Chapter 3

“Turn west,” he answered. “I’ve been this far south, but not this far
east. Many days’ traveling to the west will bring us to the open
savannas, where the black tribes graze their cattle. I have friends
among them. We’ll get to the coast and find a ship. I’m sick of the
jungle.”

“Then be on your way,” she advised. “I have other plans.”

“Don’t be a fool!” He showed irritation for the first time. “You can’t
keep on wandering through this forest.”

“I can if I choose.”

“But what do you intend doing?”

“That’s none of your affair,” she snapped.

“Yes, it is,” he answered calmly. “Do you think I’ve followed you this
far, to turn around and ride off empty-handed? Be sensible, wench. I’m
not going to harm you.”

He stepped toward her, and she sprang back, whipping out her sword.

“Keep back, you barbarian dog! I’ll spit you like a roast pig!”

He halted, reluctantly, and demanded: “Do you want me to take that toy
away from you and spank you with it?”

“Words! Nothing but words!” she mocked, lights like the gleam of the sun
on blue water dancing in her reckless eyes.

He knew it was the truth. No living man could disarm Valeria of the
Brotherhood with his bare hands. He scowled, his sensations a tangle of
conflicting emotions. He was angry, yet he was amused and filled with
admiration for her spirit. He burned with eagerness to seize that
splendid figure and crush it in his iron arms, yet he greatly desired
not to hurt the girl. He was torn between a desire to shake her soundly,
and a desire to caress her. He knew if he came any nearer her sword
would be sheathed in his heart. He had seen Valeria kill too many men in
border forays and tavern brawls to have any illusions about her. He knew
she was as quick and ferocious as a tigress. He could draw his
broadsword and disarm her, beat the blade out of her hand, but the
thought of drawing a sword on a woman, even without intent of injury,
was extremely repugnant to him.

“Blast your soul, you hussy!” he exclaimed in exasperation. “I’m going
to take off your—-“

He started toward her, his angry passion making him reckless, and she
poised herself for a deadly thrust. Then came a startling interruption
to a scene at once ludicrous and perilous.

“_What’s that?_”

It was Valeria who exclaimed, but they both started violently, and Conan
wheeled like a cat, his great sword flashing into his hand. Back in the
forest had burst forth an appalling medley of screams–the screams of
horses in terror and agony. Mingled with their screams there came the
snap of splintering bones.

“Lions are slaying the horses!” cried Valeria.

“Lions, nothing!” snorted Conan, his eyes blazing. “Did you hear a lion
roar? Neither did I! Listen at those bones snap–not even a lion could
make that much noise killing a horse.”

* * * * *

He hurried down the natural ramp and she followed, their personal feud
forgotten in the adventurers’ instinct to unite against common peril.
The screams had ceased when they worked their way downward through the
green veil of leaves that brushed the rock.

“I found your horse tied by the pool back there,” he muttered, treading
so noiselessly that she no longer wondered how he had surprised her on
the crag. “I tied mine beside it and followed the tracks of your boots.
Watch, now!”

They had emerged from the belt of leaves, and stared down into the lower
reaches of the forest. Above them the green roof spread its dusky
canopy. Below them the sunlight filtered in just enough to make a
jade-tinted twilight. The giant trunks of trees less than a hundred
yards away looked dim and ghostly.

“The horses should be beyond that thicket, over there,” whispered Conan,
and his voice might have been a breeze moving through the branches.
“Listen!”

Valeria had already heard, and a chill crept through her veins; so she
unconsciously laid her white hand on her companion’s muscular brown arm.
From beyond the thicket came the noisy crunching of bones and the loud
rending of flesh, together with the grinding, slobbering sounds of a
horrible feast.

“Lions wouldn’t make that noise,” whispered Conan. “Something’s eating
our horses, but it’s not a lion–Crom!”

The noise stopped suddenly, and Conan swore softly. A suddenly risen
breeze was blowing from them directly toward the spot where the unseen
slayer was hidden.

“Here it comes!” muttered Conan, half lifting his sword.

The thicket was violently agitated, and Valeria clutched Conan’s arm
hard. Ignorant of jungle-lore, she yet knew that no animal she had ever
seen could have shaken the tall brush like that.

“It must be as big as an elephant,” muttered Conan, echoing her thought.
“What the devil—-” His voice trailed away in stunned silence.

Through the thicket was thrust a head of nightmare and lunacy. Grinning
jaws bared rows of dripping yellow tusks; above the yawning mouth
wrinkled a saurian-like snout. Huge eyes, like those of a python a
thousand times magnified, stared unwinkingly at the petrified humans
clinging to the rock above it. Blood smeared the scaly, flabby lips and
dripped from the huge mouth.

The head, bigger than that of a crocodile, was further extended on a
long scaled neck on which stood up rows of serrated spikes, and after
it, crushing down the briars and saplings, waddled the body of a titan,
a gigantic, barrel-bellied torso on absurdly short legs. The whitish
belly almost raked the ground, while the serrated back-bone rose higher
than Conan could have reached on tiptoe. A long spiked tail, like that
of a gargantuan scorpion, trailed out behind.

“Back up the crag, quick!” snapped Conan, thrusting the girl behind him.
“I don’t think he can climb, but he can stand on his hind-legs and reach
us—-“