BEYOND THE BLACK RIVER
By Robert E. Howard
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was first published in Weird Tales Mayand June 1935. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that theU.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, a