Conan the Barbarian by L. Sprague de Camp, Lin Carter Page A

idea. The next day, hunched over a frugal dinner, they outlined a plan, their conspiratorial whispers masked by the crackling of a hot fire on a stone hearth. Recklessly, they decided to embark on the venture that very night, since the overcast skies would shroud the full moon, making it a perfect occasion for a burglary.
    Gloom wrapped the two in a velvet cloak of darkness as they crept along the shoulder of a craggy rise from whose crest the dark tower soared into the clouded heavens. A wall, hung with leafy vines, as with some ancient tapestry, guarded the base of the knoll. No rope ladder could have provided them with easier access to the temple precincts than those sturdy, interwoven vines. Subotai scuttled over the wall first, being the lighter of the two; and once over, he signalled his success with a low bird-call. The young Cimmerian made his ascent.
    Concealed behind a blanket of low shrubs, the thieves studied the slope between them and the tower’s base. Gnarled trees raised threatening branches, as if to warn them off. Sharp-toothed rocks thrust up their pointed fangs through the infertile soil. The tower, black against the shrouded skies, soared upward, a cylinder of sleek, dark stone tapering to a lofty peak. And between the tower and the sheltering shrubs, a reflecting pool stretched its gaping mouth in a soundless shriek. The intruders were about to leave their hiding place and approach the tower when a twig snapped underfoot and a shape materialized from the deeper shadows of the curved tower wall.
    Just then an icicle of silver moonlight speared through a rift in the cloudy vapours, to reveal the form of the newcomer. It was a woman, young and beautiful. Moon fire cascaded over her slender shoulders, and played on one bare, muscular thigh and the long, slender leg of a dancer or acrobat. Conan held his breath, for the woman was superbly desirable from what he could see of her.
    Over tight undergarments of black silk, she wore an abbreviated suit of black leather, which left her arms and legs bare; and in that momentary shaft of white moonlight, Conan saw that the woman’s limbs were sun-bronzed and endowed with steely strength. Her buskins were tight-laced about her feet, and the blonde hair, rippling about her leather-clad shoulders, was bound out of her way by rings of ebony. A band of metal, sombre in hue, protected her brow; while slung from her girdle were a knotted length of silken cord and a three-pronged grappling hook. A curved knife, almost as long as a sabre, was strapped in its sheath against her thigh.
    Conan shifted his weight, and a dry leaf rustled beneath him. The woman darted a glance in his direction, and the curved blade hissed from its sheath to point at Conan’s chest, as if the woman’s eyes could penetrate the darkness like the eyes of a cat. Since further concealment was useless, Conan slowly rose to his feet, keeping both hands in plain sight. The balance and shaping of the sword, he saw, made it as useful for throwing as for thrusting.
    Conan and the woman looked at each other for a wordless moment, as the shaft of light diminished and died. “You are no guard,” murmured Conan.
    “No more are you,” the girl retorted. “And who is that beside you who tries to make no sound but breathes as heavily as a fat man?”
    “Another thief,” replied Subotai, rising to his feet. “I fear it is one whose skills are a little rusty.”
    “And who and whence are you?” The girl addressed Conan coolly.
    “I am Conan, a Cimmerian, a man-slayer by profession, a thief from necessity. This is Subotai, the Hyrkanian...”
    “A thief both by choice and profession,” said his comrade with a touch of pride. “We come to plunder the snake-lovers of their riches.”
    The girl smiled broadly, her white teeth visible despite the shadows. “You are two fools who laugh at certain death! You do not even have a rope and tackle. How, then, do you plan to ascend the tower—fly on the back of a