'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
reticence.
'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.
'Wait!'
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 him. Watch!'
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 held 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 adoration.
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.'
'Warn Valannus?'
'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 tigers.
'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 Velitrium.'
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 sides.
'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 alive.
'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
Gullah.
'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 river.'
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, 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 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 anywhere.'
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 restless.
'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 within
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 about 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 was right.
'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 it.'
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 watchdogs. 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 bow-string 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 sidewise 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 mid-breastbone,
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!'