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Title: People of the Dark
Author: Robert E. Howard
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No.: 0607941.txt
Language: English
Date first posted: October 2006
Date most recently updated: December 2007

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People of the Dark
Robert E. Howard



I came to Dagon's Cave to kill Richard Brent. I went down the
dusky avenues made by the towering trees, and my mood well-matched the
primitive grimness of the scene.

The approach to Dagon's Cave is always dark, for the mighty
branches and thick leaves shut out the sun, and now the somberness of
my own soul made the shadows seem more ominous and gloomy than was
natural.

Not far away I heard the slow wash of the waves against the tall
cliffs, but the sea itself was out of sight, masked by the dense oak
forest. The darkness and the stark gloom of my surroundings gripped my
shadowed soul as I passed beneath the ancient branches--as I came out
into a narrow glade and saw the mouth of the ancient cavern before me.
I paused, scanning the cavern's exterior and the dim reaches of the
silent oaks.

The man I hated had not come before me! I was in time to carry out
my grim intent. For a moment my resolution faltered, then like a wave
there surged over me the fragrance of Eleanor Bland, a vision of wavy
golden hair and deep gray eyes, changing and mystic as the sea. I
clenched my hands until the knuckles showed white, and instinctively
touched the wicked snub-nosed revolver whose weight sagged my coat
pocket.

But for Richard Brent, I felt certain I had already won this
woman, desire for whom made my waking hours a torment and my sleep a
torture. Whom did she love? She would not say; I did not believe she
knew. Let one of us go away, I thought, and she would turn to the
other. And I was going to simplify matters for her--and for myself. By
chance I had overheard my blond English rival remark that he intended
coming to lonely Dagon's Cave on an idle exploring outing--alone.

I am not by nature criminal. I was born and raised in a hard
country, and have lived most of my life on the raw edges of the world,
where a man took what he wanted, if he could, and mercy was a virtue
little known. But it was a torment that racked me day and night that
sent me out to take the life of Richard Brent. I have lived hard, and
violently, perhaps. When love overtook me, it also was fierce and
violent. Perhaps I was not wholly sane, what with my love for Eleanor
Bland and my hatred for Richard Brent. Under any other circumstances,
I would have been glad to call him friend--a fine, rangy, upstanding
young fellow, clear-eyed and strong. But he stood in the way of my
desire and he must die.

I stepped into the dimness of the cavern and halted. I had never
before visited Dagon's Cave, yet a vague sense of misplaced
familiarity troubled me as I gazed on the high arching roof, the even
stone walls and the dusty floor. I shrugged my shoulders, unable to
place the elusive feeling; doubtless it was evoked by a similarity to
caverns in the mountain country of the American Southwest where I was
born and spent my childhood.

And yet I knew that I had never seen a cave like this one, whose
regular aspect gave rise to myths that it was not a natural cavern,
but had been hewn from the solid rock ages ago by the tiny hands of
the mysterious Little People, the prehistoric beings of British
legend. The whole countryside thereabouts was a haunt for ancient folk
lore.

The country folk were predominantly Celtic; here the Saxon
invaders had never prevailed, and the legends reached back, in that
long-settled countryside, further than anywhere else in England--back
beyond the coming of the Saxons, aye, and incredibly beyond that
distant age, beyond the coming of the Romans, to those unbelievably
ancient days when the native Britons warred with black-haired Irish
pirates.

The Little People, of course, had their part in the lore. Legend
said that this cavern was one of their last strongholds against the
conquering Celts, and hinted at lost tunnels, long fallen in or
blocked up, connecting the cave with a network of subterranean
corridors which honeycombed the hills. With these chance meditations
vying idly in my mind with grimmer speculations, I passed through the
outer chamber of the cavern and entered a narrow tunnel, which, I knew
by former descriptions, connected with a larger room.

It was dark in the tunnel, but not too dark for me to make out the
vague, half-defaced outlines of mysterious etchings on the stone
walls. I ventured to switch on my electric torch and examine them more
closely. Even in their dimness I was repelled by their abnormal and
revolting character. Surely no men cast in human mold as we know it,
scratched those grotesque obscenities.

The Little People--I wondered if those anthropologists were
correct in their theory of a squat Mongoloid aboriginal race, so low
in the scale of evolution as to be scarcely human, yet possessing a
distinct, though repulsive, culture of their own. They had vanished
before the invading races, theory said, forming the base of all Aryan
legends of trolls, elves, dwarfs and witches. Living in caves from the
start, these aborigines had retreated farther and farther into the
caverns of the hills, before the conquerors, vanishing at last
entirely, though folk-lore fancy pictures their descendants still
dwelling in the lost chasms far beneath the hills, loathsome survivors
of an outworn age.

I snapped off the torch and passed through the tunnel, to come out
into a sort of doorway which seemed entirely too symmetrical to have
been the work of nature. I was looking into a vast dim cavern, at a
somewhat lower level than the outer chamber, and again I shuddered
with a strange alien sense of familiarity. A short flight of steps led
down from the tunnel to the floor of the cavern--tiny steps, too small
for normal human feet, carved into the solid stone. Their edges were
greatly worn away, as if by ages of use. I started the descent--my
foot slipped suddenly. I instinctively knew what was coming--it was
all in part with that strange feeling of familiarity--but I could not
catch myself. I fell headlong down the steps and struck the stone
floor with a crash that blotted out my senses...

* * * *

Slowly consciousness returned to me, with a throbbing of my head
and a sensation of bewilderment. I lifted a hand to my head and found
it caked with blood. I had received a blow, or had taken a fall, but
so completely had my wits been knocked out of me that my mind was an
absolute blank. Where I was, who I was, I did not know. I looked
about, blinking in the dim light, and saw that I was in a wide, dusty
cavern. I stood at the foot of a short flight of steps which led
upward into some kind of tunnel. I ran my hand dazedly through my
square-cut black mane, and my eyes wandered over my massive naked
limbs and powerful torso. I was clad, I noticed absently, in a sort of
loincloth, from the girdle of which swung an empty scabbard, and
leathern sandals were on my feet.

Then I saw an object lying at my feet, and stooped and took it up.
It was a heavy iron sword, whose broad blade was darkly stained. My
fingers fitted instinctively about its hilt with the familiarity of
long usage. Then suddenly I remembered and laughed to think that a
fall on his head should render me, Conan of the reavers, so completely
daft. Aye, it all came back to me now. It had been a raid on the
Britons, on whose coasts we continually swooped with torch and sword,
from the island called Eireann. That day we of the black-haired Gael
had swept suddenly down on a coastal village in our long, low ships
and in the hurricane of battle which followed, the Britons had at last
given up the stubborn contest and retreated, warriors, women and
bairns, into the deep shadows of the oak forests, whither we seldom
dared follow.

But I had followed, for there was a girl of my foes whom I desired
with a burning passion, a lithe, slim young creature with wavy golden
hair and deep gray eyes, changing and mystic as the sea. Her name was
Tamera--well I knew it, for there was trade between the races as well
as war, and I had been in the villages of the Britons as a peaceful
visitor, in times of rare truce.

I saw her white half-clad body flickering among the trees as she
ran with the swiftness of a doe, and I followed, panting with fierce
eagerness. Under the dark shadows of the gnarled oaks she fled, with
me in close pursuit, while far away behind us died out the shouts of
slaughter and the clashing of swords. Then we ran in silence, save for
her quick labored panting, and I was so close behind her as we emerged
into a narrow glade before a somber-mouthed cavern, that I caught her
flying golden tresses with one mighty hand. She sank down with a
despairing wail, and even so, a shout echoed her cry and I wheeled
quickly to face a rangy young Briton who sprang from among the trees,
the light of desperation in his eyes.

"Vertorix!" the girl wailed, her voice breaking in a sob, and
fiercer rage welled up in me, for I knew the lad was her lover.

"Run for the forest, Tamera!" he shouted, and leaped at me as a
panther leaps, his bronze ax whirling like a flashing wheel about his
head. And then sounded the clangor of strife and the hard-drawn
panting of combat.

The Briton was as tall as I, but he was lithe where I was massive.
The advantage of sheer muscular power was mine, and soon he was on the
defensive, striving desperately to parry my heavy strokes with his ax.
Hammering on his guard like a smith on an anvil, I pressed him
relentlessly, driving him irresistibly before me. His chest heaved,
his breath came in labored gasps, his blood dripped from scalp, chest
and thigh where my whistling blade had cut the skin, and all but gone
home. As I redoubled my strokes and he bent and swayed beneath them
like a sapling in a storm, I heard the girl cry: "Vertorix! Vertorix!
The cave! Into the cave!"

I saw his face pale with a fear greater than that induced by my
hacking sword.

"Not there!" he gasped. "Better a clean death! In Il-marenin's
name, girl, run into the forest and save yourself!"

"I will not leave you!" she cried. "The cave! It is our one
chance!"

I saw her flash past us like a flying wisp of white and vanish in
the cavern, and with a despairing cry, the youth launched a wild
desperate stroke that nigh cleft my skull. As I staggered beneath the
blow I had barely parried, he sprang away, leaped into the cavern
after the girl and vanished in the gloom.

With a maddened yell that invoked all my grim Gaelic gods, I
sprang recklessly after them, not reckoning if the Briton lurked
beside the entrance to brain me as I rushed in. But a quick glance
showed the chamber empty and a wisp of white disappearing through a
dark doorway in the back wall.

I raced across the cavern and came to a sudden halt as an ax
licked out of the gloom of the entrance and whistled perilously close
to my black-maned head. I gave back suddenly. Now the advantage was
with Vertorix, who stood in the narrow mouth of the corridor where I
could hardly come at him without exposing myself to the devastating
stroke of his ax.

I was near frothing with fury and the sight of a slim white form
among the deep shadows behind the warrior drove me into a frenzy. I
attacked savagely but warily, thrusting venomously at my foe, and
drawing back from his strokes. I wished to draw him out into a wide
lunge, avoid it and run him through before he could recover his
balance. In the open I could have beat him down by sheer power and
heavy blows, but here I could only use the point and that at a
disadvantage; I always preferred the edge. But I was stubborn; if I
could not come at him with a finishing stroke, neither could he or the
girl escape me while I kept him hemmed in the tunnel.

It must have been the realization of this fact that prompted the
girl's action, for she said something to Vertorix about looking for a
way leading out, and though he cried out fiercely forbidding her to
venture away into the darkness, she turned and ran swiftly down the
tunnel to vanish in the dimness. My wrath rose appallingly and I
nearly got my head split in my eagerness to bring down my foe before
she found a means for their escape.

Then the cavern echoed with a terrible scream and Vertorix cried
out like a man death-stricken, his face ashy in the gloom. He whirled,
as if he had forgotten me and my sword, and raced down the tunnel like
a madman, shrieking Tamera's name. From far away, as if from the
bowels of the earth, I seemed to hear her answering cry, mingled with
a strange sibilant clamor that electrified me with nameless but
instinctive horror. Then silence fell, broken only by Vertorix's
frenzied cries, receding farther and farther into the earth.

Recovering myself I sprang into the tunnel and raced after the
Briton as recklessly as he had run after the girl. And to give me my
due, red-handed reaver though I was, cutting down my rival from behind
was less in my mind than discovering what dread thing had Tamera in
its clutches.

As I ran along I noted absently that the sides of the tunnel were
scrawled with monstrous pictures, and realized suddenly and creepily
that this must be the dread Cavern of the Children of the Night, tales
of which had crossed the narrow sea to resound horrifically in the
ears of the Gaels. Terror of me must have ridden Tamera hard to have
driven her into the cavern shunned by her people, where it was said,
lurked the survivors of that grisly race which inhabited the land
before the coming of the Picts and Britons, and which had fled before
them into the unknown caverns of the hills.

Ahead of me the tunnel opened into a wide chamber, and I saw the
white form of Vertorix glimmer momentarily in the semidarkness and
vanish in what appeared to be the entrance of a corridor opposite the
mouth of the tunnel I had just traversed. Instantly there sounded a
short, fierce shout and the crash of a hard-driven blow, mixed with
the hysterical screams of a girl and a medley of serpentlike hissing
that made my hair bristle. And at that instant I shot out of the
tunnel, running at full speed, and realized too late the floor of the
cavern lay several feet below the level of the tunnel. My flying feet
missed the tiny steps and I crashed terrifically on the solid stone
floor.

Now as I stood in the semidarkness, rubbing my aching head, all
this came back to me, and I stared fearsomely across the vast chamber
at that black cryptic corridor into which Tamera and her lover had
disappeared, and over which silence lay like a pall. Gripping my
sword, I warily crossed the great, still cavern and peered into the
corridor. Only a denser darkness met my eyes. I entered, striving to
pierce the gloom, and as my foot slipped on a wide wet smear on the
stone floor, the raw acrid scent of fresh-spilled blood met my
nostrils. Someone or something had died there, either the young Briton
or his unknown attacker.

I stood there uncertainly, all the supernatural fears that are the
heritage of the Gael rising in my primitive soul. I could turn and
stride out of these accursed mazes, into the clear sunlight and down
to the clean blue sea where my comrades, no doubt, impatiently awaited
me after the routing of the Britons. Why should I risk my life among
these grisly rat dens? I was eaten with curiosity to know what manner
of beings haunted the cavern, and who were called the Children of the
Night by the Britons, but in it was my love for the yellow-haired girl
which drove me down that dark tunnel--and love her I did, in my way,
and would have been kind to her, had I carried her away to my island
haunt.

I walked softly along the corridor, blade ready. What sort of
creatures the Children of the Night were, I had no idea, but the tales
of the Britons had lent them a distinctly inhuman nature.

The darkness closed around me as I advanced, until I was moving in
utter blackness. My groping left hand encountered a strangely carven
doorway, and at that instant something hissed like a viper beside me
and slashed fiercely at my thigh. I struck back savagely and felt my
blind stroke crunch home, and something fell at my feet and died. What
thing I had slain in the dark I could not know, but it must have been
at least partly human because the shallow gash in my thigh had been
made with a blade of some sort, and not by fangs or talons. And I
sweated with horror, for the gods know, the hissing voice of the thing
had resembled no human tongue I had ever heard.

And now in the darkness ahead of me I heard the sound repeated,
mingled with horrible slitherings, as if numbers of reptilian
creatures were approaching. I stepped quickly into the entrance my
groping hand had discovered and came near repeating my headlong fall,
for instead of letting into another level corridor, the entrance gave
onto a flight of dwarfish steps on which I floundered wildly.

Recovering my balance I went on cautiously, groping along the
sides of the shaft for support. I seemed to be descending into the
very bowels of the earth, but I dared not turn back. Suddenly, far
below me, I glimpsed a faint eerie light. I went on, perforce, and
came to a spot where the shaft opened into another great vaulted
chamber; and I shrank back, aghast.

In the center of the chamber stood a grim, black altar; it had
been rubbed all over with a sort of phosphorous, so that it glowed
dully, lending a semi-illumination to the shadowy cavern. Towering
behind it on a pedestal of human skulls, lay a cryptic black object,
carven with mysterious hieroglyphics. The Black Stone! The ancient,
ancient Stone before which, the Britons said, the Children of the
Night bowed in gruesome worship, and whose origin was lost in the
black mists of a hideously distant past. Once, legend said, it had
stood in that grim circle of monoliths called Stonehenge, before its
votaries had been driven like chaff before the bows of the Picts.

But I gave it but a passing, shuddering glance. Two figures lay,
bound with rawhide thongs, on the glowing black altar. One was Tamera;
the other was Vertorix, bloodstained and disheveled. His bronze ax,
crusted with clotted blood, lay near the altar. And before the glowing
stone squatted Horror.

Though I had never seen one of those ghoulish aborigines, I knew
this thing for what it was, and shuddered. It was a man of a sort, but
so low in the stage of life that its distorted humanness was more
horrible than its bestiality.

Erect, it could not have been five feet in height. Its body was
scrawny and deformed, its head disproportionately large. Lank snaky
hair fell over a square inhuman face with flabby writhing lips that
bared yellow fangs, flat spreading nostrils and great yellow slant
eyes. I knew the creature must be able to see in the dark as well as a
cat. Centuries of skulking in dim caverns had lent the race terrible
and inhuman attributes. But the most repellent feature was its skin:
scaly, yellow and mottled, like the hide of a serpent. A loincloth
made of a real snake's skin girt its lean loins, and its taloned hands
gripped a short stone-tipped spear and a sinister-looking mallet of
polished flint.

So intently was it gloating over its captives, it evidently had
not heard my stealthy descent. As I hesitated in the shadows of the
shaft, far above me I heard a soft sinister rustling that chilled the
blood in my veins. The Children were creeping down the shaft behind
me, and I was trapped. I saw other entrances opening on the chamber,
and I acted, realizing that an alliance with Vertorix was our only
hope. Enemies though we were, we were men, cast in the same mold,
trapped in the lair of these indescribable monstrosities.

As I stepped from the shaft, the horror beside the altar jerked up
his head and glared full at me. And as he sprang up, I leaped and he
crumpled, blood spurting, as my heavy sword split his reptilian heart.
But even as he died, he gave tongue in an abhorrent shriek which was
echoed far up the shaft. In desperate haste I cut Vertorix's bonds and
dragged him to his feet. And I turned to Tamera, who in that dire
extremity did not shrink from me, but looked up at me with pleading,
terror-dilated eyes. Vertorix wasted no time in words, realizing
chance had made allies of us. He snatched up his ax as I freed the
girl.

"We can't go up the shaft," he explained swiftly; "we'll have the
whole pack upon us quickly. They caught Tamera as she sought for an
exit, and overpowered me by sheer numbers when I followed. They
dragged us hither and all but that carrion scattered--bearing word of
the sacrifice through all their burrows, I doubt not. Il-marenin alone
knows how many of my people, stolen in the night, have died on that
altar. We must take our chance in one of these tunnels--all lead to
Hell! Follow me!"

Seizing Tamera's hand he ran fleetly into the nearest tunnel and I
followed. A glance back into the chamber before a turn in the corridor
blotted it from view showed a revolting horde streaming out of the
shaft. The tunnel slanted steeply upward, and suddenly ahead of us we
saw a bar of gray light. But the next instant our cries of hope
changed to curses of bitter disappointment. There was daylight, aye,
drifting in through a cleft in the vaulted roof, but far, far above
our reach. Behind us the pack gave tongue exultingly. And I halted.

"Save yourselves if you can," I growled. "Here I make my stand.
They can see in the dark and I cannot. Here at least I can see them.
Go!"

But Vertorix halted also. "Little use to be hunted like rats to
our doom. There is no escape. Let us meet our fate like men."

Tamera cried out, wringing her hands, but she clung to her lover.

"Stand behind me with the girl," I grunted. "When I fall, dash out
her brains with your ax lest they take her alive again. Then sell your
own life as high as you may, for there is none to avenge us."

His keen eyes met mine squarely.

"We worship different gods, reaver," he said, "but all gods love
brave men. Mayhap we shall meet again, beyond the Dark."

"Hail and farewell, Briton!" I growled, and our right hands
gripped like steel.

"Hail and farewell, Gael!"

And I wheeled as a hideous horde swept up the tunnel and burst
into the dim light, a flying nightmare of streaming snaky hair, foam-
flecked lips and glaring eyes. Thundering my war-cry I sprang to meet
them and my heavy sword sang and a head spun grinning from its
shoulder on an arching fountain of blood. They came upon me like a
wave and the fighting madness of my race was upon me. I fought as a
maddened beast fights and at every stroke I clove through flesh and
bone, and blood spattered in a crimson rain.

Then as they surged in and I went down beneath the sheer weight of
their numbers, a fierce yell cut the din and Vertorix's ax sang above
me, splattering blood and brains like water. The press slackened and I
staggered up, trampling the writhing bodies beneath my feet.

"A stair behind us!" the Briton was screaming. "Half-hidden in an
angle of the wall! It must lead to daylight! Up it, in the name of Il-
marenin!"

So we fell back, fighting our way inch by inch. The vermin fought
like blood-hungry devils, clambering over the bodies of the slain to
screech and hack. Both of us were streaming blood at every step when
we reached the mouth of the shaft, into which Tamera had preceded us.

Screaming like very fiends, the Children surged in to drag us down.
The shaft was not as light as had been the corridor, and it grew
darker as we climbed, but our foes could only come at us from in
front. By the gods, we slaughtered them till the stair was littered
with mangled corpses and the Children frothed like mad wolves! Then
suddenly they abandoned the fray and raced back down the steps.

"What portends this?" gasped Vertorix, shaking the bloody sweat
from his eyes.

"Up the shaft, quick!" I panted. "They mean to mount some other
stair and come at us from above!"

So we raced up those accursed steps, slipping and stumbling, and
as we fled past a black tunnel that opened into the shaft, far down it
we heard a frightful howling. An instant later we emerged from the
shaft into a winding corridor, dimly illumined by a vague gray light
filtering in from above, and somewhere in the bowels of the earth I
seemed to hear the thunder of rushing water. We started down the
corridor and as we did so, a heavy weight smashed on my shoulders,
knocking me headlong, and a mallet crashed again and again on my head,
sending dull red flashes of agony across my brain. With a volcanic
wrench I dragged my attacker off and under me, and tore out his throat
with my naked fingers. And his fangs met in my arm in his death-bite.

Reeling up, I saw that Tamera and Vertorix had passed out of
sight. I had been somewhat behind them, and they had run on, knowing
nothing of the fiend which had leaped on my shoulders. Doubtless they
thought I was still close on their heels. A dozen steps I took, then
halted. The corridor branched and I knew not which way my companions
had taken. At blind venture I turned into the left-hand branch, and
staggered on in the semidarkness. I was weak from fatigue and loss of
blood, dizzy and sick from the blows I had received. Only the thought
of Tamera kept me doggedly on my feet. Now distinctly I heard the
sound of an unseen torrent.

That I was not far underground was evident by the dim light which
filtered in from somewhere above, and I momentarily expected to come
upon another stair. But when I did, I halted in black despair; instead
of up, it led down. Somewhere far behind me I heard faintly the howls
of the pack, and I went down, plunging into utter darkness. At last I
struck a level and went along blindly. I had given up all hope of
escape, and only hoped to find Tamera--if she and her lover had not
found a way of escape--and die with her. The thunder of rushing water
was above my head now, and the tunnel was slimy and dank. Drops of
moisture fell on my head and I knew I was passing under the river.

Then I blundered again upon steps cut in the stone, and these led
upward. I scrambled up as fast as my stiffening wounds would allow--
and I had taken punishment enough to have killed an ordinary man. Up I
went and up, and suddenly daylight burst on me through a cleft in the
solid rock. I stepped into the blaze of the sun. I was standing on a
ledge high above the rushing waters of a river which raced at awesome
speed between towering cliffs. The ledge on which I stood was close to
the top of the cliff; safety was within arm's length. But I hesitated
and such was my love for the golden-haired girl that I was ready to
retrace my steps through those black tunnels on the mad hope of
finding her. Then I started.

Across the river I saw another cleft in the cliff-wall which
fronted me, with a ledge similar to that on which I stood, but longer.
In olden times, I doubt not, some sort of primitive bridge connected
the two ledges--possibly before the tunnel was dug beneath the
riverbed. Now as I watched, two figures emerged upon that other
ledge--one gashed, dust-stained, limping, gripping a bloodstained ax;
the other slim, white and girlish.

Vertorix and Tamera! They had taken the other branch of the
corridor at the fork and had evidently followed the windows of the
tunnel to emerge as I had done, except that I had taken the left turn
and passed clear under the river. And now I saw that they were in a
trap. On that side the cliffs rose half a hundred feet higher than on
my side of the river, and so sheer a spider could scarce have scaled
them. There were only two ways of escape from the ledge: back through
the fiend-haunted tunnels, or straight down to the river which raved
far beneath.

I saw Vertorix look up the sheer cliffs and then down, and shake
his head in despair. Tamara put her arms about his neck, and though I
could not hear their voices for the rush of the river, I saw them
smile, and then they went together to the edge of the ledge. And out
of the cleft swarmed a loathsome mob, as foul reptiles writhe up out
of the darkness, and they stood blinking in the sunlight like the
night-things they were. I gripped my sword-hilt in the agony of my
helplessness until the blood trickled from under my fingernails. Why
had not the pack followed me instead of my companions?

The Children hesitated an instant as the two Britons faced them,
then with a laugh Vertorix hurled his ax far out into the rushing
river, and turning, caught Tamera in a last embrace. Together they
sprang far out, and still locked in each other's arms, hurtled
downward, struck the madly foaming water that seemed to leap up to
meet them, and vanished. And the wild river swept on like a blind,
insensate monster, thundering along the echoing cliffs.

A moment I stood frozen, then like a man in a dream I turned,
caught the edge of the cliff above me and wearily drew myself up and
over, and stood on my feet above the cliffs, hearing like a dim dream
the roar of the river far beneath.

I reeled up, dazedly clutching my throbbing head, on which dried
blood was clotted. I glared wildly about me. I had clambered the
cliffs--no, by the thunder of Crom, I was still in the cavern! I
reached for my sword--

The mists faded and I stared about dizzily, orienting myself with
space and time. I stood at the foot of the steps down which I had
fallen. I who had been Conan the reaver, was John O'Brien. Was all
that grotesque interlude a dream? Could a mere dream appear so vivid?
Even in dreams, we often know we are dreaming, but Conan the reaver
had no cognizance of any other existence. More, he remembered his own
past life as a living man remembers, though in the waking mind of John
O'Brien, that memory faded into dust and mist. But the adventures of
Conan in the Cavern of the Children stood clear-etched in the mind of
John O'Brien.

I glanced across the dim chamber toward the entrance of the tunnel
into which Vertorix had followed the girl. But I looked in vain,
seeing only the bare blank wall of the cavern. I crossed the chamber,
switched on my electric torch--miraculously unbroken in my fall--and
felt along the wall.

Ha! I started, as from an electric shock! Exactly where the
entrance should have been, my fingers detected a difference in
material, a section which was rougher than the rest of the wall. I was
convinced that it was of comparatively modern workmanship; the tunnel
had been walled up.

I thrust against it, exerting all my strength, and it seemed to me
that the section was about to give. I drew back, and taking a deep
breath, launched my full weight against it, backed by all the power of
my giant muscles. The brittle, decaying wall gave way with a
shattering crash and I catapulted through in a shower of stones and
falling masonry.

I scrambled up, a sharp cry escaping me. I stood in a tunnel, and
I could not mistake the feeling of similarity this time. Here Vertorix
had first fallen foul of the Children, as they dragged Tamera away,
and here where I now stood the floor had been awash with blood.

I walked down the corridor like a man in a trance. Soon I should
come to the doorway on the left--aye, there it was, the strangely
carven portal, at the mouth of which I had slain the unseen being
which reared up in the dark beside me. I shivered momentarily. Could
it be possible that remnants of that foul race still lurked hideously
in these remote caverns?

I turned into the doorway and my light shone down a long, slanting
shaft, with tiny steps cut into the solid stone. Down these had Conan
the reaver gone groping and down them went I, John O'Brien, with
memories of that other life filling my brain with vague phantasms. No
light glimmered ahead of me but I came into the great dim chamber I
had known of yore, and I shuddered as I saw the grim black altar
etched in the gleam of my torch. Now no bound figures writhed there,
no crouching horror gloated before it. Nor did the pyramid of skulls
support the Black Stone before which unknown races had bowed before
Egypt was born out of time's dawn. Only a littered heap of dust lay
strewn where the skulls had upheld the hellish thing. No, that had
been no dream: I was John O'Brien, but I had been Conan of the reavers
in that other life, and that grim interlude a brief episode of reality
which I had relived.

I entered the tunnel down which we had fled, shining a beam of
light ahead, and saw the bar of gray light drifting down from above--
just as in that other, lost age. Here the Briton and I, Conan, had
turned at bay. I turned my eyes from the ancient cleft high up in the
vaulted roof, and looked for the stair. There it was, half-concealed
by an angle in the wall.

I mounted, remembering how hurriedly Vertorix and I had gone up so
many ages before, with the horde hissing and frothing at our heels. I
found myself tense with dread as I approached the dark, gaping
entrance through which the pack had sought to cut us off. I had
snapped off the light when I came into the dim-lit corridor below, and
now I glanced into the well of blackness which opened on the stair.
And with a cry I started back, nearly losing my footing on the worn
steps. Sweating in the semidarkness I switched on the light and
directed its beam into the cryptic opening, revolver in hand.

I saw only the bare rounded sides of a small shaftlike tunnel and
I laughed nervously. My imagination was running riot; I could have
sworn that hideous yellow eyes glared terribly at me from the
darkness, and that a crawling something had scuttered away down the
tunnel. I was foolish to let these imaginings upset me. The Children
had long vanished from these caverns; a nameless and abhorrent race
closer to the serpent than the man, they had centuries ago faded back
into the oblivion from which they had crawled in the black dawn ages
of the Earth.

I came out of the shaft into the winding corridor, which, as I
remembered of old, was lighter. Here from the shadows a lurking thing
had leaped on my back while my companions ran on, unknowing. What a
brute of a man Conan had been, to keep going after receiving such
savage wounds! Aye, in that age all men were iron.

I came to the place where the tunnel forked and as before I took
the left-hand branch and came to the shaft that led down. Down this I
went, listening for the roar of the river, but not hearing it. Again
the darkness shut in about the shaft, so I was forced to have recourse
to my electric torch again, lest I lose my footing and plunge to my
death. Oh, I, John O'Brien, am not nearly so sure-footed as was I,
Conan the reaver; no, nor as tigerishly powerful and quick, either.

I soon struck the dank lower level and felt again the dampness
that denoted my position under the riverbed, but still I could not
hear the rush of the water. And indeed I knew that whatever mighty
river had rushed roaring to the sea in those ancient times, there was
no such body of water among the hills today. I halted, flashing my
light about. I was in a vast tunnel, not very high of roof, but broad.
Other smaller tunnels branched off from it and I wondered at the
network which apparently honeycombed the hills.

I cannot describe the grim, gloomy effect of those dark, low-
roofed corridors far below the earth. Over all hung an overpowering
sense of unspeakable antiquity. Why had the little people carved out
these mysterious crypts, and in which black age? Were these caverns
their last refuge from the onrushing tides of humanity, or their
castles since time immemorial? I shook my head in bewilderment; the
bestiality of the Children I had seen, yet somehow they had been able
to carve these tunnels and chambers that might balk modern engineers.
Even supposing they had but completed a task begun by nature, still it
was a stupendous work for a race of dwarfish aborigines.

Then I realized with a start that I was spending more time in
these gloomy tunnels than I cared for, and began to hunt for the steps
by which Conan had ascended. I found them and, following them up,
breathed again deeply in relief as the sudden glow of daylight filled
the shaft. I came out upon the ledge, now worn away until it was
little more than a bump on the face of the cliff. And I saw the great
river, which had roared like a prisoned monster between the sheer
walls of its narrow canyon, had dwindled away with the passing eons
until it was no more than a tiny stream, far beneath me, trickling
soundlessly among the stones on its way to the sea.

Aye, the surface of the earth changes; the rivers swell or shrink,
the mountains heave and topple, the lakes dry up, the continents
alter; but under the earth the work of lost, mysterious hands slumbers
untouched by the sweep of Time. Their work, aye, but what of the hands
that reared that work? Did they, too, lurk beneath the bosoms of the
hills?

How long I stood there, lost in dim speculations, I do not know,
but suddenly, glancing across at the other ledge, crumbling and
weathered, I shrank back into the entrance behind me. Two figures came
out upon the ledge and I gasped to see that they were Richard Brent
and Eleanor Bland. Now I remembered why I had come to the cavern and
my hand instinctively sought the revolver in my pocket. They did not
see me. But I could see them, and hear them plainly, too, since no
roaring river now thundered between the ledges.

"By gad, Eleanor," Brent was saying, "I'm glad you decided to come
with me. Who would have guessed there was anything to those old tales
about hidden tunnels leading from the cavern? I wonder how that
section of wall came to collapse? I thought I heard a crash just as we
entered the outer cave. Do you suppose some beggar was in the cavern
ahead of us, and broke it in?"

"I don't know," she answered. "I remember--oh, I don't know. It
almost seems as if I'd been here before, or dreamed I had. I seem to
faintly remember, like a far-off nightmare, running, running, running
endlessly through these dark corridors with hideous creatures on my
heels..."

"Was I there?" jokingly asked Brent.

"Yes, and John, too," she answered. "But you were not Richard
Brent, and John was not John O'Brien. No, and I was not Eleanor Bland,
either. Oh, it's so dim and far-off I can't describe it at all. It's
hazy and misty and terrible."

"I understand, a little," he said unexpectedly. "Ever since we
came to the place where the wall had fallen and revealed the old
tunnel, I've had a sense of familiarity with the place. There was
horror and danger and battle--and love, too."

He stepped nearer the edge to look down in the gorge, and Eleanor
cried out sharply and suddenly, seizing him in a convulsive grasp.

"Don't, Richard, don't! Hold me, oh, hold me tight!"

He caught her in his arms. "Why, Eleanor, dear, what's the
matter?"

"Nothing," she faltered, but she clung closer to him and I saw she
was trembling. "Just a strange feeling--rushing dizziness and fright,
just as if I were falling from a great height. Don't go near the edge,
Dick; it scares me."

"I won't, dear," he answered, drawing her closer to him, and
continuing hesitantly: "Eleanor, there's something I've wanted to ask
you for a long time--well, I haven't the knack of putting things in an
elegant way. I love you, Eleanor; always have. You know that. But if
you don't love me, I'll take myself off and won't annoy you any more.
Only please tell me one way or another, for I can't stand it any
longer. Is it I or the American?"

"You, Dick," she answered, hiding her face on his shoulder. "It's
always been you, though I didn't know it. I think a great deal of John
O'Brien. I didn't know which of you I really loved. But today as we
came through those terrible tunnels and climbed those fearful stairs,
and just now, when I thought for some strange reason we were falling
from the ledge, I realized it was you I loved--that I always loved
you, through more lives than this one. Always!"

Their lips met and I saw her golden head cradled on his shoulder.
My lips were dry, my heart cold, yet my soul was at peace. They
belonged to each other. Eons ago they lived and loved, and because of
that love they suffered and died. And I, Conan, had driven them to
that doom.

I saw them turn toward the cleft, their arms about each other,
then I heard Tamera--I mean Eleanor--shriek. I saw them both recoil.
And out of the cleft a horror came writhing, a loathsome, brain-
shattering thing that blinked in the clean sunlight. Aye, I knew it of
old--vestige of a forgotten age, it came writhing its horrid shape up
out of the darkness of the Earth and the lost past to claim its own.

What three thousand years of retrogression can do to a race
hideous in the beginning, I saw, and shuddered. And instinctively I
knew that in all the world it was the only one of its kind, a monster
that had lived on. God alone knows how many centuries, wallowing in
the slime of its dank subterranean lairs. Before the Children had
vanished, the race must have lost all human semblance, living as they
did, the life of the reptile.

This thing was more like a giant serpent than anything else, but
it had aborted legs and snaky arms with hooked talons. It crawled on
its belly, writhing back mottled lips to bare needlelike fangs, which
I felt must drip with venom. It hissed as it reared up its ghastly
head on a horribly long neck, while its yellow slanted eyes glittered
with all the horror that is spawned in the black lairs under the
earth.

I knew those eyes had blazed at me from the dark tunnel opening on
the stair. For some reason the creature had fled from me, possibly
because it feared my light, and it stood to reason that it was the
only one remaining in the caverns, else I had been set upon in the
darkness. But for it, the tunnels could be traversed in safety.

Now the reptilian thing writhed toward the humans trapped on the
ledge. Brent had thrust Eleanor behind him and stood, face ashy, to
guard her as best he could. And I gave thanks silently that I, John
O'Brien, could pay the debt I, Conan the reaver, owed these lovers
since long ago.

The monster reared up and Brent, with cold courage, sprang to meet
it with his naked hands. Taking quick aim, I fired once. The shot
echoed like the crack of doom between the towering cliffs, and the
Horror, with a hideously human scream, staggered wildly, swayed and
pitched headlong, knotting and writhing like a wounded python, to
tumble from the sloping ledge and fall plummetlike to the rocks far
below.



THE END




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