The Curse of the Monolith
By L. Sprague de Camp and Lin Carter

1.
The sheer cliffs of dark stone closed about Conan the Cimmerian
like the sides of a trap.  HE did not like the way their jagged
peaks loomed against the few faint stars, which glittered like
the eyes of spiders down upon the small camp on the flat floor of
the valley.  Neither did he like the chill, uneasy wind that
whistled across the stony heights and prowled about the campfire. 
It caused the flames to lean and flicker, sending monstrous black
shadows writhing across the rough stone walls of the nearer
valley side.

On the other side of the camp, colossal redwoods, which had been
old when Atlantis sank beneath the waves eight thousand years
before, rose amid thickets of bamboo and clumps of rhododendron. 
A small stream meandered out of the woods, murmured past the
camp, and wandered off into the forest again. Overhead, a layer
of haze or high fog drifted across the tops of the cliffs,
drowning the light of the fainter stars and making the brighter
ones seem to weep.

Something about this place, thought Conan, stank of fear and of
death.  HE could almost smell the acrid odor of terror on the
breeze.  The horses felt it too.  They nickered plaintively,
pawed the earth, and rolled white eyeballs at the dark beyond the
circle of the fire.  So was Conan, the barbarian warrior from the
bleak hills of Cimmeria.  Like his, their senses were more
delicately turned to the aura of evil than were the senses of
city-bred men like the Turanian troopers he had led into this
deserted vale.

The soldiers sat about the fire, sharing the last of this night's
ration of wine from goatskin bags.  Some laughed and boasted of
the amorous feats they would do in the silken bagnios of Aghrapur
upon their return.  Others, weary from a long day's hard ride,
sat silently, staring at the fire and yawning.  Soon they would
settle down for the night, rolled in their heavy cloaks.  With
their heads pillowed on saddlebags, they would lie in a loose
circle about the hissing fire, while two of their number stood
guard with their powerful Hyrkanian bows strung and ready.  They
sensed nothing of the sinister force that hovered about the
valley.

Standing with his back to the nearest of the giant redwoods,
Conan wrapped his cloak more closely about him against the dank
breeze from the heights.  Although his troopers were well-built
men of good size, he towered half a head over the tallest of
them, while his enormous breadth of shoulder made them seem puny
by comparison.  His square-cut black mane escaped from below the
edges of his spired, turban-wound helmet, and the deepset blue
eyes in his dark, scarred face caught glints of red from the
firelight.

Sunk in one of his fits of melancholy gloom, Conan silently
cursed King Yildiz, the well-meaning but weak Turanian monarch
who had sent him on this ill-omened mission.  Over a year had
passed since he had taken the oath of allegiance to the king of
Turan.  Six months before, he had been lucky enough to earn this
king's favor; with the help of a fellow-mercenary, Juma the
Kushite, he had rescued Yildiz's daughter Zosara from the mad
god-king of Meru.  HE had brought the princess, more or less
intact, to her affianced bridegroom, Khan Kujala of the nomadic
Kuigar horde.

When Conan returned to Yildiz's glittering capital of Aghrapur,
he had found the monarch generous enough in his gratitude.  Both
he and Juma had been raised to captain.  But, whereas Juma had
obtained a coveted post in the Royal Guard, Conan had been
rewarded with yet another arduous, perilous mission.  Now, as he
recalled these events, he sourly contemplated the fruits of
success.

Yildiz had entrusted the Cimmerian giant with a letter to King
Shu of Kusan, a minor kingdom in western Khitai.  At the head of
forty veterans, Conan had accomplished the immense journey.  He
had traversed hundreds of leagues of bleak Hyrkanian steppe and
skirted the foothills of the towering Talakma Mountains.  He had
threaded his way through the windy deserts and swampy jungles
bordering the mysterious realm of Khitai, the easternmost land of
which the men of the West had heard.

Arrived in Kusan at last, Conan had found the venerable and
philosophical King Shu a splendid host.  While Conan and his
warriors were plied with exotic food and drink and furnished with
willing concubines, the king and his advisers decided to accepts
King Yildiz's offer of a treaty of friendship and trade.  So the
wise old king had handed Conan a gorgeous scroll of gilded silk. 
Thereon were inscribed, in the writhing ideographs of Khitai and
the gracefully slanted characters of Hyrkania, the formal replies
and felicitations of the Khitan king.

Besides a silken purse full of Khitan gold, King Shu had also
furnished Conan with a high noble of his court, to guide them as
far as the western borders of Khitai.  But Conan had not liked
this guide, this Duke Feng.

The Khitan was a slim, dainty, foppish little man with a soft,
lisping voice.  He wore fantastical silken garments, unsuited to
rugged riding and camping, and drenched his exquisite person in
heavy perfume.  He never soiled his soft, long-nailed hands with
any of the camp chores, but instead kept his two servants busy
day and night ministering to his comfort and dignity.

Conan looked down upon the Khitan's habits with a bard-bitten
barbarian's manly contempt.  The duke's slanting black eyes and
purring voice reminded him of a cat, and he often told himself to
watch this little princeling for treachery.  On the other hand,
he secretly envied the Khitan his exquisitely cultivated manners
and easy charm.  This fact led Conan to resent the duke even
more; for, although his Turanian service had given Conan some
slight polish, he was still at heart the blunt, boorish young
barbarian.  He would have to be careful of this sly little Duke
Feng.

2.
"Do I disturb the profound meditations of the nobly born
commander?", purred a soft voice.

Conan started and snatched at the hilt of his tulwar before he
recognized the person of Duke Feng, wrapped to the lip in a
voluminous cloak of pea-green velvet.  Conan started to growl a
contemptuous curse.  Then, remembering his ambassadorial duties,
he turned the oath into a formal welcome that sounded
unconvincing even in his own ears.

"Perhaps the princely captain is unable to sleep?" murmured Feng,
appearing not to notice Conan's ungraciousness.  Feng spoke
fluent Hyrkanian.  This was one reason for his having been
dispatched to guide Conan's troop, for Conan's command of the
singsong Khitan tongue was little more than a smattering.  Feng
continued:

"This person is so fortunate as to possess a sovereign remedy for
sleeplessness.  A gifted apothecary concocted it for me from an
ancient recipe: a decoction of lily buds ground into cinnamon and
spiced with poppy seeds..."

"No, nothing," growled Conan. "I thank you, Duke, but it's
something about this accursed place.  Some uncanny premonition
keeps me wakeful when, after a long day's ride, I should be as
weary as a stripling after his first night's bout of love."

The duke's features moved a trifle, as if he winced at Conan's
crudity or was it merely a flicker of the firelight?  In any
case, he suavely replied, "I think I understand the misgivings of
the excellent commander.  Nor are such disquieting emotions
unusual in this ah this legend-fraught valley.  Many men have
perished here."

"A battlefield, eh?" grunted Conan.

The duke's narrow shoulders twitched beneath the green cloak.
"Nay, nothing like that, my heroic Western friend.  This spot
lies near the tomb of an ancient king of my people: King Hsia of
Kusan.  He caused his entire royal guard to be beheaded and their
heads buried with him, that their spirits should continue to
serve him in the next world.  The common superstition, however,
avers that the ghosts of these guardsmen march in review, up and
down this valley."  The soft voice dropped even lower.  "Legend
also states that a magnificent treasure of gold and precious
jewels was buried with him; and this tale I believe to be true."

Conan pricked up his ears.  "Gold and gems, eh? Has it ever been
found, this treasure?"

The Khitan surveyed Conan for a moment with an oblique,
contemplative gaze.  Then, as if having reached some private
decision, he replied, "No, Lord Conan; for the precise location
of the trove is not known save to one man."

Conan's interest was quite visible now.  "To whom?" he demanded
bluntly.

The Khitan smiled.  "To my unworthy self, of course."

"Crom and Erlik! If you've known where this loot was hidden, why
haven't you dug it up ere now?"

"My people are haunted by superstitious fears of a curse laid
upon the site of the old king's tomb, which is marked by a
monolith of dark stone.  Hence I have never been able to persuade
anyone to assist me in seizing the treasure, whose hiding place I
alone know."

"Why couldn't you do it all by yourself?"

Feng spread his small, long-nailed hands.  "I needed a
trustworthy assistant to guard my back against stealthy foe,
human or animal, that might approach whilst I was rapt in
contemplation of the booty.  Moreover, a certain amount of
digging and lifting and prying will be required.  A gentleman
like me lacks the thews for such crude, physical efforts.

"Now harken, gallant sir! This person led the honorable commander
through this valley, not by happenstance but by design.  When I
heard that the Son of Heaven wished me to accompany the brave
captain westward, I seized upon the proposal with alacrity. This
commission came as a veritable gift from the divine officials in
Heaven, for Your Lordship possesses the musculature of three
ordinary men.  And, being a Western-born foreigner, you naturally
do not share the superstitious terrors of us of Kusan.  Am I
correct in my assumption?"

Conan grunted. "I fear neither god, man, nor devil, and least of
all the ghost of a long-dead king.  Speak on, Lord Feng."

The duke sidled closer, his voice dropping to a scarcely audible
whisper.  "Then, here is my plan.  As I have stated, this person
guided you hither because I thought you might be he whom I have
sought.  The task will be light for one of your strength, and my
baggage includes tools for excavation.  Let us go upon the
instant, and within an hour we shall be richer than either of us
has dreamed!"

Feng's seductive, purring whisper awoke the lust for loot in
Conan's barbaric heart, but a residue of caution restrained the
Cimmerian from immediate assent.

"Why not rouse a squad of troopers to aid us?" he grumbled.  "Or
your servants? Surely we shall need help in bringing the plunder
back to camp!"

Feng shook his sleek head.  "Not so, honorable ally! The treasure
consists of two small golden caskets of virgin gold, each packed
with exceedingly rare and precious gems.  We can each carry the
fortune of a princedom, and why share this treasure with others?
Since the secret is mine alone, I am naturally entitled to half. 
Then, if you are so lavish as to divide your half amongst your
forty warriors...well, that is for you to decide."

It took no more urging to persuade Conan to Duke Feng's scheme. 
The pay of King Yildiz's soldiers was meager and usually in
arrears. Conan's recompense for his arduous Turanian service to
date had been many empty words of honor and precious little hard
coin.

"I go to fetch the digging implements," murmured Feng.  "We
should leave the camp separately, so as not to arouse suspicion. 
Whilst I unpack the utensils, you shall don your coat of mail and
your arms."

Conan frowned. "Why should I need armor, just to dig up a chest?"

"Oh, excellent sir! There are many dangers in these hills. Here
roam the terrible tiger, the fierce leopard, the churlish bear,
and the irascible wild bull, not to mention wandering bands of
primitive hunters.  Since a Khitan gentleman is not trained in
the use of arms, your mighty self must be prepared to fight for
two.  Believe me, noble captain, I know whereof I speak!"

"Oh, all right," grumbled Conan.

"Excellent! I knew that so superior a mind as yours would see the
force of my arguments.  And now we part, to meet again at the
foot of the valley at moonrise. That should occur about one
double hour hence, which will give us ample time for our
rendezvous."

3.
The night grew darker and the wind, colder.  All the eery
premonitions of danger, which Conan had experience since first
entering this forsaken vale at sundown, returned in full force. 
As he walked silently beside the diminutive Khitan, he cast wary
glances into the darkness.  The steep rock walls on either side
narrowed until there was hardly room to walk between the
cliffside and the banks of the stream which gurgled out of the
valley at their feet.

Behind them, a glow appeared in the misty sky where the heads of
the cliffs thrust blackly up against the firmament.  This glow
grew stronger and became a pearly opalescence.  The walls of the
valley fell away on either hand, and the two men found themselves
treading a grassy sward that spread out on both sides.  The
stream angled off to the right and, gurgling, curved out of sight
between banks clustered with ferns.

As they issued from the valley, the half moon rose over the
cliffs behind them.  In the misty air, it looked as if the viewer
were seeing it from under water.  The wan, illusive light of this
moon shone upon a small, rounded hill, which rose out of the
sward directly before them.  Beyond it, steep-sided, forest-
crested hills stood up blackly in the watery moonlight.

As the moon cast a powdering of silver over the hill before them,
Conan forgot his premonitions.  For here rose the monolith of
which Feng had spoken.  It was a smooth, dully glistening shaft
of dark stone, which rose from the top of the hill and soared up
until it pierced the layer of mist that overhung the land.  The
top of the shaft appeared as a mere blur.

Here, then, was the tomb of the long-dead King Hsia, just as Feng
had foretold.  The treasure must be buried either directly
beneath it or to one side.  They would soon find out which.

With Feng's crowbar and shovel on his shoulder, Conan pushed
forcefully through a clump of tough, elastic rhododendron bushes
and started up the hill.  HE paused to give his small companion a
hand up. After a brief scramble, they gained the top of the
slope.

Before them, the shaft rose from the center of thinly convex
surface of the hilltop.  The hill, thought Conan, was probably an
artificial mound, such as were sometimes piled up over the
remains of great chiefs in his own country.  If the treasure were
at the bottom of such a pile, it would take more than one night's
digging to uncover it...

With a startled oath, Conan clutched at his shovel and crowbar. 
Some invisible force had seized upon them and pulled them toward
the shaft.  HE leaned away from the shaft, his powerful muscles
bulging under his mail shirt.  Inch by inch, however, the force
dragged him toward the monolith.  When he saw that he would be
drawn against the shaft willy-nilly, he let go of the tools,
which flew to the stone.  They struck it with a loud double clank
and stuck fast to it.

But releasing the tools did not free Conan from the attraction of
the monument, which now pulled on his mail shirt as powerfully as
it had on the shovel and the crowbar.  Staggering and cursing,
Conan was slammed against the monolith with crushing force.  His
back was pinned to the shaft, as were his upper arms where the
short sleeves of the mail shirt covered them.  So was his head
inside the spired Turanian helmet, and so was the scabbarded
sword at his waist.

Conan struggled to tear himself free but found that he could not. 
It was as if unseen chains bound him securely to the column of
dark stone.

"What devil's trick is this, you treacherous dog?" he ground out.

Smiling and imperturbable, Feng strolled up to where Conan stood
pinned against the pillar.  Seemingly impervious to the
mysterious force, the Khitan took a silken scarf from one of the
baggy sleeves of his silken coat.  HE waited until Conan opened
his mouth to bellow for help, then adroitly jammed a bunch of the
silk into Conan's mouth.  While Conan gagged and chewed on the
cloth, the little man knotted the scarf securely around Conan's
head.  At last Conan stood, panting but silent, glaring
venomously down into the courteous smile of the little duke.

"Forgive the ruse, O noble savage!" lisped Feng.  "It was needful
that this person concoct some tale to appeal to your primitive
lust for gold, in order to allure you hither alone."

Conan's eyes blazed with volcanic fury as he hurled all the might
of his powerful body against the invisible bonds that held him
against the monolith.  It did no good; he was helpless.  Sweat
trickled down his brow and soaked the cotton haqueton beneath his
mail.  He tried to shout, but only grunts and gurgles came forth.

"Since, my dear captain, your life approaches its predestined
end," continued Feng, "it would be impolite of me not to explain
my actions, so that your lowly spirit may journey to whatever
hell the gods of the barbarians have prepared for it in full
knowledge of the causes of your downfall.  Know that the court of
his amiable but foolish highness, the king of Kusan, is divided
between two parties.  One of these, that of the White Peacock,
welcomes contact with the barbarians of the West.  The other,
that of the Golden Pheasant, abominates all association with
those animals; and I, of course, am one of the selfless patriots
of the Golden Pheasant.  Willingly would I give my life to bring
your so-called embassy to destruction, lest contact with your
barbarous masters contaminate our pure culture and upset our
divinely ordained social system.

"Happily, such an extreme measure seems unnecessary.  For I have
you, the leaser of his band of foreign devils, and there around
your neck hangs the treaty the Son of Heaven signed with your
uncouth heathen king."

The little duke pulled out from under Conan's mail shirt the
ivory tube containing the documents.  HE unclasped the chain that
secured it around Conan's neck and tucked it into one of his
voluminous sleeves, adding with a malicious smile, "As for the
force that holds you prisoner, I will not attempt to explain its
subtle nature to your childish wits.  Suffice it to explain that
the substance whereof this monolith was hewn has the curious
property of attracting iron and steel with irresistible force. 
So fear not; it is no unholy magic that holds you captive."

Conan was little heartened by this news.  He had once seen a
conjuror in Aghrapur pick up nails with a piece of dark-red stone
and supposed that the force that held him was of the same sort. 
But, since he had never heard of magnetism, it was all equally
magic as far as he was concerned.

"Lest you entertain false hopes of rescue by your men," Feng went
on, "I have thought of that, also.  In these hills dwell the
Jagas, a primitive headhunting tribe.  Attracted by your
campfire, they will assemble at the ends of the valley and rush
your camp at dawn.  It is their invariable procedure.

"By that time I shall, I hope, be far away. If they capture me,
too well, a man must die some time, and I trust I shall do so
with the dignity and decorum befitting one of my rank and
culture.  My head would make a delightful ornament in a Jaga hut,
I am sure.

"And so, my good barbarian, farewell.  You will forgive this
person for turning his back upon you during your last moments. 
For your demise is a pity in a way, and I should not enjoy
witnessing it.  Had you had the advantages of a Khitan
upbringing, you would have mad an admirable servant say, a
bodyguard for me.  But things are as they are."

After a mocking bow of farewell, the Khitan withdrew to the lower
slope of the hill.  Conan wondered if the Duke's plan was to
leave him trapped against the shaft until he perished of
starvation and thirst.  If his men marked his absence before
dawn, they might look for him.  But then, since he had stolen out
of the camp without leaving word of his going, they would not
know whether to be alarmed by his absence.  If he could only get
word to them, they would scour the countryside for him and make
short work of the treacherous little duke.  But how to get word?

Again he threw his massive strength against the force that held
him crushed against the column, but to no avail.  HE could move
his lower legs and arms and even turn his head somewhat from side
to side.  But his body was firmly gripped by the iron mail that
clothed it.

Now the moon brightened.  Conan observed that, about his feet and
elsewhere around the base of the monument, grisly remains of
other victims were scattered.  Human bones and teeth were heaped
like old rubbish; he must have trodden upon them when the
mysterious force pulled him up against the shaft.

In the stronger light, Conan was disquieted to see that these
remains were peculiarly discolored.  A closer look showed that
the bones seemed to have been eaten away here and there, as if
some corrosive fluid had dissolved their smooth surfaces to
expose the spongy structure beneath.

He turned his head from side to side, seeking some means of
escape.  The words of the smooth-tongued Khitan seemed to be
true, but now he could discern pieces of iron held against the
curiously stained and discolored stone of the column by the
invisible force.  To his left he sighted the shovel, the crowbar,
and the rusty bowl of a helmet, while on the other side a time-
eaten dagger was stuck against the stone.  Yet once more he
hurled his strength against this impalpable force...

From below sounded an eery piping sound a mocking, maddening
tune.  Straining his eyes through the fickle moonlight, Conan saw
that Feng had not left the scene after all.  Instead, the duke
was sitting on the grass on the side of the hill, near its base. 
HE had drawn a curious flute from his capacious garments and was
playing upon it.

Through the shrill piping, a faint, squashy sound reached Conan's
ears.  It seemed to come from above.  The muscles of Conan's
bullneck stood out as he twisted his head to look upward; the
spired Turanian helmet grated against the stone as he moved. 
Then the blood froze in his veins.

The mist that had obscured the top of the pylon was gone.  The
rising half moon shone on and through and amorphous thing, which
squatted obscenely on the summit of the column.  It was like a
huge lump of quivering, semitranslucent jelly and it lived. 
Life throbbing, bloated life pulsed within it.  The moonlight
glistened wetly upon it as it beat like a huge, living heart.

4.
As Conan, frozen with horror, watched, the dweller on the top of
the monolith sent a trickle of jelly groping down the shaft
toward him.  The slippery pseudopod slithered over the smooth
surface of the stone.  Conan began to understand the source of
the stains that discolored the face of the monolith.  The wind
had changed, and a vagrant down-draft wafted a sickening stench
to Conan's nostrils.  Now he knew why the bones at the base of
the shaft bore that oddly eaten appearance.  With a dread that
almost unmanned him, he understood that the jellylike thing
exuded a digestive fluid, by means of which it consumed its prey. 
HE wondered how many men, in ages past had stood in his place,
bound helplessly to the pillar and awaiting the searing caress of
the abomination now descending toward him.

Perhaps Feng's weird piping summoned it, or perhaps the odor of
living flesh called it to feast.  Whatever the cause, it had
begun a slow, inching progress down the side of the shaft toward
his face.  The wet jelly sucked and slobbered as it slithered
slowly toward him.

Despair gave new strength to his cramped, tired muscles.  He
threw himself from side to side, striving with every last ounce
of strength to break the grip of the mysterious force.  To his
surprise, he found that, in one of his lunges, he slid to one
side, partway around the column.

So the grip that held him did not forbid all movement!  This gave
him food for thought, though he knew that he could not long thus
elude the monster of living jelly.

Something prodded his mailed side.  Looking down, he saw the
rust-eaten dagger he had glimpsed before.  His movement sideways
had brought the hilt of the weapon against his ribs.

His upper arm was still clamped against the stone by the sleeve
of his mail shirt, but his forearm and hand were free.  Could he
bend his arm far enough to clasp the haft of the dagger?

He strained, inching his hand along the stone.  The mail of his
arm scraped slowly over the surface; sweat trickled into his
eyes.  Bit by bit, his straining arm moved toward the handle of
the dagger.  The taunting tune of Feng's flute sang maddeningly
in his ears, while the ungodly stench of the slime-thing filled
his nostrils.

His hand touched the dagger, and in an instant he held the hilt
fast.  But, as he strained it away from the shaft, the rust-eaten
blade broke with a sharp ping.  Rolling his eyes downward, he saw
that about two thirds of the blade, from the tapering point back,
had broken off and lay flat against the stone.  The remaining
third still projected from the hilt.  Since there was now less
iron in the dagger for the shaft to attract, Conan was able, by a
muscle-bulging effort, to tear the stump of the weapon away from
the shaft.

A glance showed him that, although most of the blade was lost to
him, the stump still had a couple of apparently sharp edges. 
With his muscles quivering from the effort of holding the
implement away from the stone, he brought one of these edges up
against the leathern thong that bound the two halves of the mail
shirt together.  Carefully, he began to saw the tough rawhide
with the rusty blade.

Every movement was agony.  The torment of suspense grew
unbearable.  His hand, bent into an uncomfortable, twisted
position, ached and grew numb.  The ancient blade was notched,
thin, and brittle; a hasty motion might break it, leaving him
helpless.  Stroke after stroke he sawed up and down, with
exquisite caution.  The stench of the creature grew stronger and
the sucking sounds of its progress, louder.

The Conan felt the thong snap.  The next instant, he hurled his
full strength against the magnetic force that imprisoned him. 
The thong unraveled through the loopholes in the mail shirt,
until one whole side of the shirt was open.  His shoulder and
half an arm came out through the opening.

The he felt a light blow on the head.  The stench became
overpowering, and his unseen assailant from above pushed this way
and that against his helmet.  Conan knew that a jellylike tendril
had reached his helmet and was groping over its surface, seeking
flesh.  Any instant, the corrosive stuff would seep down over his
face...

Frantically, he pulled his arm out of the sleeve of the unlaced
side of the mail shirt.  With his free hand, he unbuckled his
sword belt and the chin strap of his helmet.  Then he tore
himself loose altogether form the deadly constriction of the
mail, leaving his tulwar and his armor flattened against the
stone.

He staggered free of the column and stood for an instant on
trembling legs.  The moonlit world swam before his eyes.

Glancing back, he saw that the jelly-beast had now engulfed his
helmet.  Baffled in its quest for flesh, it was sending more
pseudopods down and outward, wavering and questing in the watery
light.

Down the slope, the demoniac piping continued.  Feng sat cross-
legged on the grass of the slope, tweedling away on his flute as
if absorbed in some inhuman ecstasy.

Conan ripped off and threw away the gag.  He pounced like a
striking leopard.  He came down, clutching hands first, upon the
little duke; the pair rolled down the rest of the slope in a
tangle of silken robe and thrashing limbs.  A blow to the side of
the head subdued Feng's struggles.  Conan groped into the
Khitan's wide sleeves and tore out the ivory cylinder containing
the documents.

Then Conan lurched back up the hill, dragging Feng after him.  As
he reached the level section around the base of the monolith, he
heaved Feng into the air over his head.  Seeing what was
happening to him, the duke uttered one high, thin scream as Conan
hurled him at the shaft.  The Khitan struck the column with a
thud and slid unconscious to the ground at its base.  The blow
was merciful, for the duke never felt the slimy touch of the
haunter of the monolith as the glassy tentacles reached his face. 
For a moment, Conan grimly watched.  Feng's features blurred as
the rippling jelly slid over them.  Then the flesh faded away,
and the skull and teeth showed through in a ghastly grin.  The
abomination flushed pink as it fed.

5.
Conan strode back to camp on stiff legs.  Behind him, like a
giant's torch, the monolith stood against the sky, wrapped in
smoky, scarlet flames.

It had been the work of moments only to strike fire into dry
tinder with his flint and steel.  He had watched with grim
satisfaction as the oily surface of the slime-monster ignited and
blazed as it squirmed in voiceless agony. Let them both burn, he
thought: the half-digested corpse of that treacherous dog and his
loathsome pet!

As Conan neared the camp, he saw that the last of his warriors
had not yet retired.  Instead, several stood staring curiously at
the distant firelight.  As he appeared, they turned upon him,
crying out: "Where have you been, Captain? What is that blaze?
Where is the duke?"

"Ho, you gaping oafs!" he roared as he strode into the firelight. 
"Wake the boys and saddle up to run for it.  The Jaga headhunters
caught us, and they'll be here any time.  They got the duke, but
I broke free.  Khusro! Mulai! Hop to it, if you do not want your
heads hung up in their devil-devil huts! And I hope to Crom
you've left me some of that wine!"

THE END