'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 as you never ran before.'
'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
branches.
'Shall we take to the woods?' panted Balthus.
'Give me your ax,' murmured Conan softly. 'Something is close behind
us.'
'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 them.
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 ax.
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
bloodhounds?'