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Title: The Lost Race
Author: Robert E. Howard
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No.: 0608001.txt
Language: English
Date first posted: October 2006
Date most recently updated: October 2006

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The Lost Race
Robert E. Howard



Cororuc glanced about him and hastened his pace. He was no coward,
but he did not like the place. Tall trees rose all about, their sullen
branches shutting out the sunlight. The dim trail led in and out among
them, sometimes skirting the edge of a ravine, where Cororuc could
gaze down at the treetops beneath. Occasionally, through a rift in the
forest, he could see away to the forbidding hills that hinted of the
ranges much farther to the west, that were the mountains of Cornwall.

In those mountains the bandit chief, Buruc the Cruel, was supposed
to lurk, to descend upon such victims as might pass that way. Cororuc
shifted his grip on his spear and quickened his step. His haste was
due not only to the menace of the outlaws, but also to the fact that
he wished once more to be in his native land. He had been on a secret
mission to the wild Cornish tribesmen; and though he had been more or
less successful, he was impatient to be out of their inhospitable
country. It had been a long, wearisome trip, and he still had nearly
the whole of Britain to traverse. He threw a glance of aversion about
him. He longed for the pleasant woodlands, with scampering deer, and
chirping birds, to which he was used. He longed for the tall white
cliff, where the blue sea lapped merrily. The forest through which he
was passing seemed uninhabited. There were no birds, no animals; nor
had he seen a sign of human habitation.

His comrades still lingered at the savage court of the Cornish
king, enjoying his crude hospitality, in no hurry to be away. But
Cororuc was not content. So he had left them to follow at their
leisure and had set out alone.

Rather a fine figure of a man was Cororuc. Some six feet in
height, strongly though leanly built, he was, with gray eyes, a pure
Briton but not a pure Celt, his long yellow hair revealing, in him as
in all his race, a trace of Belgae.

He was clad in skillfully dressed deerskin, for the Celts had not
yet perfected the coarse cloth which they made, and most of the race
preferred the hides of deer.

He was armed with a long bow of yew wood, made with no especial
skill but an efficient weapon; a long bronze broadsword, with a
buckskin sheath; a long bronze dagger and a small, round shield,
rimmed with a band of bronze and covered with tough buffalo hide. A
crude bronze helmet was on his head. Faint devices were painted in
woad on his arms and cheeks.

His beardless face was of the highest type of Briton, clear,
straightforward, the shrewd, practical determination of the Nordic
mingling with the reckless courage and dreamy artistry of the Celt.

So Cororuc trod the forest path, warily, ready to flee or fight,
but preferring to do neither just then.

The trail led away from the ravine, disappearing around a great
tree. And from the other side of the tree, Cororuc heard sounds of
conflict. Gliding warily forward, and wondering whether he should see
some of the elves and dwarfs that were reputed to haunt those
woodlands, he peered around the great tree.

A few feet from him he saw a strange tableau. Backed against
another tree stood a large wolf, at bay, blood trickling from gashes
about his shoulder; while before him, crouching for a spring, the
warrior saw a great panther. Cororuc wondered at the cause of the
battle. Not often the lords of the forest met in warfare. And he was
puzzled by the snarls of the great cat. Savage, blood-lusting, yet
they held a strange note of fear; and the beast seemed hesitant to
spring in.

Just why Cororuc chose to take the part of the wolf, he himself
could not have said. Doubtless it was just the reckless chivalry of
the Celt in him, an admiration for the dauntless attitude of the wolf
against his far more powerful foe. Be that as it may, Cororuc,
characteristically forgetting his bow and taking the more reckless
course, drew his sword and leaped in front of the panther. But he had
no chance to use it. The panther, whose nerve appeared to be already
somewhat shaken, uttered a startled screech and disappeared among the
trees so quickly that Cororuc wondered if he had really seen a
panther. He turned to the wolf, wondering if it would leap upon him.
It was watching him, half crouching; slowly it stepped away from the
tree, and still watching him, backed away a few yards, then turned and
made off with a strange shambling gait. As the warrior watched it
vanish into the forest, an uncanny feeling came over him; he had seen
many wolves, he had hunted them and had been hunted by them, but he
had never seen such a wolf before.

He hesitated and then walked warily after the wolf, following the
tracks that were plainly defined in the soft loam. He did not hasten,
being merely content to follow the tracks. After a short distance, he
stopped short, the hairs on his neck seeming to bristle. _Only the
tracks of the hind feet showed: the wolf was walking erect._

He glanced about him. There was no sound; the forest was silent.
He felt an impulse to turn and put as much territory between him and
the mystery as possible, but his Celtic curiosity would not allow it.
He followed the trail. And then it ceased altogether. Beneath a great
tree the tracks vanished. Cororuc felt the cold sweat on his forehead.
What kind of place was that forest? Was he being led astray and eluded
by some inhuman, supernatural monster of the woodlands, who sought to
ensnare him? And Cororuc backed away, his sword lifted, his courage
not allowing him to run, but greatly desiring to do so. And so he came
again to the tree where he had first seen the wolf. The trail he had
followed led away from it in another direction and Cororuc took it up,
almost running in his haste to get out of the vicinity of a wolf who
walked on two legs and then vanished in the air.

The trail wound about more tediously than ever, appearing and
disappearing within a dozen feet, but it was well for Cororuc that it
did, for thus he heard the voices of the men coming up the path before
they saw him. He took to a tall tree that branched over the trail,
lying close to the great bole, along a wide-flung branch.

Three men were coming down the forest path.

One was a big, burly fellow, vastly over six feet in height, with
a long red beard and a great mop of red hair. In contrast, his eyes
were a beady black. He was dressed in deerskins, and armed with a
great sword.

Of the two others, one was a lanky, villainous-looking scoundrel,
with only one eye, and the other was a small, wizened man, who
squinted hideously with both beady eyes.

Cororuc knew them, by descriptions the Cornishmen had made between
curses, and it was in his excitement to get a better view of the most
villainous murderer in Britain that he slipped from the tree branch
and plunged to the ground directly between them.

He was up on the instant, his sword out. He could expect no mercy;
for he knew that the red-haired man was Buruc the Cruel, the scourge
of Cornwall.

The bandit chief bellowed a foul curse and whipped out his great
sword. He avoided the Briton's furious thrust by a swift backward leap
and then the battle was on. Buruc rushed the warrior from the front,
striving to beat him down by sheer weight; while the lanky, one-eyed
villain slipped around, trying to get behind him. The smaller man had
retreated to the edge of the forest. The fine art of the fence was
unknown to those early swordsmen. It was hack, slash, stab, the full
weight of the arm behind each blow. The terrific blows crashing on his
shield beat Cororuc to the ground, and the lanky, one-eyed villain
rushed in to finish him. Cororuc spun about without rising, cut the
bandit's legs from under him and stabbed him as he fell, then threw
himself to one side and to his feet, in time to avoid Buruc's sword.
Again, driving his shield up to catch the bandit's sword in midair, he
deflected it and whirled his own with all his power. Buruc's head flew
from his shoulders.

Then Cororuc, turning, saw the wizened bandit scurry into the
forest. He raced after him, but the fellow had disappeared among the
trees. Knowing the uselessness of attempting to pursue him, Cororuc
turned and raced down the trail. He did not know if there were more
bandits in that direction, but he did know that if he expected to get
out of the forest at all, he would have to do it swiftly. Without
doubt the villain who had escaped would have all the other bandits
out, and soon they would be beating the woodlands for him.

After running for some distance down the path and seeing no sign
of any enemy, he stopped and climbed into the topmost branches of a
tall tree that towered above its fellows.

On all sides he seemed surrounded by a leafy ocean. To the west he
could see the hills he had avoided. To the north, far in the distance,
other hills rose; to the south the forest ran, an unbroken sea. But to
the east, far away, he could barely see the line that marked the
thinning out of the forest into the fertile plains. Miles and miles
away, he knew not how many, but it meant more pleasant travel,
villages of men, people of his own race. He was surprized that he was
able to see that far, but the tree in which he stood was a giant of
its kind.

Before he started to descend, he glanced about nearer at hand. He
could trace the faintly marked line of the trail he had been
following, running away into the east; and could make out other trails
leading into it, or away from it. Then a glint caught his eye. He
fixed his gaze on a glade some distance down the trail and saw,
presently, a party of men enter and vanish. Here and there, on every
trail, he caught glances of the glint of accouterments, the waving of
foliage. So the squinting villain had already roused the bandits. They
were all around him; he was virtually surrounded.

A faintly heard burst of savage yells, from back up the trail,
startled him. So, they had already thrown a cordon about the place of
the fight and had found him gone. Had he not fled swiftly, he would
have been caught. He was outside the cordon, but the bandits were all
about him. Swiftly he slipped from the tree and glided into the
forest.

Then began the most exciting hunt Cororuc had ever engaged in; for
he was the hunted and men were the hunters. Gliding, slipping from
bush to bush and from tree to tree, now running swiftly, now crouching
in a covert, Cororuc fled, ever eastward, not daring to turn back lest
he be driven farther back into the forest. At times he was forced to
turn his course; in fact, he very seldom fled in a straight course,
yet always he managed to work farther eastward.

Sometimes he crouched in bushes or lay along some leafy branch,
and saw bandits pass so close to him that he could have touched them.
Once or twice they sighted him and he fled, bounding over logs and
bushes, darting in and out among the trees; and always he eluded them.

It was in one of those headlong flights that he noticed he had
entered a defile of small hills, of which he had been unaware, and
looking back over his shoulder, saw that his pursuers had halted,
within full sight. Without pausing to ruminate on so strange a thing,
he darted around a great boulder, felt a vine or something catch his
foot, and was thrown headlong. Simultaneously, something struck the
youth's head, knocking him senseless.

When Cororuc recovered his senses, he found that he was bound,
hand and foot. He was being borne along, over rough ground. He looked
about him. Men carried him on their shoulders, but such men as he had
never seen before. Scarce above four feet stood the tallest, and they
were small of build and very dark of complexion. Their eyes were
black; and most of them went stooped forward, as if from a lifetime
spent in crouching and hiding; peering furtively on all sides. They
were armed with small bows, arrows, spears and daggers, all pointed,
not with crudely worked bronze but with flint and obsidian, of the
finest workmanship. They were dressed in finely dressed hides of
rabbits and other small animals, and a kind of coarse cloth; and many
were tattooed from head to foot in ocher and woad. There were perhaps
twenty in all. What sort of men were they? Cororuc had never seen the
like.

They were going down a ravine, on both sides of which steep cliffs
rose. Presently they seemed to come to a blank wall, where the ravine
appeared to come to an abrupt stop. Here, at a word from one who
seemed to be in command, they set the Briton down, and seizing hold of
a large boulder, drew it to one side. A small cavern was exposed,
seeming to vanish away into the earth; then the strange men picked up
the Briton and moved forward.

Cororuc's hair bristled at the thought of being borne into that
forbidding-looking cave. What manner of men were they? In all Britain
and Alba, in Cornwall or Ireland, Cororuc had never seen such men.
Small dwarfish men, who dwelt in the earth. Cold sweat broke out on
the youth's forehead. Surely they were the malevolent dwarfs of whom
the Cornish people had spoken, who dwelt in their caverns by day, and
by night sallied forth to steal and burn dwellings, even slaying if
the opportunity arose! You will hear of them, even today, if you
journey in Cornwall.

The men, or elves, if such they were, bore him into the cavern,
others entering and drawing the boulder back into place. For a moment
all was darkness, and then torches began to glow, away off. And at a
shout they moved on. Other men of the caves came forward, with the
torches.

Cororuc looked about him. The torches shed a vague glow over the
scene. Sometimes one, sometimes another wall of the cave showed for an
instant, and the Briton was vaguely aware that they were covered with
paintings, crudely done, yet with a certain skill his own race could
not equal. But always the roof remained unseen. Cororuc knew that the
seemingly small cavern had merged into a cave of surprizing size.
Through the vague light of the torches the strange people moved, came
and went, silently, like shadows of the dim past.

He felt the cords of thongs that bound his feet loosened. He was
lifted upright.

"Walk straight ahead," said a voice, speaking the language of his
own race, and he felt a spear point touch the back of his neck.

And straight ahead he walked, feeling his sandals scrape on the
stone floor of the cave, until they came to a place where the floor
tilted upward. The pitch was steep and the stone was so slippery that
Cororuc could not have climbed it alone. But his captors pushed him,
and pulled him, and he saw that long, strong vines were strung from
somewhere at the top.

Those the strange men seized, and bracing their feet against the
slippery ascent, went up swiftly. When their feet found level surface
again, the cave made a turn, and Cororuc blundered out into a fire-lit
scene that made him gasp.

The cave debouched into a cavern so vast as to be almost
incredible. The mighty walls swept up into a great arched roof that
vanished in the darkness. A level floor lay between, and through it
flowed a river; an underground river. From under one wall it flowed to
vanish silently under the other. An arched stone bridge, seemingly of
natural make, spanned the current.

All around the walls of the great cavern, which was roughly
circular, were smaller caves, and before each glowed a fire. Higher up
were other caves, regularly arranged, tier on tier. Surely human men
could not have built such a city.

In and out among the caves, on the level floor of the main cavern,
people were going about what seemed daily tasks. Men were talking
together and mending weapons, some were fishing from the river; women
were replenishing fires, preparing garments; and altogether it might
have been any other village in Britain, to judge from their
occupations. But it all struck Cororuc as extremely unreal; the
strange place, the small, silent people, going about their tasks, the
river flowing silently through it all.

Then they became aware of the prisoner and flocked about him.
There was none of the shouting, abuse and indignities, such as savages
usually heap on their captives, as the small men drew about Cororuc,
silently eying him with malevolent, wolfish stares. The warrior
shuddered, in spite of himself.

But his captors pushed through the throng, driving the Briton
before them. Close to the bank of the river, they stopped and drew
away from around him.

Two great fires leaped and flickered in front of him and there was
something between them. He focused his gaze and presently made out the
object. A high stone seat, like a throne; and in it seated an aged
man, with a long white beard, silent, motionless, but with black eyes
that gleamed like a wolf's.

The ancient was clothed in some kind of a single, flowing garment.
One claw-like hand rested on the seat near him, skinny, crooked
fingers, with talons like a hawk's. The other hand was hidden among
his garments.

The firelight danced and flickered; now the old man stood out
clearly, his hooked, beak-like nose and long beard thrown into bold
relief; now he seemed to recede until he was invisible to the gaze of
the Briton, except for his glittering eyes.

"Speak, Briton!" The words came suddenly, strong, clear, without a
hint of age. "Speak, what would ye say?"

Cororuc, taken aback, stammered and said, "Why, why--what manner
people are you? Why have you taken me prisoner? Are you elves?"

"We are Picts," was the stern reply.

"Picts!" Cororuc had heard tales of those ancient people from the
Gaelic Britons; some said that they still lurked in the hills of
Siluria, but--

"I have fought Picts in Caledonia," the Briton protested; "they
are short but massive and misshapen; not at all like you!"

"They are not true Picts," came the stern retort. "Look about you,
Briton," with a wave of an arm, "you see the remnants of a vanishing
race; a race that once ruled Britain from sea to sea."

The Briton stared, bewildered.

"Harken, Briton," the voice continued; "harken, barbarian, while I
tell to you the tale of the lost race."

The firelight flickered and danced, throwing vague reflections on
the towering walls and on the rushing, silent current.

The ancient's voice echoed through the mighty cavern.

"Our people came from the south. Over the islands, over the Inland
Sea. Over the snow-topped mountains, where some remained, to slay any
enemies who might follow. Down into the fertile plains we came. Over
all the land we spread. We became wealthy and prosperous. Then two
kings arose in the land, and he who conquered, drove out the
conquered. So many of us made boats and set sail for the far-off
cliffs that gleamed white in the sunlight. We found a fair land with
fertile plains. We found a race of red-haired barbarians, who dwelt in
caves. Mighty giants, of great bodies and small minds.

"We built our huts of wattle. We tilled the soil. We cleared the
forest. We drove the red-haired giants back into the forest. Farther
we drove them back until at last they fled to the mountains of the
west and the mountains of the north. We were rich. We were prosperous.

"Then," and his voice thrilled with rage and hate, until it seemed
to reverberate through the cavern, "then the Celts came. From the
isles of the west, in their rude coracles they came. In the west they
landed, but they were not satisfied with the west. They marched
eastward and seized the fertile plains. We fought. They were stronger.
They were fierce fighters and they were armed with weapons of bronze,
whereas we had only weapons of flint.

"We were driven out. They enslaved us. They drove us into the
forest. Some of us fled into the mountains of the west. Many fled into
the mountains of the north. There they mingled with the red-haired
giants we drove out so long ago, and became a race of monstrous
dwarfs, losing all the arts of peace and gaining only the ability to
fight.

"But some of us swore that we would never leave the land we had
fought for. But the Celts pressed us. There were many, and more came.
So we took to caverns, to ravines, to caves. We, who had always dwelt
in huts that let in much light, who had always tilled the soil, we
learned to dwell like beasts, in caves where no sunlight ever entered.
Caves we found, of which this is the greatest; caves we made.

"You, Briton," the voice became a shriek and a long arm was
outstretched in accusation, "you and your race! You have made a free,
prosperous nation into a race of earth-rats! We who never fled, who
dwelt in the air and the sunlight close by the sea where traders came,
we must flee like hunted beasts and burrow like moles! But at night!
Ah, then for our vengeance! Then we slip from our hiding places,
ravines and caves, with torch and dagger! Look, Briton!"

And following the gesture, Cororuc saw a rounded post of some kind
of very hard wood, set in a niche in the stone floor, close to the
bank. The floor about the niche was charred as if by old fires.

Cororuc stared, uncomprehending. Indeed, he understood little of
what had passed. That these people were even human, he was not at all
certain. He had heard so much of them as "little people." Tales of
their doings, their hatred of the race of man, and their maliciousness
flocked back to him. Little he knew that he was gazing on one of the
mysteries of the ages. That the tales which the ancient Gaels told of
the Picts, already warped, would become even more warped from age to
age, to result in tales of elves, dwarfs, trolls and fairies, at first
accepted and then rejected, entire, by the race of men, just as the
Neanderthal monsters resulted in tales of goblins and ogres. But of
that Cororuc neither knew nor cared, and the ancient was speaking
again.

"There, there, Briton," exulted he, pointing to the post, "there
you shall pay! A scant payment for the debt your race owes mine, but
to the fullest of your extent."

The old man's exultation would have been fiendish, except for a
certain high purpose in his face. He was sincere. He believed that he
was only taking just vengeance; and he seemed like some great patriot
for a mighty, lost cause.

"But I am a Briton!" stammered Cororuc. "It was not my people who
drove your race into exile! They were Gaels, from Ireland. I am a
Briton and my race came from Gallia only a hundred years ago. We
conquered the Gaels and drove them into Erin, Wales and Caledonia,
even as they drove your race."

"No matter!" The ancient chief was on his feet. "A Celt is a Celt.
Briton, or Gael, it makes no difference. Had it not been Gael, it
would have been Briton. Every Celt who falls into our hands must pay,
be it warrior or woman, babe or king. Seize him and bind him to the
post."

In an instant Cororuc was bound to the post, and he saw, with
horror, the Picts piling firewood about his feet.

"And when you are sufficiently burned, Briton," said the ancient,
"this dagger that has drunk the blood of a hundred Britons, shall
quench its thirst in yours."

"But never have I harmed a Pict!" Cororuc gasped, struggling with
his bonds.

"You pay, not for what you did, but for what your race has done,"
answered the ancient sternly. "Well do I remember the deeds of the
Celts when first they landed on Britain--the shrieks of the
slaughtered, the screams of ravished girls, the smokes of burning
villages, the plundering."

Cororuc felt his short neck-hairs bristle. When first the Celts
landed on Britain! That was over five hundred years ago!

And his Celtic curiosity would not let him keep still, even at the
stake with the Picts preparing to light firewood piled about him.

"You could not remember that. That was ages ago."

The ancient looked at him somberly. "And I am age-old. In my youth
I was a witch-finder, and an old woman witch cursed me as she writhed
at the stake. She said I should live until the last child of the
Pictish race had passed. That I should see the once mighty nation go
down into oblivion and then--and only then--should I follow it. For
she put upon me the curse of life everlasting."

Then his voice rose until it filled the cavern. "But the curse was
nothing. Words can do no harm, can do nothing, to a man. I live. A
hundred generations have I seen come and go, and yet another hundred.
What is time? The sun rises and sets, and another day has passed into
oblivion. Men watch the sun and set their lives by it. They league
themselves on every hand with time. They count the minutes that race
them into eternity. Man outlived the centuries ere he began to reckon
time. Time is man-made. Eternity is the work of the gods. In this
cavern there is no such thing as time. There are no stars, no sun.
Without is time; within is eternity. We count not time. Nothing marks
the speeding of the hours. The youths go forth. They see the sun, the
stars. They reckon time. And they pass. I was a young man when I
entered this cavern. I have never left it. As you reckon time, I may
have dwelt here a thousand years; or an hour. When not banded by time,
the soul, the mind, call it what you will, can conquer the body. And
the wise men of the race, in my youth, knew more than the outer world
will ever learn. When I feel that my body begins to weaken, I take the
magic draft, that is known only to me, of all the world. It does not
give immortality; that is the work of the mind alone; but it rebuilds
the body. The race of Picts vanish; they fade like the snow on the
mountain. And when the last is gone, this dagger shall free me from
the world." Then in a swift change of tone, "Light the fagots!"

Cororuc's mind was fairly reeling. He did not in the least
understand what he had just heard. He was positive that he was going
mad; and what he saw the next minute assured him of it.

Through the throng came a wolf; and he knew that it was the wolf
whom he had rescued from the panther close by the ravine in the
forest!

Strange, how long ago and far away that seemed! Yes, it was the
same wolf. That same strange, shambling gait. Then the thing stood
erect and raised its front feet to its head. What nameless horror was
that?

Then the wolf's head fell back, disclosing a man's face. The face
of a Pict; one of the first "werewolves." The man stepped out of the
wolfskin and strode forward, calling something. A Pict just starting
to light the wood about the Briton's feet drew back the torch and
hesitated.

The wolf-Pict stepped forward and began to speak to the chief,
using Celtic, evidently for the prisoner's benefit. Cororuc was
surprized to hear so many speak his language, not reflecting upon its
comparative simplicity, and the ability of the Picts.

"What is this?" asked the Pict who had played wolf. "A man is to
be burned who should not be!"

"How?" exclaimed the old man fiercely, clutching his long beard.
"Who are you to go against a custom of age-old antiquity?"

"I met a panther," answered the other, "and this Briton risked his
life to save mine. Shall a Pict show ingratitude?"

And as the ancient hesitated, evidently pulled one way by his
fanatical lust for revenge, and the other by his equally fierce racial
pride, the Pict burst into a wild flight of oration, carried on in his
own language. At last the ancient chief nodded.

"A Pict ever paid his debts," said he with impressive grandeur.
"Never a Pict forgets. Unbind him. No Celt shall ever say that a Pict
showed ingratitude."

Cororuc was released, and as, like a man in a daze, he tried to
stammer his thanks, the chief waved them aside.

"A Pict never forgets a foe, ever remembers a friendly deed," he
replied.

"Come," murmured his Pictish friend, tugging at the Celt's arm.

He led the way into a cave leading away from the main cavern. As
they went, Cororuc looked back, to see the ancient chief seated upon
his stone throne, his eyes gleaming as he seemed to gaze back through
the lost glories of the ages; on each hand the fires leaped and
flickered. A figure of grandeur, the king of a lost race.

On and on Cororuc's guide led him. And at last they emerged and
the Briton saw the starlit sky above him.

"In that way is a village of your tribesmen," said the Pict,
pointing, "where you will find a welcome until you wish to take up
your journey anew."

And he pressed gifts on the Celt; gifts of garments of cloth and
finely worked deerskin, beaded belts, a fine horn bow with arrows
skillfully tipped with obsidian. Gifts of food. His own weapons were
returned to him.

"But an instant," said the Briton, as the Pict turned to go. "I
followed your tracks in the forest. They vanished." There was a
question in his voice.

The Pict laughed softly. "I leaped into the branches of the tree.
Had you looked up, you would have seen me. If ever you wish a friend,
you will ever find one in Berula, chief among the Alban Picts."

He turned and vanished. And Cororuc strode through the moonlight
toward the Celtic village.



THE END



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