The Conan Chronology, page 486
It was a long swim. To be inconspicuous, Chabela swam on her back. Allowing only her face to emerge from the water, she swam parallel to the beach, to keep the ship's stern castle between herself and the rest of the vessel. When she tired, she floated for a while, sculling languidly with her hands.
At last the bulk of the Petrel shrank until the figures of men could no longer clearly be seen, even when they were visible. Then Chabela turned shoreward and struck out vigorously.
At last, trembling with fatigue, she felt the sandy bottom beneath her and dragged herself out on the yellow-grey beach. A few steps took her into the shade of the palms, where she crouched among a thick growth of ferns to rest.
She had, she thought, plunged from one peril to the other, for none knew what terrors the island might harbour. If nothing else befell her, she might run into Zarono and his rascals. But, putting her faith in Mitra, she still thought that she was better off than if she had remained in the hands of her enemies on the ship.
When she recovered her strength, she rose and moved about, casting around for a direction to take. She winced as pebbles and twigs dented the soles of her bare feet; for she had not, in recent years, had many chances to go barefoot. The breeze, sighing through the palms, chilled her damp garment and made her sneeze. Impatiently, she doffed her girdle and pulled the gown off over her head. The afternoon sun, slanting through the palm trunks along the beach, threw bars of sunlight on the healthy, ol-ive-hued skin that covered her well-rounded form.
She wrung the remaining water out of the gown and spread it on the ferns to dry.
With her knife she cut a strip from the hem, divided it in two, and wrapped a piece around each foot.
When the gown had dried, she resumed it, letting it hang only to knee length.
Having recovered her strength, she set out to explore, holding the small knife in one capable fist. It was no sword, but it was better than nothing.
As she penetrated inland, the sweltering jungle closed about her. The sweetish smell of rotting vegetation and tropical blooms assailed her nostrils. Rough trunks, the saw-edged stems of palm fronds, and thorny lianas snagged her gown and tore it. They raised long red scratches on her arms and legs.
Further inland, the underbrush thinned somewhat, but the uncanny silence made her uneasy. Here the wind seemed not to penetrate. Her heart thudded.
She tripped on a root and fell. She struggled up, but then she tripped again.
The third time, she realised that she was nearing the limits of her endurance.
She had to force her aching limbs to carry her on.
Suddenly, a massive figure loomed up directly in her path, a dark form with burning eyes. She screamed, tried to leap back, and fell again. The figure lunged for her.
Conan thoughtfully scanned the sea. There lay Zarono's Petrel, anchored in the bay. To Zeltran he said: 'We could sweep in upon her and take her, with only part of her crew aboard.
Then Zarono would find his retreat cut off when he returned. What say you, eh?'
The Cimmerian gave his mate a fierce grin, as if he were already leaping aboard the other deck and mowing down the crew of the Petrel with his huge cutlass.
Zeltran shook his head. 'Nay, Captain, I like it not.'
'Why not?' snorted Conan. A headlong attack suited his barbarian nature, but he had still learned caution in his years of adventuring ashore and at sea. He knew that the stout little Zingaran, while brave enough in battle, was also shrewd and practical―a man of cunning counsels, which it was well to heed.
Zeltran turned crafty little black eyes upon Conan. 'Because, my Captain, we know not how many men Zarono left aboard. His crew is larger than ours, and those on the ship might still outnumber us.'
'Crom, I could take on half those knaves single-handed!' The mate scratched the black stubble on his chin.
'No doubt, Captain, you are worth a dozen of the foe. But the rest of our crew would not fight with equal ferocity.'
'Why not?'
'Zarono's crew are fellow Zingarans and buccaneers. Our men would not wish to shed their brothers' blood without a stronger cause than we can show them.
Besides, the Petrel is a larger ship with higher sides than ours, and therefore easy to defend against us. And did you mark the catapult on the forecastle?
'Nay, my Captain, if I understood you at the start of this cruise, we are here for treasure, not for the mere pleasure of a fight―the outcome of which would be doubtful in any case. Now, to get the treasure, meseems the most practical way were to sail around to the other side of the isle. Then our shore party can strive to reach the treasure ahead of Za-rono's rogues. If we fail to do so, then we can count the number that Zarono brought ashore and weigh our chances of falling upon them and snatching the loot from them…'
After further arguement, Conan gave in, although it went against his grain. 'Take her around the north end of the island,' he ordered glumly. 'Brace yards; carry on. Full and by on the starboard tack.'
He was, after all, no longer a lone berserker, free to throw his life away on a whim. As a leader of men, he had to consider their welfare, their wishes, and their whims as well as his own. But he still longed at times for the freedom of the wild, reckless years behind him.
A few hours later, the Wastrel dropped anchor on the eastern side of the island, where a headland provided some shelter against a sudden blow from the north.
Conan filled his two ship's boats with armed men and rowed ashore across the sparkling waters. They beached and hauled the boats up the yellow-grey sands out of the reach of the tide.
Slapping his cutlass against his booted leg, the giant Cimmerian glowered around him at the tawny wet sand and the silent green wall of vegetation. The island seemed strangely gloomy, enshadowed, while all the sea around it was drenched in fierce tropical sunlight.
The boats secured and two burly buccaneers left on guard, Conan and the main body of his men plunged into the wall of fronds and ferns and vanished from view.
At length, Conan and his landing party reached the circular clearing in the jungle. The zone of dead grass and bare earth lay empty under the dull light.
From the edge of the woods, Conan, frowning, swept the empty glade with his eyes. He saw no sign of life, but either the jungle or the squat black temple might hide a lurking foeman.
As for the temple, Conan did not at all like its looks. Its aura of brooding menace sounded a warning within him. The hairs of his nape prickled, and his heavy black brows shaded his eyes of volcanic blue. That the black enigma was the work of other than human hands, he did not doubt.
Perhaps, he thought, it was the work of the fabled serpent-men of Valusia. The dizzy geometry, the unintelligible and half-effaced sculptured decorations, and the zone of bare earth and dead or straggling grass all reminded him of a similar structure that he had seen years before in the grasslands of Kush. That, too, had been the handiwork of a long-gone pre-human race.
Instinct told him to turn from this dismal place and avoid that lowering structure. But within the edifice, Conan was sure, lay that for which he had come. To his men, Conan muttered: 'Stay hidden, keep quiet, and watch for any danger!'
Loosening his cutlass in its scabbard, he issued from the jungle and swiftly strode across the barren earth to the yawning maw of the mysterious citadel. In an instant, he had vanished from the sight of his comrades.
Ignoring the sepulchral chill that struck him as he strode through the portal, Conan slunk warily within, drawing his cutlass as he came. The broad blade gleamed in the dull light. His lambent gaze flickered over the stone toad-idol that squatted atop the altar and came to rest on the pavement in front of the plinth. Then he stopped short.
Whatever treasure had lain there was gone. Nor had it been long gone. The floor was thick with dust, and in this dust were writ two sets of footprints, coming and going. One set was of sea boots; the other, of sandals.
Zarono and one other, thought Conan.
In front of the altar, an oblong space was free of dust, save where scuffing feet had brushed it into that bare, dustless rectangle. In this clean oblong lay several gems, winking from the places where they had fallen from the burst bag.
Zarono in his haste had neglected to gather them up.
Snarling a curse, Conan stepped forward, meaning to sweep up this remaining handful of jewels. It infuriated him to play the part of jackal to Zarono's lion; but neither would he, if he could help it, come away completely empty-handed.
Then he checked again. The stone idol had begun to move. The seven eyes, in a row above the wide, lipless mouth, were no longer mere dim, dusty globes of crystal, but living orbs wherein green flame blazed down upon the Cimmerian with cold, merciless fury.
VII
The Toad-Thing
'Crom! It lives!' A grunt of astonishment was torn from Conan.
He tensed as a thrill of supernatural premonition set his pulse to pounding. And indeed, the scabrous stone idol was now imbued with a ghastly semblance of life.
Swollen limbs moved and stretched.
Fixing its flaming eyes upon its prey, the idol hunched forward on its pedestal and toppled over the edge, to land with a crash on the stone floor where lay the winking gems. Its four-fingered forelimbs broke its fall, and without pause it advanced at an ungainly but surprisingly swift scuttle upon Conan. Its stony limbs rasped and grated against the stone of the floor. It was as bulky as a buffalo, and its seven green-glowing eyes were on a level with his own.
Conan started to swing his cutlass, but wiser counsel prevailed in his mind.
From the sound the creature made in moving, it was still composed of stone, even if living stone. Steel could do naught against it; a blow would merely shatter his blade and deliver him into its gaping maw.
Before the lipless mouth could engulf him, Conan whirled and bolted out into the clearing. No need for caution now; he roared: 'Back to the ship! And yard'
Cries of astonishment and fear burst from the men, huddled at the edge of the clearing, as the toad-thing issued from the temple, close on Conan's heels. No second command was needed. With a swish of palm fronds and a crackle of shrubs, the buccaneer shore party took to its heels. And after them came the monster of living stone, ambling as fast as a man could run. Conan paused long enough to be sure that its attention was fixed upon himself and then set off in a different direction, to draw it after him.
'What's this? A wench, here? By the breasts of Ishtar and the belly of Dagon, this cursed isle has more surprises than ever I dreamed!'
The voice―human, albeit rough and speaking Argossean with an uncouth accent―roused Chabela and at the same time reassured her. Catching her breath, she accepted the hand that the tall figure, which had appeared so suddenly before her, thrust out to help her to rise. The man continued to speak: 'Here, lass, did I be startling you? Fry my guts, I meant no harm. How came ye to this gods-forsaken place at the world's edge?'
Her first panic allayed, Chabela saw that the man who had startled her was a burly, blond young giant in tattered seaman's garb. He was not one of Zarono's ruffians, but an honest-looking fellow with a fair skin reddened by sunburn, frank blue eyes, and unshorn locks and beard of fiery red-gold. A northman from his colouring, she thought.
'Zarono,' she panted, breasts still heaving from exhaustion and startlement. She swayed and might have fallen had not the red-haired seaman seized her arm in a calloused grip to steady her.
'That black swine, eh? Stealing young girls is he, now? Well, broil me for a lubber, I'd as soon spit the dog as look at him; but by Heimdal's horn and Mi-tra's sword, you're safe now. My crew will give you sanctuary, fear not―but what's toward?'
The northerner turned, one red-knuckled hand grasping the hilt of the huge cutlass that swung from his girdle as a crashing and thrashing in the brush sounded nearer and nearer. Then a tall figure burst from the cover of the foliage and paused at the sight of them. To her astonishment, Chabela knew the man.
'Captain Conan!' she cried.
Conan's eyes narrowed, taking in the blond stalwart with the half-drawn cutlass and the black-haired girl behind him, whose tattered gown scarcely hid her voluptuous form. The girl looked vaguely familiar to him, but he had no time to explore the matter.
'Run, you two!' he bellowed. 'The temple monster's after me! Come along; well talk later!'
A heavier crashing in the woods, from the direction whence Conan had come, lent force to his commands. 'Look alive!' he yelled, snatching Chabela's wrist into his great paw and dragging her after him helter-skelter along the trail. The northerner ran after them. For a moment they seemed to have outdistanced their pursuer. When they stopped to pant, Conan said to die northman: 'Is there no hill or cliff on this accursed isle? The stone toad-thing could not climb.'
'By Woden's league-long spear, mate, nary a hill,' said the other, red-faced and gasping. 'Naught higher than this, save for a spit at the northeast, where the land rises to a cliff o'erhanging the main. But that's no good; the land rises slow like, and the idol could climb… Here it comes again!'
'Show us the way to this headland,' said Conan. 'I have a plan.'
The northerner shrugged and led them off through the jungle. When Chabela faltered, Conan scooped her up into his arms. The buxom girl was no lightweight, but the giant Cimmerian carried her without visible effort. Behind them, the crashing of the monster through the woods came clearly.
An hour later, as the sun sank towards the blue horizon, the three of them, scratched, tattered, and bone weary, reached the rise of land. The spit was triangular, tapering to an angle as it rose, like the bow of a ship. Conan remembered seeing this feature from the Wastrel as his ship rounded the north end of the island on its way to its present anchorage.
The northman had relieved his Cimmerian comrade of the girl's weight. Side by side the pair staggered out of the jungle and up the slope. Halfway to the apex of the point, the northman set Chabela down, and the two adventurers paused to see if the stone devil still pursued them.
It did, as a waxing noise of crashing and a motion of the vegetation testified.
'Well, Crom and Mitra, what's your plan?' gasped the red-haired man.
'Up to the point,' growled Conan, leading the way thither. At the very top, he leaned over the edge and looked down. A hundred feet below, the sea foamed back and forth over a broad reef of tumbled black rocks, whose sharp angles thrust up through the surf and whose surfaces gleamed wetly as tie swells came and went among them. Amid the fangs of the reef lay a few tidal pools, some as much as a fathom square.
Chabela, looking back, gave a little shriek as the hulking shape appeared at the edge of the jungle. With a snapping of ferns and brush, it lumbered out into the open. Its seven eyes sighted the three fugitives at once, and it began advancing rapidly up the slope, with a gait like that of a man crawling as fast as he could on hands and knees.
'It has us cornered,' said the northman. 1st abandon ship for poor sailors at last?'
'Not yet,' said Conan. In a few terse phrases he explained his plan.
Meanwhile, the toad-thing continued its advance, its seven eyes blazing in the light of the setting sun. As it neared its prey, it changed its gait from a rapid crawl to a series of toad-like leaps. The ground shook beneath it as its vast stone weight came down at the end of each hop. Closer and closer it came, its lipless mouth opening in anticipation.
Conan stooped and picked up several loose stones. 'Nowl' he shouted.
At his word, Chabela ran along the edge of the cliflF, away from him. The red-haired man ran along the brink in the opposite direction, leaving Conan, on the very lip of the cliflF, to face the monster alone.
As the two fugitives raced away in opposite directions, the toad-thing paused between hops, its green eyes swiveling, as if pondering which course to take.
'Come on!' roared Conan, hurling a stone. The missile struck with a sharp crack and bounced oflF the toad-thing's nose. A second followed, striking one of the eyes with a clank. The stone flew high, but the green flame in the eye faded, as if the stone had cracked the substance of which the orb was composed.
Before Conan had time to cast a third stone, the thing was upon him. It gathered its massive hind-limbs for a final hop that would bring it down right at the point of the cliflF. Its wide mouth gaped in anticipation.
As the toad-thing left the ground, and while it was still in the air, Conan turned and leaped from the cliff. He flipped over in mid-air and, straight as an arrow, dove headfirst into the largest of the tidal pools below. He struck the water with his outstretched hands, angled to bring him instantly back to the surface.
Up on the cliff, the monster came down from is final leap on the very spot where Conan had stood. Its forefeet struck the edge, which crumbled under the impact with a shower of loosened stones and dirt The forefeet slipped over the edge, and the momentum of the monster sent its body sliding after. For a second it hung poised on the crumbling lip of the cliff. Then it overbalanced and, with a roar of shattered stone, slid all the way over. It seemed to hang for an instant in mid-air, turning slowly over and over. Then it came down with an ever-speeding rush, to strike the rocks at the foot of the cliff with a mighty crash.
Dripping, Conan pulled himself out of the tidal pool and raked the hair out of his eyes. He had not quite landed in the centre of the pool; hence a tear in his garments exposed a blood-oozing weal along ribs and thigh, where he had grazed one of the sharp rocks that lined the pool. He ignored the hurt to examine the remains of the toad-thing.
Stone might be magically imbued with Me, but it was still stone. The monster had shattered into a hundred pieces, which lay hither and yon among the rocks at the base of the cliff. It took close scrutiny to discern that one of the stones composing that part of the reef had been one of the creature's feet, and that another had composed a part of its head. The other fragments blended into the rocky confusion as if they had lain there for eons.
