Fot two days the wolves had trailed him through the woods, and now they were closing in again.  Looking back over his shoulder, the boy caught glimpses of them: shaggy, hulking shapes of shadowy gray, loping amongst the black tree trunks, with eyes that burned like red coals in the gathering murk.  This time, he knew, he could not fight them off as he had done before.

He could not see very far, because all around him rose, like the silent soldiers of some bewitched army, the trunks of millions of black spruces.  Snow clung in dim, white patches to the northern slopes of the hills, but the gurgle of thousands of rills from melting snow and ice presaged the coming of spring.  This was a dark, silent, gloomy world even in high summer; and now, as the dim light from the overcast faded with the approach of dusk, it seemed more somber than ever.

The stripling ran on, up the heavily wooded slope, as he had run for the two days since he had fought his way out of the Hyperborean slave pen.  Although a purebred Cimmerian, he had been one of a band of raiding Æsir, harrying the borders of the Hyperboreans.  The gaunt, blond warriors of that grim land had trapped and smashed the raiding party; and the boy Conan, for the first time in his life, had tasted the bitterness of the chains and the lash that were the normal lot of the slave.

He had not, however, long remained in slavery.  Working at night while others slept, he had ground away at one link of his chain until it was weak enough for him to snap.  Then, during a heavy rainstorm, he had burst loose.  Whirling a four-foot length of heavy, broken chain, he had slain his overseer and a soldier who had sprung to block his way, and vanished into the downpour.  The rain that hid him from sight also baffled the hounds of the search party sent after him.

Although free for the moment, the youth had found himself with half the breadth of a hostile kingdom between him and his native Cimmeria.  So he had fled south into the wild, mountainous country that separated the southern marches of Hyperborea from the fertile plains of Brythunia and the Turanian steppes.  Somewhere to the south, he had heard, lay the fabulous kingdom of Zamora - Zamora with its dark-haired women and towers of spider-haunted mystery.  There stood famous cities: the capital, Shadizar, called the City of Wickedness; the thief-city of Arenjun; and Yezud, the city of the spider god.

The year before, Conan had had his first taste of the luxuries of civilization when, as one of the blood-mad horde of Cimmerian clansmen that had poured over the walls of Venarium, he had taken part in the sack of that Aquilonian outpost.  The taste had whetted his appetite for more.  He had no clear ambition or program of action; nothing but vague dreams of desperate adventures in the rich lands of the South.  Visions of glittering gold and jewels, unlimited food and drink, and the hot embraces of beautiful women of noble birth, as his prizes of valor, flitted through his naive young mind.  In the South, he thought, his hulking size and strength should somehow easily bring him fame and fortune among the city-bred weaklings.  So he headed south, to seek his fate with no more equipment than a tattered, threadbare tunic and a length of chain.

And then the wolves had caught his scent.  Ordinarily, an active man had little to fear from wolves.  But this was the end of winter; the wolves, starving after a bad season, were ready for any desperate chance.