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  BEYOND THE BLACK RIVER

  By Robert E. Howard

  [Transcriber's Note: This etext was first published in Weird Tales May and June 1935. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

  1 Conan Loses His Ax

  The stillness of the forest trail was so primeval that the tread of asoft-booted foot was a startling disturbance. At least it seemed so tothe ears of the wayfarer, though he was moving along the path with thecaution that must be practised by any man who ventures beyond ThunderRiver. He was a young man of medium height, with an open countenance anda mop of tousled tawny hair unconfined by cap or helmet. His garb wascommon enough for that country--a coarse tunic, belted at the waist,short leather breeches beneath, and soft buckskin boots that came shortof the knee. A knife-hilt jutted from one boot-top. The broad leatherbelt supported a short, heavy sword and a buckskin pouch. There was noperturbation in the wide eyes that scanned the green walls which fringedthe trail. Though not tall, he was well built, and the arms that theshort wide sleeves of the tunic left bare were thick with corded muscle.

  He tramped imperturbably along, although the last settler's cabin laymiles behind him, and each step was carrying him nearer the grim perilthat hung like a brooding shadow over the ancient forest.

  He was not making as much noise as it seemed to him, though he well knewthat the faint tread of his booted feet would be like a tocsin of alarmto the fierce ears that might be lurking in the treacherous greenfastness. His careless attitude was not genuine; his eyes and ears werekeenly alert, especially his ears, for no gaze could penetrate the leafytangle for more than a few feet in either direction.

  But it was instinct more than any warning by the external senses whichbrought him up suddenly, his hand on his hilt. He stood stock-still inthe middle of the trail, unconsciously holding his breath, wonderingwhat he had heard, and wondering if indeed he had heard anything. Thesilence seemed absolute. Not a squirrel chattered or bird chirped. Thenhis gaze fixed itself on a mass of bushes beside the trail a few yardsahead of him. There was no breeze, yet he had seen a branch quiver. Theshort hairs on his scalp prickled, and he stood for an instantundecided, certain that a move in either direction would bring deathstreaking at him from the bushes.

  A heavy chopping crunch sounded behind the leaves. The bushes wereshaken violently, and simultaneously with the sound, an arrow archederratically from among them and vanished among the trees along thetrail. The wayfarer glimpsed its flight as he sprang frantically tocover.

  Crouching behind a thick stem, his sword quivering in his fingers, hesaw the bushes part, and a tall figure stepped leisurely into the trail.The traveler stared in surprise. The stranger was clad like himself inregard to boots and breeks, though the latter were of silk instead ofleather. But he wore a sleeveless hauberk of dark mesh-mail in place ofa tunic, and a helmet perched on his black mane. That helmet held theother'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 itthat of a civilized man: dark, scarred, with smoldering blue eyes, itwas a face untamed as the primordial forest which formed its background.The man held a broadsword in his right hand, and the edge was smearedwith 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 feltcuriously helpless and futile as he gazed on the proportions of theforest man--the massive iron-clad breast, and the arm that bore thereddened sword, burned dark by the sun and ridged and corded withmuscles. He moved with the dangerous ease of a panther; he was toofiercely supple to be a product of civilization, even of that fringe ofcivilization which composed the outer frontiers.

  Turning, he stepped back to the bushes and pulled them apart. Still notcertain just what had happened, the wayfarer from the east advanced andstared down into the bushes. A man lay there, a short, dark,thickly-muscled man, naked except for a loin-cloth, a necklace of humanteeth and a brass armlet. A short sword was thrust into the girdle ofthe loin-cloth, and one hand still gripped a heavy black bow. The manhad long black hair; that was about all the wayfarer could tell abouthis head, for his features were a mask of blood and brains. His skullhad 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 alongthe road, that these devils sometimes sneaked across the border, but Ididn'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 betweenThunder River and Fort Tuscelan is really safe. I picked up this dog'strail three miles south of the fort this morning, and I've beenfollowing him ever since. I came up behind him just as he was drawing anarrow 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 therealization that the man had actually tracked down one of theforest-devils and slain him unsuspected. That implied woodsmanship of aquality 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 rangingalong the river than cooped up in the fort.'

  Casually the slayer shoved the body deeper into the thickets with hisfoot, pulled the bushes together and turned away down the trail. Theother followed him.

  'My name is Balthus,' he offered. 'I was at Velitrium last night. Ihaven't decided whether I'll take up a hide of land, or enterfort-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 milesback--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'talways come singly. Some day they'll try to sweep the settlers out ofConajohara. And they may succeed--probably will succeed. Thiscolonization business is mad, anyway. There's plenty of good land eastof the Bossonian marches. If the Aquilonians would cut up some of thebig estates of their barons, and plant wheat where now only deer arehunted, they wouldn't have to cross the border and take the land of thePicts away from them.'

  'That's queer talk from a man in the service of the Governor ofConajohara,' objected Balthus.

  'It's nothing to me,' the other retorted. 'I'm a mercenary. I sell mysword to the highest bidder. I never planted wheat and never will, solong as there are other harvests to be reaped with the sword. But youHyborians have expanded as far as you'll be allowed to expand. You'vecrossed the marches, burned a few villages, exterminated a few clansand pushed back the frontier to Black River; but I doubt if you'll evenbe able to hold what you've conquered, and you'll never push thefrontier any further westward. Your idiotic king doesn't understandconditions here. He won't send you enough reinforcements, and there arenot enough settlers to withstand the shock of a concerted attack fromacross 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 manwill rise and unite thirty or forty clans, just as was done among theCimmerians, when the Gundermen tried to push the border northward, yearsago.
They tried to colonize the southern marches of Cimmeria: destroyeda few small clans, built a fort-town, Venarium--you've heard the tale.'

  'So I have indeed,' replied Balthus, wincing. The memory of that reddisaster was a black blot in the chronicles of a proud and war-likepeople. 'My uncle was at Venarium when the Cimmerians swarmed over thewalls. He was one of the few who escaped that slaughter. I've heard himtell the tale, many a time. The barbarians swept out of the hills in aravening horde, without warning, and stormed Venarium with such furynone 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 neversince tried to colonize the Cimmerian country. But you speak of Venariumfamiliarly. Perhaps you were there?'

  'I was,' grunted the other. 'I was one of the horde that swarmed overthe hills. I hadn't yet seen fifteen snows, but already my name wasrepeated about the council fires.'

  Balthus involuntarily recoiled, staring. It seemed incredible that theman walking tranquilly at his side should have been one of thosescreeching, blood-mad devils that had poured over the walls of Venariumon 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 wonderthe Pict had fallen victim to his own sort of subtlety. The Cimmerianswere barbarians as ferocious as the Picts, and much more intelligent.Evidently Conan had spent much time among civilized men, though thatcontact had obviously not softened him, nor weakened any of hisprimitive instincts. Balthus' apprehension turned to admiration as hemarked the easy cat-like stride, the effortless silence with which theCimmerian moved along the trail. The oiled links of his armor did notclink, and Balthus knew Conan could glide through the deepest thicket ormost 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 havesheltered you Aquilonians from the outer wildernesses for too manycenturies. You need hardening.'

  That was true; the Bossonian marches, with their fortified villagesfilled with determined bowmen, had long served Aquilonia as a bufferagainst the outlying barbarians. Now among the settlers beyond ThunderRiver there was growing up a breed of forest-men capable of meeting thebarbarians at their own game, but their numbers were still scanty. Mostof the frontiersmen were like Balthus--more of the settler than thewoodsman type.

  The sun had not set, but it was no longer in sight, hidden as it wasbehind the dense forest wall. The shadows were lengthening, deepeningback in the woods as the companions strode on down the trail.

  'It will be dark before we reach the fort,' commented Conan casually;then: 'Listen!'

  He stopped short, half crouching, sword ready, transformed into a savagefigure of suspicion and menace, poised to spring and rend. Balthus hadheard it too--a wild scream that broke at its highest note. It was thecry of a man in dire fear or agony.

  Conan was off in an instant, racing down the trail, each stride wideningthe distance between him and his straining companion. Balthus puffed acurse. Among the settlements of the Tauran he was accounted a goodrunner, but Conan was leaving him behind with maddening ease. ThenBalthus forgot his exasperation as his ears were outraged by the mostfrightful cry he had ever heard. It was not human, this one; it was ademoniacal caterwauling of hideous triumph that seemed to exult overfallen humanity and find echo in black gulfs beyond human ken.

  Balthus faltered in his stride, and clammy sweat beaded his flesh. ButConan did not hesitate; he darted around a bend in the trail anddisappeared, and Balthus, panicky at finding himself alone with thatawful scream still shuddering through the forest in grisly echoes, puton an extra burst of speed and plunged after him.

  The Aquilonian slid to a stumbling halt, almost colliding with theCimmerian who stood in the trail over a crumpled body. But Conan was notlooking at the corpse which lay there in the crimson-soaked dust. He wasglaring into the deep woods on either side of the trail.

  Balthus muttered a horrified oath. It was the body of a man which laythere 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. Hisfat, pale face was set in a stare of frozen horror; his thick throat hadbeen slashed from ear to ear as if by a razor-sharp blade. The shortsword still in its scabbard seemed to indicate that he had been struckdown without a chance to fight for his life.

  'A Pict?' Balthus whispered, as he turned to peer into the deepeningshadows 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. Threemonths ago he hid beside this road and stole a string of pack-mules froma pack-train bound for the fort--drugged their drivers, somehow. Themules belonged to this man'--Conan casually indicated the corpse withhis foot--'Tiberias, a merchant of Velitrium. They were loaded withale-kegs, and old Zogar stopped to guzzle before he got across theriver. A woodsman named Soractus trailed him, and led Valannus and threesoldiers to where he lay dead drunk in a thicket. At the importunitiesof Tiberias, Valannus threw Zogar Sag into a cell, which is the worstinsult you can give a Pict. He managed to kill his guard and escape, andsent back word that he meant to kill Tiberias and the five men whocaptured him in a way that would make Aquilonians shudder for centuriesto come.

  'Well, Soractus and the soldiers are dead. Soractus was killed on theriver, the soldiers in the very shadow of the fort. And now Tiberias isdead. No Pict killed any of them. Each victim--except Tiberias, as yousee--lacked his head--which no doubt is now ornamenting the altar ofZogar 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'llsee that only a talon could have made a gash like that. The flesh isripped, not cut.'

  '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 justbefore doom overtook him. Look here; the signs are plain enough.Tiberias came riding along the trail on his mule, maybe with a bundle ofchoice otter pelts behind his saddle to sell in Velitrium, and the_thing_ sprang on him from behind that bush. See where the branches arecrushed down.

  'Tiberias gave one scream, and then his throat was torn open and he wasselling his otter skins in Hell. The mule ran away into the woods.Listen! Even now you can hear him thrashing about under the trees. Thedemon didn't have time to take Tiberias' head; it took fright as we cameup.'

  'As _you_ came up,' amended Balthus. 'It must not be a very terriblecreature if it flees from one armed man. But how do you know it was nota Pict with some kind of a hook that rips instead of slicing? Did yousee it?'

  'Tiberias was an armed man,' grunted Conan. 'If Zogar Sag can bringdemons to aid him, he can tell them which men to kill and which to letalone. No, I didn't see it. I only saw the bushes shake as it left thetrail. But if you want further proof, look here!'

  The slayer had stepped into the pool of blood in which the dead mansprawled. Under the bushes at the edge of the path there was afootprint, made in blood on the hard loam.

  'Did a man make that?' dem
anded Conan.

  Balthus felt his scalp prickle. Neither man nor any beast that he hadever seen could have left that strange, monstrous three-toed print, thatwas curiously combined of the bird and the reptile, yet a true type ofneither. 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 likethat.'

  'Nor any other sane man,' answered Conan grimly. 'It's a swampdemon--they're thick as bats in the swamps beyond Black River. You canhear them howling like damned souls when the wind blows strong from thesouth on hot nights.'

  'What shall we do?' asked the Aquilonian, peering uneasily into the deepblue shadows. The frozen fear on the dead countenance haunted him. Hewondered what hideous head the wretch had seen thrust grinning fromamong the leaves to chill his blood with terror.

  'No use to try to follow a demon,' grunted Conan, drawing a shortwoodsman's ax from his girdle. 'I tried tracking him after he killedSoractus. I lost his trail within a dozen steps. He might have grownhimself wings and flown away, or sunk down through the earth to Hell. Idon't know. I'm not going after the mule, either. It'll either wanderback 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 afew strokes he cut a pair of saplings nine or ten feet long, and denudedthem of their branches. Then he cut a length from a serpent-like vinethat crawled among the bushes near by, and making one end fast to one ofthe poles, a couple of feet from the end, whipped the vine over theother sapling and interlaced it back and forth. In a few moments he hada crude but strong litter.

  'The demon isn't going to get Tiberias' head if I can help it,' hegrowled. 'We'll carry the body into the fort. It isn't more than threemiles. I never liked the fat fool, but we can't have Pictish devilsmaking so cursed free with white men's heads.'

  The Picts were a white race, though swarthy, but the border men neverspoke of them as such.

  Balthus took the rear end of the litter, onto which Conanunceremoniously dumped the unfortunate merchant, and they moved on downthe trail as swiftly as possible. Conan made no more noise laden withtheir grim burden than he had made when unencumbered. He had made a loopwith the merchant's belt at the end of the poles, and was carrying hisshare of the load with one hand, while the other gripped his nakedbroadsword, and his restless gaze roved the sinister walls about them.The shadows were thickening. A darkening blue mist blurred the outlinesof the foliage. The forest deepened in the twilight, became a blue hauntof mystery sheltering unguessed things.

  They had covered more than a mile, and the muscles in Balthus' sturdyarms were beginning to ache a little, when a cry rang shuddering fromthe 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 then!'

  'A settler's wife straying in the woods,' snarled Conan, setting downhis end of the litter. 'Looking for a cow, probably, and--stay here!'

  He dived like a hunting wolf into the leafy wall. Balthus' hairbristled.

  'Stay here alone with this corpse and a devil hiding in the woods?' heyelped. 'I'm coming with you!'

  And suiting action to words, he plunged after the Cimmerian. Conanglanced back at him, but made no objection, though he did not moderatehis pace to accommodate the shorter legs of his companion. Balthuswasted 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 gladeand halted crouching, lips snarling, sword lifted.

  'What are we stopping for?' panted Balthus, dashing the sweat out of hiseyes and gripping his short sword.

  'That scream came from this glade, or near by,' answered Conan. 'I don'tmistake the location of sounds, even in the woods. But where----'

  Abruptly the sound rang out again--_behind them_; in the direction ofthe trail they had just quitted. It rose piercingly and pitifully, thecry of a woman in frantic terror--and then, shockingly, it changed to ayell of mocking laughter that might have burst from the lips of a fiendof lower Hell.

  'What in Mitra's name----' Balthus' face was a pale blur in the gloom.

  With a scorching oath Conan wheeled and dashed back the way he had come,and the Aquilonian stumbled bewilderedly after him. He blundered intothe Cimmerian as the latter stopped dead, and rebounded from his brawnyshoulders as though from an iron statue. Gasping from the impact, heheard Conan's breath hiss through his teeth. The Cimmerian seemed frozenin his tracks.

  Looking over his shoulder, Balthus felt his hair stand up stiffly.Something was moving through the deep bushes that fringed thetrail--something that neither walked nor flew, but seemed to glide likea serpent. But it was not a serpent. Its outlines were indistinct, butit was taller than a man, and not very bulky. It gave off a glimmer ofweird light, like a faint blue flame. Indeed, the eery fire was the onlytangible thing about it. It might have been an embodied flame movingwith reason and purpose through the blackening woods.

  Conan snarled a savage curse and hurled his ax with ferocious will. Butthe thing glided on without altering its course. Indeed it was only afew instants' fleeting glimpse they had of it--a tall, shadowy thing ofmisty flame floating through the thickets. Then it was gone, and theforest crouched in breathless stillness.

  With a snarl Conan plunged through the intervening foliage and into thetrail. His profanity, as Balthus floundered after him, was lurid andimpassioned. The Cimmerian was standing over the litter on which lay thebody of Tiberias. And that body no longer possessed a head.

  'Tricked us with its damnable caterwauling!' raved Conan, swinging hisgreat sword about his head in his wrath. 'I might have known! I mighthave guessed a trick! Now there'll be five heads to decorate Zogar'saltar.'

  '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?' gaspedBalthus, mopping the sweat from his pale face.

  'A swamp devil,' responded Conan morosely. 'Grab those poles. We'll takein the body, anyway. At least our load's a bit lighter.'

  With which grim philosophy he gripped the leathery loop and stalked downthe trail.