The Zanthodon MEGAPACK ™: The Complete 5-Book Series (17 page)

Among them he spied Eric Carstairs and Hurok the traitor.

And in his cruel and evil heart, the Neanderthal man swore to be avenged upon his enemies.

CHAPTER 24

SCARLET SAILS

Suddenly, Jorn the Hunter froze, straining every nerve and listening intently.

“Hark!” wheezed Professor Potter at his side. “What was
that?
”

“I do not know,” Jorn muttered shortly. “It sounded like a woman screaming in mortal fear—”

The two had traced the narrow and winding gorge through the Peaks of Peril, until they had almost reached the farther side of the cliffs. They had been maneuvering their way through the stone walls of the little pass, when suddenly there had come to their ears the faint cry from the distance.

“Could it be the young woman?” murmured the Professor fearfully.

The glint of fear came and went in the steady blue eyes of the Cro-Magnon warrior at his side.

“I do not know,” he grunted. “But it was a woman’s voice, and what woman could possibly exist in this desolate region, swarming with monstrous thakdols, if not the gomad Darya?”

Straining his ears to catch the slightest sound, the stalwart youth stood motionless for another long moment. Then, turning to his companion, he said:

“Come!”

And with that curt word, the Stone Age youth broke into a rapid, space-eating stride, racing in the general direction from which there had come to his ears—that sharp, frightened cry of a woman’s fear.

They had evidently penetrated farther down the narrow pass between the Peaks of Peril than even Jorn the Hunter had guessed, for it was only a few minutes later that the close-set walls gave way and the warrior and the old scientist found themselves in the open country again.

Before them stretched a prospect of sandy slope leading down to the shore of the Sogar-Jad. A stand of tall calamites blocked most of their view of the inland sea, and the only other thing to meet their eyes was a small gurgling brook which meandered between shores lined with thick shrubbery, emptying into the sea.

Searching about with eagle eyes, Jorn suddenly became aware of that which rode the mist-veiled waves of the prehistoric ocean.

And his keen eyes widened incredulously, as he stared upon a sight so fantastic as to beggar comparison—

* * * *

For the better part of two hours, Kâiradine Redbeard, called Barbarossa, and seventh in direct succession from the famous Khair ud-Din of Algiers, had watched as his longboats fetched to their ship supplies of fresh game, fruit and water.

The tall, long-legged reis or captain of the pirate galley at length decided to stretch his legs upon the shore himself, and set out with the last boatload of his corsairs. Beaching the boat upon the sandy strand, he strode inland, glad to feel the firm land beneath his feet once more, after two months at sea.

Anchored off the shoals, his galley, the
Red Witch
, swayed to the rhythm of the waves. He surveyed his pirate galley, approvingly, the red sails booming and snapping in the breeze, the green banner of Islam fluttering from the stern. For many weeks had the Barbary pirate been at sea; soon, now, he would head his prow farther up along the coast, returning in triumph to his home port.

By now the last kegs of fresh water and barrels of ripe fruit had been borne into the longboat, and it was nearly time to depart; for the Moslem pirate did not care to linger for too long a time in the vicinity of the Peaks of Peril, mindful of the dreaded thakdols that made their nests amid that wilderness of cleft and soaring rock.

He was a commanding figure as he stood there, looking about him. His curled beard was tinted red with dyes, and stank of heavy perfumes; his lean, muscular body was swathed in the long robes of the desert princes who had been his remote forebears. His swarthy, hook-nosed face was villainous, but not unhandsome in a fierce, hawklike, imperious way. From the curled toes of his red-leather boots to his linen headdress, he was every inch a swaggering figure stepped forth from the golden pages of romance.

A rustling in the bushes came to his alert senses. Laying the long fingers of one swarthy, beringed hand upon the hilt of his scimitar, he glanced through the leaves…and at what he saw, his eyes widened delightedly.

“By the Veiled Prophet of Khorassan—
a girl!
” he swore softly. And his eyes glided over the slim naked body, the sleek thighs and firm, luscious breasts of the blond-haired girl who splashed carelessly in the waters of the little stream.

Passion flared within the breast of the Barbary pirate as he stood there, concealed by the bushes, watching as Darya of Thandar bathed.

Passion, and…
desire!

And, with such swaggering, lawless rogues as Kâiradine of El-Cazar, to desire was to—
possess
.

Darya was unconscious of the presence of another as she splashed nakedly in the little stream until suddenly the bushes parted to reveal the tall, curiously-garbed figure of a grinning man.

He plunged into the stream and bore down upon her, and the Cro-Magnon girl had time to scream only once before strong fingers closed about her mouth and sinewy arms crushed her in a powerful embrace.…

* * * *

Having been alarmed by that terrified shriek, Jorn the Hunter and Professor Potter had traversed the remainder of the pass at a rapid pace, and now stood transfixed with astonishment at the unexpected sight which met their eyes.

The Stone Age savage uttered a stifled gasp at the enormous thing before him; a moment later, his keen gaze narrowed and a growl of primeval menace sounded from his deep breast.

As for the elderly savant, he was too amazed to utter a sound.

Before them lay a prospect of sea and shore, with tall trees beyond, and a small river. But it was none of these commonplace and natural features of the landscape which caught and seized their fascinated attention.

There, riding at anchor off-shore, rose a red-sailed galley such as neither of the two men had ever seen before in all their lives. At the sight of this amazing ship, the Stone Age boy blinked as if stunned.

And the Professor gaped incredulously. For, if he had never seen such a craft in the flesh, so to speak, he had seen its likeness depicted many times before, in books and paintings.

“By my soul,” he stammered feebly, “a pirate ship-a galley! (See the oarbanks?)—and Islamic, from the green banner at the stern…Artful Archimedes:
the Barbaray pirates!
”

And there came crowding into the Professor’s dazed and wondering brain the history of those daring and villainous sea rovers, who had roamed and ruled the coastal waters of North Africa from Algiers to Tunis, led by the dreaded redbeard, Barbarossa, until driven from their island strongholds by the French conquest of Algeria in 1830.

But—Barbary pirates here in Zanthodon?

“Well, and after all, why not?” murmured the Professor vaguely. “They could, after all, have fled inland to avoid the French fleets; finding their way overland to the Ahaggar Mountains, and to the hollow crater of the extinct volcano…as obviously they or their ancestors had, nearly a century and a half ago.”

“See! It is the gomad Darya,” cried torn, pointing suddenly. The Professor peered, his heart sinking: tall, swarthy sailors were lifting aboard from a longboat the naked and struggling body of a young white woman with long bright hair the color of sun-ripened corn and wide blue eyes like the skies of April. It could be none other than Darya—

Without a word, Jorn burst into a run. Across the slope he hurtled, and down the shore, to fling his strong bronzed body into the tossing waves of the Sogar-Jad.

As the half-naked, brawny body of the Cro-Magnon warrior clove the waves of the Sogar-Jad, heading directly toward the sides of the great pirate galley, the sailors along the rail caught sight of their unexpected visitor and called the attention of their captain, who had just come aboard with his naked, and furiously struggling, captive.

“O reis Kâiradine! Behold!” they shouted, pointing.

The hawklike gaze of the Barbaray pirate narrowed; he could not help admiring the reckless courage of the savage boy to strive single-handedly to rescue his jungle sweetheart. But his numbers were already depleted by battle with the Apemen of Kor and other savage peoples he had encounterd during his voyage.

He raised his jewelled hand carelessly, and at the signal his pirates quickly unlimbered their horn bows, nocking barbed and deadly arrows and drawing the feathered shafts tight.

Oblivious to his danger, the young warrior of Thandar swam to the side of the pirate craft, and had just reached it when the misty waves of the sea were ripped and torn by a deadly rain of hissing arrows.

The waves burst into seething froth as Jorn kicked and struggled. Then his body sank beneath the waters of the prehistoric sea, and vanished from sight.

“Cast off, my corsairs!” cried Kâiradine Redbeard. And as the anchor rose dripping from the Sogar-Jad and strong hands tugged the sails into position, and the sharp keel of the galley swung about for El-Cazar, the Barbary pirate seized up his helpless captive and bore within his cabin the naked form of Darya of Thandar.

The cabin door thudded shut behind them, muffling her sudden scream of terror.

And on the shores of the Sogar-Jad, an old man in dilapidated and travel-stained garments fell forward weakly to his knees and buried his face in shaking hands.

Darya carried off by pirates, and Jorn slain! And, he, himself, alone and friendless in a savage world of prehistoric monsters and primitive fighting men!

It was too much even for the brave and gallant spirit of Professor Percival P. Potter. And the old scientist fell forward in a dead faint, there at the feet of the Peaks of Peril, by the shores of the prehistoric sea.

THE END

But the Adventures of
Eric Carstairs in
the Underground World will continue in

“ZANTHODON,”
the second volume in this series.

APPENDIX

A STONE AGE GLOSSARY

DRUGAR
: Literally, “Ugly One.” The Cro-Magnons’ name for the Neanderthals.

DRUNTH
: The stegosaurus.

GOMAD
: The title of the daughter of a High Chief, or Omad. Has much the same meaning as “princess.”

GOROTH
: The mighty bull aurochs of the Ice Ages, resembling the bison.

GRYMP
: Triceratops, one of the more terrible of the Jurassic dinosaurs.

JAD
: The word for “sea”; also, “water.”

JAMAD
: The son of an Omad, or High Chief; literally, “prince.”

LUGAR
: A word meaning “smaller” or “lesser,” as in Lugar-Jad, the Lesser Sea.

OMAD
: The High Chief or ruler of a country; literally, “king.”

OMODON
: The giant cave bear of Ice Age Europe, larger and fiercer than the grizzly.

PANJAN
: Literally “Smoothskin.” The Neanderthals’ name for the Cro-Magnons. The plural is
panjani
.

SOGAR
: A superlative: “great” or “greater,” as in Sogar-Jad, the Greater Sea.

SUJAT
: Anything which the peoples of Zanthodon regard with superstitious awe is considered
sujat
. The word has much the same meaning as both “sacred” and “supernatural.”

THAKDOL
: A pterodactyl, the great flying lizard of the Jurassic Age.

THANTOR
: The wooly mammoth of Ice Age Europe.

ULD
: A small, plump, harmless mammal. Eric Carstairs is of the opinion that the uld may be eohippus, the remote ancestor of the horses of today. The people of Thandar and, perhaps, of Kor, may hunt or even breed the uld for meat.

VANDAR
: The great saber-tooth tiger of the Stone Age, one of the most feared and cunning of all the predators of the jungles of Zanthodon.

VATOR
: The word for “father” in the universal language of Zanthodon. The word for “mother” is not given in the tex, but may be
mator
.

VATHRIB
: A species of gigantic albino spider which inhabits the subterranean depths.

XUNTH
: Enormous serpents, dwelling in caverns in the mountains.

YITH
: The dragon-snake of the primordial seas of Zanthodon, which Professor Potter has identified with the extinct plesiosaurus.

ZOMAK
: A primitive species of feathered bird-reptile, which Eric Carstairs considers to be the archaeopteryx.

ZANTHODON

PART I: THE LOST PRINCESS

CHAPTER 1

Warriors of the Stone Age

As somebody once said, without the power of sheer coincidence life would be duller than dishwater. Or if nobody ever said it, somebody
should
have.

It had been pure coincidence that I had met Professor Percival P. Potter, Ph.D., in the native bazaar of Port Said. If I had come along a moment or two earlier—or a moment or two later—we would never have encountered each other. And he would never have hired me and my Sikorsky helicopter, Babe, for his expedition into the Ahaggar region of North Africa.

Which would have meant that neither of us would have found our way into the Underground World of Zanthodon.

For beneath the hollow mountain, far below the earth’s crust, we discovered a vast cavernous region presumably created by the impact of an enormous meteor of antimatter in prehistoric times. Whispered of in old Sumerian myths, Babylonian legends, Hebrew writings, the Underground World, we found, was a realm of marvels and perils beyond belief.

For into that gigantic subterranean land had filtered, over the ages, remnants of the extinct dinosaurs of the Jurassic and sabertooths and cave bears and mastodons from the Ice Age. And
men
, too—both the hulking, apelike and primitive Neanderthals and their tall, stalwart, handsome near-contemporaries, the Cro-Magnons, our own direct ancestors.

Locked together in a life-or-death struggle for survival were these twin branches of primordial humankind…and both were at war with hostile nature, the savage wilderness and the mighty beasts that roamed and ruled this fantastic world.

Into the very midst of that endless war for survival and supremacy the Professor and I had been thrust. Captured by slave raiders from the Neanderthal country of Kor, we had met and befriended the beautiful Stone Age girl, Darya, who had won us to the cause of her people.

She was about seventeen and absolutely the most gorgeous girl I have ever seen. Which may perhaps explain how she recruited so easily a tough, hard-bitten soldier of fortune like myself, and a woolyheaded, absentminded old scientist like Doc.

Not only was the Cro-Magnon girl the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on, but she was also totally different from the women I had previously known. Nearly naked, save for a skimpy, apron-like garment of soft, elegantly tanned furs, which extended over one breast and shoulder but left bare the other perfect young breast and creamy, rounded shoulder, she was lithe and supple, her slim, tanned body graceful as an acrobat’s. She had a long, flowing mane of silky hair the color of ripe corn and wide, dark-lashed eyes as blue as rainwashed April skies and a full, luscious mouth the tint of wild strawberries.

Darya had been a revelation to me: imagine a girl who had never heard of perfume, cosmetics, mascara or underwired bras…a young female ignorant of the latest fads and fashions…a lithe, teen-aged Amazon who could swim, hunt, fight like a man but was as soft and sweet and demure as any princess in a fairy tale.

Such was Darya,
gomad
or princess of the Stone Age kingdom of Thandar. Is it any wonder I had fallen helplessly in love with her?

* * * *

Together we had managed to escape from our captivity by the Apemen of Kor, but not without making some enemies. Among these foes were Fumio, the handsome but villainous Cro-Magnon chieftain who had been an unsuccessful suitor for Darya’s hand; and One-Eye the Neanderthal, who had seized the kingship of Kor when I had slain Uruk the former High Chief with my revolver; and Xask, wily and cunning vizier of Kor, who was of neither race, but an exile fled from the wrath of his own mysterious people, who dwelt somewhere in the interior, far from the shores of the sea of Sogar-Jad.

But we had made good friends, as well. There was Hurok, the brawny Neanderthal to whom I had taught the meaning of friendship; and Jorn the Hunter, a brave youth from Darya’s tribe; and her mighty sire himself, Tharn, stalwart Omad or king of distant Thandar.

Just when it seemed that all of our difficulties were at an end, the mysterious force of coincidence intervened once again.

Pursued by a great war party of Korians, Tharn’s small host of warriors (searching for the lost Darya) had seemed outmatched. But a fortuitously timed stampede of huge pachyderms had crushed the Apemen of Kor, while the men of Thandar had fled to safety behind the dense wall of the jungles. We did not at that point in our adventures realize that Xask, One-Eye and Fumio had eluded the destruction which had consumed the warriors of Kor.

However, coincidence had separated us. Jorn the Hunter and Professor Potter had sought to penetrate a narrow pass through the Peaks of Peril, believing they were closely behind the long-lost Darya. What they in fact discovered beyond those sinister mountains we, far behind them, did not at that time know. Neither did we know that Jorn, that gallant and faithful youth, had seemingly perished not long thereafter—leaving the helpless old scientist alone and friendless in the most hostile wilderness on (or under) the earth.

I had been separated from my friends, remaining with Darya’s mighty sire and his small force of fighting men, and with me was my giant friend, Hurok. At this time, I was ignorant of the fates which had befallen Jorn, Darya and the Professor, as were they of mine.

All I knew was that my friends were lost somewhere in the fetid jungles or grassy plains or unexplored mountains of Zanthodon. And in this weird and magnificent and terrible lost world ten thousand perils lie in wait for the unarmed or unwary traveler.

Even at this moment my beloved Darya might be suffering the cruelest of dooms.

Even now my friends might be staring into the fanged maw of one of the enormous predators that ruled this savage world.

And I—would I ever know of their end?

* * * *

In the first section of these journals I have narrated the tale of our adventures up to this point in far more explicit detail than the brief, cursory account given above. Since I cannot be fully certain that the first part of my journal
[1]
has survived intact the rigors of travel, I have briefly encapsulated a description of how my friends and foes and I arrived at this point in our travels.

Now let me take up my tale where I left it off…for, if anything, the second-part of my adventures in Zanthodon the Underground World is even more incredible and fantastic than that which I have previously narrated.

If any eye but mine will ever peruse these words, that is.…

* * * *

Under the eternal noontide skies of Zanthodon we rested and broke our fast. Huntsmen easily found the woods teeming with game, for the stampede of the mammoths had driven smaller and more defenseless creatures from the plain to take refuge in the jungle’s edge, even as we had done.

In no time, cook-fires flared along the margin of the jungle and the air was redolent with the aroma of roast uld turning slowly on the spit.

Squatting on our heels, our backs to the bole of a mighty Jurassic conifer, we consulted as to the course of action we should choose, the leaders of the Thandarian host and I.

Dominating the council, as he would naturally dominate any gathering into which he entered, was Tharn, Omad or King of the Stone Age realm of Thandar, which lay distantly somewhere to the south.
[2]

A very impressive figure of a man was this jungle monarch. Taller and heavier than I, his magnificent frame was superbly equipped with massive thews, and the innate majesty of his mien and manner would

have marked him as royal in any age or society. His features were stern, with a strong jaw and fierce blue eyes under a lofty brow, framed in thick yellow mane and short curly beard. Heavy mustaches swept back to either side of his mouth and his head was crowned with a peculiar headdress whose main ornaments were two curved ivory fangs of prodigious length—the fangs of the vandar, or giant sabertooth. A triple necklace of the fangs of smaller beasts circled his strong throat. His tanned, muscular torso was bare, but there were heavy rings of bronze clasped about his brawny arms. An abbreviated garment of dappled fur clothed his loins, laced buskins of tanned leather clad his feet, a bronze dagger slept in its sheath of reptile hide at his waist, secured by a thong. Beside him, never far from his right hand, a long spear with leaf-shaped blade of hammered bronze rested against the tree trunk, and at his left a long wickerwork shield lay, covered with thick, tough hide.

Such a man was Tharn of Thandar, King of the Stone Age.

Just then he was speaking. The crude, primitive language spoken universally across the breadth of Zanthodon assumed dignity and resonance as it fell slowly from his lips.

“Against all hope, our enemies have been dispersed and trodden into the dust,” he said solemnly. “This victory, while not entirely of our own devising, yet stands to be acted upon. Shall we next pursue what remnants of the Drugars survived the stampede of the herd of trantors, follow them to their distant country of Kor upon the island of Ganadol and thus exterminate their repellent kind from the world forever…or shall we search yet farther for the gomad Darya, my daughter, who may yet live? What say you?”

Komad pursed his thin lips judiciously. The grizzled old chief scout, who sat across from his lord, was lean and wiry as the shaft of a spear. He said little, leaving the talk to others more voluble than himself; but when such a man as Komad speaks, men tend to listen.

“We came into this country to find the Princess, my Chief,” said Komad shortly. “It would be less than manly to give over that quest until we have proof that she no longer lives. As for the Drugars, they are few and scattered and can do us little harm, now or later. Let them slink back to Kor with their tails between their legs, unmolested.”

The others grunted in agreement. Beside me, Hurok shifted his enormous bulk uncomfortably. The Drugars do not like to be called Drugars, any more than the panjani enjoy being called panjani. This seems to be the way of the world, as I have observed the same reaction among the peoples of the earth’s surface as well.
[3]

I turned to Hurok, questioningly.

“What is your opinion?” I asked him bluntly. “Do the Korians pose any further danger to us, or did the trantor stampede virtually wipe them out?” The question was not as rude as it may sound: outlawed by Uruk and hated by the present Chief, One-Eye, Hurok must from now on consider his own people to be his enemies.

He regarded me solemnly, shrewd, melancholy eyes blinking from beneath his overhanging brow.

“Few are the warriors of Kor left to give battle against Black Hair and his people,” he grunted, Black Hair being Hurok’s name for me. “No fewer than five tens of dugouts it must have taken to bring the warriors of Uruk the Chief hither, with no fewer than ten of the men of Kor in each. All, or almost all, must have been slain by the arrows of the Thandarians or beneath the feet of the trantors”

His heavy voice was somber as he recited the numbers of his tribe who had perished upon this very plain less than an hour ago. As well it might be, for five hundred warriors had died here…and, although cruel savages, the Apemen are brave and mighty warriors.

“And what say you, Eric Carstairs?” the jungle monarch inquired gravely. I shrugged.

“As for myself, I shall continue the search for Darya, your daughter, and for my friend Professor Potter, wherever you and your men choose to march,” I said quietly.

A proud gleam shone approvingly in the eagle eyes of Tharn. He nodded with dignity.

“So be it, then,” the High Chief said. “The search goes on.”

CHAPTER 2

The Parting of the Ways

Tharn and his warriors—and Hurok and myself, as well—were at that time suffering under a serious misapprehension. For the evidence we had discovered in the glade seemed to suggest that the Princess had been carried off and probably devoured by one of the numerous gigantic predators who roam this strange subterranean world.

This we believed for the simple reason that Tharn’s scouts had found the girl’s tracks in a forest clearing, together with certain articles which were thought to have belonged to Darya of Thandar.

The footprints terminated in torn and blood-bespattered turf, and while there were footprints leading to the spot, there were none which led therefrom.…

But Tharn of Thandar was not completely convinced. To such great-hearted men as the jungle monarch, death remains unproven until the last doubt has been dissolved.

And as for myself, I could not believe that the gallant, golden-haired girl was dead, that her bright, mercurial spirit was forever quenched, and her slim, vibrant loveliness mangled between the fearsome jaws of some mighty reptile from Time’s Dawn.

And, in actual fact, events had turned to other, happier conclusions. For the fate of Darya was more mysterious and far stranger than any of us could possibly have dreamed!

As you who have read the first part of these journals may remember, the cave girl had actually been carried off by a giant pterodactyl, but this occurred shortly after she had been attacked and almost raped by Fumio, from whom Jorn rescued her. The marks of trampled turf found by the Thandarian scouts and huntsmen were the scene of her attack by the villainous Fumio. We were at this time still ignorant of the fact that the flying reptile had borne her far from this place to its nest amid the Peaks of Peril to the north, beyond the plains of the trantors.

Therefore—whether alive or dead—we all believed Darya to be somewhere near at hand.

We feasted upon the roast uld and other game slain by the huntsmen. Then we rested briefly from our battle against the Apemen of Kor, while the warriors gathered up those of their arrows which had not been broken beneath the trampling feet of the stampeding mammoths, and their flung spears which had likewise survived intact.

Soon we went forward along the edge of the jungle, with search parties combing the depths of the woods while keeneyed scouts searched the plains for some sign of Darya, Jorn and the Professor.

I strode along behind the others, feeling restless and ill at ease. Everything within me instinctively hungered to strike forth on my own to search for my lost friends. I have always been a loner, never much of one for teamwork. And it seemed to me, with half a hundred warriors, scouts and hunters along, the weight of our numbers would somehow slow me down in my personal quest.

I don’t know quite how to explain this to you; it was just a feeling in my bones that I would accomplish more, and more swiftly, if I were on my own.

We were moving steadily west, toward the shores of the Sogar-Jad, with the jungle at our left and the plains to our right.

Beyond those plains loomed the peaks of mountains unknown to me. Glancing curiously at them, I thought to ask Hurok what he knew concerning them.

“Men call them the Peaks of Peril,” he said in his solemn, deep voice. “Black Hair would be wise to avoid them, for they have an unwholesome reputation. And Black Hair’s she could not possibly have gone so far.”

“How do you know?” I demanded testily. “She could be anywhere, by this time.”

Hurok regarded me, a look of baffled uncomprehension in his dim eyes. I have remarked before on the remarkable fact that the warriors of Zanthodon are completely ignorant of the existence of time, and have no word for the concept in their language. I had, unthinkingly, employed the English word in lieu of a Zanthodonian equivalent.
[4]
Hence, I had puzzled him.