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The Aquilonian slid to a stumbling halt, almost colliding with the Cimmerian who stood in the trail over a crumpled body. But Conan was not looking at the corpse which lay there in the crimson-soaked dust. He was glaring into the deep woods on either side of the trail.
Balthus muttered a horrified oath. It was the body of a man which lay there 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. His fat, pale face was set in a stare of frozen horror; his thick throat had been slashed from ear to ear as if by a razor-sharp blade. The short sword still in its scabbard seemed to indicate that he had been struck down without a chance to fight for his life.
"A Pict?" Balthus whispered, as he turned to peer into the deepening shadows 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. Three months ago he hid beside this road and stole a string of pack-mules from a pack-train bound for the fort -- drugged their drivers, somehow. The mules belonged to this man" -- Conan casually indicated the corpse with his foot -- "Tiberias, a merchant of Velitrium
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