Beyond the Black River

E. Howard Robert

Description

Ever beset by wanderlust and an insatiable urge to seek out conflict, Conan the Cimmerian (also known as Conan the Barbarian) travels to a wild frontier region that lies beyond the Black River. Amidst a raging war, Conan goes head-to-head against a number of formidable opponents, both supernatural and mortal.

Sujets

• Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 juillet 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781776584956
• Langue: English

Extrait

BEYOND THE BLACK RIVER
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ROBERT E. HOWARD
 
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Beyond the Black River First published in 1935 Epub ISBN 978-1-77658-495-6 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77658-496-3 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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1 - Conan Loses His Ax 2 - The Wizard of Gwawela 3 - The Crawlers in the Dark 4 - The Beasts of Zogar Sag 5 - The Children of Jhebbal Sag 6 - Red Axes of the Border 7 - The Devil in the Fire 8 - Conajohara No More
1 - Conan Loses His Ax
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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 po