Chapter 2

Conan tread softly to the tunnel's end, halting at a steep depression carved into the mountain. He raised a hand, signalling Amala to stop. The basin's shape was conical, narrowing into a V as it went down. Rock plates jutted from the sides at various distances, stretching the basin's length.

The most prominent feature rested on the surface opposite the travelers. A massive half cylinder protruded from the wall. It rose taller than any castle Conan had ever seen. Gray reflective metal comprised its exterior. A shattered glass dome capped the building, choked with overgrowth.

Conan and Amala exchanged confused glances at the oddity. Conan doubted his sanity, then recalled far stranger things he had seen in his lifetime.

"What do you suppose it is?" Amala asked.

"Crom only knows. But it's made of enough metal to forge an army's worth of weapons."

"An abandoned fort from a Nemedian-Aquilonian war?"

Conan gave her an incredulous look. "Built with enough steel for a major city?"

Amala shrugged as she took in the sight.

Conan crossed his arms and eyed it for several seconds. "Looks like we're going through that...'lair' or whatever it is. We can't afford to backtrack, lest the bandits catch up to us," he declared.

Amala clutched her staff and bit her lower lip. "Oh Conan, I don't like this... Is there no other way?"

Conan looked above. High jagged spires enclosed the basin. Any attempt to scale them would be suicidal, even to Conan, whose talent for climbing came naturally to Cimmerians. Getting down would be child's play – for him. The soft lived Amala would be a different story. It would take patience and caution, but not impossible thanks to the natural steps below.

The barbarian thought of a sarcrastic reply, but suppressed it. "Amala, the lair is our best chance. Let us take refuge there until we're sure the raiders are gone."

The girl considered the idea. "If there's a way out the other side we would save a lot of time. Make it to Belverus on schedule and not worry father..."

Conan nodded reassuringly. Amala used her staff to support her balance, and peered over the ledge.

"It may look scary," Conan admitted. "But we'll make it down if you follow my lead."

Conan crouched and gripped the coarse earth under him. He slinked to the lip of the basin and gently let himself down the incline. A crumbling of pebbles and dirt broke from the rock face as Conan's fingers raked down it, leaving a trail of dust. His boots struck the first plate with an audible thud.

"See?" he asked, looking up a Amala. "Not so bad."

Amala gingerly imitated Conan's scaling of the slope. But alas, she lost her footing and tumbled downward. She shrieked and fell into Conan's arms. Her hood threw back, revealing her raven mop of curly locks. Her cheeks blushed and eyes widened.

"Uh, you're getting the hang of it," he said, quickly setting her down.

Conan and Amala proceeded down the slope, sliding from step to step until landing on the last platform. The distance to the bottom was a little far, but not dangerously so. Conan gripped the ledge and hung off it, then let himself drop to the surface, leaving deep footprints in the sand. Amala peered over it apprehensively. Conan stretched his arms to her.

"Don't be afraid. I'll catch you if you fall."

The step began to crack, fragments of it crumbling away.

"Amala, now!"

The noblewoman leaped off the step, just before it crumbled to pieces. Conan broke her fall, chunks of rock crashed around them. Amala's slender arms and supple body clung tight to Conan's waist, making him uncomfortable. He placed her down and turned his attention to the building's only entrance; a featureless oval door. A curious panel was adjacent to it, about the size of a hand.

"Let's take a moment," Amala said.

Conan nodded his assent. He noted the tiredness on her face. The long flight from the fringes of Aquilonia fatigued the barbarian too, though used to long journeys on foot. They breathed heavily, winded from the exertion of descending the rock wall. Their fingers and palms were reddened and scraped from digging into its clefts.

Amala approached the panel by the door. Conan caught up to her, wary of the object. In the center of the panel was a horizontal slot, over which hung a rectangluar shape made of dark glass. A small clear case attached itself to the left of the panel, behind which was a plain green card. Amala tugged at one side of the glass case, causing it to swivel open.

"I should see that," Conan said quickly.

He enveloped the card in his thick hand and studied it with a perplexed look. He held it to his nose and smelled it; no scent. He held it between his teeth; no flavor. He tried to rip it in two, but the strange material wouldn't tear.

"Conan, I think I—"

"Be silent, I'm trying to glean the purpose of this thing. Definitely not edible. Maybe a form of currency..."

Amala plucked the card from Conan and slid it through the panel's slot. The rectangle flashed green and beeped! The door slid open with a whoosh, revealing a long corridor of metal and ceramic plating. The pair stood in awed disbelief of it for several seconds. Flat glass panels ran across the ceiling, flooding the interior in brightness. Every few of the lights flickered on and off intermittenly.

Conan's hair stood on end and his blood ran cold. There was only one explanation for this: magic. Conan feared few things, but the occult and sorcery drew out a primal aversion in him. His skin crawled and his imagination ran wild with dark thoughts of what lurked beyond the entrance.

"That placed is accursed," he said.

Without realizing it, Conan walked backward from the lit door.

"You said its our best chance didn't you?" Amala asked.

The barbarian stood firm, resolving not to show fear. But a reluctance remained as he stared down the corridor. Amala stepped ahead of him and into the building. She ran a hand over the clean ivory walls and glanced up at the panes of permanently lit glass.

"Amala..." Conan warned.

He scratched his chin and looked to the rock steps behind them. The barbarian realized there was no going back. He and Amala would survive this ordeal or perish. With one hand on his sword pommel, he went after her.

"Its not accursed," Amala asserted, watching as Conan darted his eyes around the area with suspicion. "Its technology."

"Such as I've never seen," he replied. "Only the Atlanteans themselves could be so advanced."

"The historians back home might agree, but this advanced?"

The pair continued until stopping at the end of the hall. It spit off into two wings. A double door was on the left wing. The wing on the right went a considerable distance further.

"We shouldn't go too far," Conan said. "It may be safe behind those doors. Let's sleep there for the night and recover our strength."

Amala started to speak when a distant sound echoed from a corner down the right wing. Conan readied himself for a fight. The sound rang louder: Clank...clank...clank...

A robotic figure, resembling a musclebound man, emerged from the corner. A dark purple singlet covered its metallic skin. A fine mesh mask concealed its face. Mechanical parts ground together inside it as it strode toward Amala and Conan. Its right hand clutched a fencing sword. It swung the weapon through the air, making a swish each time.

A tinny, artificial voice boomed from a speaker behind the mask. "En garde!"

"What infernal machinery is this?" Conan thought aloud.

The mechanical fencer lunged at Conan, its needle-thin blade aimed for his heart. The barbarian swatted it away with the flat of his broadsword. He countered with a wide swing, attempting to slash open its midsection. The robot dodged the blade's edge by a wide berth. It held an arm behind its back and bent one knee forward in an elegant pose. It held its swordpoint straight at Conan, waving it in a taunting gesture. "En garde!" it repeated.

Tiring of the robot's strangeness, Conan delivered a mighty thrust of the broadsword. Before he realized it, the robot sidestepped the attack and cut into his left bicep, drawing blood.

"Argh!" Conan shouted, more from rage than pain.

The barbarian and fencing robot went back and forth, attacking, blocking and parrying. The robot's speed and precision nearly matched Conan's. More fresh cuts pierced Conan's flesh, though nothing life threatning. Conan knew his strength, but also his limits. He would run out of energy before the soulless machine did.

Summoning a final burst of power, he drove toward the fencer with a flurry of savage unpredictable sword swings. Amala ran past them and kneeled next to the robot as it backed from Conan's assaults. The girl stuck her staff out behind by the robot's legs and nodded to Conan.

With a mighty kick, Conan tripped the robot over the staff, crashing it onto its back. He raised his sword high and plunged it into the robot's chest. Its limbs convulsed, and sparks flew out of the wound. The air filled with the acrid smell of burning batteries as the gears and sprockets in the robot ground to a halt.

Conan clasped its mesh mask and ripped it off, flinging it away. He staggered back with a disgusted look at the sight of what appeared to be worms. Amala looked at them as well, her expression a mix of curiosity and revulsion. On closer inspection, the pair saw that it was a bunch of electrical wires coiling around the mask's mouth piece.

Conan stumbled up to the double doors, there were no visible handles or levers to open them. He stabbed his sword through the thin line separating each door and pried them open. He and Amala walked in. Amala gasped at a clothed skeleton sitting behind a desk. Behind the desk and over the skeleton's head, a red + sign hung on the wall.

"Strange mark," Conan noted. "Then again, everything here is strange..."

Conan studied the area. To his pleasant surprise, a row of beds took up the left wall. Mechanical instruments were attached to the side of each, but Conan couldn't guess for what purpose. It didn't matter to him however; their clean sheets and pillows were all he needed.

"We'll have a place to sleep for the night at least," he added.

Amala cautiously approached the skeleton, daring to study its clothes. The outfit comprised of a white double breasted overcoat with two rows of gold buttons. The skeleton's hands were placed on the desktop, covered in black leather gloves. Amala felt the material.

"No seams, stitching, wrinkes or other signs of wear..." she remarked.

"There are more important thing's than a dead man's clothes," Conan replied. "I'm starving, and we need water."

The girl walked to the right side of the room to where there was a row of cabinents. She began slowly and carefully opening them. Conan thanked Crom; the normally spiteful god had answered his prayers.

"Bandages, water bottles and maybe food?" Amala said.

"Finally, something recognizable," Conan said, taking the strips of bandages and applying them to his wounds.

"I don't recognize the bottle's material," Amala said, holding the transparent flexible container.

"Hell with the material, can we drink what's inside?"

Amala untwisted the cap, smelled the liquid and reluctantly took a sip. She looked pleasantly surprised.

"Its good!' she exclaimed. "Crisp, clean, though not cold..."

Amala tossed a bottle to Conan, who caught it in a hand. He undid the cap and took a long pull of the water. He closed his eyes and exhaled, enjoying his first refreshment in a long time.

"Now those," he said, nodding to a row of silver pouches.

Amala brought him one. He tore it open along a perforated line. Amala did the same with hers. They each pulled out a palm sized bar, made of stuck together cereal or grains. They felt dense and heavy in their hands, niether having much of a smell. Conan chewed on his; it was coarse and crumbly and tasted like oatmeal. It wasn't much, but it sated him.

After Conan patched himself up, quenched his thirst and filled his stomach, he and Amala made their way to their own beds. Niether had much time to ponder the surrealism and terror of their journey so far before sleep overtook them...