The Zanthodon MEGAPACK ™: The Complete 5-Book Series (46 page)

So it is with cowards and weaklings, that they perennially blame others for their own guilty failures.

Zoraida looked the cavegirl over, eyes glowing with a nameless lust.
This
was the scrawny slut who had stolen her place in the bed of Kâiradine—
she
was the cause whereby Zoraida had been forbidden the pleasure of his embraces! Well, soon enough would the cause of her fall be removed forever—and with no one the wiser.

As for Fumio, lent to her by Yussef ben Ali for this purpose, once the slave had outlived his usefulness to her and to his master, he could easily be removed with a dagger through the ribs.…

“Bring her inside,” she commanded. Fumio dragged Darya into the door, which Zoraida shut behind them and barred with a hefty slab of solid wood.

* * * *

As soon as it was possible for him to do so, Grond the Gorthakian parted company with the now-victorious tribesmen of Thandar and hurried to the house of Yussef ben Ali. One fear and one fear alone possessed the heart of the Cro-Magnon warrior, and that was that in this lawless city, swarming with stalwart invaders, his beloved Jaira might be in peril.

The door of Yussef’s house was bolted against the savages, but Grond obtained entry by a little known side door. ’Dullah the majordomo admitted him, inquiring fearfully of the safety of their lord and master, and whether or not the Cro-Magnons were headed this way.

“They are,” said Grond with a grin. “And, as for your lord and master, his headless corpse lies slain in the palace of the Redbeard, which is now teeming with the warriors of Thandar.”

“O, woe! Woe!” wailed the quivering ’Dullah, his eyes virtually starting from their sockets. The majordomo clasped both hands together as if in supplication. “Whatever shall we do?” he moaned.

Grond chuckled with grim mirth: it was a pleasure to his heart to see ’Dullah in such a state of terror, for often had he suffered beneath the heavy hand of the majordomo, who had a penchant for the lash and an appetite for enjoying the pain inflicted on others.

“Flee for your life,” Grond said succinctly.

’Dullah needed no further encouragement. Seizing up a priceless carpet stuffed with objects that clinked and clanked metallically together, he shrugged into his burnoose and fled out of the house of Yussef ben Ali, slippers slapping the greasy cobbles. From the appearance of the bulging carpet, it would seem that the prudent ’Dullah, anticipating the fall of the house of Yussef ben Ali, had fortified himself against unemployment by selecting a few precious mementoes from the furnishings of the mansion.

“A pleasure to see you back,” growled Grond in what was obviously the Cro-Magnon equivalent of “good riddance.” He spat in the dust which bore the marks of ’Dullah’s slippers.

Then he went to work. Slaves and servants had largely fled from the doomed house already, he observed with mounting tension, slipping away one by one furtively, seizing the opportunity to escape proffered them by the Thandarians’ invasion.
But where was Jaira?
Had she escaped with the others, or was she hiding somewhere in the house? Was she perhaps imprisoned on orders of Yussef ben Ali, as insurance against the prompt return of Grond?

Swiftly and efficiently, the blond warrior searched the upper levels, finding a cowering maidservant in a closet and trembling eunuch concealed behind an arras, but no one else. Neither did the two recall having seen or heard aught of the Cro-Magnon girl, Jaira.

At length, having searched the house from top to bottom, Grond descended into the cellars and searched the gloomy vaults beneath the house. Here were stored the provisions of the household in barrels, boxes, bottles and bales. Here also he found no one and no sign of his missing sweetheart. Neither did the cells reserved for recalcitrant or disobedient slaves and servants yield any assistance to him in his quest. But he lingered long enough to find the dungeon-master’s keyring and open the rusty locks, setting free the miserable wretches therein immured. These he curtly informed of the tide of recent events, advising them to flee for their lives before the warriors of Thandar came to loot and plunder. They took to their heels on the instant.

Privately, Grond felt certain that Tharn’s men were not at all interested in looting and plundering, but he couldn’t be entirely sure.

Despondent, yielding momentarily to despair, Grond sagged against the wall of the dungeon. Where was Jaira…? Had she fled into the tumultuous streets? If so, she could be anywhere by this time, hidden in any one of a thousand places, for the fortress city of El-Cazar was old and riddled with forgotton vaults and tunnels, attics and other hidey-holes.

Resolutely, he straightened his broad shoulders and tightened his jaw. And resolved to search on.…

* * * *

While a leering Fumio held the wrists of the captive princess behind her back, Zoraida ripped the front of Darya’s garment. The thin cloth split asunder, and the pale golden body of the Cro-Magnon girl was bared to view by the light of candles which flickered in a gold stand upon the long table.

Fumio stared with lust written in his ruined face as the Moorish woman tore open the front of the garment, exposing to view the naked breasts of the captive girl. With an ugly, gloating chuckle, Zoraida ran her bejeweled hands over the panting breasts of the Cro-Magnon girl who writhed helplessly in Fumio’s powerful grip.

Zoraida fondled the half-naked girl lasciviously, pinching the pink nipples which crowned the bare breasts. Darya sank her white teeth into her nether lip to silence the whimper of pain and outrage that rose within her throat.

Fumio grinned nastily, licking dry lips.

“So this is the beauty that lured the fickle Redbeard from Zoraida’s bed!” the Mooress snarled, fondling the cavegirl intimately. “Well…Zoraida will see to it that never again does a man find you desirable, slut! You, there, string her up.”

Fumio bound Darya’s wrists together with a stout thong and tied the thong to an iron hook in one of the wooden beams which braced the ceiling of Yussef’s hidden chamber—for it was to the place of the secret council of conspirators that Zoraida had led her henchmen and her captive.

Her arms stretched above her head, Darya kicked and struggled vainly as Zoraida stripped the torn garments from her, leaving her lovely body stark naked. But naught availed to free her from her bonds.

Zoraida drew from the sleeve of her robes a coiled whip and fingered it caressingly, looking the bare body of the young girl up and down with cold, cruel, calculating gaze. Catching the expression on Fumio’s ruined visage and the hunger in his eyes as he stared at the writhing loveliness so temptingly displayed, Zoraida laughed throatily.

“When Zoraida has taken her pleasure in her own way,” smiled the Mooress, hefting the whip meaningfully, “then the slave Fumio may take his own pleasure from what is left!”

“Yes, mistress,” said Fumio obsequiously, licking his lips.

“The breasts first, I think,” murmured Zoraida thoughtfully, raising the whip. Its long, snaky length of supple, well-oiled leather hissed as it slithered across the floor.

Slim, strong muscles stirred silkenly in the bare arm of Zoraida as she lifted the handle of the whip—
And, in the next instant the stony walls of the hidden chamber echoed to the hideous sound of a young woman’s voice, screaming in unendurable agony
.…

PART IV: THE HUNTERS AND THE HUNTED

CHAPTER 16

SOTHAR ON THE MARCH

Across the vast and grassy plains of the north the tribe of Sothar moved by slow and easy stages. They were returning to the place whereat they had sundered paths with their brother tribe, the Thandarian nation.

The two Cro-Magnon tribes had joined forces after the battle in the cavern city, which had led to the defeat of the Gorpaks and the eradication of their frightful and monstrous masters, the hideous Sluagghs. As their own homeland had been destroyed in a volcanic convulsion, there was nowhere for the warriors of Sothar to travel but wherever they wished. And, for a time, they had marched together with the tribe of Tharn.

When the pterodactyl had carried off Yualla, the daughter of their High Chief, Garth, the two tribes parted ways. The Thandarians continued on in their search for Darya, while the Sotharians marched across the plains in the direction of the Scarlet City of Zar, seeking the daughter of their Chief.

Now all was changed. While Yualla was still lost, no more did her people search for her whereabouts. For the dagger of the Zarian assassin, Raphad, had struck down the mighty Garth in the very moment of his triumph, when he brought to a standstill an attack of the Dragonmen of Zar, led by their proud and impetuous goddess-queen, the Divine Zarys.
[1]

Raphad’s blade had not been driven into the heart of Garth, as had first been feared. But the wound was very close to that organ, and for a time the life of the mighty Cro-Magnon hung in the balance.

Garth was a huge man, a virile warrior in the full noon of his prime. His strength and vigor, his animal vitality, were as impressive as his recuperative powers soon proved to be.

When it was decided that he could safely be moved, the tribe assembled for the march back across the plains to rejoin the men of Thandar. And the quest for the lost Yualla was given over, for the life of Garth was deemed of greater importance.

The primitive Cro-Magnons, mighty hunters, great warriors, share every breath with a thousand perils. Their life is a continuous struggle for sheer survival against impossible odds, for in the savage wilderness of the Underground World, with its gigantic predators and hostile tribes, life is the cheapest of commodities. Wives, brothers, lovers—not one among their number but has lost those near and dear to him: to the swamps, the jungles, sudden storms, war, raids, or the titanic reptiles that roam and rule the length and breadth of Zanthodon.

Thus the life of one girl, even the daughter of their king, loved and admired by all, seemed comparatively trivial. And the recovery to health of Garth became their preeminent concern.

* * * *

We traversed the great plain at a slow pace, with frequent rest stops. My friend Professor Potter was of the opinion, after a time, that it would be safe to move the Chief; a litter was constructed for that purpose. But to move a man so seriously injured as was Garth was extremely risky, and must be done with great care.

Riskier still would it have been to remain where they were. The flat and treeless expanse of the plains afforded them no form of shelter against wind, rain or storm—no defense against the predators which roamed the grasslands—and their proximity to the Scarlet City was itself ominous. For it would not be long before the legions of this lone surviving colony of ancient Minoan Crete would be upon our track, eager for vengeance against those that had loosed their monstrous god, Zorgazon, and humiliated their divine empress, the Immortal Zarys. Safety for the tribe of Sothar lay only in the security of their alliance with the men of Thandar.

It took us many wakes and sleeps to cross the immensity of the plains, and along the way we had many worries that gnawed upon our hearts. One of Garth’s scouts, a lean and grizzled veteran called Mordan, was the first to articulate at least one of these.

“How can we know, Eric Carstairs, that when we have again reached the place where our paths parted from that of the Thandarians, we shall still find them there? Perchance, by now, they will have wandered leagues away…?”

I shrugged.

“You may be right, Mordan; but there is nothing else to do. At least, when we have reached the shores of the Sogar-Jad once again, there will be trees from which to construct huts and a stout palisade, and caves wherein to take refuge from storm or attack.”

The old scout looked a trifle dubious.

“Perchance. Yet, as I recall, no trees grew along those shores…” he mused.
[2]

Later, as we camped amidst the plain, I reiterated Mordan’s query to the band of my warriors. They soberly agreed that Mordan had a good point, but dismissed it as a minor problem.

“After all, my chieftain,” said Varak the Sotharian with a merry grin, “so huge a force of warriors will leave the marks of their passage visible upon the earth.”

“And so shrewd a scout as Mordan should be able to trace the path followed by so many men,” chuckled Thon of Numitor. This last, a cheerful and winning young fellow, was one of the Cro-Magnons from foreign tribes who had fled with us from Zar. He and my giant friend, Gundar the Goradian, had fought beside me in the Great Games of Zar. Both had asked to join my band of warriors, and I was glad to have their comradeship. I guess we veteran gladiators tend to stick together.…

A rousing halloo interrupted our discourse. We turned to see my old friend, Professor Percival P. Potter, Ph.D., come strutting up to us with a brace of zomaks under one scrawny arm. We grinned, and even the somber and stolid Gundar voiced a chuckle, which was understandable.

You have to understand that, even under the best of circumstances, the Professor does not exactly strike one as an impressive figure. With his absurd little spike of white goatee, bony arms and legs mercilessly exposed due to his skimpy costume (a sort of abbreviated apron of fur which covered his lap and not much else), and the indestructible pince-nez perched, generally askew, on the bridge of his nose, he is a comical sight. In this case, however, he had added a new note to his ensemble: he wore a dainty silver coronet wherein flashed a strange, gem-like crystal.

This was worn atop his battered, old-fashioned sun helmet, by the way.

“With the new jewelry, Doc, you look like the Queen of the May,” I quipped. He was too pleased with himself to take umbrage at our mirth.

“Inferior minds will always take refuge in making fun of an advanced intelligence, my boy,” he said jubilantly. Then, brandishing his clutch of feathered reptile-birds, he crowed: “Behold!”

Gundar took them from him and examined the dead zomaks curiously.

“There is no blood upon them, nor any wound that Gundar can see,” observed the blond giant in his deep, slow voice.

“Gundar is right. What did you do, smother them to death?” inquired Varak impishly. The Professor doffed his glittering circlet.

“I summoned them to me with the power of thought alone, and knocked them in the head,” he said mysteriously.

Hurok the mighty Neanderthal, squatting on his heels at my back, grunted dubiously. I shrugged; we all were well aware by now of the strange powers of the circlet, a device of Zarian craftsmanship, which augmented and focused telepathic impulses from the human mind, enabling the wearer to control the lesser intelligence of beasts to an astonishing degree.

It was by means of such devices that the Dragonmen tamed and controlled the huge thodars they used for riding beasts.
[3]

Ever since Garth had employed the weird powers of the circlet to turn aside the attack of the thodars, the Professor had been experimenting with the nature of the implement. Now, it would seem, he had learned to use it for hunting purposes.

“Remarkable,” commented Warza, another of my warriors. “No longer need we strive to bring the zomaks down with the bow alone. Now we can lure them into the cookpot with witchery!”

“Yes, and Parthon wonders if the thing also works upon the uld,” joked that worthy. But the Professor, whose sense of humor remains hopelessly rudimentary, and therefore seldom knows when he is being kidded, took the question seriously.

“Actually, friend Parthon I have not yet had the opportunity to test the efficacy of the telepathic crystal upon the indigenous species of eohippus you refer to as uld, but I have no doubt.…”

Then he broke off, looking bewildered. For we were laughing merrily.

“Oh, I see,” he said frostily. “Another jest at my expense. Well, the primitive intellect finds humor in curious situations, I must say! Ker-
hrummp!
”

Just about then, the word came down to reassemble for another leg of the trek, so we had no further chance to have fun at the elderly scientist’s expense.

And in this way we crossed the plains.

CHAPTER 17

THE MYSTERIOUS CHAMBER

Through the wild wrath that stormed within the heart of Kâiradine Redbeard there burned a scarlet thread of unslaked desire. Filled with fury as he doubtlessly was by the plot of Yussef to dethrone him and by the betrayal of trust on the part of the fickle Ayyub, it was his passion for the slim body of Darya of Thandar which occupied his mind.

What mattered it to the Pirate Prince that he had been hurled from his princedom, and that unknown enemies were even at that moment storming through the crooked streets of El-Cazar? Let the faithless brigands snarl and snap like dogs over the kingdom that was falling to ruin about their heads—Kâiradine would possess the body of the blonde cavegirl even if the world crumbled into ruin in the next instant!

As he entered that suite in the harem of his palace in which the Cro-Magnon princess had been installed, it took but moments for the keen eye of the Redbeard to discern the mode and manner of her escape. Lifting out of its place and hurling into a corner the portion of the wooden screen which Darya had cut loose with her knife, Kâiradine peered through the opening into the gardens. He had not realized that the wall which stood between this corner of the palace gardens and the street beyond was quite this conveniently close to Daryas window: the girl was lithe and agile, and for her to climb over the wall would have been but the act of a few moments. Doubtless she had stripped off the finery in which he had commanded that she be draped, donning simpler, more unobtrusive raiment…and, within the next moment, he discovered the heap of jewelry and clothing which the cavegirl had indeed tossed aside.

Beyond, from the streets outside the window, there sounded the roar of battle, the clang of swords, the grunt and scuffle of struggling men, and the deep chanting war cries of the unknown savages. But Kâiradine cared not a whit for this: his mind was fiercely bent upon repossessing the slim girl who had so narrowly escaped the consummation of his lust—and it was bent upon this to the exclusion of all other concerns.

Vaulting over the windowsill, and ignoring the pang that lanced through the but newly knit muscles of his injured shoulder, Kâiradine crossed the gardens and scaled the wall, dropping like a great cat to the cobbled street.

The battle surged some blocks away, where giant blond warriors in fur clouts were assaulting the hasty barricade of broken furniture which the beleaguered corsairs had flung together to block the street against their advance. Darya would not have gone in that direction, surely.…

The black mouth of an alley caught Kâiradine’s eye. Swallowed in that blackness, the girl could easily have eluded detection and pursuit, and could perhaps have hidden until such time as she could join her tribal brethren without risking her life in attempting to slip past the buccaneers’ line.

Kâiradine strode into the black mouth of the alley, boots ringing upon the cobbles, his rapier naked in one brown fist, alert and wary for the slightest sign that his captive had fled in this direction.

But he found nothing until something crunched beneath his heel. Peering down, he saw the glittering blade of a slim poniard. Stooping, he plucked it from the cobbles, turning it over in his fingers and examining it closely. The blade was of excellent steel, the hilt elegantly worked. This was no cheap blade to be carelessly lost in an alley, or tossed aside, but a fine piece of craftsmanship.…

With a blade of this keeness, one could easily cut through a wooden window-screen
.…

Kâiradine searched the dark walls of the alley and spied a stout wooden door. There was no telling where it led, and there was no particular reason for Kâiradine to suspect that Darya had been carried through that door by Fumio or any other…but the cavegirl would not voluntarily have dropped her dagger, since it was probably the only means of self-defense she possessed.

Kâiradine Redbeard had the instincts of a hunter, and that keen intuitive sense impelled him to his next act.

He slammed the door with his booted foot, just above the strong lock. Wood splintered; the doorframe shuddered, but the lock held.

Then Redbeard kicked the door a second time and a third. The metal of the lock shattered beneath his vigorous assault, and Kâiradine battered it in until it hung askew on torn hinges.

Stone steps led down into unrelieved darkness, but a wall-bracket held a tar-soaked torch. It was a matter of moments for the pirate prince to strike the torch afire with flint and steel.

Holding his sword at the ready in one hand, lifting with the other the blazing torch so that it illuminated the steps, Kâiradine Redbeard descended the stair. The torchlight glittered crimsonly on the naked steel of his polished blade.

At the bottom of the stair—which was well below the level of the streets—the pirate prince found a narrow and winding subterranean passage, into which he flung himself with reckless speed, scenting the joy of the hunt.

While lust dominated the heart of the Barbary Pirate, it did not dim the cunning of his intelligence. Mentally orienting himself, he soon realized that the secret passage extended in the direction of the mansion of his arch-rival, Yussef ben Ali, which stood near to his own palace. And the vengeful Redbeard swore bitterly to himself, for he detected the fine hand of Yussef in the apparent abduction of the woman he desired.

“I should have throttled the dog when we fought,” he snarled to himself. “But
that
pleasure I shall reserve for another time!”