And
Yar Ali had heard hints before of a silent city of the sands; tales
had followed the eastbound caravans over the high Persian uplands
and across the sands of Turkistan, into the mountain country and
beyond--vague tales, whispers of a black city of the djinn, deep in the
hazes of a haunted desert. So, following the trail of the legend, the companions had come from
Shiraz to a village on the Arabian shore of the Persian Gulf, and there
had heard more from an old man who had been a pearl-diver in his
youth. The loquacity of age was on him and he told tales repeated to
him by wandering tribesmen who had them in turn from the wild nomads of
the deep interior; and again Steve and Yar Ali heard of the still black
city with giant beasts carved of stone, and the skeleton sultan who
held the blazing gem. And so, mentally swearing at himself for a fool, Steve had made the
plunge, and Yar Ali, secure in the knowledge that all things lay on
the lap of Allah, had come with him. Their scanty supply of money had
been just sufficient to provide riding-camels and provisions for a bold
flying invasion of the unknown. Their only chart had been the vague
rumors that placed the supposed location of Kara-Shehr. There had been days of hard travel, pushing the beasts and conserving
water and food. Then, deep in the desert they invaded, they had
encountered a blinding sand-wind in which they had lost the camels. After that came long miles of staggering through the sands, battered
by a flaming sun, subsisting on rapidly dwindling water from their
canteens, and food Yar Ali had in a pouch. No thought of finding the
mythical city now. They pushed on blindly, in hope of stumbling upon a
spring; they knew that behind them no oases lay within a distance they
could hope to cover on foot. It was a desperate chance, but their only
one. Then white-clad hawks had swooped down on them, out of the haze of the
skyline, and from a shallow and hastily scooped trench the adventurers
had exchanged shots with the wild riders who circled them at top
speed. The bullets of the Bedouins had skipped through their makeshift
fortifications, knocking dust into their eyes and flicking bits of
cloth from their garments, but by good chance neither had been hit. Their one bit of luck, reflected Clarney, as he cursed himself for a
fool. What a mad venture it had been, anyway! To think that two men
could so dare the desert and live, much less wrest from its abysmal
bosom the secrets of the ages! And that crazy tale of a skeleton hand
gripping a flaming jewel in a dead city--bosh! What utter rot! He must
have been crazy himself to credit it, the American decided with the
clarity of view that suffering and danger bring. "Well, old horse," said Steve, lifting his rifle, "let's get
going. It's a toss-up if we die of thirst or get sniped off by the
desert-brothers. Anyway, we're doin' no good here." "God gives," agreed Yar Ali cheerfully. "The sun sinks westward. Soon
the coolness of night will be upon us. Perhaps we shall find water yet,
_sahib_. Look, the terrain changes to the south." Clarney shaded his eyes against the dying sun. Beyond a level, barren
expanse of several miles width, the land did indeed become more broken;
aborted hills were in evidence. The American slung his rifle over his
arm and sighed. "Heave ahead; we're food for the buzzards anyhow." *       *       *       *       *

The sun sank and the moon rose, flooding the desert with weird silver
light. Drifted sand glimmered in long ripples, as if a sea had suddenly
been frozen into immobility. Steve, parched fiercely by a thirst he
dared not fully quench, cursed beneath his breath. The desert was
beautiful beneath the moon, with the beauty of a cold marble lorelei to
lure men to destruction. What a mad quest! his weary brain reiterated;
the Fire of Asshurbanipal retreated into the mazes of unreality with
each dragging step. The desert became not merely a material wasteland,
but the gray mists of the lost eons, in whose depths dreamed sunken
things. Clarney stumbled and swore; was he failing already? Yar Ali swung along
with the easy, tireless stride of the mountain man, and Steve set his
teeth, nerving himself to greater effort. They were entering the broken
country at last, and the going became harder. Shallow gullies and
narrow ravines knifed the earth with wavering patterns. Most of them
were nearly filled with sand, and there was no trace of water. "This country was once oasis country," commented Yar Ali. "Allah knows
how many centuries ago the sand took it, as the sand has taken so many
cities in Turkistan." They swung on like dead men in a gray land of death. The moon grew red
and sinister as she sank, and shadowy darkness settled over the desert
before they had reached a point where they could see what lay beyond
the broken belt. Even the big Afghan's feet began to drag, and Steve
kept himself erect only by a savage effort of will. At last they toiled
up a sort of ridge, on the southern side of which the land sloped
downward. "We rest," declared Steve. "There's no water in this hellish country. No use in goin' on for ever. My legs are stiff as gun-barrels. I
couldn't take another step to save my neck. Here's a kind of stunted
cliff, about as high as a man's shoulder, facing south. We'll sleep in
the lee of it." "And shall we not keep watch, Steve _sahib_?" "We don't," answered Steve. "If the Arabs cut our throats while we're
asleep, so much the better. We're goners anyhow." With which optimistic observation Clarney lay down stiffly in the deep
sand. But Yar Ali stood, leaning forward, straining his eyes into the
elusive darkness that turned the star-flecked horizons to murky wells
of shadow. "Something lies on the skyline to the south," he muttered uneasily. "A
hill? I cannot tell, or even be sure that I see anything at all." "You're seeing mirages already," said Steve irritably. "Lie down and
sleep." And so saying Steve slumbered. The sun in his eyes awoke him. He sat up, yawning, and his first
sensation was that of thirst. He lifted his canteen and wet his lips. One drink left. Yar Ali still slept. Steve's eyes wandered over the
southern horizon and he started. He kicked the recumbent Afghan. "Hey, wake up, Ali. I reckon you weren't seeing things after all. There's your hill--and a queer-lookin' one, too." The Afridi woke as a wild thing wakes, instantly and completely, his
hand leaping to his long knife as he glared about for enemies. His gaze
followed Steve's pointing fingers and his eyes widened. "By Allah and by Allah!" he swore. "We have come into a land of djinn! That is no hill--it is a city of stone in the midst of the sands!" Steve bounded to his feet like a steel spring released. As he gazed
with bated breath, a fierce shout escaped his lips. At his feet the
slope of the ridge ran down into a wide and level expanse of sand that
stretched away southward.