The Zanthodon MEGAPACK ™: The Complete 5-Book Series (19 page)

“Eternal Einstein!” said the Professor querulously. “The galley might be mere yards around the curve of the coast, or it could have sailed for leagues—and I have no way of telling which!”

Now, Percival P. Potter, Ph.D., was small and scrawny and elderly, certainly no young and vigorous fighting man. But the spark of old-fashioned chivalry that burns within the breasts of good and decent men blazed high within his gallantheart; and, man of action or no man of action, it went against the grain of such as Professor Potter merely to turn his back on Darya’s frightening predicament and seek to return to the safety of his friends.

So he began to explore the curve of the coastline to make certain whether or not the galley was still in view. At this particular point, the shores of the Sogar-Jad protruded in a long promontory which, like a sheltering arm, protected the small lagoon in which the Barbary pirates had moored their craft. In order to gain a full and unimpeded view of the sea itself, the Professor would have to traverse this promontory to its farther side. And without a moment’s hesitation, he proceeded to do so.

Thick tropical vegetation clothed the length of the narrow peninsula, down whose length marched like a rocky spine an extension of the Peaks of Peril, through which the Professor had but recently passed with Jorn.

And the moment this heavy wall of jungle closed about the old man, shutting from his view the warm light of open day, a peculiar premonition chilled his heart. There was nothing to meet the eye that hinted of concealed danger, and not the slightest sound reached the keen ears of the Professor, for all of the jungle drowsed in the simmering warmth of Zanthodon’s eternal noon. But the senses of men, even civilized men, number more than the known and recognized five; some faint instinct of self-preservation roused within the breast of Professor Potter, alerting him to the fact that all was not well in this jungle.

Globules of cold perspiration burst forth upon his bald and bony brows, and a clamminess was in his sweating palms, while his brave old heart beat lightly but swiftly. Again and again, the savant wished mightly that I, Eric Carstairs, could have been at his side. For not only was I younger and stronger than he, and used to extricating myself from dangerous predicaments by brawn or brains or luck—but I still bore at my side the precious automatic pistol wherewith I had slain the brutal Uruk.

And the pistol, of course, was the only such weapon of its kind in all of the Underground World. How much more secure would the old man have felt, with me—and the gun—near to hand!

A dozen times within the first several minutes of sensing the presence of lurking danger the Professor stopped short, peering about into the motionless underbrush, straining every sense to search out the cause of his trepidations.

But nothing that he could see or hear or smell seemed to afford him the slightest danger. Skyward soared the massive boles of Jurassic conifers, and the gloom between their trunks was impenetrable and ominous. Silence reigned within the depths of the jungle, as if all nature held its breath in suspense, waiting for some secret signal.

Erelong, the Professor had reached the range of rocky hills that ran the length of this peninsula. For the jungle aisle he followed terminated abruptly and he found himself confronted by a sheer, unbroken wall of solid stone.

Pausing momentarily, the Professor considered which way to turn. It did not seem to be within the physical powers of the old man to scale this cliff-like wall of smooth gray rock, and he debated the relative wisdom of turning back along the way that he had come, to seek a side path or alternative route.

But to venture again into the depths of the jungle…not knowing what hideous monstrosity surviving from Time’s forgotten dawn might be creeping on his track…that was almost more than the old man dared attempt.

Pondering this dilemma and striving to make up his mind what to do, the Professor stood there, brows knit, tugging thoughtfully and indecisively on his little wisp of stiff white goat-like beard.

And at that moment something moved behind him in the darkness.

He heard the snapping of a twig—

Startling loud in the ominous and all-pervading silence was that sudden sound—like a gunshot.

He whirled about, eyes starting from his head, mouth gaping open to give voice to a startled cry—

Then he froze—petrified with astonishment.

* * * *

Could the Professor have somehow known that I was not very far distant from him, was, even at that very instant, traversing with all such speed as I was able to attain the broad and grassy plain of the trantors, the knowledge may well have comforted him in his present danger.

When Hurok had parted from me, driven away by the seeming coldness of my ungracious rebuff, I hastened to divert from my former path at right angles.

Ahead of me, Tharn and his troop of warriors were scouring the edges of the jungle, searching for any slightest sign or token that might denote the whereabouts of the missing princess. During the brief while that Hurok and I had lingered behind to discuss my vague premonitions, they had drawn quite a ways ahead of our position.

I then traveled rapidly out into the midst of the plain, taking for my goal the line of soaring gray mountains that were known as the Peaks of Peril. I was young and vigorous and had rested well after my recent exertions; hence it was that I had reached midway into the plain of the trantors at the precise moment that Professor Potter glimpsed with amazement his peril.

The exigencies of narrative technique require me, thus tiresomely, to relate matters of which, at the time, I had no actual knowledge in simultaneity with those events which I witnessed or partook in. That this must seem confusing to my reader—if any!—is regrettable, but necessary. It is, of course, only in retrospect, long after we had all come back again together and found sufficient leisure to relate the tale of our adventures to each other, that I was able to get straight in my mind what each of my friends or enemies was doing at any given point in time.

And now, long after these events transpired, I am able to narrate these adventures, diligently striving to explain what each of us was doing more or less at the same time. This requires me to cut back and forth from the viewpoint of one person to that of another, but I am no seasoned writer and know of no other way to set all of these things before you. Bear with me, then, as my narrative becomes even more confusing and complex with the diversity of incidents yet to come.

* * * *

At the time, I had no way of knowing that I was being followed by anyone.

The wind was blowing into my face, all sound was dulled by the sighing of the long grasses and the thudding of my feet as I loped across the plain of the trantors, and I had no occasion to turn and look behind me.

After an interminable time I reached that mighty wall of gray and somber mountains that was my goal. Another hour or so of searching along the flanks of the mountain led me to the fortuitous discovery of a narrow ravine or chasm, into which I plunged. I followed the narrow way between the mountains as it twisted and turned, wearying now and beginning to become hungry.

And all the time, those that pursued me continued on my trail.

Before very much longer, I had penetrated the Peaks of Peril and had emerged on the far side of the range of mountains, to view a broad vista of shoreline and sea. Whether or not this was the same pass through the mountains which Jorn and the Professor had earlier followed I have no way of telling.

I was tired and hungry by this time, and, like an old campaigner, knew that I must pause, however briefly, to rest and to eat in order to take up again my quest with undiminished vigor.

No game presented itself, but the tidal pools along the shoreline contained a quantity of small fish marooned by the withdrawing of the tide. I made a fire with dry leaves and sticks, speared the three fish I had scooped out of the shallows with my bare hands, and cooked them over the sizzling flames.

Half-raw, half-burnt, the meat of the fish tasted to me more delicious than the sumptuous dishes I had once sampled in the finest restaurants of Paris or Rome. Satisfying my thirst with cool, clear water from the little freshwater stream that meandered down the shore to empty into the sea, I made a nest for myself in the thick grasses and composed myself for slumber. I had intended a brief catnap to revitalize my strength, but now in retrospect, I fear that I fell into heavier slumbers than had been my intention.

And from my sleep I was awakened suddenly and rudely.

For One-Eye was kneeling upon my chest. And he had snatched the precious revolver from my waist and was at that moment pointing it into my face, with an evil lopsided grin.

CHAPTER 4

Captive of the Corsairs

No words of mine can possibly do justice to the emotions which raged within the heart of Darya of Thandar. When the bearded chieftain of the corsairs had surprised her in the act of bathing in the little jungle stream, she had been furious and frightened. Helpless in the powerful embrace of the swarthy pirate, the girl had not been able to resist as he bore her aboard the Moorish galley and into his cabin.

Now, the Stone Age girl had, of course, never seen such a vessel as this, or such men as these in all her brief span of existence. Nor would the very name of the Barbary pirates have signified aught to the Cro-Magnon Princess. But to be plucked from the relative security of freedom and thrust into the captivity of hard and dangerous men is an experience disheartening and terrifying.

Hence, it is no reflection upon the brave and gallant spirit of the beautiful cave girl to admit that her heart faltered within her as she was borne, naked and struggling, within the cabin of the corsair chief.

With one booted foot the corsair kicked shut the door behind him. The furiously struggling girl he dumped unceremoniously onto his bed, a narrow bunk built into the curving hull of the pirate vessel. Then he stood grinning down at her as she lay, panting and disheveled and completely at his mercy.

For her part, Darya of Thandar took in the tall, commanding form of her captor with rage and detestation and a very natural amount of fear. Also very natural to the cave girl was the intense curiosity she felt as she examined with puzzlement the man who had seized her.

He was tall and hawk-faced, his lean, strong jaw adorned by a crisp trim of beard which was either naturally red in coloration or dyed to that hue. With the exception of the hulking Drugars, whose brawny, apelike forms were adorned by a short pelt of dirty russet fur, Darya had never before seen a man with red hair.

Nor a man so strangely clothed. For the pirate chieftain wore an old-fashioned corselet of overlapping bronze scales, a loose robe-like surcoat of coarsely woven cloth and a scarlet turban of rich silk bound about his brows. Jeweled rings adorned his fingers, a girdle of embossed leather cinched in his waist, boots of scarlet leather with toes that curled up were upon his feet.

The scent of perfume wafted from the folds of his raiment. A slender scimitar of cold steel was thrust through a loop fastened to his girdle; it slapped against his thigh as he moved. He was, all in all, the most curious figure of a man whom the maid had ever set eyes upon.

The information would have meant nothing at all to the girl, but the corsair was, of course, one of the modern descendants of the Barbary pirates who had been the merciless scourge of the Mediterranean many generations in the past.

And the man who now towered over her, tasting her nude loveliness with gloating black eyes, was none other than Kâiradine Redbeard, called Barbarossa—the seventh of his line to bear that once-feared and very famous name. as he was the seventh in direct succession from the notorious Khair ud-Din, pirate king of Algiers and last master of the Barbary corsairs.

And
this
was the man who had captured her!

* * * *

The reason the Stone Age maiden had never before seen one of the Barbary pirates, nor even one of the high-prowed, red-sailed galleys of Moorish design which they continued to build in imitation of their piratical ancestors, was that the kingdom of Kâiradine Redbeard lay far to the “north” of this part of Zanthodon. Farther up around the curve of the coastline of the Sogar-Jad lay the stone-walled fortress citadel the pirates called El-Cazar.

And while they lived according to the custom of their ferocious ancestors—which is to say by preying upon the tribes and nations of the coast and of those islands upon the breast of the Sogar-Jad which were inhabited by men, or by creatures very much like men—never had the galleys of El-Cazar penetrated far enough into the southern parts of the underground ocean to loot or raid or plunder Darya’s distant homeland, the kingdom of Thandar.

But while the figure and clothing of the Barbary corsair might be strange and unfamiliar to such as Darya, Kâiradine Redbeard had seen many Cro-Magnons of Darya’s kind. For the blond and blue-eyed race of half-savage cavemen were closely akin to many scattered tribes and war clans throughout the Underground World.

Never before, however, had Redbeard laid his dark eyes upon so tempting a morsel of femininity as was Darya of Thandar.

She was indeed an exquisite creature, as she lay there on the bunk glaring up at him with fury and loathing mingled in her wide blue eyes. As she panted for breath, her perfect breasts rose and fell, their delectable pink tips crisped from the coldness of the sea air on her damp skin. The corsair let his eyes travel caressingly down the sleek curve of arm and shoulder, belly and flank and long, slim, tanned thigh.

“By the Veiled Prophet of Khorassan, wench, but you are a beauty!” the corsair breathed hoarsely as he reached out to fondle the nude and tempting loveliness sprawled out before him on the rumpled bedclothes.

Then, in the next instant, with a startled cry, he withdrew his hand, nursing it to his corseleted breast. For the girl had struck like an angry viper, sinking her strong teeth almost to the bone into the flesh of his hand. With a harsh oath, he stared at the red blood running down to drip from his fingertins. and raised his other hand to deal the savage girl a heavy blow.

But at that moment there occurred what could only be termed a fortuitous interruption.

To the rear of the corsair’s cabin, which fronted upon the foam that boiled in the ship’s wake, were a broad, curved row of diamond-paned windows.

These swung open suddenly as there came hurtling into the room a bronzed and naked figure, with wet, flying hair whipping about brawny young shoulders. And through this hair glared cold blue eyes, lionlike in their wrath.

As the corsair gaped incredulously, his hand hovering for one indecisive moment above the hilt of his long, curved scimitar—that lithe and naked figure launched itself upon him like a human thunderbolt.

As for Darya of Thandar, the cave girl crouched amid the disordered tangle of the bedclothes, frozen with astonishment.

For the half-naked figure that had burst upon them so suddenly, with his unannounced and unanticipated but nonetheless extremely welcome and timely interruption, was one that she instantly recognized.

And, recognizing him, her blue eyes widened with sheer amazement.

For her intrepid rescuer was a man whom the girl knew very well to be dead.