The woman on the horse reined inher weary steed. It stood with itslegs wide-braced, its head drooping,as if it found even the weight of thegold-tasseled, red-leather bridle too heavy.The woman drew a booted foot out of thesilver stirrup and swung down from thegilt-worked saddle. She made the reinsfast to the fork of a sapling, and turnedabout, hands on her hips, to survey hersurroundings.
Nearly four years ago, WEIRDTALES published a story called "ThePhoenix on the Sword," built arounda barbarian adventurer named Conan,who had become king of a countryby sheer force of valor and brutestrength. The author of that storywas Robert E. Howard, who was alreadya favorite with the readers ofthis magazine for his stories of SolomonKane, the dour English Puritanand redresser of wrongs. The storiesabout Conan were speedily acclaimedby our readers, and the barbarian'sweird adventures becameimmensely popular. The story presentedherewith is one of the mostpowerful and eery weird tales yetwritten about Conan. We commendthis story to you, for we know youwill enjoy it through and through.
They were not inviting. Giant treeshemmed in the small pool where herhorse had just drunk. Clumps of undergrowthlimited the vision that questedunder the somber twilight of the loftyarches formed by intertwining branches.The woman shivered with a twitch of hermagnificent shoulders, and then cursed.
She was tall, full-bosomed and large-limbed,with compact shoulders. Herwhole figure reflected an unusual strength,without detracting from the femininity ofher appearance. She was all woman, inspite of her bearing and her garments.The latter were incongruous, in view ofher present environs. Instead of a skirtshe wore short, wide-legged silk breeches,which ceased a hand's breadth shortof her knees, and were upheld by a widesilken sash worn as a girdle. Flaring-toppedboots of soft leather came almostto her knees, and a low-necked,wide-collared, wide-sleeved silk shirt completedher costume. On one shapely hip shewore a straight double-edged sword, andon the other a long dirk. Her unrulygolden hair, cut square at her shoulders,was confined by a band of crimson satin.
Against the background of somber,primitive forest she posed with an unconsciouspicturesqueness, bizarre and out ofplace. She should have been posed againsta background of sea-clouds, painted mastsand wheeling gulls. There was the colorof the sea in her wide eyes. And that wasas it should have been, because this wasValeria of the Red Brotherhood, whosedeeds are celebrated in song and balladwherever seafarers gather.
She strove to pierce the sullen greenroof of the arched branches and see thesky which presumably lay about it, butpresently gave it up with a muttered oath.
Leaving her horse tied she strode offtoward the east, glancing back toward thepool from time to time in order to fix herroute in her mind. The silence of theforest depressed her. No birds sang inthe lofty boughs, nor did any rustling inthe bushes indicate the presence of anysmall animals. For leagues she had traveledin a realm of brooding stillness,broken only by the sounds of her ownflight.
She had slaked her thirst at the pool,but she felt the gnawings of hunger andbegan looking about for some of the fruiton which she ha