up the street, the shout and clatter of pursuit echoed, but the horseman didn’t look back. He charged onto the wharfs and yanked the rearing stallion to a stop right at the edge of the pier. Sailors stared up at him as they stood by to manage the sail of a high-prowed, broad-waisted galley. The captain, sturdy and black-bearded, stood at the bow, using a boat-hook to ease the ship away from the piles. He shouted angrily as the horseman jumped off the saddle and landed squarely on the mid-deck with a long leap.

'Who invited you on board?'

'Get moving!' yelled the intruder with an aggressive motion that sprayed red droplets from his broadsword.

'But we're headed for the shores of Kush!' the captain protested.

'Then I'm all for Kush! Get lost, I'm serious!' The other guy took a quick look up the street, where a group of horsemen were riding fast; far behind them, a bunch of archers were trudging along with crossbows on their shoulders.

"Can you pay for your ticket?" asked the captain.

"I pay my way with steel!" shouted the man in armor, holding up the large sword that shone blue in the sunlight. "By Crom, if you don’t get moving, I’ll soak this ship in the blood of its crew!"

The captain was a great judge of character. One look at the swordsman’s weathered, scarred face, full of intensity, and he yelled a quick command, pushing against the supports. The boat rolled out into clear water, the oars started to clack steadily; then a gust of wind filled the glimmering sail, and the agile ship tilted with the breeze, then set off smoothly like a swan, picking up speed as it glided along.

On the docks, the riders were swinging their swords and shouting threats and orders to turn the ship around, while yelling for the archers to hurry before the vessel was out of crossbow range.

'Let them rant,' the swordsman said with a grin. 'You just keep her on her course, master steersman.'

The captain came down from the small deck between the bows, moved through the rows of oarsmen, and stepped onto the mid-deck. The stranger stood there with his back to the mast, eyes narrowed and alert, sword at the ready. The shipman stared at him, careful not to reach for the long knife in his belt. He noticed a tall, powerful figure in a black scale-mail hauberk, shiny greaves, and a blue-steel helmet with polished bull’s horns sticking out. A scarlet cloak flowed from his armored shoulders, billowing in the sea breeze. A wide shagreen belt with a golden buckle secured the scabbard of the broadsword he carried. Underneath the horned helmet, a square-cut black mane contrasted with his smoldering blue eyes.

'If we have to journey together,' said the captain, 'we might as well be on good terms with each other. My name is Tito, licensed shipmaster of the ports of Argos. I'm heading to Kush to trade beads, silks, sugar, and brass-hilted swords with the black kings for ivory, copra, copper ore, slaves, and pearls.'

The swordsman looked back at the quickly disappearing docks, where the people were still waving their arms in frustration, clearly struggling to find a boat fast enough to catch up to the swift-sailing galley.

'I’m Conan, a Cimmerian,' he replied. 'I came to Argos looking for work, but with no wars ahead, there was nothing I could do.'

'Why are the guardsmen after you?' Tito asked. 'Not that it’s my business, but I thought maybe——'

'I've got nothing to hide,' replied the Cimmerian. 'By Crom, even though I've spent a lot of time with you civilized folks, your ways are still hard for me to understand.

'Well, last night in a bar, a captain in the king's guard threatened the girlfriend of a young soldier, who understandably fought back and killed him. But it turns out there's some ridiculous law against killing guardsmen, and the boy and his girlfriend ran away. It was rumored that I was seen with them, so today I was dragged into court, and a judge asked me where the guy had gone. I said that since he was a friend of mine, I couldn't betray him. Then the court got really angry, and the judge went on and on about my duty to the state, and society, and other things I didn't get, and ordered me to reveal where my friend had escaped. By this point, I was getting pretty angry myself, because I had already explained my position.'

'But I swallowed my anger and stayed silent, and the judge yelled that I had disrespected the court and that I should be thrown into a dungeon to rot until I betrayed my friend. So then, seeing they were all crazy, I drew my sword and split the judge's skull; then I fought my way out of the court, and noticing the high constable's horse tied nearby, I rode toward the docks, where I hoped to find a ship headed for distant lands.'

'Well,' said Tito boldly, 'the courts have taken advantage of me too many times in lawsuits with wealthy merchants for me to have any fondness for them. I'll have some questions to deal with if I ever dock in that harbor again, but I can show that I acted under pressure. You might as well put your sword away. We're peaceful sailors and don’t hold anything against you. Plus, it's good to have a fighter like you on board. Come up to the back deck and we'll share a tankard of ale.'

'Good enough,' the Cimmerian replied, putting his sword away.

The Argus was a small but sturdy ship, typical of the trading vessels that operate between the ports of Zingara and Argos along the southern coasts. It stayed close to shore and rarely ventured far into the open ocean. The ship had a high stern and a tall, curved prow, broad in the middle, tapering beautifully towards the front and back. It was steered from the poop deck, mainly propelled by a broad striped silk sail, with assistance from a jibsail. The oars were used for maneuvering out of creeks and bays, as well as during calm conditions. There were ten oars on each side, with five in the front and five in the back of the small mid-deck. The most valuable part of the cargo was secured beneath this deck and under the fore-deck. The crew members slept on deck or between the rowers' benches, sheltered from bad weather by canopies. With twenty men at the oars, three at the sweep, and the shipmaster, the crew was complete.

So the Argus continued to head south steadily, enjoying fair weather throughout. The sun blazed down day after day with increasing intensity, and the canopies were set up—striped silk cloths that matched the gleaming sail and the shiny goldwork on the bow and along the side rails.

They spotted the coast of Shem—wide, rolling fields with the white tops of city towers on the horizon, and horsemen with dark beards and hooked noses, who sat on their horses along the shore, watching the ship with suspicion. The ship didn’t dock; there wasn’t much profit in trading with the sons of Shem.

Nor did master Tito pull into the wide bay where the Styx river poured its massive flow into the ocean, and the towering black castles of Khemi rose over the blue waters. Ships didn’t just come into this port uninvited, a place where dark sorcerers cast terrible spells in the shadows of sacrificial smoke rising endlessly from blood-stained altars where naked women screamed, and where Set, the Old Serpent, arch-demon of the Hyborians but god of the Stygians, was said to twist his shining coils among his worshippers.

Master Tito kept his distance from that dreamy glass-floored bay, even when a serpent-headed gondola came speeding around a fortress-like point of land, and naked dark-skinned women, with big red flowers in their hair, stood calling out to his sailors, striking poses and showing off boldly.

Now no more shining towers rose inland. They had passed the southern borders of Stygia and were cruising along the coasts of Kush. The sea and the ways of the sea were never-ending mysteries to Conan, whose homeland was among the high hills of the northern uplands. The wanderer was no less interesting to the sturdy seamen, few of whom had ever seen someone from his race.

They were typical Argosean sailors, short and stocky. Conan stood tall above them, and no two of them could match his strength. They were tough and sturdy, but his endurance and vitality were like that of a wolf, his muscles trained and his nerves sharpened by the harshness of life in the world's wastelands. He was quick to laugh and equally quick to unleash his wrath. He enjoyed food and strong drink, which was both a passion and a weakness. In many ways, he was as naive as a child, unaware of the tricks of civilization, but he was naturally intelligent, protective of his rights, and as dangerous as a hungry tiger. Though young in years, he was hardened by battle and travel, and his experiences in many lands were reflected in his clothing. His horned helmet resembled those worn by the golden-haired Æsir of Nordheim; his hauberk and greaves showcased the finest craftsmanship from Koth; the ring-mail covering his arms and legs came from Nemedia; the sword at his side was a magnificent Aquilonian broadsword; and his brilliant red cloak could have been made only in Ophir.

So they headed south, and Master Tito started searching for the high-walled villages of the Black people. But all they found were smoldering ruins on the shore of a bay, scattered with naked Black bodies. Tito swore.

'I used to have good business here. This is the work of pirates.'

'What if we run into them?' Conan relaxed his huge sword in its sheath.

'I'm not on a warship. We escape, not battle. But if it came down to it, we’ve driven off raiders before, and we could do it again; unless it was Bêlit's Tigress.'

'Who is Bêlit?'

'The wildest she-devil still out there. Unless I’m misreading the signs, it was her crew who wrecked that village by the bay. I hope to one day see her swinging from the yard-arm! She’s known as the queen of the black coast. She’s a Shemite woman who leads black raiders. They attack shipping and have sent many good tradesmen to the depths.'

From beneath the poop deck, Tito brought out padded jackets, steel helmets, bows, and arrows.

'There's really no point in resisting if we're worn out,' he grumbled. 'But it tears at the soul to give up on life without putting up a fight.'

It was just at sunrise when the lookout shouted a warning. Around the long point of an island off the right side of the bow glided a long deadly shape, a slender snake-like ship, with a raised deck that stretched from front to back. Forty oars on each side propelled her quickly through the water, and the low rail was filled with naked black men who chanted and clashed spears against oval shields. A long red flag waved from the masthead.

'Bêlit!' shouted Tito, going pale. 'Yare! Turn her around! Head for that creek! If we can run her aground before they catch us, we have a chance to get away with our lives!'

So, suddenly turning, the Argus headed for the line of waves crashing along the palm-lined shore, with Tito pacing back and forth, urging the exhausted rowers to push harder. The captain's dark beard bristled, and his eyes glared.

'Give me a bow,' Conan asked. 'It's not my idea of a tough weapon, but I learned archery with the Hyrkanians, and it won't be easy if I can't take down a man or two over there on that deck.'

Standing on the back of the ship, he watched the snake-like vessel gliding smoothly over the water, and even though he was just a landlubber, it was clear to him that the Argus would never win this race. Already, arrows were arching from the pirate's deck, falling with a hiss into the sea, not twenty paces behind.

"We'd better get ready," growled the Cimmerian; "otherwise, we'll all end up with arrows in our backs and not have fought back at all."

'Get to it, dogs!' yelled Tito, waving his strong fist. The bearded rowers grunted and pulled hard on the oars, their muscles tightening and straining as sweat dripped down their skin. The sturdy little galley creaked and moaned as the men drove her through the water. The wind had died down, leaving the sail hanging useless. The relentless raiders were getting closer, and they were still about a mile from the surf when one of the steersmen collapsed, choking, with a long arrow sticking out of his neck. Tito jumped in to take his place, while Conan stood firm on the swaying poop deck, raising his bow. He could now see the pirates clearly. The rowers were shielded by a row of raised mantelets along the sides, but the warriors dancing on the narrow deck were fully exposed. They were painted and feathered, mostly naked, wielding spears and spotted shields.

On the raised platform at the front stood a slender figure whose pale skin shone brightly against the shiny black hides surrounding it. Bêlit, without a doubt. Conan pulled the arrow back to his ear—then some impulse or hesitation stopped his hand and sent the arrow into the body of a tall spearman with feathers beside her.

Hand over hand, the pirate ship was catching up to the lighter vessel. Arrows fell like rain around the Argus, and men shouted out in fear. All the helmsmen were down, shot full of arrows, and Tito was struggling to handle the massive oar alone, gasping out angry curses, his legs braced and strained. Then, with a sob, he collapsed, a long arrow quivering in his strong heart. The Argus lost momentum and rolled in the waves. The men shouted in confusion, and Conan took charge in his usual way.

'Get up, guys!' he shouted, snapping the cord with a harsh twang. 'Grab your weapons and take out these dogs before they slit our throats! There’s no point in working harder: they’ll board us before we can row another fifty paces!'

In desperation, the sailors dropped their oars and grabbed their weapons. It was brave, but pointless. They only had time for one shot of arrows before the pirate was on them. With no one at the oars, the Argus tipped sideways, and the metal-studded front of the raider crashed into her midsection. Grappling irons crunched into the side. From the high gunwales, the black pirates fired down a volley of arrows that pierced the quilted jackets of the doomed sailors, then jumped down with spears in hand to finish the slaughter. On the pirate's deck lay half a dozen bodies, a testament to Conan's archery skills.

The fight on the Argus was quick and brutal. The stocky sailors, unable to stand up to the tall barbarians, were cut down completely. Meanwhile, the battle was taking a strange turn. Conan, on the raised poop deck, was level with the pirate's deck. As the steel prow slammed into the Argus, he steadied himself and kept his balance, tossing aside his bow. A tall pirate, leaping over the rail, was met in midair by Conan's massive sword, which sliced him cleanly in half, so that his body fell one way and his legs another. Then, with a surge of rage that left a pile of mangled bodies along the sides, Conan jumped over the rail and onto the deck of the Tigress.

In a flash, he became the center of a storm of stabbing spears and swinging clubs. But he moved like a blur of steel. Spears bounced off his armor or sliced through empty air, and his sword rang out with a deadly tune. The fighting madness of his people took hold of him, and with a red mist of irrational fury swirling before his fiery eyes, he split skulls, crushed chests, severed limbs, tore out guts, and filled the deck with a horrific mix of brains and blood.

Invulnerable in his armor, his back against the mast, he piled up mangled corpses at his feet until his enemies fell back, breathing heavily with rage and fear. Just as they raised their spears to throw them, and he braced himself to leap and face death among them, a piercing cry stopped their raised arms. They stood frozen like statues, the dark giants ready to throw their spears, the armored swordsman with his bloody blade.

Bêlit leaped in front of the men, deflecting their spears. She turned to Conan, her chest rising and falling, her eyes shining. A thrilling sense of wonder gripped his heart. She was slender, yet shaped like a goddess: both graceful and curvy. The only thing she wore was a wide silk belt. Her pale ivory skin and the smooth curves of her breasts sent waves of intense desire through the Cimmerian's veins, even amidst the frantic chaos of battle. Her rich black hair, as dark as a Stygian night, flowed in shimmering waves down her flexible back. Her deep-set eyes were fixed on the Cimmerian.

She was wild like a desert wind, flexible and dangerous like a she-panther. She moved closer to him, ignoring his massive sword, slick with the blood of her warriors. Her toned thigh brushed against it, coming so close to the tall warrior. Her red lips parted as she looked up into his serious, threatening eyes.

'Who are you?' she demanded. 'By Ishtar, I've never seen someone like you, even though I've traveled the seas from the shores of Zingara to the fires of the far south. Where do you come from?'

'From Argos,' he replied briefly, wary of deception. If her slender hand reached for the jeweled dagger in her belt, a slap from his open hand would leave her unconscious on the deck. Still, deep down, he wasn’t afraid; he had held too many women, whether refined or savage, in his strong arms to not recognize the fire that shone in this one’s eyes.

'You’re no soft Hyborian!' she exclaimed. 'You’re fierce and tough like a gray wolf. Those eyes were never dulled by city lights; those muscles were never softened by living among marble walls.'

'I am Conan, from Cimmeria,' he replied.

To the people of distant lands, the north was a tangled, half-mythical place, home to fierce blue-eyed giants who sometimes came down from their icy mountains with torches and swords. Their raids had never reached as far south as Shem, and this woman from Shem made no distinction between Æsir, Vanir, or Cimmerian. With the natural intuition of a woman, she knew she had found her lover, and his background mattered little, except for the allure of faraway places it gave him.

'And I am Bêlit,' she exclaimed, as one might declare, 'I am queen.'

'Look at me, Conan!' She spread her arms wide. 'I am Bêlit, queen of the black coast. Oh, tiger of the North, you are as cold as the snowy mountains that raised you. Take me and embrace me with your fierce love! Come with me to the ends of the earth and the ends of the sea! I am a queen forged by fire and steel and blood—be my king!'

His eyes scanned the bloodstained ranks, looking for signs of anger or jealousy. He found none. The rage had vanished from the dark faces. He understood that to these men, Bêlit was more than just a woman: she was a goddess whose will was absolute. He looked at the Argus, struggling in the blood-red waves, leaning heavily, her decks flooded, held up by the grappling irons. He glanced at the blue-fringed shore, at the distant green hues of the ocean, at the lively figure standing before him; and his wild spirit stirred within him. To explore these shimmering blue realms with that white-skinned young tiger-cat—to love, laugh, roam, and plunder—

"I'll sail with you," he muttered, shaking the red droplets off his blade.

'Hey, N'Yaga!' her voice twanged like a bowstring. 'Get some herbs and treat your master's wounds! The rest of you, bring on the loot and cast off.'

As Conan leaned against the railing, with the old shaman tending to the cuts on his hands and limbs, the cargo from the doomed Argus was quickly transferred to the Tigress and stored in small cabins below deck. The bodies of the crew and fallen pirates were tossed overboard to the waiting sharks, while the injured crew members were laid out in the waist to be bandaged. Then the grappling-irons were released, and as the Argus quietly sank into the blood-stained waters, the Tigress moved southward to the rhythmic sound of the oars.

As they sailed out over the smooth blue depths, Bêlit came to the back of the ship. Her eyes glowed like a panther's in the night as she took off her jewelry, sandals, and silk belt and threw them at his feet. Standing on her tiptoes, arms raised high, a trembling line of bare white skin, she shouted to the frantic crowd: "Wolves of the blue sea, look now at the dance—the mating dance of Bêlit, whose ancestors were kings of Askalon!"

And she danced, like the swirl of a desert storm, like the flicker of an unquenchable flame, embodying both the drive of creation and the inevitability of death. Her bare feet brushed past the blood-stained deck, and dying men forgot their fate as they stared, captivated, at her. Then, as the white stars twinkled through the deep blue twilight, turning her spinning body into a blur of ivory light, she let out a wild cry and leaped at Conan's feet. The overwhelming force of the Cimmerian's desire consumed everything else as he pulled her breathless form against the dark plates of his armored chest.

The Tigress roamed the sea, and the dark villages trembled. Drums beat through the night, telling a story that the sea's she-devil had found a partner, an iron man whose anger was like that of a wounded lion. Survivors of the slaughtered Stygian ships cursed Bêlit and a white warrior with fierce blue eyes; so the Stygian princes remembered this man for a long time, and their memory became a bitter burden that bore painful consequences in the years that followed.

But thoughtless like a wandering breeze, the Tigress sailed along the southern shores, until she dropped anchor at the entrance of a wide, gloomy river, with jungle-covered banks shrouded in mystery.

"This is the river Zarkheba, which symbolizes Death," said Bêlit. "Its waters are toxic. See how dark and murky they are? Only dangerous reptiles live in that river. The locals avoid it. Once, a Stygian ship, trying to escape from me, went up the river and disappeared. I anchored right here, and days later, the ship came drifting down the dark waters, its decks stained with blood and abandoned. Only one man was aboard, and he was insane and died mumbling. The cargo was untouched, but the crew had vanished into silence and mystery."

'My love, I believe there's a city somewhere on that river. I’ve heard stories of huge towers and walls seen from a distance by sailors who dared to venture partway up the river. We fear nothing: Conan, let’s go and plunder that city!'

Conan agreed. He usually went along with her plans. She was the one who came up with strategies for their raids, while he was the one who executed her ideas. It didn't really matter to him where they traveled or who they battled, as long as they were out there sailing and fighting. He found the life enjoyable.

Battle and raids had cut down their crew; only about eighty spearmen were left, barely enough to man the long galley. But Bêlit wouldn’t waste time making the long journey south to the island kingdoms where she usually recruited her pirates. She was filled with excitement for her latest venture; so the Tigress entered the river mouth, with the oarsmen pulling hard as she faced the wide current.

They turned the mysterious bend that blocked their view of the sea, and as sunset approached, they made their way steadily against the slow current, steering clear of sandbars where strange reptiles lounged. They didn’t see a single crocodile, nor any four-legged animals or birds coming down to the water’s edge to drink. They pushed on through the darkness before the moonrise, flanked by banks that were solid walls of shadow, from which came unsettling rustlings and quiet footsteps, along with the glint of fierce eyes. Once, an unearthly voice broke the silence in terrible mockery—the cry of an ape, Bêlit explained, claiming that the souls of wicked men were trapped in these ape-like creatures as punishment for their past misdeeds. But Conan was skeptical because once, in a gilded cage in an Hyrkanian city, he had seen a profoundly sad-eyed creature that people called an ape, and it had shown none of the demonic malice that echoed in the shrieking laughter from the dark jungle.

Then the moon rose, a splash of red, darkly striped, and the jungle came alive in chaotic uproar to welcome it. Roars, howls, and shouts made the black warriors shiver, but Conan noticed that all this noise came from deeper in the jungle, as if both the animals and the people avoided the dark waters of Zarkheba.

Rising above the dark thickness of the trees and the swaying ferns, the moon lit up the river, and their wake became a shimmering trail of glowing bubbles that spread out like a bright road of sparkling jewels. The oars dipped into the shimmering water and emerged covered in frosty silver. The feathers on the warrior's helmet swayed in the wind, and the jewels on the sword handles and armor sparkled with a frosty shine.

The cold light sparkled like icy fire from the jewels in Bêlit's dark, curly hair as she stretched her graceful body on a leopardskin thrown across the deck. Propped up on her elbows, her chin resting on her slim hands, she looked up into the face of Conan, who was lounging beside her, his black hair moving slightly in the light breeze. Bêlit's eyes were dark jewels glowing in the moonlight.

'Mystery and terror are all around us, Conan, and we are entering the world of horror and death,' she said. 'Are you scared?'

A shrug of his armored shoulders was his only response.

'I’m not scared either,' she said thoughtfully. 'I was never scared. I’ve stared down the raw fangs of Death too many times. Conan, do you fear the gods?'

'I wouldn’t step on their shadow,' the barbarian replied cautiously. 'Some gods can cause harm, while others can help; at least that’s what their priests say. Mitra of the Hyborians must be a powerful god, since his people have built their cities all over the world. But even the Hyborians are afraid of Set. And Bel, the god of thieves, is a benevolent god. When I was a thief in Zamora, I learned about him.'

'What about your own gods? I've never heard you call on them.'

'Their chief is Crom. He lives on a great mountain. What’s the point of calling on him? He doesn’t care if people live or die. It's better to stay quiet than to attract his attention; he will bring you doom, not luck! He is harsh and uncaring, but at birth, he instills the power to fight and kill into a man's soul. What more can men ask of the gods?'

'But what about the worlds beyond the river of death?' she kept asking.

'There is no hope here or in the afterlife for my people,' Conan replied. 'In this world, people fight and suffer for nothing, finding only fleeting joy in the chaotic thrill of battle; when they die, their souls drift into a bleak, misty place filled with clouds and cold winds, wandering aimlessly for all eternity.'

Bêlit shivered. "Life, as terrible as it is, is still better than such a fate. What do you think, Conan?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I've known many gods. Denying them is just as foolish as trusting them too deeply. I'm not looking for anything beyond death. It could be the darkness that the Nemedian skeptics talk about, or Crom's icy and cloudy realm, or the snowy fields and grand halls of the Nordheimer's Valhalla. I don't know, and I don't care. Let me live fully while I can; let me savor the rich flavors of red meat and bold wine, feel the warm embrace of soft arms, and experience the wild joy of battle when the blue blades flash and turn crimson. That is enough for me. Let teachers, priests, and philosophers ponder over reality and illusion. I know this: if life is an illusion, then so am I, and if that's the case, then the illusion feels real to me. I live, I burn with passion, I love, I fight, and I am content."

'But the gods are real,' she said, continuing with her own thoughts. 'And above all are the gods of the Shemites—Ishtar and Ashtoreth and Derketo and Adonis. Bel is also Shemitish because he was born in ancient Shumir, a long, long time ago, and set out laughing, with a curled beard and mischievous wise eyes, to steal the gems of the kings from ancient times.

'There is life after death, I know, and I know this, too, Conan of Cimmeria—' she gracefully got onto her knees and wrapped him in a feline embrace—'my love is stronger than any death! I have lain in your arms, breathless from the intensity of our love; you have held, crushed, and conquered me, pulling my soul to your lips with the intensity of your passionate kisses. My heart is joined to your heart, my soul is a part of your soul! Even if I were still dead and you were fighting for life, I would come back from the darkness to help you—yes, whether my spirit floated with the purple sails on the crystal sea of paradise, or writhed in the scorching flames of hell! I am yours, and no gods or their eternities will ever separate us!'

A scream broke out from the lookout at the front of the ship. Shoving Bêlit aside, Conan raced up, his sword shining like silver in the moonlight, his hair standing on end at what he saw. The black warrior was dangling above the deck, held up by what looked like a dark, flexible tree trunk arching over the rail. Then he realized it was a massive serpent that had coiled its glistening body up the side of the bow and was gripping the helpless warrior in its jaws. Its dripping scales shone sickeningly in the moonlight as it lifted its form high above the deck, while the stricken man screamed and twisted like a mouse caught in a python's fangs. Conan charged to the front, and swinging his huge sword, he hacked nearly through the giant trunk, which was thicker than a man’s body. Blood soaked the rails as the dying monster swayed out, still holding its victim, and sank into the river, coil by coil, thrashing the water into a bloody foam, where man and serpent disappeared together.

Thereafter, Conan took watch himself, but no other horror crept up from the dark depths. As dawn broke over the jungle, he spotted the dark spires of towers rising among the trees. He called for Bêlit, who was sleeping on the deck, wrapped in her scarlet cloak; she quickly sprang up to his side, her eyes shining. Her lips parted to shout orders to her warriors to grab their bows and spears, and then her beautiful eyes widened.

It was just the ghost of a city they saw as they cleared a jungle-covered point and turned toward the curved shoreline. Weeds and thick river grass grew among the stones of broken piers and shattered pavements that had once been streets, wide plazas, and expansive courtyards. From every direction except the one facing the river, the jungle crept in, hiding fallen columns and crumbling mounds with toxic green foliage. Here and there, leaning towers swayed unsteadily against the morning sky, and broken pillars rose up among the decaying walls. In the center, a marble pyramid was topped by a slender column, and on its peak sat or crouched something that Conan thought was a statue until his sharp eyes noticed it was alive.

'It's a great bird,' said one of the warriors, standing in the front.

'It's a huge bat,' insisted another.

"It's an ape," Bêlit said.

Just then, the creature spread its wide wings and flew off into the jungle.

'A winged ape,' said old N'Yaga, feeling anxious. 'We’d have been better off cutting our throats than coming to this place. It’s haunted.'

Bêlit scoffed at his superstitions and commanded the ship to come in closer to shore and dock at the crumbling wharfs. She was the first to jump ashore, closely followed by Conan, and after them came the dark-skinned pirates, white feathers fluttering in the morning breeze, spears at the ready, eyes uncertain as they glanced at the dense jungle around them.

Over everything hung a silence as ominous as that of a sleeping snake. Bêlit posed strikingly among the ruins, the lively energy of her slender figure contrasting oddly with the destruction and decay around her. The sun rose slowly and sullenly above the jungle, flooding the towers with a dull gold that left shadows lurking beneath the crumbling walls. Bêlit pointed to a slim round tower that swayed on its decaying base. A wide stretch of cracked, grass-covered slabs led up to it, bordered by fallen columns, and in front of it stood a massive altar. Bêlit quickly walked along the ancient floor and stood before it.

'This was the temple of the ancients,' she said. 'Look—you can see the channels for the blood along the sides of the altar, and the rains of ten thousand years haven’t washed the dark stains away. The walls have all crumbled, but this stone block stands strong against time and the elements.'

'But who were these ancient ones?' asked Conan.

She spread her slim hands helplessly. 'This city isn't even mentioned in legends. But look at the handholds at both ends of the altar! Priests often hide their treasures under their altars. Four of you grab hold and see if you can lift it.'

She stepped back to make space for them, looking up at the tower that loomed unsteadily above. Three of the strongest men had grabbed the handholds carved into the stone—strangely awkward for human hands—when Bêlit jumped back with a sharp cry. They froze in place, and Conan, bending down to help them, turned around with a startled curse.

'A snake in the grass,' she said, stepping back. 'Come and take care of it; the rest of you get back to work.'

Conan hurried toward her, while another stepped into his spot. As he anxiously searched the grass for the reptile, the giant men braced their feet, grunting and straining with their massive muscles flexing under their dark skin. The altar didn’t lift off the ground, but it suddenly tipped over on its side. At the same time, there was a loud rumble above, and the tower collapsed, burying the four men under debris.

A scream of terror came from their friends. Bêlit's slender fingers clutched Conan's arm. "There wasn't any snake," she whispered. "It was just a trick to lure you away. I was afraid; the ancients protected their treasure closely. Let's move the stones."

With great effort, they lifted out the mangled bodies of the four men. Beneath them, stained with blood, the pirates discovered a crypt carved into solid stone. The altar, oddly hinged with stone rods and sockets on one side, had served as its lid. At first glance, the crypt appeared to be overflowing with liquid fire, reflecting the early light with a million shining facets. Undreamed-of wealth lay before the wide-eyed pirates; diamonds, rubies, bloodstones, sapphires, turquoises, moonstones, opals, emeralds, amethysts, and unknown gems that glimmered like the eyes of dangerous women. The crypt was filled to the brim with bright stones that the morning sun transformed into flickering flames.

With a scream, Bêlit dropped to her knees in the blood-stained debris at the edge and plunged her white arms deep into that pool of brilliance. She pulled them back, holding something that made her cry out again—a long string of red stones that looked like clots of dried blood on a thick gold wire. In their light, the golden sunlight turned into a bloody fog.

Bêlit's eyes were like a woman's in a trance. The Shemite spirit finds a bright intoxication in wealth and luxury, and the sight of this treasure could have stirred the soul of a satisfied emperor of Shushan.

'Pick up the jewels, you dogs!' her voice was sharp with her feelings.

'Look!' a strong black arm pointed toward the Tigress, and Bêlit turned, her red lips curled in a snarl, as if she expected to see a competing pirate coming in to take her treasure. But from the edges of the ship, a dark figure emerged, flying away over the jungle.

"The devil-ape has been checking out the ship," murmured the Black crew members nervously.

'What the heck?' Bêlit shouted with a curse, pushing back a stubborn lock of hair with an impatient hand. 'Make a stretcher out of spears and cloaks to carry these jewels—where the hell are you going?'

'Let's check the galley,' Conan grunted. 'That bat-thing could have put a hole in the bottom, for all we know.'

He ran quickly down the cracked wharf and jumped on board. After a quick look below deck, he swore loudly, casting a dark glance in the direction where the bat-like creature had disappeared. He hurried back to Bêlit, overseeing the looting of the crypt. She had draped the necklace around her neck, and on her bare white chest, the red clots sparkled darkly. A huge naked black man stood waist-deep in the treasure-filled crypt, scooping up handfuls of riches to pass to eager hands above. Strings of frozen colors hung between his dark fingers; drops of red light dripped from his hands, piled high with starlight and rainbows. It was as if a giant black figure stood with legs apart in the bright pits of hell, his raised hands full of stars.

'That flying demon has smashed the water barrels,' said Conan. 'If we hadn't been so stunned by these stones, we would have heard the noise. We were foolish not to leave someone on guard. We can't drink this river water. I'll take twenty men and search for fresh water in the jungle.'

She gazed at him with a distant look, her eyes reflecting the intense fire of her unusual passion, her fingers fiddling with the jewels on her chest.

'Sure,' she said absentmindedly, barely paying attention to him. 'I'll load the stuff onto the ship.'

The jungle quickly enveloped them, shifting the light from gold to gray. Creepers hung from the arching green branches like pythons. The warriors moved into a single line, stealthily making their way through the ancient twilight like dark phantoms trailing a white ghost.

Underbrush wasn't as thick as Conan expected. The ground was soft but not muddy. Away from the river, it sloped gently upward. They continued to delve deeper into the lush greenery, yet there was still no sign of water, whether a flowing stream or a still pool. Conan stopped abruptly, and his warriors turned into stiff statues. In the tense silence that followed, the Cimmerian shook his head in irritation.

'Go ahead,' he said gruffly to a sub-chief, N'Gora. 'Keep marching until you can’t see me anymore; then stop and wait for me. I think someone is following us. I heard something.'

The group shuffled their feet nervously but followed instructions. As they moved forward, Conan quickly ducked behind a large tree, staring back in the direction they had come from. From that leafy cover, anything could appear. Nothing happened; the faint sounds of the marching spearmen faded into the distance. Conan suddenly noticed that the air was filled with a strange and exotic scent. Something lightly brushed against his temple. He turned quickly. From a cluster of green, oddly shaped stalks, large black flowers swayed at him. One of them had touched him. They seemed to invite him, arching their flexible stems toward him. They spread and rustled, even though there was no wind.

He pulled back, realizing it was the black lotus, the plant whose juice was deadly and whose scent induced a sleep filled with nightmares. But already, he felt a creeping heaviness taking over him. He tried to lift his sword to cut down the twisting stalks, but his arm felt lifeless by his side. He opened his mouth to call out to his warriors, but only a faint sound came out. In the next moment, with shocking speed, the jungle swayed and faded from his sight; he didn’t hear the terrifying screams nearby as his knees gave way, causing him to fall limp to the ground. Above his fallen body, the large black flowers swayed in the still air.

First there was the blackness of an absolute void, with the cold winds of cosmic space blowing through it. Then shapes, vague, monstrous, and fleeting, flowed in a dim panorama through the expanse of emptiness, as if the darkness were taking on shape. The winds blew and a vortex formed, a whirling pyramid of roaring blackness. From it emerged Shape and Dimension; then suddenly, like clouds parting, the darkness rolled away on either side, revealing a massive city of dark green stone rising on the bank of a wide river, flowing through an endless plain. In this city moved beings of strange form.

Cast in the shape of humanity, they were definitely not men. They had wings and were of heroic size; not just a part of the mysterious path of evolution that led to humans, but the fully developed flower on an alien tree, distinct from that path. Aside from their wings, their physical appearance was similar to humans only in the way that humans at their best resemble great apes. In spiritual, aesthetic, and intellectual development, they were superior to humans as humans are superior to gorillas. But when they built their massive city, humanity's earliest ancestors had not yet emerged from the muck of the primordial oceans.

These beings were mortal, like everything made of flesh and blood. They lived, loved, and died, even though their individual lifespans were vast. Then, after countless millions of years, the Change started. The landscape shimmered and wavered, like an image cast on a curtain blown by the wind. Over the city and the land, the ages rolled in like waves on a beach, and each wave brought changes. Somewhere on the planet, the magnetic centers were shifting; the massive glaciers and ice fields were retreating toward the new poles.

The coastline of the great river changed. Fields became swamps that stank of reptiles. Where fertile meadows once spread, dense forests grew, turning into damp jungles. The shifting times affected the city's inhabitants as well. They didn't move to better places. Reasons unknown to people kept them tied to the ancient city and their fate. And as that once-rich and powerful land sank deeper into the dark, lifeless jungle, the people of the city sank into the chaos of the wild jungle life. Terrible tremors shook the ground; the nights blazed with erupting volcanoes that lit up the dark horizons with red flames.

After an earthquake that tore down the outer walls and tallest towers of the city, and caused the river to run black for days with some deadly substance brought up from underground, a terrifying chemical change was obvious in the water that people had been drinking for countless millennia.

Many died after drinking it; those who survived changed in subtle, gradual, and gruesome ways. In trying to adapt to the new conditions, they had fallen far below their original state. But the deadly waters transformed them even more horrifically, from one generation to a more primitive one. They who had once been heavenly beings became trapped demons, with whatever remained of their ancestors' great knowledge distorted and twisted into terrifying forms. As they had soared higher than humans could ever imagine, so they sank lower than any of humanity's darkest nightmares. They quickly died due to cannibalism and brutal conflicts fought in the darkness of the jungle. Eventually, among the lichen-covered ruins of their city, only a single figure remained, a twisted and grotesque mockery of nature.

Then for the first time, humans appeared: dark-skinned, hawk-faced men in copper and leather gear, carrying bows—the warriors of prehistoric Stygia. There were only fifty of them, and they looked worn and gaunt from starvation and long struggles, marked with cuts and scrapes from their time in the jungle, with blood-soaked bandages that hinted at fierce battles. In their minds was a story of war and defeat, fleeing from a stronger tribe that pushed them further south until they disappeared into the green ocean of jungle and river.

Exhausted, they lay down among the ruins where red flowers that bloom only once a century swayed in the full moonlight, and sleep overtook them. As they slept, a monstrous figure crept out from the shadows with glowing red eyes, performing strange and terrifying rituals around each sleeper. The moon hung in the dark sky, casting a red and black hue over the jungle; above the sleepers, the crimson flowers sparkled like drops of blood. Then the moon set, and the necromancer's eyes glowed like red jewels in the darkness of night.

When dawn cast its pale light over the river, there were no people around: just a grotesque creature with hairy wings sitting in the middle of a circle of fifty large spotted hyenas that raised their trembling snouts to the eerie sky and howled like tormented souls.

Then one scene followed another so quickly that each tripped over the heels of the one before. There was a chaos of movement, a twisting and blending of lights and shadows, against a backdrop of dark jungle, green stone ruins, and a murky river. Black men paddled up the river in long boats with skulls grinning on the fronts or crept through the trees, spear in hand. They ran away screaming through the darkness from red eyes and sharp teeth. The howls of dying men echoed in the shadows; silent feet moved stealthily through the darkness, and vampire eyes glowed red. There were gruesome feasts beneath the moon, across whose red disk a bat-like shadow constantly swept.

Then suddenly, standing out sharply against these hazy images, a long boat rounded the jungle point in the brightening dawn, filled with glistening dark figures, and at the front stood a pale figure in blue steel.

It was at this point that Conan first noticed he was dreaming. Until that moment, he had no awareness of his own existence. But as he saw himself walking the stage of the Tigress, he recognized both his existence and the dream, even though he didn't wake up.

Even as he pondered, the scene suddenly changed to a jungle clearing where N'Gora and nineteen black spearmen stood, seemingly waiting for someone. As he recognized that it was he they were waiting for, a terrifying creature swooped down from the sky, and their calm was shattered by screams of fear. Like men driven insane by terror, they tossed aside their weapons and ran frantically through the jungle, pursued closely by the drooling monster that flapped its wings above them.

Chaos and confusion followed this vision, during which Conan weakly fought to wake up. He vaguely saw himself lying beneath a drooping cluster of black flowers, while a grotesque figure crept toward him from the bushes. With a fierce effort, he broke the unseen ties that kept him in his dreams and sat up suddenly.

Bewilderment was evident in the glare he cast around him. Nearby, the dark lotus swayed, and he quickly moved away from it.

In the soft soil nearby, there was a footprint as if an animal had stepped out from the bushes but then pulled back. It resembled the tracks of an incredibly large hyena.

He shouted for N'Gora. An eerie silence hung over the jungle, making his calls sound weak and empty like a taunt. He couldn't see the sun, but his instincts, honed by living in the wild, told him the day was almost over. Panic surged within him at the thought that he had been out cold for hours. He quickly followed the tracks of the spearmen, which were clear in the damp earth in front of him. They moved in a single file, and he soon stepped into a clearing—stopping abruptly, shivers running down his back as he recognized it as the clearing from his drug-induced dream. Shields and spears were scattered around as if dropped in a frantic escape.

And from the paths that led out of the clearing and deeper into the wilderness, Conan realized that the spearmen had fled in a panic. The footprints crossed over each other; they zigzagged aimlessly among the trees. Then, with surprising speed, the rushing Cimmerian emerged from the jungle onto a hill-like rock that sloped steeply and ended abruptly in a sheer drop of forty feet. And something was crouched at the edge.

At first, Conan thought it was a huge black gorilla. Then he realized it was a giant black man crouching like an ape, with long arms hanging down and foam dripping from his loose lips. It wasn't until, with a sobbing cry, the creature lifted its massive hands and rushed at him that Conan recognized N'Gora. The black man paid no attention to Conan's shout as he charged, eyes rolled back to show the whites, teeth shining, face a monstrous mask.

With his skin crawling from the fear that madness always brings to the sane, Conan drove his sword through the black man's body; then, dodging the hooked hands that reached for him as N'Gora fell, he walked to the edge of the cliff.

For a moment, he stood gazing down at the sharp rocks below, where N'Gora's spearmen lay in limp, twisted positions that suggested broken limbs and shattered bones. None of them moved. A swarm of large black flies buzzed loudly over the blood-stained stones; the ants had already started to feast on the bodies. Birds of prey perched in the surrounding trees, and a jackal, noticing the man on the cliff, slinked away quietly.

For a brief moment, Conan stood still. Then he turned and sprinted back the way he came, charging through the tall grass and bushes, leaping over creeping vines that sprawled like snakes in his path. His sword hung low in his right hand, and an unfamiliar paleness colored his dark face.

The silence in the jungle was unbroken. The sun had set, and dark shadows rose from the muddy ground. Amid the enormous shadows of lurking danger and grim emptiness, Conan moved like a flash of red and blue steel. The only sound in the solitude was his own fast breathing as he emerged from the shadows into the dusky twilight by the riverbank.

He saw the boat leaning against the decaying dock, the ruins swaying unsteadily in the dim light.

And here and there among the stones were patches of vivid color, like someone had carelessly splashed a bright red paint.

Again, Conan saw death and destruction. His spearmen lay before him, and they didn’t rise to greet him. From the edge of the jungle to the riverbank, among the decaying pillars and along the shattered piers, they were scattered, torn apart, mangled, and half-consumed, grotesque remnants of men.

All around the bodies and body parts were swarms of massive footprints, similar to those of hyenas.

Conan quietly approached the dock, moving toward the ship where something glimmered ivory-white in the dim twilight above its deck. Stunned, the Cimmerian gazed at the Queen of the Black Coast as she hung from the yard-arm of her own ship. Between the yard and her pale throat was a line of crimson clots that glowed like blood in the gray light.

The jungle was a massive black beast that enclosed the ruin-strewn clearing in its dark embrace. The moon hadn’t risen; the stars dotted the still sky like hot amber flecks and it smelled of death. On the pyramid among the crumbled towers sat Conan the Cimmerian like a statue made of iron, his chin resting on his huge fists. In the dark shadows, silent footsteps moved and red eyes glinted. The dead lay as they had fallen. But on the deck of the Tigress, on a pile of broken benches, spear shafts, and leopard skins, the Queen of the Black Coast rested in her final sleep, wrapped in Conan’s scarlet cloak. Like a true queen she lay, surrounded by her treasure: silks, gold-threaded cloth, silver braid, barrels of gems and gold coins, silver ingots, jeweled daggers, and gold wedges in teocalli.

But only the dark waters of Zarkheba could reveal where Conan had dumped the loot from the cursed city, cursing it under his breath. Now he sat grimly on the pyramid, waiting for his hidden enemies. The anger boiling inside him chased away all fear. He didn’t know what figures would come out of the darkness, and he didn’t care.

He no longer questioned the visions of the black lotus. He realized that while waiting for him in the clearing, N'Gora and his friends had been terrified by the winged monster diving at them from the sky, and in their blind panic, they had tumbled over the cliff, except for their leader, who somehow escaped their fate, though not his sanity. Meanwhile, or right after, or maybe even before, the destruction of those on the riverbank had happened. Conan was sure that the slaughter along the river had been a massacre, not a battle. Already weakened by their superstitious fears, the locals probably would have died without even trying to defend themselves when attacked by their monstrous enemies.

Why he had been kept alive for so long, he didn't understand, unless the evil force controlling the river intended to keep him alive to torment him with sorrow and fear. Everything suggested a human or superhuman intelligence—the breaking of the water casks to split the forces, the pushing of the black figures over the cliff, and, last but not least, the dark joke of the red necklace tied like a noose around Bêlit's white neck.

Having seemingly saved the Cimmerian for the best target and squeezed out the last bit of intense mental suffering, it was likely that the unknown enemy would wrap up the drama by sending him to join the other victims. No smile curved Conan's stern lips at the thought, but his eyes shone with a cold kind of laughter.

The moon rose, glinting off the Cimmerian's horned helmet. No sound broke the silence; yet suddenly the night became charged and the jungle seemed to hold its breath. Instinctively, Conan loosened his great sword in its sheath. The pyramid where he sat was four-sided, with one side—the one facing the jungle—carved into wide steps. In his hand, he held a Shemite bow, like the one Bêlit had taught her pirates to use. A pile of arrows lay at his feet, fletched ends pointing toward him, as he knelt on one knee.

Something shifted in the darkness beneath the trees. Suddenly illuminated by the rising moon, Conan saw a dark figure with a brutish head and shoulders. From the shadows, dark shapes emerged silently and quickly, moving low to the ground—twenty large spotted hyenas. Their drooling fangs glimmered in the moonlight, and their eyes burned with an intensity no ordinary animal's eyes ever had.

Twenty: then the pirates' spears had taken their toll on the group, after all. Just as he thought this, Conan drew the bowstring to his ear, and at the twang of the string, a shadow with fiery eyes leaped high and fell, writhing. The others didn't hesitate; they kept moving forward, and like a deadly rain, Conan's arrows rained down on them, propelled with all the strength and precision of powerful muscles fueled by a rage as intense as the fiery pits of hell.

In his wild rage, he didn't miss; the air was filled with plummeting destruction. The chaos unleashed among the charging pack was stunning. Less than half of them made it to the base of the pyramid. The others fell onto the wide steps. Looking down into their blazing eyes, Conan realized these creatures were not just animals; it wasn't only their unnatural size that made him feel a wicked difference. They radiated an aura as real as the dark mist rising from a swamp filled with corpses. He couldn't fathom the godless magic that brought these beings into existence, but he knew he was up against evil that was darker than the Well of Skelos.

Jumping to his feet, he pulled back his bowstring hard and launched his final arrow directly at a massive, hairy figure that lunged at his throat. The arrow was like a shaft of moonlight, racing forward with barely a blur in its path, but the creature jerked in the air and slammed down, pierced completely.

Then the rest were on him in a chaotic rush of blazing eyes and dripping fangs. His fiercely driven sword sliced the first one apart; then the desperate weight of the others brought him down. He smashed a narrow skull with the pommel of his hilt, feeling the bone splinter and blood and brains gush over his hand; then, dropping the sword, useless at such close range, he grabbed at the throats of the two horrors that were tearing at him in silent rage. A foul, acrid smell nearly suffocated him, and his own sweat blinded him. Only his armor kept him from being torn to pieces in an instant. Next, his bare right hand locked onto a hairy throat and tore it open. His left hand, missing the throat of the other beast, caught and broke its foreleg. A short yelp, the only sound in that grim battle, and disturbingly human-like, burst from the wounded beast. At the sick horror of that cry from a bestial throat, Conan instinctively relaxed his grip.

One, blood pouring from its severed throat, lunged at him in a final burst of rage and sank its fangs into his neck—only to fall back dead, even as Conan experienced the searing pain of its hold.

The other one, rushing forward on three legs, was slashing at his abdomen like a wolf would, actually tearing through the links of his armor. Tossing aside the dying animal, Conan seized the injured beast and, with a powerful effort that made him groan through his blood-stained lips, he lifted it upright, holding the thrashing, clawing creature in his arms. For a moment, he swayed off balance, its putrid breath hot in his face; its jaws snapping at his neck; then he threw it away from him, sending it crashing down the marble steps with a bone-crushing impact.

As he staggered on unsteady legs, gasping for air, the jungle and the moon blurred into a bloody haze before him, and the sound of flapping bat wings echoed in his ears. Bending down, he felt around for his sword, and as he swayed back up, he planted his feet awkwardly and lifted the massive blade over his head with both hands, shaking the blood from his eyes as he searched the sky above for his enemy.

Instead of being attacked from the air, the pyramid suddenly and horrifyingly shook beneath his feet. He heard a loud crackling noise and saw the tall column above him sway like a magician's wand. Instantly filled with energy, he jumped far away; his feet landed on a step halfway down, which teetered beneath him, and his next desperate leap got him clear. But just as his heels touched the ground, the pyramid collapsed with a deafening crash like a mountain falling apart, and the column came crashing down in bursting pieces. For a chaotic moment, the sky seemed to rain down shards of marble. Then, a pile of broken stone lay pale under the moonlight.

Conan stirred, pushing away the splinters that half covered him. A glancing blow had knocked off his helmet and briefly stunned him. A large chunk of the column was lying across his legs, holding him down. He wasn't sure if his legs were broken. His black hair was matted with sweat; blood dripped from the wounds on his throat and hands. He propped himself up on one arm, struggling with the debris that trapped him.

Then something rushed down across the stars and hit the ground near him. Turning around, he saw it—the winged one!

With terrifying speed, it charged toward him, and in that moment, Conan only had a jumbled image of a huge figure resembling a man, sprinting on bent and short legs; of massive hairy arms extending out with distorted, claw-like hands; of a deformed head, in whose wide face the only recognizable features were a pair of blood-red eyes. It was a creature that was neither man, beast, nor devil, possessing traits that were both subhuman and superhuman.

But Conan didn't have time for clear, consecutive thoughts. He lunged for his fallen sword, but his grabbing fingers barely missed it. In desperation, he seized the shard that had pinned his legs, and he could feel the veins bulging in his temples as he struggled to push it off. It moved slowly, but he realized that before he could free himself, the monster would be on him, and he understood that those black-taloned hands meant death.

The swift charge of the winged figure hadn’t slowed down. It loomed over the lying Cimmerian like a dark shadow, arms stretched out wide—a flash of white flickered between it and its target.

In a split second, she appeared—a tense white silhouette, radiating with love as fierce as a panther. The bewildered man saw her agile form, glowing like ivory in the moonlight, standing between him and the looming death; he noticed the intensity of her dark eyes and the thick mass of her shiny hair; her chest rose and fell, her red lips were parted, and she yelled sharply and clearly as she drove her weapon into the chest of the winged monster.

'Bêlit!' screamed Conan. She shot him a quick look, and in her dark eyes, he saw her love burning bright, a raw force of fire and molten lava. Then she was gone, and the Cimmerian saw only the winged demon that had staggered back in unexpected fear, arms raised as if to defend itself. And he knew that Bêlit truly lay on her pyre on the Tigress's deck. In his ears echoed her passionate cry: 'If I were still dead and you were fighting for your life, I would come back from the abyss——'

With a loud scream, he lifted up and threw the stone aside. The creature with wings charged again, and Conan jumped to face it, his blood boiling with rage. His muscles bulged like cords on his forearms as he swung his massive sword, turning on his heel with the power of the sweeping strike. Just above the hips, it hit the flying figure, and the twisted legs fell one way, the torso another as the blade sliced clean through its hairy body.

Conan stood in the quiet of the moonlight, the dripping sword heavy in his hand, looking down at the remains of his enemy. The red eyes stared up at him with a terrible vitality, then glazed over and became fixed; the massive hands clenched spasmodically and stiffened. And the oldest race in the world was wiped out.

Conan raised his head, automatically looking for the creature-like beings that had been their slaves and executioners. None met his eyes. The bodies scattered across the moonlit grass were of men, not beasts: hawk-faced, dark-skinned men, naked, pierced by arrows or slashed by swords. And they were disintegrating into dust right before him.

Why hadn’t the winged master helped its slaves when it was fighting alongside them? Was it afraid to get too close to fangs that could attack it? There had been intelligence and caution in that deformed skull, but it ultimately didn’t matter.

Turning on his heel, the Cimmerian walked down the rotting docks and stepped onto the ship. A few swings of his sword cut her loose, and he went to the oar. The Tigress swayed slowly in the murky water, drifting lazily toward the middle of the river, until the strong current took over. Conan leaned on the oar, his dark gaze focused on the cloaked figure that lay on the pyre, which was worth as much as the ransom for an empress.

Again, dawn colored the ocean. A brighter glow illuminated the river mouth. Conan of Cimmeria leaned on his large sword on the white beach, watching the Tigress set sail on her final journey. There was no light in his eyes as he looked out at the smooth waves. All glory and wonder had vanished from the vast blue expanse. A strong sense of disgust overwhelmed him as he stared at the green waves that faded into purple mists of mystery.

Bêlit was from the sea; she had given it beauty and charm. Without her, it was just a dull, lifeless stretch from one end of the earth to the other. She was part of the sea; he sent her back to its endless mystery. There was nothing more he could do. For him, the sparkling blue beauty of the ocean was more unappealing than the leafy plants that rustled and whispered behind him about the vast, mysterious wildernesses beyond, into which he had to dive.

No one was at the helm of the Tigress, and no oars were propelling her through the green water. But a fresh, crisp wind filled her silky sail, and just like a wild swan flying to its nest, she raced toward the sea, flames rising higher and higher from her deck to reach the mast and engulf the figure that lay wrapped in scarlet on the gleaming pyre.

So passed the Queen of the Black Coast, and leaning on his red-stained sword, Conan stood quietly until the red glow had disappeared into the blue mists and dawn painted its rose and gold over the ocean.