The Zanthodon MEGAPACK ™: The Complete 5-Book Series (22 page)

“My word!” breathed the Professor.

The object seemed, to the touch at least, to be a metal bracket clamped to the wall by screws or rivets.

And the bracket held an unlit torch!

It was a length of wood, pulped into shavings and intermixed with some tarry substance which held the wood pulp together like glue. The Professor took it down, ran his sensitive fingertips the length of it and held it to his nostrils for a sniff or two, in order to ascertain these facts.

The really interesting thing about his discovery was that the torch or candle, or whatever it might best be called, was fresh and new. And that the bracket, which seemed to be of iron, was greased against damp and rust.

Now it had already occurred to Professor Potter that these caverns and the weighted, swinging door in the cliff could have been the product of some long-extinct race from out of the past of Zanthodon. But now he held concrete evidence that the caverns within the Peaks of Peril were inhabited today—but by what race he had no way of knowing. At any rate, they commanded a technology superior to anything else he had yet seen in the Underground World.

And this was
very
interesting.

Fumbling in the pockets of the collection of khaki rags and tatters that was all which remained of his safari breeches, the savant produced bits of flint which he proceeded to strike together, patiently, blowing on them all the while. He hoped, obviously, to light the torch candle, and with its light to explore more easily this maze of caverns. For he had no wish to go out by the way he had come in, lest he find the hideous leech thing still waiting for him beyond the door in the wall.

It took longer than he might have wished, but at last the torch-candle caught fire and the tar-impregnated punk glowed into luminance. The light thereof was soft and muted, peculiarly so, but it burned with a steady, dim radiance. The Professor proceeded to explore…

* * * *

I lay inwardly fuming but outwardly calm with my back against a boulder near the foot of the Peaks. My hands and arms had been bound behind my back, which made my present position a cause of considerable discomfort. Moreover, they had been bound so tightly that already my hands had gone numb.

In front of me, sprawled out lazily before my fire, Xask, One-Eye and Fumio consumed the leftovers of my meal at their leisure. From time to time, one of them would cast a glance in my direction. Fumio eyed me with sneering and venomous hatred; the once-handsome caveman fiercely resented the fact that I had replaced him in Darya’s affections—all the more since Jorn had broken his nose with a blow of his fist, thus ruining his classic profile which had made him such a devil with the ladies. One-Eye glared at me gloatingly, licking his lips; I have no doubt that the brutal Neanderthal would have enjoyed kicking me to death, and was probably envisioning that pleasant picture in what passed for his imagination.

But it was the looks which I received from Xask which worried me most, actually. This small, slight man of indeterminate age obviously came from a much higher level of civilization than any we had heretofore discovered during our travels and adventures in Zanthodon. And I did not at all like his interest in my gun.

The reasons for this should be obvious. The Cro-Magnons and the Neanderthals are fairly evenly matched in strength, in endurance, and in fighting skills. Hostilities between the two nations of primitives are balanced fairly and evenly. But, should one or another nation—or some as yet unknown third race—discover how to make and use weapons as devastating as my automatic, they could conquer all of Zanthodon and exterminate or enslave all other tribes.

Bringing my automatic into this primitive world made me feel rather like the serpent in Eden…and it was not a feeling which I enjoyed.

And somehow or other I had the distinct impression that, ignorant of mechanical devices as he might be, the intelligence of Xask was not lightly to be dismissed. Any Stone Age savage can learn to point a revolver and to pull the trigger—you can even train chimpanzees to perform that sort of trick. And if Xask figured out the mechanism, and if the metalworkers of his as-yet-unknown nation were skillful enough to craft similar devices…well, it certainly boded ill, not only for the stalwart Cro-Magnons, but also for the poor, hulking Neanderthals as well.

Maintaining an expressionless visage, I was all the while working on my bonds. My fingers were stiff and numb to such a point that I could more accurately have said “fumbling” with my bonds. And since my wrists and upper arms were bound with cruelly tight rawhide leather thongs, which strength alone could not hope to burst, my chances of working my way free were extremely slight.

Especially since I was rapidly losing circulation in my arms, because of the tightness of the thongs. Soon I would lose all feeling in my upper extremities, and would no longer be able to pry and twist at the knots.

Finishing his meal, One-Eye rubbed his greasy lips dry with a careless swipe of his furry forearm and began picking bits of meat from between his teeth with a ragged fingernail. He looked me over with lingering relish, as if I were to be his dessert. And leaning over, he hoarsely whispered a suggestion to Xask, with a gloating sidewise glance in my direction.

But the smaller man shook his head firmly. “Not yet, my friend, it is not necessary. I feel certain that our guest will prove amenable to reason; if, for some reason, he does not prove so, we can always resort to your crude but generally effective methods at that time.…”

And my blood ran cold at the words.

One-Eye growled a coarse oath and climbed clumsily to his feet and went waddling off toward some bushes, obviously intending to relieve himself. Taking advantage of the other’s absence, Xask moved over and sat by me.

“I do not know exactly how long I shall be able to restrain my companion from extracting from you the sort of sanguinary vengeance he believes long due him,” he remarked in calm, even tones, watching my eyes for some betrayal of the effect of his words.

I, of course, rigorously maintained a serene, impassive composure.

“In return for my efforts to hold One-Eye back,” he continued, “I naturally expect you to cooperate.”

“Cooperate in which way?” I asked, more to gain time than to gain information, for I already had a pretty good idea of what Xask desired of me.

He indicated the automatic with a graceful gesture.

“I wish to learn the secret of your thunder-weapon,” he said. “Now understand me well, Eric Carstairs, I have been driven into exile and outlawry by my own people, for they mistakenly presumed me to be a dangerously ambitious man. It was, actually, the connivance of rivals jealous of my closeness to the Empress which led to my conviction, a simple matter of forged documents, unsupported gossip, hearsay and conjecture. But it sufficed.”

I said nothing, but thought to myself that this was, indeed, a dangerously clever man, ambitious or no. And I more than half suspected that his rivals probably were on the right track in accusing him of whatever variety of treason they had accused him of. However, I kept my thoughts to myself; when one has his hands tied behind his back, it behooves him to use a little tact.

His mention of “the Empress” aroused my curiosity. I had not until then suspected that any of the tribes or nations were of an order of civilization sufficiently high to enjoy the sovereignty of anything more elevated than a mere High Chief. I opened my mouth to ask about his mysterious people, who and where they were, but he was already speaking again.

“My only motive for desiring the secret of the thunderweapon is to provide myself with sufficient power to unseat my enemies and regain the favor of the Empress,” he said smoothly. “If you will aid me in this, I promise you not only your life and freedom but a high place beside me, close to the throne of Zar. Only, not so close as my own place, you will understand.…”

I smiled, trying to look as sly and greedy as my blunt and rather honest visage could look.

“Let me think about it,” I suggested.

“I would prefer to have your answer now,” he drawled. “Else I fear that I cannot promise to be able to restrain the brutality of One-Eye much longer.”

I made a noncommittal grunt. I certainly had no intention of teaching this Stone Age Machiavelli the formula for gunpowder; that would have been a moral crime on a par with giving Atilla the Hun the recipe for mustard gas. My only hope was to stall for time, pretend to fall in, reluctantly, with his plan, and wait for the opportunity to get my .45 back and head for the hills.

Just then a sudden yell made us look over our shoulders.

Holding his hide loincloth about his middle, One-Eye came waddling with all possible speed out of the edge of the woods. His mouth was wide open, revealing yellowed and broken tusks, and he was uttering shrill, frightened squalls. A moment later, we saw for ourselves the cause of his consternation.

For there came shouldering through the brush something huge and heavy and horned. Its shape was similar to the bull or bison, but it was more the size and heft of a half-grown elephant. And my heart sank into my boots, except that I wasn’t wearing any by this time.

For the thing was what the folk of Zanthodon call a goroth and the Professor identifies as an aurochs—the gigantic prehistoric ancestor of the ox.

Big as a hill and angry as fury.

And coming straight at us!

And my hands were tied behind my back.…

CHAPTER 8

An Unknown Enemy

Darya struck the waves of the Sogar-Jad an instant after the lithe form of the cave boy had cleaved them, and she sank to the bottom like a stone. Kicking out and flailing about with her arms, she rose to the surface again, whipped back her wet blond hair from her eyes, and stared about for her rescuer.

He was treading water a few yards away. The youth grinned at her and she smiled back her thanks.

The pirate galley, already underway, had already receded some distance out to sea. The two turned and headed in to shore. Scrambling up on the bank, they wasted no time in making for the shelter of the woods, from which vantage they watched as the vessel of the corsairs vanished in the mists which rose from the waters of the subterranean ocean.

“The hunter, Jorn, has the thanks of Darya of Thandar,” said the girl in the curiously stilted and artificial way of talking that the Cro-Magnons of Zanthodon adopt when speaking ceremonially.

The boy nodded seriously.

“The-Men-Who-Ride-Upon-Water would have sold Darya into slavery,” he said simply. “The hunter, Jorn, was fortunate that he could rescue his Princess from so undeserved a fate.”

Actually, he used the word
gomad
, which means the daughter of an Omad, or High Chief, but the sense of the word is the same.

“Not so fortunate as Darya,” the girl observed. “And if she is ever reunited again with her father, he will learn of the bravery and devotion of his warrior.”

With that, they turned away and went deeper into the jungle. No further words were spoken, because no further words were needed. Thanks had been expressed and gracefully accepted, and that was that. I don’t know if the Professor is right in his theory that the single universal language spoken all over the Underground World is the original prototype of the Indo-European tongue from which most of our language in the Upper World descend, but if he is, then our Stone Age ancestors had evolved a remarkably graceful system of formalities long before courtly politeness was invented.

Quite a race, the Cro-Magnon.…

* * * *

Like the simple children of nature that they were, the boy and girl immediately set about gathering the necessities for their survival. Jorn had nothing but his sandals and a bit of tanned hide twisted about his loins. All of his weapons had been lost by this time. And Darya, of course, had nothing at all along the lines of weapons or even clothing, for she was stark naked. Therefore, weapons were the first order of the day.

Stripping a vine from one of the trees, Darya’s nimble fingers peeled a strip length of tough, supple fiber from which in no time at all she had devised a rude but serviceable sling. Smooth pebbles selected from the bottom of the brook provided her with missiles for it. It was not much of a weapon—it certainly wouldn’t do much to stop or even slow down a charging triceratops—but it was better than nothing at all.

While the cave girl was putting together her own armament, Jorn was busied with some prehistoric variety of bamboo. A long, hollow tube-like length would provide him with a fairly efficient spear-once he had ground one end to a point by rubbing it against a fiat rough stone and hardened the point by baking it in a fire.

As he worked on his javelin, the girl went hunting, soon returning with a brace of zomak brought down by her sling; she looked flushed and triumphant.

The zomak is what Darya’s people call the archaeopteryx, the beaked and toothy ancestor of bird life. I have eaten them and I can assure you that they are edible…not exactly a treat for the gourmet palate, understand, but edible.

While Jorn ground the end of his bamboo spear into a point Darya built a fire. Flinty pebbles struck together, shooting sparks into handfuls of dry grass and leaves, is about the only way the Cro-Magnons know how to make fire. It is laborious and wearisome, but it can be done. And, since Darya knew of no easier way, she went about her task with serene patience.

Before long the zomaks were broiling on a spit made of twigs which Darya turned over a bed of sizzling coals, while Jorn baked his spear point until it was dry and hard. Then they made a simple but satisfying meal, and rested for a time, recounting to one another the adventures since they had parted. Jorn was surprised that Darya had never before heard of the Barbary pirates.

“Surely, my Princess has heard the old women of Thandar tell of the Men-That-Ride-Upon-Water?” he murmured. The maiden shrugged.

“It is not fitting for the daughter of the Omad to listen to the tales of old women,” she said disdainfully. And Jorn could think of no reply to that.

She told him how she had escaped from the a thakdol which had carried her off to its nest in the Peaks of Peril, and of how she had climbed down the face of one of the mountains, entered within the mountain by means of a cavernous opening and found her way to the surface again by labyrinthine spaces within the mountain itself.

“The Peaks of Peril are hollow,” Darya observed, “and may contain strange, unwholesome things. We would be well gone from this region, which fully deserves its reputation.”

The youth nodded somberly, agreeing with her.

“Besides, the Men-That-Ride-Upon-Water may come after us, seeking her that fled from the embrace of their chief,” he added.

The girl shuddered, then bit her lip. But she said nothing. For the truth of the matter was that it had been a very long time since either of them had slept. (Due to the timelessness of Zanthodon, neither the boy nor the girl could estimate how long a time it had been, but the weariness of their bodies was such that they were aware they must sleep before going on.)

“They will not search for us here,” yawned Darya sleepily. Then she and Jorn curled up beneath a broadleaved bush and fell at once into the deep and dreamless sleep that comes to young people of flawless health and untroubled conscience.