Beyond the Black River by Robert E. Howard
THE CONAN SAGA — STORY 15
Weird Tales, May-June 1935
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1. Conan
Loses His Ax
Chapter 3. The
Chapter 3. The
Crawlers In The
Chapter 4. The
Beasts Of Zogar
Chapter 5. The
1. — CONAN LOSES HIS AX
THE STILLNESS of the forest trail was so primeval that the
tread of a soft-booted foot was a startling disturbance. At least it seemed
so to the ears of the wayfarer, though he was moving along the path with the
caution that must be practised by any man who ventures beyond Thunder River.
He was a young man of medium height, with an open countenance and a mop of
tousled tawny hair unconfined by cap or helmet. His garb was common enough
for that country – a coarse tunic, belted at the waist, short leather
breeches beneath, and soft buckskin boots that came short of the knee. A
knife-hilt jutted from one boot-top. The broad leather belt supported a
short, heavy sword and a buckskin pouch. There was no perturbation in the
wide eyes that scanned the green walls which fringed the trail. Though not
tall, he was well built, and the arms that the short wide sleeves of the
tunic left bare were thick with corded muscle.
He tramped imperturbably along, although the last settler's cabin lay
miles behind him, and each step was carrying him nearer the grim peril that
hung like a brooding shadow over the ancient forest.
He was not making as much noise as it seemed to him, though he well knew
that the faint tread of his booted feet would be like a tocsin of alarm to
the fierce ears that might be lurking in the treacherous green fastness. His
careless attitude was not genuine; his eyes and ears were keenly alert,
especially his ears, for no gaze could penetrate the leafy tangle for more
than a few feet in either direction.
But it was instinct more than any warning by the external senses which
brought him up suddenly, his hand on his hilt. He stood stock-still in the
middle of the trail, unconsciously holding his breath, wondering what he had
heard, and wondering if indeed he had heard anything. The silence seemed
absolute. Not a squirrel chattered or bird chirped. Then his gaze fixed
itself on a mass of bushes beside the trail a few yards ahead of him. There
was no breeze, yet he had seen a branch quiver. The short hairs on his scalp
prickled, and he stood for an instant undecided, certain that a move in
either direction would bring death streaking at him from the bushes.
A heavy chopping crunch sounded behind the leaves. The bushes were shaken
violently, and simultaneously with the sound, an arrow arched erratically
from among them and vanished among the trees along the trail. The wayfarer
glimpsed its flight as he sprang frantically to cover.
Crouching behind a thick stem, his sword quivering in his fingers, he saw
the bushes part, and a tall figure stepped leisurely into the trail. The
traveller stared in surprise. The stranger was clad like himself in regard to
boots and breeks, though the latter were of silk instead of leather. But he
wore a sleeveless hauberk of dark mesh-mail in place of a tunic, and a helmet
perched on his black mane. That helmet held the other's gaze; it was without
a crest, but adorned by short bull's horns. No civilized hand ever forged
that head-piece. Nor was the face below it that of a civilized man: dark,
scarred, with smoldering blue eyes, it was a face as untamed as the
primordial forest which formed its background. The man held a broad-sword in
his right hand, and the edge was smeared with crimson.
"Come on out," he called, in an accent unfamiliar to the wayfarer. "All's
safe now. There was only one of the dogs. Come on out."
The other emerged dubiously and stared at the stranger. He felt curiously
helpless and futile as he gazed on the proportions of the forest man –
the massive iron-clad breast, and the arm that bore the reddened sword,
burned dark by the sun and ridged and corded with muscles. He moved with the
dangerous ease of a panther; he was too fiercely supple to be a product of
civilization, even of that fringe of civilization which composed the outer
Turning, he stepped back to the hushes and pulled them apart. Still not
certain just what had happened, the wayfarer from the east advanced and
stared down into the bushes. A man lay there, a short, dark, thickly-muscled
man, naked except for a loin-cloth, a necklace of human teeth and a brass
armlet. A short sword was thrust into the girdle of the loin-cloth, and one
hand still gripped a heavy black bow. The man had long black hair; that was
about all the wayfarer could tell about his head, for his features were a
mask of blood and brains. His skull had been split to the teeth.
"A Pict, by the gods!" exclaimed the wayfarer.
The burning blue eyes turned upon him.
"Are you surprised?"
"Why, they told me at Velitrium, and again at the settlers' cabins along
the road, that these devils sometimes sneaked across the border, but I didn't
expect to meet one this far in the interior."
"You're only four miles east of Black River," the stranger informed him.
"They've been shot within a mile of Velitrium. No settler between Thunder
River and Fort Tuscelan is really safe. I picked up this dog's trail three
miles south of the fort this morning, and I've been following him ever since.
I came up behind him just as he was drawing an arrow on you. Another instant
and there'd have been a stranger in Hell. But I spoiled his aim for him."
The wayfarer was staring wide eyed at the larger man, dumbfounded by the
realization that the man had actually tracked down one of the forest devils
and slain him unsuspected. That implied woodsmanship of a quality undreamed,
even for Conajohara.
"You are one of the fort's garrison?" he asked.
"I'm no soldier. I draw the pay and rations of an officer of the line, but
I do my work in the woods. Valannus knows I'm of more use ranging along the
river than cooped up in the fort."
Casually the slayer shoved the body deeper into the thickets with his
foot, pulled the bushes together and turned away down the trail. The other
"My name is Balthus," he offered. "I was at Velitrium last night. I
haven't decided whether I'll take up a hide of land, or enter fort
"The best land near Thunder River is already taken," grunted the slayer.
"Plenty of good land between Scalp Creek—you crossed it a few miles
back—and the fort, but that's getting too devilish close to the river.
The Picts steal over to burn and murder—as that one did. They don't
always come singly. Some day they'll try to sweep the settlers out of
Conajohara. And they may succeed—probably will succeed. This
colonization business is mad, anyway. There's plenty of good land east of the
Bossonian marches. If the Aquilonians would cut up some of the big estates of
their barons, and plant wheat where now only deer are hunted, they wouldn't
have to cross the border and take the land of the Picts away from them."
"That's queer talk from a man in the service of the governor of
Conajohara," objected Balthus.
"It's nothing to me," the other retorted. "I'm a mercenary. I sell my
sword to the highest bidder. I never planted wheat and never will, so long as
there are other harvests to be reaped with the sword. But you Hyborians have
expanded as far as you'll be allowed to expand. You've crossed the marches,
burned a few villages, exterminated a few clans and pushed back the frontier
to Black River; but I doubt if you'll even be able to hold what you've
conquered, and you'll never push the frontier any further westward. Your
idiotic king doesn't understand conditions here. He won't send you enough
reinforcements, and there are not enough settlers to withstand the shock of a
concerted attack from across the river."
"But the Picts are divided into small clans," persisted Balthus. "They'll
never unite. We can whip any single clan."
"Or any three or four clans," admitted the slayer. "But some day a man
will rise and unite thirty or forty clans, just as was done among the
Cimmerians, when the Gundermen tried to push the border northward, years ago.
They tried to colonize the southern marches of Cimmeria: destroyed a few
small clans, built a fort-town, Venarium—you've heard the tale."
"So I have indeed," replied Balthus, wincing. The memory of that red
disaster was a black blot in the chronicles of a proud and warlike people.
"My uncle was at Venarium when the Cimmerians swarmed over the walls. He was
one of the few who escaped that slaughter. I've heard him tell the tale, many
a time. The barbarians swept out of the hills in a ravening horde, without
warning, and stormed Venarium with such fury none could stand before them.
Men, women, and children were butchered. Venarium was reduced to a mass of
charred ruins, as it is to this day. The Aquilonians were driven back across
the marches, and have never since tried to colonize the Cimmerian country.
But you speak of Venarium familiarly. Perhaps you were there?"
"I was," grunted the other. "I was one of the horde that swarmed over the
walls. I hadn't yet seen fifteen snows, but already my name was repeated
about the council fires."
Balthus involuntarily recoiled, staring. It seemed incredible that the man
walking tranquilly at his side should have been one of those screeching,
blood-mad devils that poured over the walls of Venarium on that long-gone day
to make her streets run crimson.
"Then you, too, are a barbarian!" he exclaimed involuntarily.
The other nodded, without taking offense.
"I am Conan, a Cimmerian."
"I've heard of you." Fresh interest quickened Balthus' gaze. No wonder the
Pict had fallen victim to his own sort of subtlety! The Cimmerians were
barbarians as ferocious as the Picts, and much more intelligent. Evidently
Conan had spent much time among civilized men, though that contact had
obviously not softened him, nor weakened any of his primitive instincts.
Balthus' apprehension turned to admiration as he marked the easy catlike
stride, the effortless silence with which the Cimmerian moved along the
trail. The oiled links of his armor did not clink, and Balthus knew Conan
could glide through the deepest thicket or most tangled copse as noiselessly
as any naked Pict that ever lived.
"You're not a Gunderman?" It was more assertion than question.
Balthus shook his head. "I'm from the Tauran."
"I've seen good woodsmen from the Tauran. But the Bossonians have
sheltered you Aquilonians from the outer wilderness for too many centuries.
You need hardening."
That was true; the Bossonian marches, with their fortiied villages filled
with determined bowmen, had long served Aquilonia as a buffer against the
outlying barbarians. Now among the settlers beyond Thunder River here was
growing up a breed of forest men capable of meeting the barbarians at their
own game, but their numbers were still scanty. Most of the frontiersmen were
like Balthus—more of the settler than the woodsman type.
The sun had not set, but it was no longer in sight, hidden as it was
behind the dense forest wall. The shadows were lengthening, deepening back in
the woods as the companions strode on down the trail.
"It will be dark before we reach the fort," commented Conan casually;
He stopped short, half crouching, sword ready, transformed into a savage
figure of suspicion and menace, poised to spring and rend. Balthus had heard
it too—a wild scream that broke at its highest note. It was the cry of
a man in dire fear or agony.
Conan was off in an instant, racing down the trail, each stride widening
the distance between him and his straining companion. Balthus puffed a curse.
Among the settlements of the Tauran he was accounted a good runner, but Conan
was leaving him behind with maddening ease. Then Balthus forgot his
exasperation as his ears were outraged by the most frightful cry he had ever
heard. It was not human, this one; it was a demoniacal caterwauling of
hideous triumph that seemed to exult over fallen humanity and find echo in
black gulfs beyond human ken.
Balthus faltered in his stride, and clammy sweat beaded his flesh. But
Conan did not hesitate; he darted around a bend in the trail and disappeared,
and Balthus, panicky at finding himself alone with that awful scream still
shuddering through the forest in grisly echoes, put on an extra burst of
speed and plunged after him.
The Aquilonian slid to a stumbling halt, almost colliding with the
Cimmerian who stood in the trail over a crumpled body. But Conan was not
looking at the corpse which lay there in the crimson-soaked dust. He was
glaring into the deep woods on either side of the trail.
Balthus muttered a horrified oath. It was the body of a man which lay
there in the trail, a short, fat man, clad in the gilt-worked boots and
(despite the heat) the ermine-trimmed tunic of a wealthy merchant. His fat,
pale face was set in a stare of frozen horror; his thick throat had been
slashed from ear to ear as if by a razor-sharp blade. The short sword still
in its scabbard seemed to indicate that he had been struck down without a
chance to fight for his life.
"A Pict?" Balthus whispered, as he turned to peer into the deepening
shadows of the forest.
Conan shook his head and straightened to scowl down at the dead man.
"A forest devil. This is the fifth, by Crom!"
"What do you mean?"
"Did you ever hear of a Pictish wizard called Zogar Sag?"
Balthus shook his head uneasily.
"He dwells in Gwawela, the nearest village across the river. Three months
ago he hid beside this road and stole a string of pack-mules from a
pack-train bound for the fort—drugged their drivers, somehow. The mules
belonged to this man"—Conan casually indicated the corpse with his foot
– "Tiberias, a merchant of Velitrium. They were loaded with ale-kegs,
and old Zogar stopped to guzzle before he got across the river. A woodsman
named Soractus trailed him, and led Valannus and three soldiers to where he
lay dead drunk in a thicket. At the importunities of Tiberias, Valannus threw
Zogar Sag into a cell, which is the worst insult you can give a Pict. He
managed to kill his guard and escape, and sent back word that he meant to
kill Tiberias and the five men who captured him in a way that would make
Aquilonians shudder for centuries to come.
"Well, Soractus and the soldiers are dead. Soractus was killed on the
river, the soldiers in the very shadow of the fort. And now Tiberias is dead.
No Pict killed any of them. Each victim—except Tiberias, as you see
– lacked his head—which no doubt is now ornamenting the altar of
Zogar Sag's particular god."
"How do you know they weren't killed by the Picts?" demanded Balthus.
Conan pointed to the corpse of the merchant.
"You think that was done with a knife or a sword? Look closer and you'll
see that only a talon could have made a gash like that. The flesh is ripped,
"Perhaps a panther—" began Balthus, without conviction.
Conan shook his head impatiently.
"A man from the Tauran couldn't mistake the mark of a panther's claws. No.
It's a forest devil summoned by Zogar Sag to carry out his revenge. Tiberias
was a fool to start for Velitrium alone, and so close to dusk. But each one
of the victims seemed to be smitten with madness just before doom overtook
him. Look here; the signs are plain enough. Tiberias came riding along the
trail on his mule, maybe with a bundle of choice otter pelts behind his
saddle to sell in Velitrium, and the thing sprang on him from behind that
bush. See where the branches are crushed down.
"Tiberias gave one scream, and then his throat was torn open and he was
selling his otter skins in Hell. The mule ran away into the woods. Listen!
Even now you can hear him thrashing about under the trees. The demon didn't
have time to take Tiberias' head; it took fright as we came up."
"As you came up," amended Balthus. "It must not be a very terrible
creature if it flees from one armed man. But how do you know it was not a
Pict with some kind of a hook that rips instead of slicing? Did you see
"Tiberias was an armed man," grunted Conan. "If Zogar Sag can bring demons
to aid him, he can tell them which men to kill and which to let alone. No, I
didn't see it. I only saw the bushes shake as it left the trail. But if you
want further proof, look here!"
The slayer had stepped into the pool of blood in which the dead man
sprawled. Under the bushes at the edge of the path there was a footprint,
made in blood on the hard loam.
"Did a man make that?" demanded Conan.
Balthus felt his scalp prickle. Neither man nor any beast that he had ever
seen could have left that strange, monstrous, three-toed print, that was
curiously combined of the bird and the reptile, yet a true type of neither.
He spread his fingers above the print, careful not to touch it, and grunted
explosively. He could not span the mark.
"What is it?" he whispered. "I never saw a beast that left a spoor like
"Nor any other sane man," answered Conan grimly. "It's a swamp demon
– they're thick as bats in the swamps beyond Black River. You can hear
them howling like damned souls when the wind blows strong from the south on
"What shall we do?" asked the Aquilonian, peering uneasily into the deep
blue shadows. The frozen fear on the dead countenance haunted him. He
wondered what hideous head the wretch had seen thrust grinning from among the
leaves to chill his blood with terror.
"No use to try to follow a demon," grunted Conan, drawing a short
woodman's ax from his girdle. "I tried tracking him after he killed Soractus.
I lost his trail within a dozen steps. He might have grown himself wings and
flown away, or sunk down through the earth to Hell. I don't know. I'm not
going after the mule, either. It'll either wander back to the fort, or to
some settler's cabin."
As he spoke Conan was busy at the edge of the trail with his ax. With a
few strokes he cut a pair of saplings nine or ten feet long, and denuded them
of their branches. Then he cut a length from a serpent-like vine that crawled
among the bushes near by, and making one end fast to one of the poles, a
couple of feet from the end, whipped the vine over the other sapling and
interlaced it back and forth. In a few moments he had a crude but strong
"The demon isn't going to get Tiberias' head if I can help it," he
growled. "We'll carry the body into the fort. It isn't more than three miles.
I never liked the fat fool, but we can't have Pictish devils making so cursed
free with white men's heads."
The Picts were a white race, though swarthy, but the border men never
spoke of them as such.
Balthus took the rear end of the litter, onto which Conan unceremoniously
dumped the unfortunate merchant, and they moved on down the trail as swiftly
as possible. Conan made no more noise laden with their grim burden than he
had made when unencumbered. He had made a loop with the merchant's belt at
the end of the poles, and was carrying his share of the load with one hand,
while the other gripped his naked broadsword, and his restless gaze roved the
sinister walls about them. The shadows were thickening. A darkening blue mist
blurred the outlines of the foliage. The forest deepened in the twilight,
became a blue haunt of mystery sheltering unguessed things.
They had covered more than a mile, and the muscles in Balthus' sturdy arms
were beginning to ache a little, when a cry rang shuddering from the woods
whose blue shadows were deepening into purple.
Conan started convulsively, and Balthus almost let go the poles.
"A woman!" cried the younger man. "Great Mitra, a woman cried out
"A settler's wife straying in the woods," snarled Conan, setting down his
end of the lifter. "Looking for a cow, probably, and—stay here!"
He dived like a hunting wolf into the leafy wall. Balthus' hair
"Stay here alone with this corpse and a devil hiding in the woods?" he
yelped. "I'm coming with you!"
And suiting action to words, he plunged after the Cimmerian. Conan glanced
back at him, but made no objection, though he did not moderate his pace to
accommodate the shorter legs of his companion. Balthus wasted his wind in
swearing as the Cimmerian drew away from him again, like a phantom between
the trees, and then Conan burst into a dim glade and halted crouching, lips
snarling, sword lifted.
"What are we stopping for?" panted Balthus, dashing the sweat out of his
eyes and gripping his short sword.
"That scream came from this glade, or near by," answered Conan. "I don't
mistake the location of sounds, even in the woods. But where—"
Abruptly the sound rang out again—behind them; in the direction of
the trail they had just quitted. It rose piercingly and pitifully, the cry of
a woman in frantic terror—and then, shockingly, it changed to a yell of
mocking laughter that might have burst from the lips of a fiend of lower
"What in Mitra's name—" Balthus' face was a pale blur in the
With a scorching oath Conan wheeled and dashed back the way he had come,
and the Aquilonian stumbled bewilderedly after him. He blundered into the
Cimmerian as the latter stopped dead, and rebounded from his brawny shoulders
as though from an iron statue. Gasping from the impact, he heard Conan's
breath hiss through his teeth. The Cimmerian seemed frozen in his tracks.
Looking over his shoulder, Balthus felt his hair stand up stiffly.
Something was moving through the deep bushes that fringed the trail –
something that neither walked nor flew, but seemed to glide like a serpent.
But it was not a serpent. Its outlines were indistinct, but it was taller
than a man, and not very bulky. It gave off a glimmer of weird light, like a
faint blue flame. Indeed, the eery fire was the only tangible thing about it.
It might have been an embodied flame moving with reason and purpose through
the blackening woods.
Conan snarled a savage curse and hurled his ax with ferocious will. But
the thing glided on without altering its course. Indeed it was only a few
instants' fleeting glimpse they had of it—a tall, shadowy thing of
misty flame floating through the thickets. Then it was gone, and the forest
crouched in breathless stillness.
With a snarl Conan plunged through the intervening foliage and into the
trail. His profanity, as Balthus floundered after him, was lurid and
impassioned. The Cimmerian was standing over the litter on which lay the body
of Tiberias. And that body no longer possessed a head.
"Tricked us with its damnable caterwauling!" raved Conan, swinging his
great sword about his head in his wrath. "I might have known! I might have
guessed a trick! Now there'll be five heads to decorate Zogar's altar."
"But what thing is it that can cry like a woman and laugh like a devil,
and shines like witch-fire as it glides through the trees?" gasped Balthus,
mopping the sweat from his pale face.
"A swamp devil," responded Conan morosely. "Grab those poles. We'll take
in the body, anyway. At least our load's a bit lighter."
With which grim philosophy he gripped the leathery loop and stalked down
2. — THE WIZARD OF GWAWELA
FORT TUSCELAN stood on the eastern bank of Black River, the
tides of which washed the foot of the stockade. The latter was of logs, as
were all the buildings within, including the donjon (to dignify it by that
appellation), in which were the governor's quarters, overlooking the stockade
and the sullen river. Beyond that river lay a huge forest, which approached
jungle-like density along the spongy shores. Men paced the runways along the
log parapet day and night, watching that dense green wall. Seldom a menacing
figure appeared, but the sentries knew that they too were watched, fiercely,
hungrily, with the mercilessness of ancient hate. The forest beyond the river
might seem desolate and vacant of life to the ignorant eye, but life teemed
there, not alone of bird and beast and reptile, but also of men, the fiercest
of all the hunting beasts.
There, at the fort, civilization ended. Fort Tuscelan was the last outpost
of a civilized world; it represented the westernmost thrust of the dominant
Hyborian races. Beyond the river the primitive still reigned in shadowy
forests, brush-thatched huts where hung the grinning skulls of men, and
mud-walled enclosures where fires flickered and drums rumbled, and spears
were whetted in the hands of dark, silent men with tangled black hair and the
eyes of serpents. Those eyes often glared through bushes at the fort across
the river. Once dark-skinned men had built their huts where that fort stood,
yes, and their huts had risen where now stood the fields and log cabins of
fair- haired settlers, back beyond Velitrium, that raw, turbulent frontier
town on the banks of Thunder River, to the shores of that other river that
bounds the Bossonian marches. Traders had come, and priests of Mitra who
walked with bare feet and empty hands, and died horribly, most of them; but
soldiers had followed, men with axes in their hands and women and children in
ox-drawn wains. Back to Thunder River, and still back, beyond Black River,
the aborigines had been pushed, with slaughter and massacre. But the
dark-skinned people did not forget that once Conajohara had been theirs.
The guard inside the eastern gate bawled a challenge. Through a barred
aperture torchlight flickered, glinting on a steel headpiece and suspicious
eyes beneath it.
"Open the gate," snorted Conan. "You see it's I, don't you?"
Military discipline put his teeth on edge.
The gate swung inward and Conan and his companion passed through. Balthus
noted that the gate was flanked by a tower on each side, the summits of which
rose above the stockade. He saw loopholes for arrows.
The guardsmen grunted as they saw the burden borne between the men. Their
pikes jangled against each other as they thrust shut the gate, chin on
shoulder, and Conan asked testily: "Have you never seen a headless body
The faces of the soldiers were pallid in the torchlight.
"That's Tiberias," blurted one. "I recognize that fur-trimmed tunic.
Valerius here owes me five lunas. I told him Tiberias had heard the loon call
when he rode through the gate on his mule, with his glassy stare. I wagered
he'd come back without his head."
Conan grunted enigmatically, motioned Balthus to ease the litter to the
ground, and then strode off toward the governor's quarters, with the
Aquilonian at his heels. The tousle-headed youth stared about him eagerly and
curiously, noting the rows of barracks along the walls, the stables, the tiny
merchants' stalls, the towering blockhouse, and the other buildings, with the
open square in the middle where the soldiers drilled, and where, now, fires
danced and men off duty lounged. These were now hurrying to join the morbid
crowd gathered about the litter at the gate. The rangy figures of Aquilonian
pikemen and forest runners mingled with the shorter, stockier forms of
He was not greatly surprised that the governor received them himself.
Autocratic society with its rigid caste laws lay east of the marches.
Valannus was still a young man, well knit, with a finely chiseled countenance
already carved into sober cast by toil and responsibility.
"You left the fort before daybreak, I was told," he said to Conan. "I had
begun to fear that the Picts had caught you at last."
"When they smoke my head the whole river will know," grunted Conan.
"They'll hear Pictish women wailing their dead as far as Velitrium—I
was on a lone scout. I couldn't sleep. I kept hearing drums talking across
"They talk each night," reminded the governor, his fine eyes shadowed, as
he stared closely at Conan. He had learned the unwisdom of discounting wild
"There was a difference last night," growled Conan. "There has been ever
since Zogar Sag got back across the river."
"We should either have given him presents and sent him home, or else
hanged him," sighed the governor. "You advised that, but—"
"But it's hard for you Hyborians to learn the ways of the outlands," said
Conan. "Well, it can't be helped now, but there'll be no peace on the border
so long as Zogar lives and remembers the cell he sweated in. I was following
a warrior who slipped over to put a few white notches on his bow. After I
split his head I fell in with this lad whose name is Balthus and who's come
from the Tauran to help hold the frontier."
Valannus approvingly eyed the young man's frank countenance and strongly-
"I am glad to welcome you, young sir. I wish more of your people would
come. We need men used to forest life. Many of our soldiers and some of our
settlers are from the eastern provinces and know nothing of woodcraft, or
even of agricultural life."
"Not many of that breed this side of Velitrium," grunted Conan. "That
town's full of them, though. But listen, Valannus, we found Tiberias dead on
the trail." And in a few words he related the grisly affair.
Valannus paled. "I did not know he had left the fort. He must have been
"He was," answered Conan. "Like the other four; each one, when his time
came, went mad and rushed into the woods to meet his death like a hare
running down the throat of a python. Something called to them from the deeps
of the forest, something the men call a loon, for lack of a better name, but
only the doomed ones could hear it. Zogar Sag has made a magic that
Aquilonian civilization can't overcome."
To this thrust Valannus made no reply; he wiped his brow with a shaky
"Do the soldiers know of this?"
"We left the body by the eastern gate."
"You should have concealed the fact, hidden the corpse somewhere in the
woods. The soldiers are nervous enough already."
"They'd have found it out some way. If I'd hidden the body, it would have
been returned to the fort as the corpse of Soractus was—tied up outside
the gate for the men to find in the morning."
Valannus shuddered. Turning, he walked to a casement and stared silently
out over the river, black and shiny under the glint of the stars. Beyond the
river the jungle rose like an ebony wall. The distant screech of a panther
broke the stillness. The night pressed in, blurring the sounds of the
soldiers outside the blockhouse, dimming the fires. A wind whispered through
the black branches, rippling the dusky water. On its wings came a low,
rhythmic pulsing, sinister as the pad of a leopard's foot.
"After all," said Valannus, as if speaking his thoughts aloud, "what do we
know—what does anyone know—of the things that jungle may hide? We
have dim rumors of great swamps and rivers, and a forest that stretches on
and on over everlasting plains and hills to end at last on the shores of the
western ocean. But what things lie between this river and that ocean we dare
not even guess. No white man has ever plunged deep into that fastness and
returned alive to tell us what be found. We are wise in our civilized
knowledge, but our knowledge extends just so far—to the western bank of
that ancient river! Who knows what shapes earthly and unearthly may lurk
beyond the dim circle of light our knowledge has cast?
"Who knows what gods are worshipped under the shadows of that heathen
forest, or what devils crawl out of the black ooze of the swamps? Who can be
sure that all the inhabitants of that black country are natural? Zogar Sag
– a sage of the eastern cities would sneer at his primitive
magic-making as the mummery of a fakir; yet he has driven mad and killed five
men in a manner no man can explain. I wonder if he himself is wholly
"If I can get within ax-throwing distance of him I'll settle that
question," growled Conan, helping himself to the governor's wine and pushing
a glass toward Balthus, who took it hesitatingly, and with an uncertain
glance toward Valannus.
The governor turned toward Conan and stared at him thoughtfully.
"The soldiers, who do not believe in ghosts or devils," he said, "are
almost in a panic of fear. You, who believe in ghosts, ghouls, goblins, and
all manner of uncanny things, do not seem to fear any of the things in which
"There's nothing in the universe cold steel won't cut," answered Conan. "I
threw my ax at the demon, and he took no hurt, but I might have missed in the
dusk, or a branch deflected its flight. I'm not going out of my way looking
for devils; but I wouldn't step out of my path to let one go by."
Valannus lifted his head and met Conan's gaze squarely.
"Conan, more depends on you than you realize. You know the weakness of
this province—a slender wedge thrust into the untamed wilderness. You
know that the lives of all the people west of the marches depend on this
fort. Were it to fall, red axes would be splintering the gates of Velitrium
before a horseman could cross the marches. His Majesty, or his Majesty's
advisers, have ignored my plea that more troops be sent to hold the frontier.
They know nothing of border conditions, and are averse to expending any more
money in this direction. The fate of the frontier depends upon the men who
now hold it.
"You know that most of the army which conquered Conajohara has been
withdrawn. You know the force left is inadequate, especially since that devil
Zogar Sag managed to poison our water supply, and forty men died in one day.
Many of the others are sick, or have been bitten by serpents or mauled by
wild beasts which seem to swarm in increasing numbers in the vicinity of the
fort. The soldiers believe Zogar's boast that he could summon the forest
beasts to slay his enemies.
"I have three hundred pikemen, four hundred Bossonian archers, and perhaps
fifty men who, like yourself, are skilled in woodcraft. They are worth ten
times their number of soldiers, but there are so few of them. Frankly, Conan,
my situation is becoming precarious. The soldiers whisper of desertion; they
are low-spirited, believing Zogar Sag has loosed devils on us. They fear the
black plague with which he threatened us—the terrible black death of
the swamplands. When I see a sick soldier I sweat with fear of seeing him
turn black and shrivel and die before my eyes.
"Conan, if the plague is loosed upon us, the soldiers will desert in a
body! The border will be left unguarded and nothing will check the sweep of
the dark-skinned hordes to the very gates of Velitrium—maybe beyond! If
we cannot hold the fort, how can they hold the town?
"Conan, Zogar Sag must die, if we are to hold Conajohara. You have
penetrated the unknown deeper than any other man in the fort; you know where
Gwawela stands, and something of the forest trails across the river. Will you
take a band of men tonight and endeavor to kill or capture him? Oh, I know
it's mad. There isn't more than one chance in a thousand that any of you will
come back alive. But if we don't get him, it's death for us all. You can take
as many men as you wish."
"A dozen men are better for a job like that than a regiment," answered
Conan. "Five hundred men couldn't fight their way to Gwawela and back, but a
dozen might slip in and out again. Let me pick my men. I don't want any
"Let me go!" eagerly exclaimed Balthus. "I've hunted deer all my life on
"All right. Valannus, we'll eat at the stall where the foresters gather,
and I'll pick my men. We'll start within an hour, drop down the river in a
boat to a point below the village and then steal upon it through the woods.
If we live, we should be back by daybreak."
3. — THE CRAWLERS IN THE DARK
THE RIVER was a vague trace between walls of ebony. The
paddles that propelled the long boat creeping along in the dense shadow of
the eastern bank dipped softly into the water, making no more noise than the
beak of a heron. The broad shoulders of the man in front of Balthus were a
blue in the dense gloom. He knew that not even the keen eyes of the man who
knelt in the prow would discern anything more than a few feet ahead of them.
Conan was feeling his way by instinct and an intensive familiarity with the
No one spoke. Balthus had had a good look at his companions in the fort
before they slipped out of the stockade and down the bank into the waiting
canoe. They were of a new breed growing up in the world on the raw edge of
the frontier—men whom grim necessity had taught woodcraft. Aquilonians
of the western provinces to a man, they had many points in common. They
dressed alike—in buckskin boots, leathern breeks and deerskin shirts,
with broad girdles that held axes and short swords; and they were all gaunt
and scarred and hard-eyed; sinewy and taciturn.
They were wild men, of a sort, yet there was still a wide gulf between
them and the Cimmerian. They were sons of civilization, reverted to a semi-
barbarism. He was a barbarian of a thousand generations of barbarians. They
had acquired stealth and craft, but he had been born to these things. He
excelled them even in lithe economy of motion. They were wolves, but he was a
Balthus admired them and their leader and felt a pulse of pride that he
was admitted into their company. He was proud that his paddle made no more
noise than did theirs. In that respect at least he was their equal, though
woodcraft learned in hunts on the Tauran could never equal that ground into
the souls of men on the savage border.
Below the fort the river made a wide bend. The lights of the outpost were
quickly lost, but the canoe held on its way for nearly a mile, avoiding snags
and floating logs with almost uncanny precision.
Then a low grunt from their leader, and they swung its head about and
glided toward the opposite shore. Emerging from the black shadows of the
brush that fringed the bank and coming into the open of the midstream created
a peculiar illusion of rash exposure. But the stars gave little light, and
Balthus knew that unless one were watching for it, it would be all but
impossible for the keenest eye to make out the shadowy shape of the canoe
crossing the river.
They swung in under the overhanging bushes of the western shore and
Balthus groped for and found a projecting root which he grasped. No word was
spoken. All instructions had been given before the scouting-party left the
fort. As silently as a great panther, Conan slid over the side and vanished
in the bushes. Equally noiseless, nine men followed him. To Balthus, grasping
the root with his paddle across his knee, it seemed incredible that ten men
should thus fade into the tangled forest without a sound.
He settled himself to wait. No word passed between him and the other man
who had been left with him. Somewhere, a mile or so to the northwest, Zogar
Sag's village stood girdled with thick woods. Balthus understood his orders;
he and his companion were to wait for the return of the raiding-party. If
Conan and his men had not returned by the first tinge of dawn, they were to
race back up the river to the fort and report that the forest had again taken
its immemorial toll of the invading race. The silence was oppressive. No
sound came from the black woods, invisible beyond the ebony masses that were
the overhanging bushes. Balthus no longer heard the drums. They had been
silent for hours. He kept blinking, unconsciously trying to see through the
deep gloom. The dank night-smells of the river and the damp forest oppressed
him. Somewhere, near by, there was a sound as if a big fish had flopped and
splashed the water. Balthus thought it must have leaped so close to the canoe
that it had struck the side, for a slight quiver vibrated the craft. The
boat's stern began to swing, slightly away from the shore. The man behind him
must have let go of the projection he was gripping. Balthus twisted his head
to hiss a warning, and could just make out the figure of his companion, a
slightly blacker bulk in the blackness.
The man did not reply. Wondering if he had fallen asleep, Balthus reached
out and grasped his shoulder. To his amazement, the man crumpled under his
touch and slumped down in the canoe. Twisting his body half about, Balthus
groped for him, his heart shooting into his throat. His fumbling fingers slid
over the man's throat—only the youth's convulsive clenching of his jaws
choked back the cry that rose to his lips. His finger encountered a gaping,
oozing wound—his companion's throat had been cut from ear to ear.
In that instant of horror and panic Balthus started up—and then a
muscular arm out of the darkness locked fiercely about his throat, strangling
his yell. The canoe rocked wildly. Balthus' knife was in his hand, though he
did not remember jerking it out of his boot, and he stabbed fiercely and
blindly. He felt the blade sink deep, and a fiendish yell rang in his ear, a
yell that was horribly answered. The darkness seemed to come to life about
him. A bestial clamor rose on all sides, and other arms grappled him. Borne
under a mass of hurtling bodies the canoe rolled sidewise, but before he went
under with it, something cracked against Balthus' head and the night was
briefly illuminated by a blinding burst of fire before it gave way to a
blackness where not even stars shone.
4. — THE BEASTS OF ZOGAR SAG
FIRES dazzled Balthus again as he slowly recovered his
senses. He blinked, shook his head. Their glare hurt his eyes. A confused
medley of sound rose about him, growing more distinct as his senses cleared.
He lifted his head and stared stupidly about him. Black figures hemmed him
in, etched against crimson tongues of flame.
Memory and understanding came in a rush. He was bound upright to a post in
an open space, ringed by fierce and terrible figures. Beyond that ring fires
burned, tended by naked, dark-skinned women. Beyond the fires he saw huts of
mud and wattle, thatched with brush. Beyond the huts there was a stockade
with a broad gate. But he saw these things only incidentally. Even the
cryptic dark women with their curious coiffures were noted by him only
absently. His full attention was fixed in awful fascination on the men who
stood glaring at him.
Short men, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, lean-hipped, they were naked
except for scanty loin-clouts. The firelight brought out the play of their
swelling muscles in bold relief. Their dark faces were immobile, but their
narrow eyes glittered with the fire that burns in the eyes of a stalking
tiger. Their tangled manes were bound back with bands of copper. Swords and
axes were in their hands. Crude bandages banded the limbs of some, and smears
of blood were dried on their dark skins. There had been fighting, recent and
His eyes wavered away from the steady glare of his captors, and he
repressed a cry of horror. A few feet away there rose a low, hideous pyramid:
it was built of gory human heads. Dead eyes glared glassily up the black sky.
Numbly he recognized the countenances which were turned toward him. They were
the heads of the men who had followed Conan into the forest. He could not
tell if the Cimmerian's head were among them. Only a few faces were visible
to him. It looked to him as if there must be ten or eleven heads at least. A
deadly sickness assailed him. He fought a desire to retch. Beyond the heads
lay the bodies of half a dozen Picts, and he was aware of a fierce exultation
at the sight. The forest runners had taken toll, at least.
Twisting his head away from the ghastly spectacle, he became aware that
another post stood near him—a stake painted black as was the one to
which he was bound. A man sagged in his bonds there, naked except for his
leathern breeks, whom Balthus recognized as one of Conan's woodsmen. Blood
trickled from his mouth, oozed sluggishly from a gash in his side. Lifting
his head as he licked his livid lips, he muttered, making himself heard with
difficulty above the fiendish clamor of the Picts: "So they got you,
"Sneaked up in the water and cut the other fellow's throat," groaned
Balthus. "We never heard them till they were on us. Mitra, how can anything
move so silently?"
"They're devils," mumbled the frontiersman. "They must have been watching
us from the time we left midstream. We walked into a trap. Arrows from all
sides were ripping into us before we knew it. Most of us dropped at the first
fire. Three or four broke through the bushes and came to hand-grips. But
there were too many. Conan might have gotten away. I haven't seen his head.
Been better for you and me if they'd killed us outright. I can't blame Conan.
Ordinarily we'd have gotten to the village without being discovered. They
don't keep spies on the river bank as far down as we landed. We must have
stumbled into a big party coming up the river from the south. Some devilment
is up. Too many Picts here. These aren't all Gwaweli; men from the western
tribes here and from up and down the river."
Balthus stared at the ferocious shapes. Little as he knew of Pictish ways,
he was aware that the number of men clustered about them was out of
proportion to the size of the village. There were not enough huts to have
accommodated them all. Then he noticed that there was a difference in the
barbaric tribal designs painted on their faces and breasts.
"Some kind of devilment," muttered the forest runner. "They might have
gathered here to watch Zogar's magic-making. He'll make some rare magic with
our carcasses. Well, a border-man doesn't expect to die in bed. But I wish
we'd gone out along with the rest."
The wolfish howling of the Picts rose in volume and exultation, and from a
movement in their ranks, an eager surging and crowding, Balthus deduced that
someone of importance was coming. Twisting his head about, he saw that the
stakes were set before a long building, larger than the other huts, decorated
by human skulls dangling from the eaves. Through the door of that structure
now danced a fantastic figure.
"Zogar!" muttered the woodsman, his bloody countenance set in wolfish
lines as he unconsciously strained at his cords. Balthus saw a lean figure of
middle height, almost hidden in ostrich plumes set on a harness of leather
and copper. From amidst the plumes peered a hideous and malevolent face. The
plumes puzzled Balthus. He knew their source lay half the width of a world to
the south. They fluttered and rustled evilly as the shaman leaped and
With fantastic bounds and prancings he entered the ring and whirled before
his bound and silent captives. With another man it would have seemed
ridiculous—a foolish savage prancing meaninglessly in a whirl of
feathers. But that ferocious face glaring out from the billowing mass gave
the scene a grim significance. No man with a face like that could seem
ridiculous or like anything except the devil he was.
Suddenly he froze to statuesque stillness; the plumes rippled once and
sank about him. The howling warriors fell silent. Zogar Sag stood erect and
motionless, and he seemed to increase in height—to grow and expand.
Balthus experienced the illusion that the Pict was towering above him,
staring contemptuously down from a great height, though he knew the shaman
was not as tall as himself. He shook off the illusion with difficulty.
The shaman was talking now, a harsh, guttural intonation that yet carried
the hiss of a cobra. He thrust his head on his long neck toward the wounded
man on the stake; his eyes shone red as blood in the firelight. The
frontiersman spat full in his face.
With a fiendish howl Zogar bounded convulsively into the air, and the
warriors gave tongue to a yell that shuddered up to the stars. They rushed
toward the man on the stake, but the shaman beat them back. A snarled command
sent men running to the gate. They hurled it open, turned and raced back to
the circle. The ring of men split, divided with desperate haste to right and
left. Balthus saw the women and naked children scurrying to the huts. They
peeked out of doors and windows. A broad lane was left to the open gate,
beyond which loomed the black forest, crowding sullenly in upon the clearing,
unlighted by the fires.
A tense silence reigned as Zogar Sag turned toward the forest, raised on
his tiptoes and sent a weird inhuman call shuddering out into the night.
Somewhere, far out in the black forest, a deeper cry answered him. Balthus
shudedered. From the timbre of that cry he knew it never came from a human
throat. He remembered what Valannus had said—that Zogar boasted that he
could summon wild beasts to do his bidding. The woodsman was livid beneath
his mask of blood. He licked his lips spasmodically.
The village held its breath. Zogar Sag stood still as a statue, his plumes
trembling faintly about him. But suddenly the gate was no longer empty.
A shuddering gasp swept over the village and men crowded hastily back,
jamming one another between the huts. Balthus felt the short hair stir on his
scalp. The creature that stood in the gate was like the embodiment of
nightmare legend. Its color was of a curious pale quality which made it seem
ghostly and unreal in the dim light. But there was nothing unreal about the
low-hung savage head, and the great curved fangs that glistened in the
firelight. On noiseless padded feet it approached like a phantom out of the
past. It was a survival of an older, grimmer age, the ogre of many an ancient
legend—a saber-tooth tiger. No Hyborian hunter had looked upon one of
those primordial brutes for centuries. Immemorial myths lent the creatures a
supernatural quality, induced by their ghostly color and their fiendish
The beast that glided toward the men on the stakes was longer and heavier
than a common, striped tiger, almost as bulky as a bear. Its shoulders and
forelegs were so massive and mightily muscled as to give it a curiously top-
heavy look, though its hindquarters were more powerful than that of a lion.
Its jaws were massive, but its head was brutishly shaped. Its brain capacity
was small. It had room for no instincts except those of destruction. It was a
freak of carnivorous development, evolution run amuck in a horror of fangs
This was the monstrosity Zogar Sag had summoned out of the forest. Balthus
no longer doubted the actuality of the shaman's magic. Only the black arts
could establish a domination over that tiny-brained, mighty-thewed monster.
Like a whisper at the back of his consciousness rose the vague memory of the
name of an ancient god of darkness and primordial fear, to whom once both men
and beasts bowed and whose children—men whispered – still lurked
in dark corners of the world. New horror tinged the glare he fixed on Zogar
The monster moved past the heap of bodies and the pile of gory heads
without appearing to notice them. He was no scavenger. He hunted only the
living, in a life dedicated solely to slaughter. An awful hunger burned
greenly in the wide, unwinking eyes; the hunger not alone of belly-emptiness,
but the lust of death-dealing. His gaping jaws slavered. The shaman stepped
back, his hand waved toward the woodsman.
The great cat sank into a crouch, and Balthus numbly remembered tales of
its appalling ferocity: of how it would spring upon an elephant and drive its
sword-like fangs so deeply into the titan's skull that they could never be
withdrawn, but would keep it nailed to its victim, to die by starvation. The
shaman cried out shrilly, and with an ear-shattering roar the monster
Balthus had never dreamed of such a spring, such a hurtling of incarnated
destruction embodied in that giant bulk of iron thews and ripping talons.
Full on the woodsman's breast it struck, and the stake splintered and snapped
at the base, crashing to the earth under the impact. Then the saber-tooth was
gliding toward the gate, half dragging, half carrying a hideous crimson hulk
that only faintly resembled a man. Balthus glared almost paralyzed, his brain
refusing to credit what his eyes had seen.
In that leap the great beast had not only broken off the stake, it had
ripped the mangled body of its victim from the post to which it was bound.
The huge talons in that instant of contact had disemboweled and partially
dismembered the man, and the giant fangs had torn away the whole top of his
head, shearing through the skull as easily as through flesh. Stout rawhide
thongs had given way like paper; where the thongs had held, flesh and bones
had not. Balthus retched suddenly. He had hunted bears and panthers, but he
had never dreamed the beast lived which could make such a red ruin of a human
frame in the flicker of an instant.
The saber-tooth vanished through the gate, and a few moments later a deep
roar sounded through the forest, receding in the distance. But the Picts
still shrank back against the huts, and the shaman still stood facing the
gate that was like a black opening to let in the night.
Cold sweat burst suddenly out on Balthus' skin. What new horror would come
through that gate to make carrion-meat of his body? Sick panic assailed him
and he strained futilely at his thongs. The night pressed in very black and
horrible outside the firelight. The fires themselves glowed lurid as the
fires of Hell. He felt the eyes of the Picts upon him—hundreds of
hungry, cruel eyes that reflected the lust of souls utterly without humanity
as he knew it. They no longer seemed men; they were devils of this black
jungle, as inhuman as the creatures to which the fiend in the nodding plumes
screamed through the darkness.
Zogar sent another call shuddering through the night, and it was utterly
unlike the first cry. There was a hideous sibilance in it—Balthus
turned cold at the implication. If a serpent could hiss that loud, it would
make just such asound.
This time there was no answer—only a period of breathless silence in
which the pound of Balthus' heart strangled him; and then there sounded a
swishing outside the gate, a dry rustling that sent chills down Balthus'
spine. Again the firelit gate held a hideous occupant.
Again Balthus recognized the monster from ancient legends. He saw and knew
the ancient and evil serpent which swayed there, its wedge-shaped head, huge
as that of a horse, as high as a tall man's head, and its palely gleaming
barrel rippling out behind it. A forked tongue darted in and out, and the
firelight glittered on bared fangs.
Balthus became incapable of emotion. The horror of his fate paralyzed him.
That was the reptile that the ancients called Ghost Snake, the pale,
abominable terror that of old glided into huts by night to devour whole
families. Like the python it crushed its victim, but unlike other
constrictors its fangs bore venom that carried madness and death. It too had
long been considered extinct. But Valannus had spoken truly. No white man
knew what shapes haunted the great forests beyond Black River.
It came on silently, rippling over the ground, its hideous head on the
same level, its neck curving back slightly for the stroke. Balthus gazed with
a glazed, hypnotized stare into that loathsome gullet down which he would
soon be engulfed, and he was aware of no sensation except a vague nausea.
And then something that glinted in the firelight streaked from the shadows
of the huts, and the great reptile whipped about and went into instant
convulsions. As in a dream Balthus saw a short throwing-spear transfixing the
mighty neck, just below the gaping jaws; the shaft protruded from one side,
the steel head from the other.
Knotting and looping hideously, the maddened reptile rolled into the
circle of men who stove back from him. The spear had not severed its spine,
but merely transfixed its great neck muscles. Its furiously lashing tail
mowed down a dozen men and its jaws snapped convulsively, splashing others
with venom that burned like liquid fire. Howling, cursing, screaming,
frantic, they scattered before it, knocking each other down in their flight,
trampling the fallen, bursting through the huts. The giant snake rolled into
a fire, scattering sparks and brands, and the pain lashed it to more frenzied
efforts. A hut wall buckled under the ram-like impact of its flailing tail,
disgorging howling people.
Men stampeded through the fires, knocking the logs right and left. The
flames sprang up, then sank. A reddish dim glow was all that lighted that
nightmare scene where the giant reptile whipped and rolled, and men clawed
and shrieked in frantic flight.
Balthus felt something jerk at his wrists, and then, miraculously, he was
free, and a strong hand dragged him behind the post. Dazedly he saw Conan,
felt the forest man's iron grip on his arm.
There was blood on the Cimmerian's mail, dried blood on the sword in his
right hand; he loomed dim and gigantic in the shadowy light.
"Come on! Before they get over their panic!"
Balthus felt the haft of an ax shoved into his hand. Zogar Sag had
disappeared. Conan dragged Balthus after him until the youth's numb brain
awoke, and his legs began to move of their own accord. Then Conan released
him and ran into the building where the skulls hung. Balthus followed him. He
got a glimpse of a grim stone altar, faintly lighted by the glow outside;
five human heads grinned on that altar, and there was a grisly familiarity
about the features of the freshest; it was the head of the merchant Tiberias.
Behind the altar was an idol, dim, indistinct, bestial, yet vaguely man-like
in outline. Then fresh horror choked Balthus as the shape heaved up suddenly
with a rattle of chains, lifting long misshapen arms in the gloom.
Conan's sword flailed down, crunching through flesh and bone, and then the
Cimmerian was dragging Balthus around the altar, past a huddled shaggy bulk
on the floor, to a door at the back of the long hut. Through this they burst,
out into the enclosure again. But a few yards beyond them loomed the
It was dark behind the altar-hut. The mad stampede of the Picts had not
carried them in that direction. At the wall Conan halted, gripped Balthus,
and heaved him at arm's length into the air as he might have lifted a child.
Balthus grasped the points of the upright logs set in the sun-dried mud and
scrambled up on them, ignoring the havoc done his skin. He lowered a hand to
the Cimmerian, when around a corner of the altar-hut sprang a fleeing Pict.
He halted short, glimpsing the man on the wall in the faint glow of the
fires. Conan hurled his ax with deadly aim, but the warrior's mouth was
already open for a yell of warning, and it rang loud above the din, cut short
as he dropped with a shattered skull.
Blinding terror had not submerged all ingrained instincts. As that wild
yell rose above the clamor, there was an instant's lull, and then a hundred
throats bayed ferocious answer and warriors came leaping to repel the attack
presaged by the warning.
Conan leaped high, caught, not Balthus' hand but his arm near the
shoulder, and swung himself up. Balthus set his teeth against the strain, and
then the Cimmerian was on the wall beside him, and the fugitives dropped down
on the other side.
5. — THE CHILDREN OF JHEBBAL SAG
"WHICH way is the river?" Balthus was confused.
"We don't dare try for the river now," grunted Conan. "The woods between
the village and the river are swarming with warriors. Come on! We'll head in
the last direction they'll expect us to go—west!"
Looking back as they entered the thick growth, Balthus beheld the wall
dotted with black heads as the savages peered over. The Picts were
bewildered. They had not gained the wall in time to see the fugitives take
cover. They had rushed to the wall expecting to repel an attack in force.
They had seen the body of the dead warrior. But no enemy was in sight.
Balthus realized that they did not yet know their prisoner had escaped.
From other sounds he believed that the warriors, directed by the shrill voice
of Zogar Sag, were destroying the wounded serpent with arrows. The monster
was out of the shaman's control. A moment later the quality of the yells was
altered. Screeches of rage rose in the night.
Conan laughed grimly. He was leading Balthus along a narrow trail that ran
west under the black branches, stepping as swiftly and surely as if he trod a
well-lighted thoroughfare. Balthus stumbled after him, guiding himself by
feeling the dense wall on either hand.
"They'll be after us now. Zogar's discovered you're gone, and he knows my
head wasn't in the pile before the altar-hut. The dog! If I'd had another
spear I'd have thrown it through him before I struck the snake. Keep to the
trail. They can't track us by torchlight, and there are a score of paths
leading from the village. They'll follow those leading to the river
first—throw a cordon of warriors for miles along the bank, expecting us
to try to break through. We won't take to the woods until we have to. We can
make better time on this trail. Now buckle down to it and run was you never
"They got over their panic cursed quick!" panted Balthus, complying with a
fresh burst of speed.
"They're not afraid of anything, very long," grunted Conan.
For a space nothing was said between them. The fugitives devoted all their
attention to covering distance. They were plunging deeper and deeper into the
wilderness and getting farther away from civilization at every step, but
Balthus did not question Conan"s wisdom. The Cimmerian presently took time to
grunt: "When we're far enough away from the village we'll swing back to the
river in a big circle. No other village within miles of Gwawela. All the
Picts are gathered in that vicinity. We'll circle wide around them. They
can't track us until daylight. They'll pick up our path then, but before dawn
we'll leave the trail and take to the woods."
They plunged on. The yells died out behind them. Balthus' breath was
whistling through his teeth. He felt a pain in his side, and running became
torture. He blundered against the bushes on each side of the trail. Conan
pulled up suddenly, turned and stared back down the dim path.
Somewhere the moon was rising, a dim white glow amidst a tangle of
"Shall we take to the woods?" panted Balthus.
"Give me your ax," murmured Conan softly. "Something is close behind
"Then we'd better leave the trail!" exclaimed Balthus. Conan shook his
head and drew his companion into a dense thicket. The moon rose higher,
making a dim light in the path.
"We can't fight the whole tribe!" whispered Balthus.
"No human being could have found our trail so quickly, or followed us so
swiftly," muttered Conan. "Keep silent."
There followed a tense silence in which Balthus felt that his heart could
be heard pounding for miles away. Then abruptly, without a sound to announce
its coming, a savage head appeared in the dim path. Balthus' heart jumped
into his throat; at first glance he feared to look upon the awful head of the
saber- tooth. But this head was smaller, more narrow; it was a leopard which
stood there, snarling silently and glaring down the trail. What wind there
was was blowing toward the hiding men, concealing their scent. The beast
lowered his head and snuffed the trail, then moved forward uncertainly. A
chill played down Balthus' spine. The brute was undoubtedly trailing
And it was suspicious. It lifted its head, its eyes glowing like balls of
fire, and growled low in its throat. And at that instant Conan hurled the
All the weight of arm and shoulder was behind the throw, and the ax was a
streak of silver in the dim moon. Almost before he realized what had
happened, Balthus saw the leopard rolling on the ground in its death-throes,
the handle of the ax standing up from its head. The head of the weapon had
split its narrow skull.
Conan bounded from the bushes, wrenched his ax free and dragged the limp
body in among the trees, concealing it from the casual glance.
"Now let's go, and go fast!" he grunted, leading the way southward, away
from the trail. "There'll be warriors coming after that cat. As soon as he
got his wits back Zogar sent him after us. The Picts would follow him, but
he'd leave them far behind. He'd circle the village until he hit our trail
and then come after us like a streak. They couldn't keep up with him, but
they'll have an idea as to our general direction. They'd follow, listening
for his cry. Well, they won't hear that, but they'll find the blood on the
trail, and look around and find the body in the brush. They'll pick up our
spoor there, if they can. Walk with care."
He avoided clinging briars and low-hanging branches effortlessly, gliding
between trees without touching the stems and always planting his feet in the
places calculated to show least evidence of his passing; but with Balthus it
was slower, more laborious work.
No sound came from behind them. They had covered more than a mile when
Balthus said: "Does Zogar Sag catch leopard-cubs and train them for
Conan shook his head. "That was a leopard he called out of the woods."
"But," Balthus persisted, "if he can order the beasts to do his bidding,
why doesn't he rouse them all and have them after us? The forest is full of
leopards; why send only one after us?"
Conan did not reply for a space, and when he did it was with a curious
"He can't command all the animals. Only such as remember Jhebbal Sag."
"Jhebbal Sag?" Balthus repeated the ancient name hesitantly. He had never
heard it spoken more than three or four times in his whole life.
"Once all living things worshipped him. That was long ago, when beasts and
men spoke one language. Men have forgotten him; even the beasts forget. Only
a few remember. The men who remember Jhebbal Sag and the beasts who remember
are brothers and speak the same tongue."
Balthus did not reply; he had strained at a Pictish stake and seen the
nighted jungle give up its fanged horrors at a shaman's call.
"Civilized men laugh," said Conan. "But not one can tell me how Zogar Sag
can call pythons and tigers and leopards out of the wilderness and make them
do his bidding. They would say it is a lie, if they dared. That's the way
with civilized men. When they can't explain something by their half-baked
science, they refuse to believe it."
The people on the Tauran were closer to the primitive than most
Aquilonians; superstitions persisted, whose sources were lost in antiquity.
And Balthus had seen that which still prickled his flesh. He could not refute
the monstrous thing which Conan's words implied.
"I've heard that there's an ancient grove sacred to Jhebbal Sag somewhere
in this forest," said Conan. "I don't know. I've never seen it. But more
beasts remember in this country than any I've ever seen."
"Then others will be on our trail?"
"They are now," was Conan's disquieting answer. "Zogar would never leave
our tracking to one beast alone."
"What are we to do, then?" asked Balthus uneasily, grasping his ax as he
stared at the gloomy arches above him. His flesh crawled with the momentary
expectation of ripping talons and fangs leaping from the shadows.
Conan turned, squatted and with his knife began scratching a curious
symbol in the mold. Stooping to look at it over his shoulder, Balthus felt a
crawling of the flesh along his spine, he knew not why. He felt no wind
against his face, but there was a rustling of leaves above them and a weird
moaning swept ghostily through the branches. Conan glanced up inscrutably,
then rose and stood staring somberly down at the symbol he had drawn.
"What is it?" whispered Balthus. It looked archaic and meaningless to him.
He supposed that it was his ignorance of artistry which prevented his
identifying it as one of the conventional designs of some prevailing culture.
But had he been the most erudite artist in the world, he would have been no
nearer the solution.
"I saw it carved in the rock of a cave no human had visited for a million
years," muttered Conan, "in the uninhabited mountains beyond the Sea of
Vilayet, half a world away from this spot. Later I saw a black witch-finder
of Kush scratch it in the sand of a nameless river. He told me part of its
meaning – it's sacred to Jhebbal Sag and the creatures which worship
They drew back among the dense foliage some yards away and waited in tense
silence. To the east drums muttered and somewhere to north and west other
drums answered. Balthus shivered, though he knew long miles of black forest
separated him from the grim beaters of those drums whose dull pulsing was a
sinister overture that set the dark stage for bloody drama.
Balthus found himself holding his breath. Then with a slight shaking of
the leaves, the bushes parted and a magnificent panther came into view. The
moonlight dappling through the leaves shone on its glossy coat rippling with
the play of the great muscles beneath it.
With its head low it glided toward them. It was smelling out their trail.
Then it halted as if frozen, its muzzle almost touching the symbol cut in the
mold. For a long space it crouched motionless; it flattened its long body and
laid its head on the ground before the mark. And Balthus felt the short hairs
stir on his scalp. For the attitude of the great carnivore was one of awe and
Then the panther rose and backed away carefully, belly almost to the
ground. With his hind-quarters among the bushes he wheeled as if in sudden
panic and was gone like a flash of dappled light.
Balthus mopped his brow with a trembling hand and glanced at Conan.
The barbarian's eyes were smoldering with fires that never lit the eyes of
men bred to the ideas of civilization. In that instant he was all wild, and
had forgotten the man at his side. In his burning gaze Balthus glimpsed and
vaguely recognized pristine images and half-embodied memories, shadows from
Life's dawn, forgotten and repudiated by sophisticated races—ancient,
primeval fantasms unnamed and nameless.
Then the deeper fires were masked and Conan was silently leading the way
deeper into the forest.
"We've no more to fear from the beasts," he said after a while, "but we've
left a sign for men to read. They won't follow our trail very easily, and
until they find that symbol they won't know for sure we've turned south. Even
then it won't be easy to smell us out without the beasts to aid them. But the
woods south of the trail will be full of warriors looking for us. If we keep
moving after daylight, we'll be sure to run into some of them. As soon as we
find a good place we'll hide and wait until another night to swing back and
make the river. We've got to warn Valannus, but it won't help him any if we
get ourselves killed."
"Hell, the woods along the river are swarming with Picts! That's why they
got us. Zogar's brewing war-magic; no mere raid this time. He's done
something no Pict has done in my memory—united as many as fifteen or
sixteen clans. His magic did it; they'll follow a wizard farther than they
will a war- chief. You saw the mob in the village; and there were hundreds
hiding along the river bank that you didn't see. More coming, from the
farther villages. He'll have at least three thousand fighting-men. I lay in
the bushes and heard their talk as they went past. They mean to attack the
fort; when, I don't know, but Zogar doesn't dare delay long. He's gathered
them and whipped them into a frenzy. If he doesn't lead them into battle
quickly, they'll fall to quarreling with one another. They're like blood-mad
"I don't know whether they can take the fort or not. Anyway, we've got to
get back across the river and give the warning. The settlers on the Velitrium
road must either get into the fort or back to Velitrium. While the Picts are
besieging the fort, war parties will range the road far to the east –
might even cross Thunder River and raid the thickly settled country behind
As he talked he was leading the way deeper and deeper into the ancient
wilderness. Presently he grunted with satisfaction. They had reached a spot
where the underbrush was more scattered, and an outcropping of stone was
visible, wandering off southward. Balthus felt more secure as they followed
it. Not even a Pict could trail them over naked rock.
"How did you get away?" he asked presently.
Conan tapped his mail-shirt and helmet.
"If more borderers would wear harness there'd be fewer skulls hanging on
the altar-huts. But most men make noise if they wear armor. They were waiting
on each side of the path, without moving. And when a Pict stands motionless,
the very beasts of the forest pass him without seeing him. They'd seen us
crossing the river and got in their places. If they'd gone into ambush after
we left the bank, I'd have had some hint of it. But they were waiting, and
not even a leaf trembled. The devil himself couldn't have suspected anything.
The first suspicion I had was when I heard a shaft rasp against a bow as it
was pulled back. I dropped and yelled for the men behind me to drop, but they
were too slow, taken by surprise like that.
"Most of them fell at the first volley that raked us from both sides. Some
of the arrows crossed the trail and struck Picts on the other side. I heard
them howl." He grinned with vicious satisfaction. "Such of us as were left
plunged into the woods and closed with them. When I saw the others were all
down or taken, I broke through and outfooted the painted devils through the
darkness. They were all around me. I ran and crawled and sneaked, and
sometimes I lay on my belly under the bushes while they passed me on all
"I tried for the shore and found it lined with them, waiting for just such
a move. But i'd have cut my way through and taken a chance on swimming, only
I heard the drums pounding in the village and knew they'd taken somebody
"They were all so engrossed in Zogar's magic that I was able to climb the
wall behind the altar-hut. There was a warrior supposed to be watching at
that point, but he was squatting behind the hut and peering around the corner
at the ceremony. I came up behind him and broke his neck with my hands before
he knew what was happening. It was his spear I threw into the snake, and
that's his ax you're carrying."
"But what was that—that thing you killed in the altar-hut?" asked
Balthus, with a shiver at the memory of the dim-seen horror.
"One of Zogar's gods. One of Jhebbal's children that didn't remember and
had to be kept chained to the altar. A bull ape. The Picts think they're
sacred to the Hairy One who lives on the moon—the gorilla-god of
"It's getting light. Here's a good place to hide until we see how close
they're on our trail. Probably have to wait until night to break back to the
A low hill pitched upward, girdled and covered with thick trees and
bushes. Near the crest Conan slid into a tangle of jutting rocks, crowned by
dense bushes. Lying among them they could see the jungle below without being
seen. It was a good place to hide or defend. Balthus did not believe that
even a Pict could have trailed them over the rocky ground for the past four
or five miles, but he was afraid of the beasts that obeyed Zogar Sag. His
faith in the curious symbol wavered a little now. But Conan had dismissed the
possibility of beasts tracking them.
A ghostly whiteness spread through the dense branches; the patches of sky
visible altered in hue, grew from pink to blue. Balthus felt the gnawing of
hunger, though he had slaked his thirst at a stream they had skirted. There
was complete silence, except for an occasional chirp of a bird. The drums
were no longer to be heard. Balthus' thoughts reverted to the grim scene
before the altar-hut.
"Those were ostrich plumes Zogar Sag wore," he said. "I've seen them on
the helmets of knights who rode from the East to visit the barons of the
marches. There are no ostriches in this forest, are there?"
"They came from Kush," answered Conan. "West of here, many marches, lies
the seashore. Ships from Zingara occasionally come and trade weapons and
ornaments and wine to the coastal tribes for skins and copper ore and gold
dust. Sometimes they trade ostrich plumes they got from the Stygians, who in
turn got them from the black tribes of Kush, which lies south of Stygia. The
Pictish shamans place great store by them. But there's much risk in such
trade. The Picts are too likely to try to seize the ship. And the coast is
dangerous to ships. I've sailed along it when I was with the pirates of the
Barachan Isles, which lie southwest of Zingara."
Balthus looked at his companion with admiration.
"I knew you hadn't spent your life on this frontier. You've mentioned
several far places. You've traveled widely?"
"I've roamed far; farther than any other man of my race ever wandered.
I've seen all the great cities of the Hyborians, the Shemites, the Stygians,
and the Hyrkanians. I've roamed in the unknown countries south of the black
kingdoms of Kush, and east of the Sea of Vilayet. I've been a mercenary
captain, a corsair, a kozak, a penniless vagabond, a general—hell, I've
been everything except a king of a civilized country, and I may be that,
before I die." The fancy pleased him, and he grinned hardly. Then he shrugged
his shoulders and stretched his mighty figure on the rocks. "This is as good
a life as any. I don't know how long I'll stay on the frontier; a week, a
month, a year. I have a roving foot. But it's as well on the border as
Balthus set himself to watch the forest below them. Momentarily he
expected to see fierce painted faces thrust through the leaves. But as the
hours passed no stealthy footfall disturbed the brooding quiet. Balthus
believed the Picts had missed their trail and given up the chase. Conan grew
"We should have sighted parties scouring the woods for us. If they've quit
the chase, it's because they're after bigger game. They may be gathering to
cross the river and storm the fort."
"Would they come this far south if they lost the trail?"
"They've lost the trail, all right; otherwise they'd have been on our
necks before now. Under ordinary circumstances they'd scour the woods for
miles in every direction. Some of them should have passed without sight of
this hill. They must be preparing to cross the river. We've got to take a
chance and make for the river."
Creeping down the rocks Balthus felt his flesh crawl between his shoulders
as he momentarily expected a withering blast of arrows from the green masses
above them. He feared that the Picts had discovered them and were lying about
in ambush. But Conan was convinced no enemies were near, and the Cimmerian
"We're miles to the south of the village," grunted Conan. "We'll hit
straight through for the river. I don't know how far down the river they've
spread, We'll hope to hit it below them."
With haste that seemed reckless to Balthus they hurried eastward. The
woods seemed empty of life. Conan believed that all the Picts were gathered
in the vicinity of Gwawela, if, indeed, they had not already crossed the
river. He did not believe they would cross in the daytime, however.
"Some woodsman would be sure to see them and give the alarm. They'll cross
above and below the fort, out of sight of the sentries. Then others will get
in canoes and make straight across for the river wall. As soon as they
attack, those hidden in the woods on the east shore will assail the fort from
the other sides. They've tried that before, and got the guts shot and hacked
out of them. But this time they've got enough men to make a real onslaught of
They pushed on without pausing, though Balthus gazed longingly at the
squirrels flitting among the branches, which he could have brought down with
a cast of his ax. With a sigh he drew up his broad belt. The everlasting
silence and gloom of the primitive forest was beginning to depress him. He
found himself thinking of the open groves and sun-dappled meadows of the
Tauran, of the bluff cheer of his father's steep-thatched, diamond-paned
house, of the fat cows browsing through the deep lush grass, and the hearty
fellowship of the brawny, bare-armed plowmen and herdsmen.
He felt lonely, in spite of his companion. Conan was as much a part of
this wilderness as Balthus was alien to it. The Cimmerian might have spent
years among the great cities of the world; he might have walked with the
rulers of civilization; he might even achieve his wild whim some day and rule
as king of a civilized nation; stranger things had happened. But he was no
less a barbarian. He was concerned only with the naked fundamentals of life.
The warm intimacies of small, kindly things, the sentiments and delicious
trivialities that make up so much of civilized men's lives were meaningless
to him. A wolf was no less a wolf because a whim of chance caused him to run
with the watch- dogs. Bloodshed and violence and savagery were the natural
elements of the life Conan knew; he could not, and would never, understand
the little things that are so dear to civilized men and women.
The shadows were lengthening when they reached the river and peered
through the masking bushes. They could see up and down the river for about a
mile each way. The sullen stream lay bare and empty. Conan scowled across at
the other shore.
"We've got to take another chance here. We've got to swim the river. We
don't know whether they've crossed or not. The woods over there may be alive
with them. We've got to risk it. We're about six miles south of Gwawela."
He wheeled and ducked as a bowstring twanged. Something like a white flash
of light streaked through the bushes. Balthus knew it was an arrow. Then with
a tigerish bound Conan was through the bushes. Balthus caught the gleam of
steel as he whirled his sword, and heard a death scream. The next instant he
had broken through the bushes after the Cimmerian.
A Pict with a shattered skull lay face-down on the ground, his fingers
spasmodically clawing at the grass. Half a dozen others were swarming about
Conan, swords and axes lifted. They had cast away their bows, useless at such
deadly close quarters. Their lower jaws were painted white, contrasting
vividly with their dark faces, and the designs on their muscular breasts
differed from any Balthus had ever seen.
One of them hurled his ax at Balthus and rushed after it with lifted
knife. Balthus ducked and then caught the wrist that drove the knife licking
at his throat. They went to the ground together, rolling over and over. The
Pict was like a wild beast, his muscles hard as steel strings.
Balthus was striving to maintain his hold on the wild man's wrist and
bring his own ax into play, but so fast and furious was the struggle that
each attempt to strike was blocked. The Pict was wrenching furiously to free
his knife hand, was clutching at Balthus' ax, and driving his knees at the
youth's groin. Suddenly he attempted to shift his knife to his free hand, and
in that instant Balthus, struggling up on one knee, split the painted head
with a desperate blow of his ax.
He sprang up and glared wildly about for his companion, expecting to see
him overwhelmed by numbers. Then he realized the full strength and ferocity
of the Cimmerian. Conan bestrode two of his attackers, shorn half asunder by
that terrible broadsword. As Balthus looked he saw the Cimmerian beat down a
thrusting shortsword, avoid the stroke of an ax with a cat-like side-wise
spring which brought him within arm's length of a squat savage stooping for a
bow. Before the Pict could straighten, the red sword flailed down and clove
him from shoulder to midbreastbone, where the blade stuck. The remaining
warriors rushed in, one from either side. Balthus hurled his ax with an
accuracy that reduced the attackers to one, and Conan, abandoning his efforts
to free his sword, wheeled and met the remaining Pict with his bare hands.
The stocky warrior, a head shorter than his tall enemy, leaped in, striking
with his ax, at the same time stabbing murderously with his knife. The knife
broke on the Cimmerian's mail, and the ax checked in midair as Conan's
fingers locked like iron on the descending arm. A bone snapped loudly, and
Balthus saw the Pict wince and falter. The next instant he was swept off his
feet, lifted high above the Cimmerian's head—he writhed in midair for
an instant, kicking and thrashing, and then was dashed headlong to the earth
with such force that he rebounded, and then lay still, his limp posture
telling of splintered limbs and a broken spine.
"Come on!" Conan wrenched his sword free and snatched up an ax. "Grab a
bow and a handful of arrows, and hurry! We've got to trust to our heels
again. That yell was heard. They'll be here in no time. If we tried to swim
now, they'd feather us with arrows before we reached midstream!"
Red Axes of the Border
Conan did not plunge deeply into the forest. A few hundred yards from the
river, he altered his slanting course and ran parallel with it. Balthus
recognized a grim determination not to be hunted away from the river which
they must cross if they were to warn the men in the fort. Behind them rose
more loudly the yells of the forest men. Balthus believed the Picts had
reached the glade where the bodies of the slain men lay. Then further yells
seemed to indicate that the savages were streaming into the woods in pursuit.
They had left a trail any Pict could follow.
Conan increased his speed, and Balthus grimly set his teeth and kept on
his heels, though he felt he might collapse any time. It seemed centuries
since he had eaten last. He kept going more by an effort of will than
anything else. His blood was pounding so furiously in his ear-drums that he
was not aware when the yells died out behind them.
Conan halted suddenly.. Balthus leaned against a tree and panted.
"They've quit!" grunted the Cimmerian, scowling.
"Sneaking—up—on—us!" gasped Balthus.
Conan shook his head.
"A short chase like this they'd yell every step of the way. No. They've
gone back. I thought I heard somebody yelling behind them a few seconds
before the noise began to get dimmer. They've been recalled. And that's good
for us, but damned bad for the men in the fort. It means the warriors are
being summoned out of the woods for the attack. Those men we ran into were
warriors from a tribe down the river. They were undoubtedly headed for
Gwawela to join in the assault on the fort. Damn it, we're farther away than
ever, now. We've got to get across the river."
Turning east he hurried through the thickets with no attempt at
concealment. Balthus followed him, for the first time feeling the sting of
lacerations on his breast and shoulder where the Pict's savage teeth had
scored him. He was pushing through the thick bushes that hinged the bank when
Conan pulled him back. Then he heard a rhythmic splashing, and peering
through the leaves, saw a dugout canoe coming up the river, its single
occupant paddling hard against the current. He was a strongly built Pict with
a white heron feather thrust in a copper band that confined his square-cut
"That's a Gwawela man," muttered Conan. "Emissary from Zogar. White plume
shows that. He's carried a peace talk to the tribes down the river and now
he's trying to get back and take a hand in the slaughter."
The lone ambassador was now almost even with their hiding-place, and
suddenly Balthus almost jumped out of his skin. At his very ear had sounded
the harsh gutturals of a Pict. Then he realized that Conan had called to the
paddler in his own tongue. The man started, scanned the bushes and called
back something, then cast a startled glance across the river, bent low and
sent the canoe shooting in toward the western bank. Not understanding,
Balthus saw Conan take from his hand the bow he had picked up in the glade,
and notch an arrow.
The Pict had run his canoe in close to the shore, and staring up into the
bushes, called out something. His answer came in the twang of the bow-string,
the streaking flight of the arrow that sank to the feathers in his broad
breast. With a choking gasp he slumped sidewise and rolled into the shallow
water. In an instant Conan was down the bank and wading into the water to
grasp the drifting canoe. Balthus stumbled after him and somewhat dazedly
crawled into the canoe. Conan scrambled in, seized the paddle and sent the
craft shooting toward the eastern shore. Balthus noted with envious
admiration the play of the great muscles beneath the sun-burnt skin. The
Cimmerian seemed an iron man, who never knew fatigue.
"What did you say to the Pict?" asked Balthus.
"Told him to pull into shore; said there was a white forest runner on the
bank who was trying to get a shot at him."
"That doesn't seem fair," Balthus objected. "He thought a friend was
speaking to him. You mimicked a Pict perfectly—"
"We needed his boat," grunted Conan, not pausing in his exertions. "Only
way to lure him to the bank. Which is worse—to betray a Pict who'd
enjoy skinning us both alive, or betray the men across the river whose lives
depend on our getting over?"
Balthus mulled over this delicate ethical question for a moment, then
shrugged his shoulders and asked: "How far are we from the fort?"
Conan pointed to a creek which flowed into Black River from the east, a
few hundred yards below them.
"That's South Creek; it's ten miles from its mouth to the fort. It's the
southern boundary of Conajohara. Marshes miles wide south of it. No danger of
a raid from across them. Nine miles above the fort North Creek forms the
other boundary. Marshes beyond that, too. That's why an attack must come from
the west, across Black River. Conajohara's just like a spear, with a point
nineteen miles wide, thrust into the Pictish wilderness."
"Why don't we keep to the canoe and make the trip by water?"
"Because, considering the current we've got to brace, and the bends in the
river, we can go faster afoot. Besides, remember Gwawela is south of the
fort; if the Picts are crossing the river we'd run right into them."
Dusk was gathering as they stepped upon the eastern bank. Without pause
Conan pushed on northward, at a pace that made Balthus' sturdy legs ache.
"Valannus wanted a fort built at the mouths of North and South Creeks,"
grunted the Cimmerian. "Then the river could be patrolled constantly. But the
Government wouldn't do it.
"Soft-bellied fools sitting on velvet cushions with naked girls offering
them iced wine on their knees.—I know the breed. They can't see any
farther than their palace wall. Diplomacy—hell! They'd fight Picts with
theories of territorial expansion. Valannus and men like him have to obey the
orders of a set of damned fools. They'll never grab any more Pictish land,
any more than they'll ever rebuild Venarium. The time may come when they'll
see the barbarians swarming over the walls of the eastern cities!"
A week before, Balthus would have laughed at any such preposterous
suggestion. Now he made no reply. He had seen the unconquerable ferocity of
the men who dwelt beyond the frontiers.
He shivered, casting glances at the sullen river, just visible through the
bushes, at the arches of the trees which crowded close to its banks. He kept
remembering that the Picts might have crossed the river and be lying in
ambush between them and the fort. It was fast growing dark.
A slight sound ahead of them jumped his heart into his throat, and Conan's
sword gleamed in the air. He lowered it when a dog, a great, gaunt, scarred
beast, slunk out of the bushes and stood staring at them.
"That dog belonged to a settler who tried to build his cabin on the bank
of the river a few miles south of the fort," gruntcd Conan. "The Picts
slipped over and killed him, of course, and burned his cabin. We found him
dead among the embers, and the dog lying senseless among three Picts he'd
killed. He was almost cut to pieces. We took him to the fort and dressed his
wounds, but after he recovered he took to the woods and turned
wild.—What now, Slasher, are you hunting the men who killed your
The massive head swung from side to side and the eyes glowed greenly. He
did not growl or bark. Silently as a phantom he slid in behind them.
"Let him come," muttered Conan. "He can smell the devils before we can see
Balthus smiled and laid his hand caressingly on the dog's head. The lips
involuntarily writhed back to display the gleaming fangs; then the great
beast bent his head sheepishly, and his tall moved with jerky uncertainty, as
if the owner had almost forgotten the emotions of friendliness. Balthus
mentally compared the great gaunt hard body with the fat sleek hounds
tumbling vociferously over one another in his father's kennel yard. He
sighed. The frontier was no less hard for beasts than for men. This dog had
almost forgotten the meaning of kindness and friendliness.
Slasher glided ahead, and Conan let him take the lead. The last tinge of
dusk faded into stark darkness. The miles fell away under their steady feet.
Slasher seemed voiceless. Suddenly he halted, tense, ears lifted. An instant
later the men heard it—a demoniac yelling up the river ahead of them,
faint as a whisper.
Conan swore like a madman.
"They've attacked the fort! We're too late! Come on!"
He increased his pace, trusting to the dog to smell out ambushes ahead. In
a flood of tense excitement Balthus forgot his hunger and weariness. The
yells grew louder as they advanced, and above the devilish screaming they
could hear the deep shouts of the soldiers. Just as Balthus began to fear
they would run into the savages who seemed to be howling just ahead of them,
Conan swung away from the river in a wide semicircle that carried them to a
low rise from which they could look over the forest. They saw the fort,
lighted with torches thrust over the parapets on long poles. These cast a
flickering, uncertain light over the clearing, and in that light they saw
throngs of naked, painted figures along the fringe of the clearing. The river
swarmed with canoes. The Picts had the fort completely surrounded.
An incessant hail of arrows rained against the stockade from the woods and
the river. The deep twanging of the bowstrings rose above the howling.
Yelling like wolves, several hundred naked warriors with axes in their hands
ran from under the trees and raced toward the eastern gate. They were within
a hundred and fifty yards of their objective when a withering blast of arrows
from the wall littered the ground with corpses and sent the survivors fleeing
back to the trees. The men in the canoes rushed their boats toward the river-
wall, and were met by another shower of clothyard shafts and a volley from
the small ballistae mounted on towers on that side of the stockade. Stones
and logs whirled through the air and splintered and sank half a dozen canoes,
killing their occupants, and the other boats drew back out of range. A deep
roar of triumph rose from the walls of the fort, answered by bestial howling
from all quarters.
"Shall we try to break through?" asked Balthus, trembling with
Conan shook his head. He stood with his arms folded, his head slightly
bent, a somber and brooding figure.
"The fort's doomed. The Picts are blood-mad, and won't stop until they're
all killed. And there are too many of them for the men in the fort to kill.
We couldn't break through, and if we did, we could do nothing but die with
"There's nothing we can do but save our own hides, then?"
"Yes. We've got to warn the settlers. Do you know why the Picts are not
trying to burn the fort with fire-arrows? Because they don't want a flame
that might warn the people to the east. They plan to stamp out the fort, and
then sweep east before anyone knows of its fall. They may cross Thunder River
and take Velitrium before the people know what's happened. At least they'll
destroy every living thing between the fort and Thunder River.
"We've failed to warn the fort, and I see now it would have done no good
if we had succeeded. The fort's too poorly manned. A few more charges and the
Picts will be over the walls and breaking down the gates. But we can start
the settlers toward Velitrium. Come on! We're outside the circle the Picts
have thrown around the fort. We'll keep clear of it."
They swung out in a wide arc, hearing the rising and falling of the volume
of the yells, marking each charge and repulse. The men in the fort were
holding their own; but the shrieks of the Picts did not diminish in savagery.
They vibrated with a timbre that held assurance of ultimate victory.
Before Balthus realized they were close to it, they broke into the road
"Now run!" grunted Conan. Balthus set his teeth. It was nineteen miles to
Velitrium, a good five to Scalp Creek beyond which began the settlements. It
seemed to the Aquilonian that they had been fighting and running for
centuries. But the nervous excitement that rioted through his blood
stimulated him to herculean efforts.
Slasher ran ahead of them, his head to the ground, snarling low, the first
sound they had heard from him.
"Picts ahead of us!" snarled Conan, dropping to one knee and scanning the
ground in the starlight. He shook his head, baffled. "I can't tell how many.
Probably only a small party. Some that couldn't wait to take the fort.
They've gone ahead to butcher the settlers in their beds! Come on!"
Ahead of them presently they saw a small blaze through the trees, and,
heard a wild and ferocious chanting. The trail bent there, and leaving it,
they cut across the bend, through the thickets. A few moments later they were
looking on a hideous sight. An ox-wain stood in the road piled with meager
household furnishings; it was burning; the oxen lay near with their throats
cut. A man and a woman lay in the road, stripped and mutilated. Five Picts
were dancing about them with fantastic leaps and bounds, waving bloody axes;
one of them brandished the woman's red-smeared gown.
At the sight a red haze swam before Balthus. Lifting his bow he lined the
prancing figure, black against the fire, and loosed. The slayer leaped
convulsively and fell dead with the arrow through his heart. Then the two
white men and the dog were upon the startled survivors. Conan was animated
merely by his fighting spirit and an old, old racial hate, but Balthus was
afire with wrath.
He met the first Pict to oppose him with a ferocious swipe that split the
painted skull, and sprang over his failing body to grapple with the others.
But Conan had already killed one of the two he had chosen, and the leap of
the Aquilonian was a second late. The warrior was down with the long sword
through him even as Balthus' ax was lifted. Turning toward the remaining
Pict, Balthus saw Slasher rise from his victim, his great jaws dripping
Balthus said nothing as he looked down at the pitiful forms in the road
beside the burning wain. Both were young, the woman little more than a girl.
By some whim of chance the Picts had left her face unmarred, and even in the
agonies of an awful death it was beautiful. But her soft young body had been
hideously slashed with many knives—a mist clouded Balthus' eyes and he
swallowed chokingly. The tragedy momentarily overcame him. He felt like
falling upon the ground and weeping and biting the earth.
"Some young couple just hitting out on their own," Conan was saying as he
wiped his sword unemotionally. "On their way to the fort when the Picts met
them. Maybe the boy was going to enter the service; maybe take up land on the
river. Well, that's what will happen to every man, woman, and child this side
of Thunder River if we don't get them into Velitrium in a hurry."
Balthus' knees trembled as he followed Conan. But there was no hint of
weakness in the long easy stride of the Cimmerian. There was a kinship
between him and the great gaunt brute that glided beside him. Slasher no
longer growled with his head to the trail. The way was clear before them. The
yelling on the river came faintly to them, but Balthus believed the fort was
still holding. Conan halted suddenly, with an oath.
He showed Balthus a trail that led north from the road. It was an old
trail, partly grown with new young growth, and this growth had recently been
broken down. Balthus realized this fact more by feel than sight, though Conan
seemed to see like a cat in the dark. The Cimmerian showed him where broad
wagon tracks turned off the main trail, deeply indented in the forest
"Settlers going to the licks after salt," he grunted. "They're at the
edges of the marsh, about nine miles from here. Blast it! They'll be cut off
and butchered to a man! Listen! One man can warn the people on the road. Go
ahead and wake them up and herd them into Velitrium. I'll go and get the men
gathering the salt. They'll be camped by the licks. We won't come back to the
road. We'll head straight through the woods."
With no further comment Conan turned off the trail and hurried down the
dim path, and Balthus, after staring after him for a few moments, set out
along the road. The dog had remained with him, and glided softly at his
heels. When Balthus had gone a few rods he heard the animal growl. Whirling,
he glared back the way he had come, and was startled to see a vague ghostly
glow vanishing into the forest in the direction Conan had taken. Slasher
rumbled deep in his throat, his hackles stiff and his eyes balls of green
fire. Balthus remembered the grim apparition that had taken the head of the
merchant Tiberias not far from that spot, and he hesitated. The thing must be
following Conan. But the giant Cimmerian had repeatedly demonstrated his
ability to take care of himself, and Balthus felt his duty lay toward the
helpless settlers who slumbered in the path of the red hurricane. The horror
of the fiery phantom was overshadowed by the horror of those limp, violated
bodies beside the burning ox- wain.
He hurried down the road, crossed Scalp Creek and came in sight of the
first settler's cabin—a, long, low structure of ax-hewn logs. In an
instant he was pounding on the door. A sleepy voice inquired his
"Get up! The Picts are over the river!"
That brought instant response. A low cry echoed his words and then the
door was thrown open by a woman in a scanty shift. Her hair hung over her
bare shoulders in disorder; she held a candle in one hand and an ax in the
other. Her face was colorless, her eyes wide with terror.
"Come in!" she begged. "We'll hold the cabin."
"No. We must make for Velitrium. The fort can't hold them back. It may
have fallen already. Don't stop to dress. Get your children and come on."
"But my man's gone with the others after salt!" she wailed, wringing her
hands. Behind her peered three tousled youngsters, blinking and
"Conan's gone after them. He'll fetch them through safe. We must hurry up
the road to warn the other cabins."
Relief flooded her countenance.
"Mitra be thanked!" she cried. "If the Cimmerian's gone after them,
they're safe if mortal man can save them!"
In a whirlwind of activity she snatched up the smallest child and herded
the others through the door ahead of her. Balthus took the candle and ground
it out under his heel. He listened an instant. No sound came up the dark
"Have you got a horse?"
"In the stable," she groaned. "Oh, hurry!"
He pushed her aside as she fumbled with shaking hands at the bars. He led
the horse out and lifted the children on its back, telling them to hold to
its mane and to one another. They stared at him seriously, making no outcry.
The woman took the horse's halter and set out up the road. She still gripped
her ax and Balthus knew that if cornered she would fight with the desperate
courage of a she-panther.
He held behind, listening. He was oppressed by the belief that the fort
had been stormed and taken, that the dark-skinned hordes were already
streaming up the road toward Velitrium, drunken on slaughter and mad for
blood. They would come with the speed of starving wolves.
Presently they saw another cabin looming ahead. The woman started to
shriek a warning, but Balthus stopped her. He hurried to the door and
knocked. A woman's voice answered him. He repeated his warning, and soon the
cabin disgorged its occupants—an old woman, two young women, and four
children. Like the other woman's husband, their men had gone to the salt
licks the day before, unsuspecting of any danger. One of the young women
seemed dazed, the other prone to hysteria. But the old woman, a stern old
veteran of the frontier, quieted them harshly; she helped Balthus get out the
two horses that were stabled in a pen behind the cabin and put the children
on them. Balthus urged that she herself mount with them, but she shook her
head and made one of the younger women ride.
"She's with child," grunted the old woman. "I can walk—and fight,
too, if it comes to that."
As they set out, one of the young women said: "A young couple passed along
the road about dusk; we advised them to spend the night at our cabin, but
they were anxious to make the fort tonight. Did—did—"
"They met the Picts," answered Balthus briefly, and the woman sobbed in
They were scarcely out of sight of the cabin when some distance behind
them quavered a long high-pitched yell.
"A wolf!" exclaimed one of the women.
"A painted wolf with an ax in his hand," muttered Balthus. "Go! Rouse the
other settlers along the road and take them with you. I'll scout along
Without a word the old woman herded her charges ahead of her. As they
faded into the darkness, Balthus could see the pale-ovals that were the faces
of the children twisted back over their shoulders to stare toward him. He
remembered his own people on the Tauran and a moment's giddy sickness swam
over him. With momentary weakness he groaned and sank down in the road, his
muscular arm fell over Slasher's massive neck and he felt the dog's warm
moist tongue touch his face.
He lifted his head and grinned with a painful effort.
"Come on, boy," he mumbled, rising. "We've got work to do."
A red glow suddenly became evident through the trees. The Picts had fired
the last hut. He grinned. How Zogar Sag would froth if he knew his warriors
had let their destructive natures get the better of them. The fire would warn
the people farther up the road. They would be awake and alert when the
fugitives reached them. But his face grew grim. The women were traveling
slowly, on foot and on the overloaded horses. The swift-footed Picts would
run them down within a mile, unless—he took his position behind a
tangle of fallen logs beside the trail. The road west of him was lighted by
the burning cabin, and when the Picts came he saw them first—black
furtive figures etched against the distant glare.
Drawing a shaft to the head, he loosed and one of the figures crumpled.
The rest melted into the woods on either side of the road. Slasher whimpered
with the killing lust beside him. Suddenly a figure appeared on the fringe of
the trail, under the trees, and began gliding toward the fallen timbers.
Balthus' bow-string twanged and the Pict yelped, staggered and fell into the
shadows with the arrow through his thigh. Slasher cleared the timbers with a
bound and leaped into the bushes. They were violently shaken and then the dog
slunk back to Balthus' side, his jaws crimson.
No more appeared in the trail; Balthus began to fear they were stealing
past his position through the woods, and when he heard a faint sound to his
left he loosed blindly. He cursed as he heard the shaft splinter against a
tree, but Slasher glided away as silently as a phantom, and presently Balthus
heard a thrashing and a gurgling; then Slasher came like a ghost through the
bushes, snuggling his great, crimson-stained head against Balthus' arm. Blood
oozed from a gash in his shoulder, but the sounds in the wood had ceased for
The men lurking on the edges of the road evidently sensed the fate of
their companion, and decided that an open charge was preferable to being
dragged down in the dark by a devil-beast they could neither see nor hear.
Perhaps they realized that only one man lay behind the logs. They came with a
sudden rush, breaking cover from both sides of the trail. Three dropped with
arrows through them—and the remaining pair hesitated. One turned and
ran back down the road, but the other lunged over the breastwork, his eyes
and teeth gleaming in the dim light, his ax lifted. Balthus' foot slipped as
he sprang up, but the slip saved his life. The descending ax shaved a lock of
hair from his head, and the Pict rolled down the logs from the force of his
wasted blow. Before he could regain his feet Slasher tore his throat out.
Then followed a tense period of waiting, in which time Balthus wondered if
the man who had fled had been the only survivor of the party. Obviously it
had been a small band that had either left the fighting at the fort, or was
scouting ahead of the main body. Each moment that passed increased the
chances for safety of the women and children hurrying toward Velithum.
Then without warning a shower of arrows whistled over his retreat. A wild
howling rose from the woods along the trail. Either the survivor had gone
after aid, or another party had joined the first. The burning cabin still
smoldered, lending a little light. Then they were after him, gliding through
the trees beside the trail. He shot three arrows and threw the bow away. As
if sensing his plight, they came on, not yelling now, but in deadly silence
except for a swift pad of many feet.
He fiercely hugged the head of the great dog growling at his side,
muttered: "All right, boy, give 'em hell!" and sprang to his feet, drawing
his ax. Then the dark figures flooded over the breastworks and closed in a
storm of flailing axes, stabbing knives and ripping fangs.
The Devil in the Fire
When Conan turned from the Velitrium road, he expected a run of some nine
miles and set himself to the task. But he had not gone four when he heard the
sounds of a party of men ahead of him. From the noise they were making in
their progress he knew they were not Picts. He hailed them.
"Who's there?" challenged a harsh voice. "Stand where you are until we
know you, or you'll get an arrow through you."
"You couldn't hit an elephant in this darkness," answered Conan
impatiently. "Come on, fool; it's I—Conan. The Picts are over the
"We suspected as much," answered the leader of the men, as they strode
forward—tall, rangy men, stern-faced, with bows in their hands. "One of
our party wounded an antelope and tracked it nearly to Black River. He heard
them yelling down the river and ran back to our camp. We left the salt and
the wagons, turned the oxen loose, and came as swiftly as we could. If the
Picts are besieging the fort, war-parties will be ranging up the road toward
"Your families are safe," grunted Conan. "My companion went ahead to take
them to Velitrium. If we go back to the main road we may run into the whole
horde. We'll strike southeast, through the timber. Go ahead. I'll scout
A few moments later the whole band was hurrying southeastward. Conan
followed more slowly, keeping just within ear-shot. He cursed the noise they
were making; that many Picts or Cimmerians would have moved through the woods
with no more noise than the wind makes as it blows through the black
branches. He had just crossed a small glade when he wheeled, answering the
conviction of his primitive instincts that he was being followed. Standing
motionless among the bushes he heard the sounds of the retreating settlers
fade away. Then a voice called faintly back along the way he had come:
"Conan! Conan! Wait for me, Conan!"
"Balthus!" he swore bewilderedly. Cautiously he called: "Here I am!"
"Wait for me, Conan!" the voice came more distinctly.
Conan moved out of the shadows, scowling. "What the devil are you doing
He half crouched, the flesh prickling along his spine. It was not Balthus
who was emerging from the other side of the glade. A weird glow burned
through the trees. It moved toward him, shimmering weirdly—a green
witchfire that moved with purpose and intent.
It halted some feet away and Conan glared at it, trying to distinguish its
fire-misted outlines. The quivering flame had a solid core; the flame was but
a green garment that masked some animate and evil entity; but the Cimmerian
was unable to make out its shape or likeness. Then, shockingly, a voice spoke
to him from amidst the fiery column.
"Why do you stand like a sheep waiting for the butcher, Conan?"
The voice was human but carried strange vibrations that were not
"Sheep?" Conan's wrath got the best of his momentary awe. "Do you think
I'm afraid of a damned Pictish swamp devil? A friend called me."
"I called in his voice," answered the other. "The men you follow belong to
my brother; I would not rob his knife of their blood. But you are mine. O
fool, you have come from the far gray hills of Cimmeria to meet your doom in
the forests of Conajohara."
"You've had your chance at me before now," snorted Conan. "Why didn't you
kill me then, if you could?"
"My brother had not painted a skull black for you and hurled it into the
fire that burns for ever on Gullah's black altar. He had not whispered your
name to the black ghosts that haunt the uplands of the Dark Land. But a bat
has flown over the Mountains of the Dead and drawn your image in blood on the
white tiger's hide that hangs before the long hut where sleep the Four
Brothers of the Night. The great serpents coil about their feet and the stars
burn like fireflies in their hair."
"Why have the gods of darkness doomed me to death?" growled Conan.
Something—a hand, foot or talon, he could not tell which, thrust out
from the fire and marked swiftly on the mold. A symbol blazed there, marked
with fire, and faded, but not before he recognized it.
"You dared make the sign which only a priest of Jhebbal Sag dare make.
Thunder rumbled through the black Mountain of the Dead and the altar-hut of
Gullah was thrown down by a wind from the Gulf of Ghosts. The loon which is
messenger to the Four Brothers of the Night flew swiftly and whispered your
name in my ear. Your race is run. You are a dead man already. Your head will
hang in the altar-hut of my brother. Your body will be eaten by the black-
winged, sharp-beaked Children of Jhil."
"Who the devil is your brother?" demanded Conan. His sword was naked in
his hand, and he was subtly loosening the ax in his belt.
"Zogar Sag; a child of Jhebbal Sag who still visits his sacred groves at
times. A woman of Gwawela slept in a grove holy to Jhebbal Sag. Her babe was
Zogar Sag. I too am a son of Jhebbal Sag, out of a fire-being from a far
realm. Zogar Sag summoned me out of the Misty Lands. With incantations and
sorcery and his own blood he materialized me in the flesh of his own planet.
We are one, tied together by invisible threads. His thoughts are my thoughts;
if he is struck, I am bruised. If I am cut, he bleeds. But I have talked
enough. Soon your ghost will talk with the ghosts of the Dark Land, and they
will tell you of the old gods which are not dead, but sleep in the outer
abysses, and from time to time awake."
"I'd like to see what you look like," muttered Conan, working his ax free,
"you who leave a track like a bird, who burn like a flame and yet speak with
a human voice."
"You shall see," answered the voice from the flame, "see, and carry the
knowledge with you into the Dark Land."
The flames leaped and sank, dwindling and dimming. A face began to take
shadowy form. At first Conan thought it was Zogar Sag himself who stood
wrapped in green fire. But the face was higher than his own, and there was a
demoniac aspect about it—Conan had noted various abnormalities about
Zogar Sag's features—an obliqueness of the eyes, a sharpness of the
ears, a wolfish thinness of the lips: these peculiarities were exaggerated in
the apparition which swayed before him. The eyes were red as coals of living
More details came into view: a slender torso, covered with snaky scales,
which was yet man-like in shape, with man like arms, from the waist upward,
below, long crane-like legs ended in splay, three-toed feet like those of
huge bird. Along the monstrous limbs the blue fire fluttered and ran. He saw
it as through a glistening mist.
Then suddenly it was towering over him, though he had not seen it move
toward him. A long arm, which for the first time he noticed was armed with
curving, sickle-like talons, swung high and swept down at his neck. With a
fierce cry he broke the spell and bounded aside, hurling his ax. The demon
avoided the cast with an unbelievably quick movement of its narrow head and
was on him again with a hissing rush of leaping flames.
But fear had fought for it when it slew its other victims and Conan was
not afraid. He knew that any being clothed in material flesh can be slain by
material weapons, however grisly its form may be.
One flailing talon-armed limb knocked his helmet from his head. A little
lower and it would have decapitated him. But fierce joy surged through him as
his savagely driven sword sank deep in the monster's groin. He bounded
backward from a flailing stroke, tearing his sword free as he leaped. The
talons raked his breast, ripping through mail-links as if they had been
cloth. But his return spring was like that of a starving wolf. He was inside
the lashing arms and driving his sword deep in the monster's belly—felt
the arms lock about him and the talons ripping the mail from his back as they
sought his vitals—he was lapped and dazzled by blue flame that was
chill as ice – then he had torn fiercely away from the weakening arms
and his sword cut the air in a tremendous swipe.
The demon staggered and fell sprawling sidewise, its head hanging only by
a shred of flesh. The fires that veiled it leaped fiercely upward, now red as
gushing blood, hiding the figure from view. A scent of burning flesh filled
Conan's nostrils. Shaking the blood and sweat from his eyes, he wheeled and
ran staggering through the woods. Blood trickled down his limbs. Somewhere,
miles to the south, he saw the faint glow of flames that might mark a burning
cabin. Behind him, toward the road, rose a distant howling that spurred him
to greater efforts.
Conajohara No More
There had been fighting on Thunder River; fierce fighting before the walls
of Velitrium; ax and torch had been plied up and down the bank, and many a
settler's cabin lay in ashes before the painted horde was rolled back.
A strange quiet followed the storm, in which people gathered and talked in
hushed voices, and men with red-stained bandages drank their ale silently in
the taverns along the river bank.
There, to Conan the Cimmerian, moodily quaffing from a great wine-glass,
came a gaunt forester with a bandage about his head and his arm in a sling.
He was the one survivor of Fort Tuscelan.
"You went with the soldiers to the ruins of the fort?"
"I wasn't able," murmured the other. "There was no fighting?"
"The Picts had fallen back across Black River. Something must have broken
their nerve, though only the devil who made them knows what."
The woodsman glanced at his bandaged arm and sighed.
"They say there were no bodies worth disposing of."
Conan shook his head. "Ashes. The Picts had piled them in the fort and set
fire to the fort before they crossed the river. Their own dead and the men of
"Valannus was killed among the last—in the hand-to-hand fighting
when they broke the barriers. They tried to take him alive, but he made them
kill him. They took ten of the rest of us prisoners when we were so weak from
fighting we could fight no more. They butchered nine of us then and there. It
was when Zogar Sag died that I got my chance to break free and run for
"Zogar Sag's dead?" ejaculated Conan.
"Aye. I saw him die That's why the Picts didn't press the fight against
Velitrium as fiercely as they did against the fort. It was strange. He took
no wounds in battle. He was dancing among the slain, waving an ax with which
he'd just brained the last of my comrades. He came at me, howling like a wolf
– and then he staggered and dropped the ax, and began to reel in a
circle screaming as I never heard a man or beast scream before. He fell
between me and the fire they'd built to roast me, gaging and frothing at the
mouth, and all at once he went rigid and the Picts shouted that he was dead.
It was during the confusion that I slipped my cords and ran for the
"I saw him lying in the firelight. No weapon had touched him. Yet there
were red marks like the wounds of a sword in the groin, belly, and neck
– the last as if his head had been almost severed from his body. What
do you make of that?"
Conan made no reply, and the forester, aware of the reticence of
barbarians on certain matters, continued: "He lived by magic, and somehow, he
died by magic. It was the mystery of his death that took the heart out of the
Picts. Not a man who saw it was in the fighting before Velitrium. They
hurried back across Black River. Those that struck Thunder River were
warriors who had come on before Zogar Sag died. They were not enough to take
the city by themselves.
"I came along the road, behind their main force, and I know none followed
me from the fort. I sneaked through their lines and got into the town. You
brought the settlers through all right, but their women and children got into
Velitrium just ahead of those painted devils. If the youth Balthus and old
Slasher hadn't held them up awhile, they'd have butchered every woman and
child in Conajohara. I passed the place where Balthus and the dog made their
last stand. They were lying amid a heap of dead Picts—I counted seven,
brained by his ax, or disemboweled by the dog's fangs, and there were others
in the road with arrows sticking in them. Gods, what a fight that must have
"He was a man," said Conan. "I drink to his shade, and to the shade of the
dog, who knew no fear." He quaffed part of the wine, then emptied the rest
upon the floor, with a curious heathen gesture, and smashed the goblet. "The
heads of ten Picts shall pay for his, and seven heads for the dog, who was a
better warrior than many a man."
And the forester, staring into the moody, smoldering blue eyes, knew the
barbaric oath would be kept.
"They'll not rebuild the fort?"
"No; Conajohara is lost to Aquilonia. The frontier has been pushed back.
Thunder River will be the new border."
The woodsman sighed and stared at his calloused hand, worn from contact
with ax-haft and sword-hilt. Conan reached his long arm for the wine-jug. The
forester stared at him, comparing him with the men about them, the men who
had died along the lost river, comparing him with those other wild men over
that river. Conan did not seem aware of his gaze.
"Barbarism is the natural state of mankind," the borderer said, still
staring somberly at the Cimmerian. "Civilization is unnatural. It is a whim
of circumstance. And barbarism must always ultimately triumph."