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 blur 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 river.
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 tiger.
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
fingers 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.