The Zanthodon MEGAPACK ™: The Complete 5-Book Series (30 page)

To be this near to freedom—to hope for an escape into the jungles with the tall man at her side—to know that her mighty sire and all his host of warriors were not far off, and had not given over their attempt to rescue her from peril—all of these were as a potent intoxicant to the emotions of the girl.

How cruelly ill-timed, then, to know that all these hopes were doomed.…

For Darya, too, knew that she and Jorn and all of the Sotharians were to be given over to the hellish embrace of the monstrous leech things when next she woke.

Tears came to the eyes of the brave and gallant maid. She thrust the knuckles of one small hand against her mouth to stifle the sob that rose unbidden in her breast.

It would not do to have the others see her weep.

But, O, Eric Carstairs! To be this close to the one she so powerfully desired—and to have her hopes dashed to the cold stone floor!

* * * *

And, as the little ironies of Fate would have it, at almost that very instant, Tharn of Thandar was even nearer than the Stone Age princess could dare to hope.

His agile huntsmen and scouts had scaled the cliff to its crest. That cliff ran the length of the promontory like a spine, and along the crest Komad and his scouts scrutinized the naked stone for any sign or token that Darya and her companion had passed this way.

Here and there, shallow depressions in the stony crest bore loose dirt blown hither by the updrafts that howled between the Peaks of Peril; loose rock, crumbled by rain and wind, formed deposits of broken shale; plants, their seeds wind-carried to this aerie, sprouted in clefts of the rock; mold and lichen, fungi and moss, nourished by steamy rains, carpeted places sheltered by higher rock.

It was in these places that the keen eyes of Komad the scout ascertained that Darya had passed this way.

It was not the sort of proof that would have been tangible, or even visible, to the eyes of such as you or I. A mere matter of a dry pebble dislodged from its bed by a passing foot, a slithering heap of shale disturbed, the smear of wetness where a hand or knee had crushed the moss of lichen. But to the hawklike gaze of such as Komad of Thandar, the evidence was blatantly obvious, and he passed the word down to where his chief stood with stolid features, arms folded upon his mighty breast, as if thereby to still the throb of hope within his father’s heart.

Once Komad had found proof that Darya had scaled the cliff, Tharn gave swift orders to his warriors to scale the wall of rock. Not all of the men of Thandar were as nimble as the scouts and huntsmen, so crude ladders were swiftly constructed whereby all could ascend to the crest. These were merely the trunks of saplings or of fallen trees, their limbs lopped off with stone axes so that the stumps could serve as rungs.

When six of these were leaned against the stony wall, the warriors climbed in single file. And in less time than it would take me to describe this scene, all were assembled atop the rocky spine of the peninsula.

Here Komad, with every skill and intuition he possessed, strove to follow the meager trail. Since the markings made by Darya and her companion continued for a time along the crest of the wall, he continued along the top of the cliffs until at length he reached the site of the hidden trapdoor which had, you will remember, tilted to precipitate Jorn and Darya into the trap of the Gorpaks.

Komad paused, at the far end of the trapdoor, turning his head from side to side as if baffled. He continued on for twenty paces; then he returned to the place whereon first he had paused. Loose patches of windblown soil lay ahead, and a patch of damp moss flourished in the shadow of a tall boulder. Had Darya and her companion continued farther ahead from this spot, surely they would have left the marks of their passage in one or the other place.

But neither the windblown soil nor the damp moss had recently been disturbed. And there was no sign or token that the lost Princess and her companion had veered to either side of the clifftop to attempt a descent.

Komad scratched his grizzled cheek, baffled. It was as if the viewless air had opened an invisible jaw to swallow the two up. But this was nonsense; ghosts and monsters and witch doctors there might well be, but anything physical enough to have done such a deed would itself have left markings. And no such markings met his eagle eye.

Since they had gone neither ahead nor to either side, nor had they retraced their steps, in what other direction could the two possibly have gone?

That was the question Komad posed to himself as he stood immobile, deep in thought.

He looked down.

The stone slab under his feet seemed as solid as did the rest of the cliff. And he could not discover so much as a hairline crack that seemed artificial. Nevertheless.…

Had Komad of Thandar ever, by some miracle, been able to read Conan Doyle’s tales of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, he would have nodded in agreement with that master detective’s most celebrated dictum: “Eliminate the impossible. Whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

Borrowing a stone axe from one of the warriors—who crouched on their heels in silent vigil, alertly watching as Komad strove to trace the whereabouts of Darya—the scout rapped against the stony slab and listened with ears no less keen than were his eyes.

Then he moved two paces farther on, and repeated the action.

Then two paces more.

Suddenly, the sound seemed to him subtly different. In the first two places, the stone had rung with a faint but definite echo to the blow of the axe. But beyond those two sites, the stone rung with a dull thud. Komad looked up.

“The stone is hollow there,” he said, pointing.

Without a moment’s delay, Tharn gave the proper commands to the men who stood eager and ready.

As far as the High Chief of Thandar was concerned, he was perfectly willing to rip the very Peaks of Peril asunder in order to find his missing daughter. And the warriors of Thandar were themselves no less willing, if only it would enable them to rescue their lost Princess.…

* * * *

From the edge of the cliff, behind where Tharn and his warriors chopped and pried and levered at the rocky slab, the Barbary pirates watched from places of concealment, baffled at the mysterious actions of the savages.

The Thandarians were too numerous and too well-armed for Achmed of El-Cazar to risk an open battle; besides, there seemed to be no need to fight the jungle men. For the moment, he was perfectly content to wait, to watch, to spy upon them, for it seemed that they, too, were searching for something.

It never occurred to Achmed to guess that both his men and the savages were searching for the same young woman.

“What is it that they do, the wild men?” inquired Tarbu in a hoarse whisper, from where he crouched at the elbow of the first mate of the
Red Witch
.

Achmed shrugged, mystified.

“Allah alone knows,” he muttered. For it seemed to him as if the savages were trying to break into the very fabric of the cliffs. Although why they should, or what it was they were after, was beyond the imaginings of the Moor.

“Let us fall upon them, and slay,” grumbled a burly Turk named Kemal, who crouched nearby in the shade of the boulder. “To lurk like dogs—to slink and scurry—is not seemly for the heroes of El-Cazar.”

Achmed gave him a glare of fierce reproof.

“You will lurk and scurry like dogs, O dog of Istamboul, if I bid you do so,” he snarled. “They are armed and they are many—”

“No more than are we,” grunted the Turk, hefting the hilt of his dented scimitar significantly, his magnificent mustachios (which were his pride and joy) bristling belligerently.

“Still thy tongue, O Kemal, or I shall slit it for thee, and thou shalt croak all thy days like a raven,” said Achmed coldly. “It behooves us now to wait and watch and listen—”

Grumbling and calling upon his prophet, the fat Turk subsided. The Barbary pirates had watched from the shelter of the trees as the primitives had felled and trimmed the tall saplings whereby they had scaled the sheer wall of the cliffs. Once the savages were gone farther down the rocky spine of the promontory, Achmed had cautiously bade his corsairs ascend the cliff by means of the same crude ladders. Now they held the rear of the Thandarian host, crouched behind tall spires of rock and round boulders, watching carefully.

“The Barbarossa would not hide like a starveling cur,” grouched Kemal to the man nearest him, but in low tones so that Achmed would not overhear.

“The Barbarossa is not here, dog of a Turk,” spat the lean Arab at his side. “And the mate Achmed is. So we must do his bidding…of what use to engage a band of howling savages? We are not here for war, but to seize a runaway girl. Now be silent, and let us observe in silence…”

Powerful and determined were the warriors of Thandar, and indefatigable. But, for all the vigor of their unrelenting effort, the secret of the mechanism which controlled the stone trapdoor continued to elude them.

Nevertheless, they toiled on.

Tharn frowned, his head heavy. For all the jungle monarch knew, every moment might count. Even at this moment, a horrible doom might be creeping upon his helpless daughter in those black and unknown depths below his feet.

Somehow he guessed that time was running out.…

But there was nothing to do but strive on.

CHAPTER 18

Burning Bright

Harsh gongs awoke us from our restless, troubled slumbers. The bars were withdrawn which blocked the door to our pen, and bandy-legged little Gorpaks came waddling between the rows of sleeping men and women, rousing us with flicks of the whip and sharp, barking commands.

When we were assembled into ranks, my personal adversary, little Captain Lutho, came strutting and preening before us, eyeing us up and down with shrewd, gloating gaze.

“Attention, animals!” he snapped. “It is now your inestimable honor to serve Those who are in every way greater than yourselves, as They are in every way superior even to us Gorpaks, their servants and minions! Reluctance and recalcitrance will not be tolerated, for your entire purpose in this world is to obey the least whim of Those who are as far above you in the scheme of nature as you are above the worms that delve in the dark places of the earth.…”

The pompous little dwarf went on in this general line for a lengthy harangue, before we at last were herded out of our dungeon and down a winding corridor to our unknown doom.

As we marched stolidly along, I caught the opportunity to exchange meaningful glances with Hurok, Varak and Garth, the Omad of the men of Sothar. During the sleep period just past, we had talked long, laying our plans. Garth had been of the opinion that we should spring upon the Gorpaks the moment they dispersed down the aisles between our rows of sleeping places, but I counseled delay.

“Let us wait until they march us forward to meet their Masters,” I had argued. “Both the Sluaggh and the Gorpaks are more accustomed to dealing with the cowed and broken cavern people than they are with brave and determined fighting men. And I have a little surprise in store for the Sluaggh.…”

In the end, Garth yielded to the superior wisdom of my scheme. At least, I hoped that my wisdom was superior, but only time would tell…and time, for us, was swiftly running out.…

At some juncture in the maze of wandering corridors we encountered another pack of captives, who were under heavy guard by the Gorpaks. I guessed at once that this crowd contained the other Sotharian party, and Jorn and my beloved Princess as well. Nor was I wrong: across the heads of the blond warriors, my eyes flew to Darya’s lovely face, and her blue eyes clung to mine. I strove to convey confidence in my expression, but I do not know if she saw anything there but that which she expected to see.

We were formed together, and the men of Sothar who had been long parted from their friends and family members in the other group, clung together, happily weeping, until separated by blows of whip and cudgel. But the cruel Gorpaks, for all their brutality, could not prevent the men and women of Sothar from looking into the faces of their mates, their relatives and their friends.

* * * *

By my side, Professor Potter limped along, grumbling. Behind me, Hurok loomed protectively, saying nothing. Farther down the line, One-Eye stumped along, his huge head lowered, and beneath his russet fur and coating of dirt I knew his ugly features were pale and sweating with craven fear.

My heart was in my throat. This long trek through the caverns might well be the last journey for me and my friends. But I consoled myself with the knowledge that, at least, we would go out fighting. It wasn’t as much consolation as I could have used at that moment, but it was all I had. And I wondered to myself if my plan would work.…

We came at length into the enormous stone room of which Hurok had told me in his account of his own adventures. All was as he had described it to me, the great slab of a trapdoor beneath which, I assumed, the hideous Sluaggh lolled, awaiting their repulsive repast. Above, I glimpsed the unrailed balcony from which the Apeman had observed the leeches at their Feasting. Around the walls of the vast, echoing chamber, torches widely spaced were set; and, like those that illuminated the rest of the cavern city, they burned exceedingly dim.

Here the Gorpaks left us for a time, although a squad remained on guard at the doorway. We huddled together by prearranged plan, as if for comfort in the proximity of our comrades. And, with Sotharian warriors placed so as to block our actions from the watchful Gorpaks, we proceeded to perform an action that might well have seemed inexplicable to you, had you been present to observe it.

We all took off our clothes
.

I have already alluded to the fact that the human inhabitants of Zanthodon are no Puritans. They feel no particular shame at exposing their bodies to the indifferent gaze of others. Indeed, in the steamy, tropic warmth of Zanthodon’s eternal noon, to wear very much in the way of clothing is unnecessary and quite uncomfortable.

So it was that, men and women together, we stripped off our few, scant garments. Sharp teeth and strong hands tore the furs and pelts into strips. Agile fingers knotted these together swiftly into a long rope (pray the Lord it would prove long enough!), which we hastily coiled and concealed with our bodies as the Gorpaks returned in force.

It did not seem to me very likely that the Gorpaks would pay any attention to our nakedness. They were accustomed to seeing the pale, listless cavern folk go about their duties unclothed, and, as they regard us as “animals,” they could be assumed to be indifferent as to whether we covered ourselves or not.

This remained to be seen; and much hinged upon our hope that they would not notice our state of undress and become suspicious.

Thank God they did not.

Scarcely giving us a glance, they formed us into two lines, and then there stepped forth the bald and wizened old shaman of the Gorpaks, the one called Queb, of whom Hurok had told me. He was a ridiculous figure in his beads and bangles, head wobbling under his fantastic headdress, but sinister enough in light of his purpose.