"A wind comes up, it matters not what you would not let happen. The wind will carry the fire and you and I will be beheaded for causing it. I will die because you are stupid and careless and I have done nothing."
"Go gamble with yourself," Gerooma said, puffing on his pipe.
"You are not even carrying your spear," Meredonleni said.
"Since when do you care?"
"I have mine. I have it now."
Gerooma glanced back at Meredonleni, puffed his pipe. The blaze in the bowl of the pipe was as red as a cherry.
"It does not surprise me you have your spear, frightened as you always are," Gerooma said.
"Some of us have a sense of duty."
"How would your sense of duty be if I chose to gamble? Would you carry your spear then?"
"I would not gamble with you at all. Not at all."
Gerooma copied the snorting sound Meredonleni had made earlier, then turned his back.
Meredonleni fumed. He faced the jungle, trying to think of something to say. Gerooma was beginning to tire him. He must talk to the chief of sentries. He must find another man to be in his hut. He must...
Meredonleni narrowed his eyes. He thought he had seen something move in the tall grasses. He stepped forward, cocked his spear. A cool wind stirred up and moved the grasses and shook the leaves and limbs of the trees in the jungle.
Meredonleni thought he saw it again.
Something white and sleek, low down to the ground, moving through
the waving grass.
A white panther?
There were white crocodiles, so why not white panthers?
He saw it again.
"Gerooma!"
Gerooma turned and looked m Meredonleni's direction. Meredonleni was facing the opposite direction, his spear cocked. Gerooma sai d, "What?"
"There's something out there."
"Oh, Meredonleni. You cannot stand to be bested. So now you say there is something out there."
"There is."
"Is it an army, crawling through the grass on their bellies?"
Meredonleni did not answer. There was only a hissing sound. Meredonleni took one step backwards, and froze.
In the moonlight, Gerooma saw Meredonleni's bare back give birth to a dark rose shape. Gerooma could not figure it at first, and then Meredonleni swiveled slowly, turned towards him. A long arrow vibrated in his chest. His face had a look of profound disappointment. The moonlight struck his teeth and made the blood on then shine like rich berry juice.
Gerooma's pipe fell from his mouth. He started to run toward Meredonleni; but he had taken but one step when the air whistled again and an arrow caught him in his slightly open mouth and punched out the back of his neck.
He kept running forward, his teeth clenched around the arrow. He ran until he reached the hut. Then he stumbled. He grabbed at a post, held himself upright. He lifted his head, took hold of the arrow in his mouth, tried to pull it loose, but it hurt severely. When he tugged, he felt as if his whole head would come off.
Striding toward him in the moonlight was a giant of man The moonlight made his bronze skin look white. Hi had a bow in one hand, a spear in the other. A quiver of arrows hung on his back. He wore a knife at his waist and a crude rope was draped over its hilt. The man was walking purposefully toward him. He was neither slow nor fast. Just determined. Gerooma knew then, this man was what Meredonleni had seen moving through the grass.
Gerooma tried to say something, to plead for his life. But Tarzan did not understand his language, and besides, the arrow made it impossible for Gerooma to speak clearly.
Besides, it wouldn't have mattered.
Gerooma slid down the pole, his mouth filling with blood. He lifted his head as Tarzan took hold of his hair.
The ape-man had dropped the spear and drawn his knife. With one quick motion of the blade he cut Gerooma's throat.
Finished with this task. Tarzan saw that the grass was starting to blaze, due to Gerooma's dropped pipe. He put his foot on the pipe and crushed it. The calluses on his bare foot were so hard he did not even feel the heat. He could have walked across broken glass on those feet.
Next he stepped on the blaze the pipe had started, then he looked in all directions. He sniffed the air. Listened. It was his conclusion that he had killed both men almost soundlessly.
So far, so good.
Tarzan moved at a crouch through the grasses, onward to the moat.
When he reached the moat, he squatted on his haunches in the high grass, parted it with his hands and looked at the water. It was foul water, he could smell that, but in the moonlight it looked like a silver-paved street.
Tarzan studied the width of the moat, examined the city wall. It was made up of all manner of debris, and was actually quite easy to
climb. Not for an ordinary man, but Tarzan knew that for him it would be effortless.
He decided to leave his spear, bow, and arrows. He would carry his knife and rope. He coiled the rope around his waist, crawled on his belly to the moat, and slid into the water, silent as a python.
He had not swum far when he felt movement in the water. He turned his head. Gliding toward him, long and white and deadly in the moonlight, was the largest crocodile he had ever seen.
The croc began swimming faster and Tarzan thought at first he might try to outswim it. But he could see yet another white croc in front of him. Like his cousin, he had also noticed Tarzan.
The first crocodile snapped at Tarzan, but the ape-mar was no longer there. He dove beneath the water and came up under the crocodile's belly and cut a vicious gash in it with his knife.
The crocodile practically leapt from the water, came down with a tremendous splash. It twisted toward Tarzan, and Tarzan pushed his palm against the side of the raging crocodile's head, got out of the way. Tarzan went beneath the reptile again, and used the knife again on the soft underbelly.
The crocodile's stomach and intestines exploded from the wound. The water went thick with blood. The other croc arrived on the scene. Driven wild by the smell of intestines and blood, the crocodile began attacking its wounded cousin with a blind ferocity.
Tarzan swam down and out toward the city. When he came up, he was against the wall. He could hear shouting above him. He pushed himself tight against the stones. The natives were speaking a tongue he could not understand, but he realized quickly from their tone, they were talking about the crocodiles, not him. He had managed to escape before being noticed. Perhaps they were placing bets on which beast would win.
Tarzan watched the water boil. The two crocodiles were locked in a vicious struggle. The wounded crocodile was rapidly losing ground. They rolled and twisted and splashed. The water foamed with blood.
Tarzan watched as the eyes of other crocodiles bobbed out of the water. Two. Three. A half dozen. The crocodiles were swimming toward the fighters, ready to take their share of the loser.
Tarzan returned his knife to its sheath, very carefully took hold of a stone, and, pulling himself from the water, began scaling the wall.
Tarzan's strong fingers held the stones where there was very little to grab. Even an ape would have had trouble scaling the stones, but Tarzan moved up the wall like a lizard.
When he was near its summit, he listened carefully, then slipped over the top of the wall and landed in a crouch on the sentry walkway. He looked to his right.
A sentry was moving away from him.
To his left, two sentries were talking. The shadows were thick here, and Tarzan went unnoticed.
Tarzan dropped from the walkway to the ground. It was a long drop, but his splendid muscles and great skill would have allowed him to take the fall without injury. But, at that moment, an off-duty sentry had stopped to relieve himself against the city wall, and as he finished and stepped from beneath the concealment of the overhead walkway, Tarzan dropped directly onto him.
When Tarzan struck him, the man yelled. Tarzan growled with anger as he sprang to his feet. The sentry clamb
ered to his feet and began to scream for help. He looked at the bronze giant before him, and screamed even louder. The big man looked more like an animal than a man: his teeth were bared and the sounds coming from his throat did not sound as if they were of human origin.
The sentry's screams were cut short as Tarzan sprang, his knife stealing the sentry's voice.
But it was too late.
Tarzan looked up. Sentries had rushed to the edge of the walkway. They yelled at him and began casting spears and firing arrows. Tarzan slapped one of the spears away, dodged an arrow. Others rattled at his feet.
The courtyard filled with warriors. They charged him. Tarzan struck right and left with his knife. Dying men and women fell back from Tarzan's brutal onslaught.
Close as the warriors were to one another, arrows were out of the question, so they charged the ape-man en masse, armed with their blades and spears.
The sounds of Tarzan's knife glancing off spear points and sword blades filled the air. The warriors foamed over him like ants on a carcass. The first to arrive were the first to die. Tarzan's knife wove a web of steel so intricate and fast, that there in the moonlight it looked as if he were a six-armed god wielding a weapon in every hand.
They tried to leap on him all at once, but the entire crowd was pushed back. Tarzan came clear of them snarling like a wild beast, the remains of some unfortunate's throat clutched in his teeth. Tarzan spat out the warrior's flesh, raised his head, and bellowed, "Kreeegah! Tarzan kill!"
The warriors foamed over him again, and once again the ape-man threw them back, flicking them from him the way a dog might shake water from its fur.
But now more warriors were arriving, scores of them, and even Tarzan with all his skill and might could not hold them. They rose over him like a great storm wave, washed him to the ground beneath a rain of fists and feet and weapons.
UNDERGROUND, UNAWARE OF Tarzan's plight, or that of his comrades. Hunt and Jad-bal-ja proceeded. Hunt noticed there were large, rotting timbers throughout the cavern. Many of the timbers had crumbled down, and others were in the process. It appeared that at one point, whoever had used these caverns had abandoned them to whatever it was that lived down here. The bridge they had used to cross the chasm showed that the area was still visited periodically, but it appeared repairs were no longer maintained.
The reasons for these repairs seemed to be the gradual weakening of the cavern itself. The centuries had worn it down, and whoever was custodian of these caves had attempted to keep it in shape with the timbers, reinforcing it like a mine shaft. As this mission was abandoned, the timbers had begun to rot. In time, Hunt concluded, this entire cavern would fall in on itself.
The torch was still burning briskly, but Hunt knew that shortly it would be exhausted. He knew too, as Jad-bal-ja knew long before him, that the thing down here was stalking them now, almost playfully. Hunt could smell it. It had an odor. A strange odor. Like something dry and ancient, From time to time Hunt thought he could hear more than its footsteps, a kind of rattling and rustling of parchment skin, but ultimately it was an unidentifiable noise that reached down into some forgotten part of his brain and fired an alarm. Hell was coming.
Even the great lion that padded beside him had taken to looking over its tawny shoulder, watching for the appearance of something unnamable. Hunt and Jad-bal-ja turned as the tunnel turned, and shortly thereafter, came to a dead end. Hunt felt a tightening in his chest. It was not bad enough that he was being stalked by an unnamable thing, but now there was nowhere to run. He and Jad-bal-ja were trapped.
Going back the way they had come was useless. The thing would be blocking their path. It had known it was driving them into this corner, and now Hunt could hear that rattling and rustling sound louder than
before. In fact, the only thing louder than the noise it was creating was the pounding of his heart.
The tunnel filled with the creature's foul smell, and Jad-bal-ja crouched, twitching his tail, not anxious, but ready to do battle when the moment arose.
Hunt moved the torch around the tunnel, lifted it upwards. Above them there was a split in the rocks. It wasn't a great split, but it was enough that if they could manage their way up there, they could slide through.
Hunt stuck the torch between two rocks, put the spear partially through his belt, and tried to find hand- and footholds. This was relatively easy. A large number of rocky slabs jutted out from the tunnel wall. Hunt began to climb. He moved swiftly. When he reached the summit of the tunnel wall, he turned and looked toward the hole, which from this angle he could see led into a narrow tunnel. It was a slightly precarious jump, but it was not a leap of great distance.
Hunt held his breath and jumped, caught hold of the interior of the tunnel, and pulled himself inside. He looked down. Jad-bal-ja had not moved. Hunt was unsure if the lion would understand him, but he knew he had to speak to him, try something. "Come."
The lion lifted his head and looked at Hunt above him. The lion studied Hunt for a moment, then the wall. He bounded up the slabs of rock, and as Hunt moved aside, the lion leapt easily into the open shaft.
A heartbeat later, the torch began to flicker, and something moved into the tunnel below. Its shadow creeped against the cavern wall. Hunt's pounding heart pumped furiously, knocking his temples like bongos. He could not see it clearly, there in the shadow of the dying and flickering torch, but what he saw of it unsettled him to the bone.
Actually, the flickering of the dying torch gave the creature an even odder appearance, as if its image had been painted on cards in various positions, and an unseen band was flicking the cards, giving the beast the illusion of movement. It had to be an illusion.
Because nothing Hunt had ever seen moved like that.
An instant later, Hunt decided its movements were not like flipping cards after all, but like old film, only faster. The thing clicked and clattered like an electrified poodle on a tile floor, but it gave the appearance of having been constructed of sticks glued to a single, larger shaft Sticks that substituted for arms and legs. Sticks wrapped in mummified leather, with knots where muscles should have been. A stick thing with great mantislike hooks on its "hands" and a head that resembled a great rotting pumpkin full of very nasty, twisted teeth constructed not of bone, but some kind of dark chitinous material like an insect's skeletal structure.
There were no doubts in Hunt's mind that this was what he had seen depicted in the cave drawings. But the drawings, which made it appear like a rabid praying mantis, did not do it horrid justice.
This was a thing from the pits. It moved its body as if it were not subject to the natural laws of musculature- animal or insect. It rotated its head completely around. It stalked about the dead-end corridor like a spoiled child that had misplaced a toy.
It looked up and saw Hunt and Jad-bal-ja looking down. And the thing smiled. If a blackened pumpkin full of gnarled, chitinous teeth can be said to smile. The torch flickered over the smile and gave the teeth a reddish glint.
Then the torch went out.
The sun rose pink against a startling blue sky, and the day grew hot early. All night Hanson had sat by the body of Small, his rifle pointed at the bound Wilson. Neither he nor Wilson had spoken or slept. Wilson was not in a position to do much of anything, bound the way
Hanson had bound him, and Hanson was in such a black, raging fever it was all be could do not to empty the rifle into the man, even though Wilson lay in a helpless position.
During the night, Hanson had listened for Billy's return, or the stealthy reappearance of Cannon. To prepare for such, he had built a small fire in the middle of the trail and surrounded it with dirt so that it would not spread, then he had dragged Small's body and Wilson into the jungle, and there they had sat. Hanson, hot with revenge, throbbing with pain from his wounds, alert to the return of Billy or an assault by Cannon, had positioned himself in such a way he could see the fire, and if Cannon were to return with murderous designs, drawn by the light of the campfir
e, Hanson hoped to get the man in his sights and kill him. It was all he could think about. Cannon and Wilson were responsible for so much misery, they deserved to die.
Jean was lost, now Billy was out in the jungle, searching for Cannon- possibly dead by Cannon's hand- and Cannon had slain Small. Wilson and Cannon, they had initiated all that had gone wrong.
Small. God bless him. Without his intervention, he and Billy would still be hostage. Dead perhaps. Cannon was certainly inclined to murder, and Wilson was only marginally better.
This marginalia was all that kept Hanson from putting a bullet in Wilson's heart and telling God he died.
So the night had crawled on, and out in the darkness, from time to time, Hanson heard movement, a few rifle shots. Even though Billy had the rifle, Hanson feared for him. He watched for Cannon to return, but Cannon did not appear. Once a leopard had come very near them. Hanson could see its yellow eyes glowing in the dark like demon lamps. The eyes had observed them for a long time, and Hanson was so unnerved by their steady gaze, he considered putting a bullet between them, but could not bring himself to kill the animal, not if that was its greatest threat- the demon-yellow stare. He could more easily have killed Cannon and Wilson than an animal he did not intend to eat.
All night Hanson feared sleep would creep up on him and lay him down, but it was a useless worry. He was so charged with fear and hatred and disappointment he did not feel sleepy at all.
He thought of Jean often. He had little hope she was alive. If she had been captured, not killed right away, then her captors had a purpose for her, and Hanson found to his dismay that he could imagine a multitude of purposes, none of them comforting.
He should never have let her come. It was his fault. All of this. Small's death. Hunt's probable death. The bearers, dead by storm, or captured. Billy out there in the jungle, perhaps dead by Cannon's hand.
And Tarzan. Small said that Tarzan was alive, but perhaps he had said that to unnerve Cannon. To make him think things had not entirely gone his way.
It had been a mistake. Tarzan, dead or alive, was a sore spot with Cannon, and the possibility that he might be alive had driven Cannon to rage. A rage that resulted in Small having his throat cut.