The Conquering Sword of Conan by Robert E. Howard Page B

off duty lounged. These were now hurrying to join the morbid crowd gathered about the litter at the gate. The rangy figures of Aquilonian pikemen and forest runners mingled with the shorter, stockier forms of Bossonian archers.
    He was not greatly surprized that the governor received them himself. Autocratic society with its rigid caste laws lay east of the marches. Valannus was still a young man, well-knit, with a finely-chiselled countenance already carved into sober cast by toil and responsibility.
    “You left the fort before daybreak, I was told,” he said to Conan. “I had begun to fear that the Picts had caught you at last.”
    “When they smoke my head the whole river will know it,” grunted Conan. “They’ll hear Pictish women wailing their dead as far as Velitrium – I was on a lone scout. I couldn’t sleep. I kept hearing drums talking across the river.”
    “They talk each night,” reminded the governor, his fine eyes shadowed, as he stared closely at Conan. He had learned the unwisdom of discounting wild men’s instincts.
    “There was a difference last night,” growled Conan. “There has been ever since Zogar Sag got back across the river.”
    “We should either have given him presents and sent him home, or else hanged him,” sighed the governor. “You advised that, but –”
    “But it’s hard for you Hyborians to learn the ways of the outlands,” said Conan. “Well, it can’t be helped now, but there’ll be no peace on the border so long as Zogar lives and remembers the cell he sweated in. I was following a warrior who slipped over to put a few white notches on his bow. After I split his head I fell in with this lad whose name is Balthus and who’s come from the Tauran to help hold the frontier.”
    Valannus approvingly eyed the young man’s frank countenance and strongly-knit frame.
    “I am glad to welcome you, young sir. I wish more of your people would come. We need men used to forest life. Many of our soldiers and some of our settlers are from the eastern provinces and know nothing of woodcraft, or even of agricultural life.”
    “Not many of that breed this side of Velitrium,” grunted Conan. “That town’s full of them, though. But listen, Valannus, we found Tiberias dead on the trail.” And in a few words he related the grisly affair.
    Valannus paled.
    “I did not know he had left the fort. He must have been mad!”
    “He was,” answered Conan. “Like the other four; each one, when his time came, went mad and rushed into the woods to meet his death like a hare running down the throat of a python.
Something
called to them from the deeps of the forest, something the men call a loon, for lack of a better name, but only the doomed ones could hear it. Zogar Sag’s made a magic Aquilonian civilization can’t overcome.”
    To this thrust Valannus made no reply; he wiped his brow with a shaky hand.
    “Do the soldiers know of this?”
    “We left the body by the eastern gate.”
    “You should have concealed the fact – hidden the corpse somewhere in the woods. The soldiers are nervous enough already.”
    “They’d have found it out some way. If I’d hidden the body, it would have been returned to the fort as the corpse of Soractus was – tied up outside the gate for the men to find in the morning.”
    Valannus shuddered. Turning, he walked to a casement and stared silently out over the river, black and shiny under the glint of the stars. Beyond the river the jungle rose like an ebony wall. The distant screech of a panther broke the stillness. The night seemed pressing in, blurring the sounds of the soldiers outside the blockhouse, dimming the fires. A wind whispered through the black branches, rippling the dusky water. On its wings came a low, rhythmic pulsing, sinister as the pad of a leopard’s foot.
    “After all,” said Valannus, as if speaking his thoughts aloud, “what do we know – what does anyone know – of the things that jungle may hide? We have dim