The Zanthodon MEGAPACK ™: The Complete 5-Book Series (33 page)

* * * *

It was about the same time that the rest of us arrived on the scene. The wandering tunnel had carried us to the door in the cliff, through which the Professor had first entered the cavern city, and once we found the secret of the mechanism that triggered the counterweights, we opened it and emerged into the light of day.

The first thing we saw was Lutho’s crushed corpse amid the rocks.

Then we looked up and saw the Thandarian host atop the cliffs, and they looked down and saw us.

Of course, they didn’t know who the host of Sotharian warriors were, but it didn’t much matter to Tharn. For among the throng of newcomers he recognized me, the old Professor and Jorn the Hunter, to say nothing of Hurok of Kor.

And his daughter Darya, of course. She was standing very close to me and I had my arm around her shoulders. As soon as I saw Tharn of Thandar, I flushed crimson and took my hand away. After all, you will recall, Darya and I were both nude. And even Stone Age fathers have notions of propriety.

Raising a halloo, the Thandarians came swarming down the cliff, and a moment later Tharn seized his daughter up and crushed her slender body in his embrace and gave her a kiss that probably made her toes curl.

The neat instant he slapped me approvingly on the shoulder, nearly knocking me down, and crushed my hand in his in a grateful handshake that very nearly reduced my knuckles to powder.

And it was all over.

Or so, at the time, we thought.…

PART V: VICTORY IN ZANTHODON

CHAPTER 21

The Bond of Friendship

Garth and the men and women of Sothar had withdrawn a little ways as the Thandarians had begun their descent from the cliff top and now stood in a close group, wary and watchful. Of course, they did not know the men of Thandar to be friendly, and of course the men of Thandar actually weren’t; in Zanthodon, the hand of every man and nation is pitted against every other, and a stranger is considered to be a foe until his actions prove him a friend.

Noticing the constraint of the Sotharians, I beckoned Garth forward and led him to where Tharn stood, talking with his daughter. Seeing us, he gently put her aside, for he had men’s work to do.

“O Tharn, High Chief of the warriors of Thandar,” I said in the formal diction of their language, “let me make known to you my friend and ally, Garth, High Chief of the warriors of Sothar. It is the dearest wish of Eric Carstairs that the people of Thandar should be friends with the people of Sothar.”

Garth and Tharn looked each other over from head to toe and probably approved of what they saw—they were, after all, nearly as much alike as cousins, both being tall, majestic men in their full prime, magnificent of physique, strong and manly of visage.

Then Tharn reached out his hand.

“The wish of Eric Carstairs is likewise the wish of Tharn,” he said with simple dignity. “Greetings and peace to my brother, the Omad of Sothar, if that he come in peace.”

“In peace we meet, Omad of Thandar, and in peace we shall part,” said Garth, seizing the hand of Tharn. For a moment the two stood eye to eye, maintaining their aloof dignity.

Then they grinned at each other, and the ice was broken.

Erelong, the Thandarians were divesting themselves of some of their spare clothing, so that the men of Sothar could wrap a bit of fur about their loins and the women could also cover themselves. Grateful for at least one of the amenities of civilization, I adjusted about my loins a scrap of fur about the size of a ladies’ handkerchief, which I bound about my waist with a piece of thong.

It wasn’t much, but it felt good to be “dressed.”

The Professor looked remarkably funny in his little fur apron, with his bony ribs and skinny legs bare to the view. But through all of our adventures he had held onto his pince-nez glasses, and his absurd sun helmet; now, these two items lent him a dignity that black tie formal wear could not have given.
[1]

We drank water and rested and ate some of the stores of the Thandarians, and told of our adventures. The Thandarians looked grim as they learned of the horrors we had witnessed in the cavern city, and were amazed to learn of the Sluagghs, of whose very existence they had been happily ignorant.

Soon the two bands of warriors began constructing weapons so that the men of Sothar might arm themselves. Sharp blades trimmed saplings into spears and whittled crude but serviceable arrows, while the women worked at fashioning bows and slings. Stone axes were the easiest to make, for the foot of the cliffs was littered with bits of broken or crumbling rock.

Once armed, the combined host numbered a mighty force. The two groups of Sotharians must have totaled in excess of fifty, most of them grown men and warriors, but some of them women, old men and young children. Even these could fight, of course, for in the Underground World all are taught to defend themselves as a matter of course. There are few noncombatants in Zanthodon.

As for the Thandarians, they numbered about fifty warriors as well, perhaps a trifle more, and their numbers had now been augmented by the addition of Hurok, the Professor, Jorn, Darya and myself. We now added up to quite a large army, as armies go in the Stone Age.

And we felt confident that we could invade the cavern city, destroy the Gorpaks, slaughter the vampiric leeches and set free the listless cavern folk—although what they would do with their freedom I could not imagine, so broken and cowed had they become under generations of slavery to their bandy-legged little masters.

First, however, we must sleep. I could not recall just how long it had been since I last enjoyed a good sleep, and I ached in every muscle. With the freshest of us standing guard against any attack by Gorpaks or beasts, the rest of us fell into a deep and refreshing slumber.

* * * *

As for the Barbary pirates, they were in a quandary, if not indeed a dilemma. Achmed and his corsairs, could clearly identify Darya, for they had been present at the time when Kâiradine Redbeard had borne the jungle girl aboard his vessel, the
Red Witch
. But she was in the very midst of her people, and they dared not attack; neither, recalling the vicious temper of their Captain, did they dare not attack.

It was a pretty problem! Had Darya been among the warriors of Thandar alone, the pirates might well have gambled on an assault, counting on the advantage of surprise and on the edge of technological superiority their weapons gave them. After all, cutlasses and scimitars of whetted steel are more efficient than homemade arrows, spears and stone axes.

The trouble was, simply, the men of Sothar, whose force had now joined with the Thandarians, more than doubling their number. It would have been rash and foolhardy to the point of being suicidal had Achmed attempted to fight so huge a host with his little band.

“Mayhap, O Achmed, we should return to the ship to summon our brethren to our aid?” Kemal hissed in the ear of his commander.

“Dog of a Turk, has it not occurred to you that during our absence from the scene, on such a mission as you describe, the wench may well depart with her kinsmen?” replied the Moor scornfully.

The Turk tugged on his superb mustachios as if thereby to stimulate the processes of his intellect.

“There is sense and reason in the words of Achmed,” Kemal admitted. “Let us, rather, send back only part of our number.…”

“And thereby weaken our strength so that, if it should come to a battle, we should surely all be slain? By the beard of the prophet, dog, leave the thinking to one who possesses the wits required, and hold your tongue before I slit it with my dagger!”

Grumbling, Kemal of Istamboul lapsed into moody silence.

Achmed chewed on his lower lip, peering out between the leaves of the thickly grown bush behind which he crouched. Bluff and bluster all he would, he had no better ideas to offer than those already proposed by Kemal. But he could hardly admit that without losing face in the eyes of the ruffians he commanded.

What do you do when there really isn’t anything you can do?

Perhaps you have to take a dangerous chance.…

Achmed mumbled a prayer to his god, but under his breath. The only possibility which occurred to him was to wait and see what transpired next. If the savages, upon awakening, began to march away through the jungles, he supposed that he would have to risk all on the uncertain outcome of an ambush.

What he was really hoping for was that Darya should stray away from the host of warriors, or should for some reason be left alone, or among only a few of her people.

Well, for the moment the Moorish first mate determined to do nothing at all. He would simply wait and see what happened next.

It wasn’t the most bold and daring plan in the world, he glumly realized, but it was better than nothing.

* * * *

We awoke, rested and refreshed. I have always tried to get my eight hours in the sack, no matter where I was or what was happening around me. Seldom have I slept so deeply as when the world was exploding about my ears; I remember sleeping like an innocent babe through part of one of those minor Near Eastern wars, with the Arabs and the Israelis popping away at each other over my head.

Of course, in Zanthodon it is impossible to ascertain exactly when eight hours have passed, unless you just sit there and count “one-thousand-one, one-thousand-two,” and so on, until you have measured eight hours by. Of course, that way you wouldn’t get any sleep at all, but what the hell, at least you’d know just how long you
didn’t
sleep.

We had breakfast. Tharn’s hunters had brought down a brace of zomaks, which the women of both tribes defeathered and broiled on spits over shallow fire, pits. Zomaks are the nearest things Zanthodon can boast of comparable to birds. They are surely the strangest birds you ever saw, with scaly tails and beaks filled with sharp, nasty little teeth. Professor Potter calls them “archaeopteryx,” and says they are the ancestors of birds.

Well, maybe so, but they sure don’t taste as good as chicken!

Not to be outdone by the feats of the Thandarian hunters, the huntsmen of Sothar went into the jungle and emerged after a time with several plump uld. The uld are peculiar little critters. They resemble slim, long-legged pigs with tapering muzzles instead of snouts, and they sport a rough coat of short fur. The Professor identifies them as “eohippus,” and tells me they are the ancestors of the horse. Maybe so.…

Between pseudo-bird and proto-horse we made a fair meal, I must admit. With more than a hundred mouths to feed, the rations didn’t stretch too well, but we filled up on fruits and nuts and berries, wherewith this part of the jungle country abounded.

I believe I have said very little about the fruits of Zanthodon in these narratives. That is not because there were none, for there were plenty. It is because the Cro-Magnon tribes scorn the eating of fruit, which they regard as fit only for children and old women.
Meat
is the thing a Cro-Magnon craves; everything else is mere filler. As a filet mignon man myself, I can appreciate their feelings; but when it comes to going into battle with a tummy only half-filled, or chomping down some vegetarian goodies, I will chose the latter every time.

There is not much to say about the fruits of Zanthodon. For one thing, the Cro-Magnons have no names for different kinds of fruit, they lump everything together under one heading:
gooma
. It is a rather derogatory word, and may be translated roughly as “babyfood.” One kind of gooma looks and tastes quite like a mango, another resembles a cross between bananas and breadfruit. There is another variety resembling coconuts, but soft and hairless of shell.

It all tasted pretty good to me, but the men of Thandar and of Sothar made faces as they gulped down what they regarded as disgusting, messy stuff.

It takes all kinds, I guess.

* * * *

When we were through with our meal, we took up our weapons and made ourselves ready for the expedition down into the caverns. The women and children of the Sotharians we would leave behind, together with the few old people, such as the old wise man, Coph. I prevailed upon the Professor and Darya to remain with them, overriding their protests.

“It’s a job for younger and more vigorous men than yourself, Doc,” I said honestly. “Don’t be offended, but you’d really be in the way.”

He sniffed, giving me a frosty glare. But I know he understood.

I made my farewells to Darya. They were rather formal ones, for I had not yet declared myself as a contender for her hand. We did not stand close, or kiss, or even touch. But our eyes, as the saying has it, spoke volumes. Volumes of love poems, that is.

“Fare you well, chief’s daughter,” I said. “May the Unseen Ones have you in their keeping.”
[2]

“Fare you well, chieftain,” she said simply. I turned away.

“Eric Carstairs!” she called after me. I turned to look at her again.

Her voice was very low, as if choked by some emotion whose name and nature I scarcely dared hope I knew.

“Yes?”

“Come back safely…to me!”

My heart surged within me; all at once I was sixteen years old again, and just got a valentine from the Raquel Welch of my high school. I felt buoyant, filled with absurd self-confidence. I smiled, nodded, waved my hand and turned away.

We marched for the ladders.

And behind us, from the shelter of the bushes, Achmed of the Barbary pirates smiled a cold, cruel, cunning smile as his eyes rested on Darya of Thandar.…

CHAPTER 22

INTO THE CAVERNS

Other eyes were also watching from places of concealment. Xask and Fumio crouched behind the bole of a tall Jurassic conifer, watching as we ascended the cliffs. And the eyes of Xask were narrowed in concentration.

He had once fired the automatic, but he really did not understand how it worked or the extent and limitation of its powers. For that he needed the cooperation of Eric Carstairs. And he was well aware that Eric Carstairs would not willingly cooperate. He needed some sort of leverage over the man whose mind bore the information he was determined to possess.…

As for Fumio, his eyes were turned adoringly upon his god. You must understand the reasons for Fumio’s rapid and thorough conversion to Xaskianity. The outlawed Thandarian chieftain had never chanced to be present on any of those occasions when I had fired the .45. He had heard rumors of the “thunder-weapon,” as both the Cro-Magnons and the Neanderthals called my gun, but had paid little attention.

Fumio was rotten to the core, an arrogant, sneering bully and a lily-livered coward—by my personal standards, at least. A strong, brave man does not try to rape a defenseless girl. Alone and lost and friendless in the trackless jungles, Fumio would probably have survived—after a fashion—but would not have made a very good job of it.

Then along came Xask.

Fumio was well aware that he was not very intelligent. He was handsome, or had been before Jorn broke his nose; and he was superbly muscular, a good hunter and a good warrior. But he had no smarts.

Xask was very smart. He was one of the most intelligent and crafty devils I have ever known. Glib and articulate, a born con man, Xask could have talked his way out from between the very jaws of a hungry sabertooth tiger.

Not being very intelligent, Fumio admired and envied those who were. And Xask certainly was.

Not being very confident of himself, after the fiasco he had made of things recently, Fumio respected and envied those who were. And Xask was supremely confident.

Put all of that together, then remember that Fumio had looked on as Xask felled a rampaging stegosaurus with a bolt of lightning. The drunth, as the Cro-Magnons call the stegosaurus, is a large and very fearsome reptile. Unlike many of its kind, it is a carnivore. Even the boldest and bravest of the warriors of Thandar will take to their heels if a drunth appears on the scene. And Xask had toppled one as easy as pie.

Hence Fumio’s conversion to the worship of Xask.

And Xask didn’t at all mind being worshipped.…