The Zanthodon MEGAPACK ™: The Complete 5-Book Series (45 page)

“You were right, mistress,” said the renegade with a gloating leer. “She came this way, after all.…”

A door, hitherto unnoticed, opened in the wall. Through the darkness, Darya could just make out a supple figure swathed in heavy robes. With a pang of dreadful anticipation, the cavegirl strove to make out the features half-concealed by the shadows of a hooded robe.

Then Zoraida laughed
.

CHAPTER 14

BLOOD ON COLD STEEL

Grond sweated, hunched low in the dugout canoe. It had been touch and go there a while, attempting to prove himself a friend to the host of Thandar, although a stranger from another tribe, that of Gorthak. The young Cro-Magnon slave had been of two minds about his mission: while his primary obligation was to perform his task satisfactorily, in order to return to his beloved Jaira, all of the clean, healthy manhood in him rose in revolt at the realization that he was tricking into a trap these stalwart warriors, who were of his own kind.

Risking all upon his estimate of the character of another, Grond finally drew Tharn of Thandar aside and revealed all to him. The jungle monarch nodded grimly, having suspected something of the sort, and clapped the younger man on one brawny shoulder.

“Tharn understands the dilemma of Grond the Gorthakian,” he growled. “Nor does he think the less of Grond for his part in this plot. But what is the plan of this Yussef? Once he has managed to give my warriors secret access to the city of the Men-Who-Ride-Upon-Water, how does he expect to prevent our conquering these foes?”

“Grond’s master,” said that worthy, his lips twisting wryly upon the hated word, “did not confide in him to that extent. All that Grond knows is that he is to admit you into El-Cazar, with all your strength, through the sea door that Yussef pointed out. It will be unlocked and unbarred, and Yussef will see to it that no guards or patrols are near. This is to be done at a certain time; but once the men of Thandar are within the fortress city, they may rampage at will and inflict the utmost damage upon the Barbary Pirates.”

Tharn considered, frowning. “The one object of Tharn’s desire is the safe rescue of his beloved daughter, whom you claim is held captive in the great house of this Redbeard, upon the height at the center of the isle. Therefore, we shall cut our way through the streets in a direct path toward the house of Redbeard, and not let ourselves be tempted into another path. Can Grond tell aught more that may be of use to us?”

The slave had nothing more to tell. Tharn nodded, seemingly satisfied—although Grond himself could not imagine why, for so many problems remained unsolved and so many questions were left unanswered, that the invasion of El-Cazar seemed to his way of thinking utter madness.

Yet here he found himself crouched in a miserable dugout, salt spray dampening his yellow hair, a stone axe clenched in one fist while, with the other, he clutched a tall shield of stout wicker framework over which was tightly stretched and pegged the armored hide of a diplodocus.

The Thandarians beached on the rocky shores of El-Cazar and stormed the length of the old quay which was deserted and long since abandoned. The heavy door in the clifflike wall was ajar, even as had been promised. Lithe, wary scouts entered, finding the immediate vicinity empty of fighting men: it was a huddle of dreary hovels, slouching against each other, many empty, some in use, but at this early hour the residents slept a sound sleep.

Through the narrow alleys which stretched between the slums crept the warriors of Thandar, intent upon the palace which crowned the hilly height of the isle. However Yussef ben Ali had managed it, the streets where through they roamed were devoid of citizens, they were not discovered. Erelong, however, the swinging doors of a wineshop opened to disgorge a Barbary buccaneer, so drunk upon the forbidden juice of the grape that it was all he could do to stand on his two feet. As his bleary eyes focused upon the astounding rank of blond, half-naked phantoms, the corsair of a sudden became cold sober from the shock.

“Hoy—!” he croaked uncertainly, one swarthy hand questing for the hilt of his nicked and dented cutlass.

It was the last sound he ever uttered, for in the next split second a Thandarian arrow transfixed his throat and he fell in the gutter, vomiting hot blood. With one last kick, one last thrashing of long legs, he perished on the spot.

Tharn gestured, and two spearmen dragged the dead pirate into an alley and pulled across his corpse a tottering mound of garbage, effectively concealing the dead carcass.

“Oh!” grunted Tharn, and the warriors advanced, on silent feet like hunting cats, bronze-bladed spears at the ready, arrows nocked on drawn bows, clubs and war axes gripped in strong, eager fists.

So perfectly had Yussef ben Ali timed the Thandarian host’s invasion of El-Cazar, that the horde of yellow-haired Cro-Magnons actually reached the midpoint of the island city before sentinels noticed them and sounded the alarm. By that time it was almost too late to stop them, so deeply had they penetrated the pirate city. Yowling corsairs exploded from inn, wineshop and bordello, wild-eyed, cutlasses a-wave, although half-dressed and in no condition for a pitched battle after a night of drunken debauchery.

The blond savages were half-naked, armed only with the most primitive of weapons, whereas their foes bore edged weapons of well-forged steel, in whose use they were well practiced. Nevertheless, the animal vigor of the Thandarians, the deadliness of their intent, the splendid health of their magnificent bodies, drove them through the mob of excited corsairs whom they smashed aside and trampled underfoot. In no time they were pelting up the street toward the towers of Kâiradine’s palace which loomed above their heads.

Time and time again they encountered crude and hasty barricades which the buccaneers flung athwart their path. These they leaped over or tore apart, slaying the corsairs by the dozens. It was not so much that the Barbary Pirates were poor fighters or lacking in the will to oppose the invaders, it was a simple and practical matter of arms.

The corsairs were poor bowmen. The Thandarians had hunted all their lives with bow and arrow, and to nock and loose a feathered shaft was instinctive to them. Time and again, as the corsairs massed to cut the invaders apart with sharp steel, a withering rain of barbed and aerial death cut them down before they could get close enough to the savages to employ the superiority of their weapons against them.

Tharn stooped, plucking a steel cutlass from the lax fingers of a dying pirate. He hefted the unfamiliar weapon cautiously, his expression thoughtful: the glittering blade was sharper than that of a knife of flint or copper or bronze, would resist nicks better and would obviously hold an edge far longer. Moreover, the long curved blade was cunningly weighted in such a manner that even he could see it was a superbly designed weapon with which to slash and cut.

He passed orders down the line that his warriors were to retrieve from their fallen foe all such weapons, one to each man. Rapidly, the Cro-Magnons began gathering a harvest of gory steel.

Thandar had been entering upon the Bronze Age; but now the tribe had entered upon a more advanced era.…

* * * *

They dragged Kâiradine Redbeard from the gasping, half-throttled body of Yussef, and restrained him until his wild frenzy calmed and he was able to listen to reason.

“My prince, the city is under attack,” cried Achmed. “None but you can lead us against the savages—”

At that very moment one of Kâiradine’s servants burst into the room and fell upon his knees before the panting, wildeyed, disheveled figure of his lord.

“O
reis
, the savage girl has fled from the palace, escaping through a window!” the man wailed, thumping his forehead against the floor.

Kâiradine stared at him, a turmoil of emotions seething within his breast. He recognized the black slave as one of the eunuchs set to guard Darya’s place of confinement.

“Fled?” he repeated in wondering tones, as one dazed. “How ‘fled,’ you groveling pig? Was she not guarded and watched day and night—were not her windows stoutly screened?”

The black man beat his head against the floor. “Even so, my prince! But from somewhere the woman obtained a sharp knife and cut asunder the wooden screens, finding a path to freedom—”

Ayyub plucked at his sleeve. “Redbeard—let the wench go! None but you can lead us against the savages—”

Spitting like a wildcat, Kâiradine tore his arm free of the other’s grasp.

“Let me be, you whining cur! You have chosen yonder half-dead dog as your leader—follow him!”

“Master!” wailed Achmed.

But Kâiradine was beyond hearing or caring by this point. The blows to his esteem had come too swiftly to be endured. All that he could think of was the slim, vibrant, golden loveliness of the cavegirl, Darya. To think of such delectable girlflesh so long desired, and the consummation of that desire so achingly long deferred, now escaping from his reach goaded him into a red madness.

Hurling the pleading Moor from him, Kâiradine strode from the chamber and was gone, leaving the others to stare blankly at each other. Achmed soon gathered himself together and fled in pursuit of his master, while Ayyub and fat-bellied Zodeen assisted Yussef ben Ali to stagger to his feet, helped him to a chair and poured wine into a goblet, which the other man thirstily gulped down.

“You have a plan to rid us of the savages?” demanded Ayyub sharply. “Then use it, and quickly, O Yussef—for the savages are in the streets even now, and we are at war!”

“I have a plan,” gasped Yussef, massaging his bruised neck.

“Best use it, then,” grunted Zodeen, turning from the casement from which he had been peering down at the melee below. “The barbarians are assaulting the main gate of the palace, and soon we will all be fighting for our lives.”

“What is your plan?” demanded Ayyub of Yussef.

“The girl whom the savages seek has fled the palace, and my agents have seized her. Any moment now, Zoraida will appear to call out to the savages that the girl is theirs if they will make an orderly retreat.”

Zodeen stared at him dumbfounded. “But—but,” he spluttered, “Erlik fry me for a flounder, don’t you know Zoraida hates the wench’s guts, for replacing her in the affections of Kâiradine? Broil me for a haddock, by Ahriman, where
is
the dancing-girl?”

“She should be…ah…about now,” faltered Yussef as the main gate of the palace came crashing down before the lusty blows of the Cro-Magnon savages. He limped across to the window and stared out, and blanched.

A long silence ensued, broken only by the sounds of distant fighting, which rapidly drew nearer.

“Nergal stew me for a squid!” groaned Zodeen to himself, staring at the other.

As for the saturnine Ayyub, he was also staring at the pale and twitching features of Yussef ben Ali, sourly wondering if the prince he had helped elect was any better than the love-besotted arrogant he had helped depose.…

CHAPTER 15

ZORAIDA’S VENGEANCE

Once the great portal to the palace had been broken through, Tharn and his howling horde went through the stumbling confused mob of Barbary Pirates like a heated blade through soft cheese. Utterly contemptuous of danger were the Cro-Magnon warriors, afire with vengeance, and hot with the lust to kill, now that they were within very reach of their goal.

The corsairs, on the other hand, had been roughly awakened from sound sleep, and were still struggling to gain clear heads and sharp wits. Befuddled with drinking the night through, they were also astounded beyond words, for never before in the generations they had dwelt here in El-Cazar had the fortress island been invaded by any foe.

They were used to raiding others, were the Barbary corsairs, weakly defended Cro-Magnon villages, ringed about with relatively flimsy palisades. Snug and secure behind their mighty and seemingly impregnable ramparts, it had never occurred to them that they might themselves someday be invaded. The knowledge was cold and queasy-making, and it unmanned them.

Another factor in the quick crumbling of their defense was the inexplicable absence at their fore of any of their leaders. Where was the redoubtable Zodeen of Algiers, the crafy and fortunate Yussef ben Ali, the unconquerable Ayyub? And where, above all, was their dauntless prince and leader, the mighty Kâiradine Redbeard? Nowhere were they to be seen.

“By the Sword of Allah,” groaned one wizened veteran to his grim-faced comrade as he manned a barricade of broken furniture flung hastily across a palace corridor, “have all the captains fled, scenting disaster and defeat?”

The two exchanged an eloquent glance of agreement and furtively slunk from their posts. Where the great captains flee, were not the lesser corsairs wise to slink away?

* * * *

In this manner, the defenders of the palace melted away before the seemingly tireless horde of yelling naked savages. There were many hidey-holes in a structure as ancient and as intricate as this one, and many of the rogues knew closets where they could conceal themselves for days, if necessary.

In less time than might have seemed possible, Tharn of Thandar found himself master of the deserted palace of the Prince of El-Cazar—deserted of all but the slain, that is, and the victorious Cro-Magnons.

While his men went hastily through the palace, freeing scores of slaves, all of whom were Cro-Magnons like themselves, although from little-known or unfamiliar tribes, Tharn’s chieftains sought out the leaders of the town, with Grond’s aid. These men had been at council meeting in the very hour of the invasion, it would seem, and all had been trapped by the sudden inrush of yellow-haired warriors. Their valor was such that they fought heroically and slew many, before they themselves fell to the superior strength of numbers. The heads were severed from their bodies with those new steel weapons which Tharn had commanded his warriors to retrieve from beside the fallen foe. Those heads were brought before Tharn and Grond where they held a command post in the great hall, for Grond to identify.

“That is Zodeen the Algerian,” murmured Grond. “And that is the head of Ayyub.”

Tharn nodded; the names meant absolutely nothing to him, but as a leader born and bred, he well knew the value of slaying the leaders of the foe, in order to dishearten their followers.

“And that one?” he asked, pointing.

“Yussef ben Ali, my former master,” said Grond with a faint, bitter smile.

Now, for the first time, he felt truly free.

The jungle monarch looked at him sympathetically. Never having been a slave, he could not quite understand what it meant to Grond to be free.…

* * * *

Darya struggled vainly in the iron grip of Fumio, there in that narrow, stinking alley beyond the palace of Kâiradine Redbeard. To have come this close to drinking the sweet wine of freedom, only to have the cup dashed from your lips was bitter indeed. Fumio laughed sneeringly, vastly enjoying the sight of the helpless girl as she writhed panting in his arms. To his way of thinking, Darya of Thandar was the sole cause of all of his many misfortunes, and he gloated over her unhappiness.