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 traveler 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 untamed as the primordial forest which formed its background.
The man held a broadsword 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 frontiers.
Turning, he stepped back to the bushes 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, dumfounded 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 followed him.
'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-service.'
'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 war-like
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 hills. 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 had 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 offence.
'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 cat-like 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.