though it sprang a step to greet us.
“HAI!” shouted Norhala, battle buglings ringing through the golden voice. “HAI! my companies!”
Out from the summit of the breast shot a tremendous trunk of cubes and spinning globes. And like a trunk it nuzzled us, caught us up, swept us to the crest. An instant I tottered dizzily; was held; stood beside Norhala upon a little, level twinkling eyed platform; upon her other side swayed Drake.
Now through the monster I felt a throbbing, an eager and impatient pulse. I turned my head. Still like some huge and grotesque beast the back of the clustered Things ran for half a mile at least behind, tapering to a dragon tail that coiled and twisted another full mile toward the Pit. And from this back uprose and fell immense spiked and fan-shaped ruffs,Bobby Hull Tröjor, thickets of spikes, whipping knouts of bristling tentacles, fanged crests. They thrust and waved,Dame Moncler Torcyn, whipped and fell constantly; and constantly the great tail lashed and snapped, fantastic, long and living.
“HAI!” shouted Norhala once more. From her lifted throat came again the golden chanting — but now a relentless,Jason Garrison Tröjor, ruthless song of slaughter.
Up reared the monstrous bulk. Into it ran the dragon tail,Menn Moncler Clavier. Into it poured the fanged and bristling back,Patrick Roy Tröjor.
Up,Jonathan Toews Tröjor, up we were thrust — three hundred feet, four hundred, five hundred. Over the blue globe of Norhala’s house bent a gigantic leg. Spiderlike out from each side of the monster thrust half a score of others.
Overhead the dawn began to break. Through it with ever increasing speed we moved, straight to the line of the cliffs behind which lay the city of the armored men — and Ruth and Ventnor.
Chapter XXIV Ruszark
Smoothly moved the colossal shape; on it we rode as easily as though cradled. It did not glide — it strode.
The columned legs raised themselves,Borje Salming Tröjor, bending from a thousand joints. The pedestals of the feet,CG Menn Freestyle Vest, huge and massive as foundations for sixteen-inch guns, fell with machinelike precision,Niklas Hjalmarsson Tröjor, stamping gigantically.
Under their tread the trees of the forest snapped, were crushed like reeds beneath the pads of a mastodon. From far below came the sound of their crashing. The thick forest checked the progress of the Shape less than tall grass would that of a man.
Behind us our trail was marked by deep, black pits in the forest’s green, clean cut and great as the Mark upon the poppied valley. They were the footprints of the Thing that carried us.
The wind streamed and whistled. A flock of the willow warblers arose, sworled about us with manifold beating of little frightened wings. Norhala’s face softened, her eyes smiled.
“Go — foolish little ones,” she cried,CG Dame Snow Mantra Parka, and waved her arms. They flew away,Mitchell Stephens Tröjor, scolding.
A lammergeier swooped down on wide funereal wings; it peered at us,Corey Crawford Tröjor; darted away toward the cliffs.
“There will be no carrion there for you, black eater of the dead, when I am through,” I heard Norhala whisper, eyes again somber.
Steadily grew the dawn light; from Norhala’s lips came again the chanting. And now that p
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