The Zanthodon MEGAPACK ™: The Complete 5-Book Series (48 page)

And Grond was one slave who had never bowed his will to his masters. Ever had he kept alive in his heart the desire for freedom, and the determination to escape someday from the island fortress.

* * * *

The Cro-Magnon warrior raised the trapdoor which led into the hidden room with particular care, not knowing who or what might have taken refuge in the gloomy chamber. His sandals made no sound as he descended the wooden stair, his scimitar naked and ready in his hand.

The secret room was cloaked in shadows. Only the fitful glimmer of a gold candelabrum lit the gloom with the wan luminance of its seven waxen tapers. But there was light enough to enable Grond to discover a grim tableau.…

Her wrists tightly bound by leathern thongs, a naked young woman of his own race dangled. The thongs which bound her wrists with savage tightness were looped over an iron hook deep-sunk in one of the tarry beams which supported the ceiling.

Facing the girl, but in such a position that he could not observe its features, a robed and hooded figure stood, brandishing a whip of braided leather.

Even as Grond took in the scene, the hooded figure lifted one dark-skinned arm. In the next moment the nude girl would suffer the terrible blow of that cruel length of oiled and supple leather.

For Grond, to observe was to act. He could not observe the features of the naked girl, but she was of an age with his darling Jaira, and of much the same appearance. He leaped to the conclusion that he had, indeed, found Jaira, and just in time to rescue her from a sadistic whipping.

The Cro-Magnon warrior hurled himself across the room like a great jungle cat. Candlelight flashed upon the oiled steel of his scimitar as he swung it down upon the wrist that held the whip.

A shriek of intolerable agony rang through the stonewalled chamber.

Zoraida stared unbelievingly as her right hand, neatly severed at the wrist, fell to the pave with an obscene thud. Crimson gore spurted from the stump of her wrist. Pale and wrung with torment, the Moorish dancing-girl sank to her knees, clutching at the stump of her wrist. Hot red blood squirted from between her fingers, staining the robes wherein her voluptuous figure was swathed. She fell back against the wall, whimpering like a hurt animal, crawling into the darkest corner as if to nurse her pain in solitude.

Fumio, who stood at the end of the table, had gone unobserved by Grond as the young warrior flung himself across the room to strike down Zoraida. For all his faults, Fumio was a brave and mighty fighting man. He was unarmed, was Fumio, and did not even bear Darya’s dagger, as it had fallen from her hand when he leaped upon her in the dark alley and he had not bothered to retrieve it.

But now his eye fell upon one of the wine goblets from which Yussef and Ayyub and Zodeen had drank during their meeting earlier. The cup was capacious and long-stemmed, with a rounded base, and it was wrought of heavy red gold.

Surely, it was heavy enough to crush in a man’s skull.…

Snatching it up, Fumio lunged across the room at Grond, who had his back turned to his assailant and was lifting his dripping blade to cut loose the wrists of the blonde girl.

Darya, staring over Grand’s shoulder at the sudden flicker of movement from the shadows, cried out a warning.

Like a cat, Grond whirled, sword lowered and outthrust.

Fumio was a larger man, and could not move as swiftly.

He ran full upon the point of Grond’s sword, which sank into his heart.

He lurched drunkenly upon unsteady legs, like a man who has drunk too deeply of strong wine.

He grinned weakly and tried to say something. But red blood gushed from his mouth, stilling whatever words he had meant to speak.

Then he fell down upon the floor, groaned once, and died.

* * * *

Wiping his wet blade on the hem of Fumio’s cloak, Grond cut the naked girl down and helped her to a chair. By coincidence, it was the same chair in which Yussef ben Ali had earlier sat. He removed the thongs from her wrists and chafed the bruised flesh until the circulation returned into Darya’s hands.

“You are not the woman I thought,” said Grond somberly. “I was searching for Jaira, my beloved.…”

“I know her not,” replied Darya. “But I am thankful that you came this way in time to spare me from the lash.”

“The woman is Zoraida, whose former lover was Kâiradine the Redbeard,” muttered Grond thoughtfully. “And the man I slew was one Fumio, a slave in the house of Yussef ben Ali whom once I interrogated at the behest of my then master. But you I have never seen before.…”

“I am Darya, the daughter of—”

Excitement flashed in the clear blue eyes of the warrior.

“Darya, the daughter of Tharn the Mighty? Darya, the long-lost gomad-of Thandar?”

“None other,” sighed the girl. “But how do you know my name, when I have never seen you before?”

Grond smiled. “You may not know it, Princess, but since your capture by the Redbeard, it seems that half the world has come looking for you!”

Darya looked bewildered. Grond laughed, and gave her a cup of wine. The drink was tepid by this time, but Darya drank it down gratefully.

“I am Grond, formerly a warrior of the tribe of Gorthak upon the mainland, more recently a slave in the house of Yussef ben Ali. It was Yussef who dispatched me on a mission to your father, Tharn—”

“My father!” the girl gasped, hope leaping up within her heart. “You have met my father? Where? Is he near—?”

“Near?” laughed Grond. He is
here
—even now he stands upon the throne of Kâiradine Redbeard, who has fled into hiding. The Omad your father has invaded and conquered the island of the Barbary Pirates, and Yussef and all of the other Captains of the Brotherhood are slain. You are safe at last, Princess Darya, and among friends.”

The blonde girl paled and slumped back in the tall chair, weak with relief.

“I can hardly believe it,” she murmured. “My father, here in El-Cazar.…”

“And master of it, by this time,” said Grond. “Come: I will take you to him.”

* * * *

It was none other than Achmed the Moor who had seized Jaira and stiffed her cries with his rough hand.

The burly Moor had taken refuge in the palace gardens, as by now the streets in the immediate vicinity were overrun by the blond invaders of El-Cazar. He had hoped to hide until all was quieter, then make his way to the harbor and board the
Red Witch
, which stood at anchor there. With a few seamen under his command, the Moor felt confident he could put to sea and venture north, there perchance to find the squadron of Moustapha. With these ships at their command, and Moustapha’s horde of lusty rogues, they might well return to El-Cazar and turn the tide of battle. With the fortune of Allah smiling upon them, all might yet be put to rights in the private kingdom, and the yellow-haired savages slaughtered to the last man.

He did not know the slave girl Jaira, but from the sigh engraved upon the slender silver collar which she wore he knew her to belong to the house of Yussef ben Ali. What she was doing here in the palace gardens he could not guess, but all who were of the following of the traitorous Yussef ben Ali were the enemies of Kâiradine Redbeard, and the enemies of Kâiradine Redbeard were the enemies of Achmed the Moor.

He bore the struggling girl into the gazebo and hastily tied her arms and legs with strips of stout cloth torn from the hem of his robe. Her mouth he stuffed with a ball of torn cloth, bound into place with another strip, so that she could not cry out and give the alarm. Then he crouched near the entrance to the flimsy structure, peering about grimly.

All of the world seemed topsy-turvy to the Moor: his lord and master was overthrown by his own captains, and El-Cazar was itself overthrown by savages. Achmed was bewildered by the swift transition, and his strong hands itched for employment.

Achmed would from time to time glance resentfully over to where Jaira lay, her eyes wide with fear. At such a time as this, fleeing for his life, it was an inconvenience to have to be burdened with taking captives. Even now, he grimly guessed, the leaders of the savages would have ascertained from slaves of their own race who were the leaders of El-Cazar—among whom as first mate of the flagship of the corsair fleet and lieutenant of Kâiradine Redbeard himself, Achmed the Moor was surely to be numbered.

The savages would be anxious to seek out and dispatch every last one of the leaders of the pirate kingdom. Therefore, they would be searching for him. With his height and bulk, it would be difficult enough for Achmed to escape especially if he must lug along a captive Cro-Magnon girl.

But carry her with him he must, for he did not dare to leave her behind as she could probably guess his identity and would inform her fellow savages of his whereabouts.

Then it was that the cunning eyes of Achmed narrowed and a glint of cruelty came to them. His powerful hand crept to the hilt of the long dagger he bore thrust into the sash about his waist.

Why must he drag her along to encumber him? There was no reason. Neither need he leave her behind to raise the alarm and to send the hunters after him.

Would it not be safer to slit the throat of the girl and leave her gory corpse behind in the gazebo to puzzle and confuse the barbarians?

CHAPTER 20

DEATH AND MARRIAGE

Kâiradine stifled the hasty exclamation that rose unbidden to his lips as he perceived the body of a woman sprawled in a pool of gore in the dimness of the farther corner of the room. Traversing the secret chamber in a rapid stride, he knelt and, with trembling hands, turned the body over so that he might peer into the features of the corpse.

He dreaded to recognize the body of Darya, whom to this moment he desired with a hunger transcending thought and all reason. But the body was that of—
Zoraida!

“Beard of the Prophet!” groaned the Prince of the Barbary Pirates hoarsely, “but what has transpired in this accursed place?”

Swiftly he examined the body of the dancing-woman who had been his mistress. Her right hand had been severed neatly at the wrist, and the blow had been a clean one, performed with a heavy, sharp-bladed instrument, perhaps a scimitar. The Mooress had lost very much blood, but the flame of life, although it flickered wan and low within her tawny flesh, yet burned, however feebly.

Moistening her eyes and lips with a few drops of wine, he succeeded in bringing the half-dead girl back to consciousness. Her eyelids fluttered. Her glazed eyes wandered about the dim stone-walled chamber uncomprehendingly, indifferently, finally coming to rest upon his own features. A wan smile creased her colorless lips.

“What happened here?” demanded the Redbeard harshly. “And where is the savage girl, Darya?”

“…Darya?…” murmured Zoraida in the ghost of a whisper. A half-remembered resentment flared briefly in her dull gaze. “Was that not the name of the scrawny slut whom my Kâiradine came to prefer to his beloved Zoraida?”

“What if it is?” he said hotly. “What have you done with her, you traitress?”

A pale flame gleamed in the eyes of the dying Moorish Woman.

“Once you loved Zoraida, and called her your ‘Flame of Araby,’” the dancer whispered. “And now you name her whom you adored with a deathless passion ‘traitress’…”

In his fury, the corsair almost shook her slender shoulders.

“Speak, curse you!” he grated. “Where have you hidden the savage girl?”

“In a place where you can never reach her,” breathed Zoraida faintly. “In a place where you can never find her…search for her, my beloved, as you will.…”

The lips of Kâiradine writhed back from his white teeth in a wolfish grin. Hellfires blazed in the depths of his dark eyes. His mouth opened to curse Zoraida, but then he perceived that it was no use. For Death had come into that stony chamber on silent and invisible feet, to steal her shade away to his amazing kingdom, and she was beyond all of his curses now.

With a muffled groan Kâiradine Redbeard let the corpse fall back into its pool of blood and squatted there on his heels, hugging his knees for a long moment or two, brooding on nothingness. Betrayed by his captains, his very kingdom invaded by remorseless enemies, and the girl he desired lustfully stolen from him by a faithless whore whose lips Death had locked upon the secret of her hiding place, it seemed to the Prince of the Barbary Pirates that he had lost everything in life which had possessed meaning or value for him—even revenge!

“By the Scarlet Fiends of Kaf,” he groaned from the bottom of his heart, “but I swear that I shall find her if I must ransack the entirety of this world from end to end!”

Then he sprang lithely to his feet and strode from the chamber, and vanished into the secret passage. And silence fell upon that gaunt room of stark horror and grisly murder.

* * * *

During the several wakes and sleeps that we consumed in crossing the northern plains—moving by slow and easy stages, with many frequent pauses to rest, lest we strain the fragile health of Garth—many curious and interesting things transpired.

When my comrades and I had fled from the captivity of the Scarlet City of Zar, and joined forces once again with the tribesmen of Sothar, we bore with us very many of those who had been the former slaves and captives of the Minoans. Most of these were Cro-Magnon men and women stolen from other tribes than those of Sothar or of Thandar—such as the two good and true friends I had made in the Pits of Zar, while we were awaiting our death in the Great Games of the monster god, Zorgazon.

I refer, of course, to youthful Thon of Numitor, that cheerful good-humored and likable young warrior, and to the grim and stalwart Gundar of Gorad, that mighty and hulking strongman, whose massive chest and burly shoulders and iron arms were those of some heroic gladiator of the Dawn.

Both were from tribes alien to the men of Sothar, and unfamiliar to them. Ordinarily, I have perceived that the Cro-Magnon nations view with intense suspicion and downright hostility any stranger, be he as blond and blue-eyed as are they. In the unremitting struggle for survival against ravening monsters and impassable jungles that is everyday life here in Zanthodon, one learns to cleave to one’s own kin and to regard all other men as, at very least, potential foes.

But the strangers who had fled with me from the captivity of Zar had stood and fought side by side with the warriors of Sothar against the mounted troops of the Scarlet City, earning at least the reluctant admiration of the Sotharians. Now, during our lengthy trek across the plains, I observed that they were beginning to win a deeper kind of acceptance from their hosts, by their uncomplaining sharing of the burdens and tasks of the march and the hunt, if by naught else.

At first the newcomers were left strictly alone by the men and women of Sothar, permitted grudgingly to share in the provisions but left very much alone, ever viewed with truculence and suspicion. Things, however, began to change soon enough.

I had, from the start, quietly encouraged their acceptance by welcoming several of the strangers among my own company of warriors. As a full-fledged tribal chieftain, I had the authority to admit into my own retinue of followers whomever I wished. And thus Thon of Numitor and Gundar of Gorad and one or two others who had seized my fancy became warriors in my group.