The Curse Of The Monolith

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!”