The Zanthodon MEGAPACK ™: The Complete 5-Book Series (50 page)

For Tharn wisely foresaw that it would be distinctly dangerous for him to linger here and then find himself and his warriors besieged by Moustapha’s squadron of ships, with no means to defend themselves, outnumbered and relatively helpless. With this decision all of the leaders of the tribe concurred, and that heartily, being wearied of this strange town and its winding streets and towering houses.

All, that is, but Grond. For still the whereabouts of his jungle sweetheart, Jaira, had not been discovered. Disconsolately, the young warrior prowled the labyrinthine ways of El-Cazar, searching for the lost girl.

It did not occur to Grond in his distraction that one other was also missing. But Achmed the Moor, who had been Kâiradine’s first lieutenant, also had not been found, although at the time his absence from the rosters of the captured and the slain seemed to the mind of Grond a thing of no particular significance.

Grond had accepted the offer of Tharn to join with the host of the Thandarians—an offer made to all of the former slaves and captives of the Barbary Pirates-and he well knew that he must depart from El-Cazar when the tribe quitted its shores, as to remain behind was to return to captivity as soon as Moustapha returned to restore the authority of the Brotherhood. But how could he leave, with Jaira’s fate unknown?

That he eventually decided he must do so is not to impugn either the loyalty or the love of Grond, but to make a comment upon the peculiar, but very understandable, fatalism shared by the Cro-Magnon peoples of Zanthodon.

From the very cradle, as it were, these innocent children of nature are engaged in an unremitting struggle for survival in a savage world inimical to their existence. Surrounded on every hand by perils beyond number, they fight from the womb to the grave against hostile nature, cruel jungles, hideous monsters and savage foes, and in that struggle more than a few of them succumb earlier than the rest. Not a warrior but has seen parent, brother, uncle, sister or comrade slain before his or her time, and thus the warriors of Zanthodon have developed, almost as an unconscious instinct of self-protection, a curious indifference to death which is difficult for “civilized” persons such as you or I to comprehend.

Grond was among the nearly two hundred Cro-Magnons who had been slaves or captives of the Barbary Pirates, and who elected to join with the tribe of Thandar rather than to search the mainland for their own half-forgotten homes. At one stroke, then, the fighting force of the Thandarians was nearly tripled. Even so, Tharn took every precaution to render the subjugated Berbers helpless of pursuit and revenge.

Those of the corsair ships which remained anchored in the harbor of El-Cazar he ordered burned and sunk. In time, of course, the survivors of the Thandarian invasion would rebuild their fleet, but Tharn guessed that when that time came around he and his people would be deep within the jungles of the mainland and far beyond the reach of the Brotherhood.

Tharn did not take into consideration the imminent return to El-Cazar of Moustapha and his corsair squadron. This was partly because no one could guess or predict just how long it would be before the missing captain would terminate his venture into the nothern isles and turn about to sail home to the island fortress of the buccaneers.

The time to leave El-Cazar came at length, and the Cro-Magnons made ready to depart from the isle with their new recruits. And among these, as I have explained, was Grond, although his heart ached at the thought.…

* * * *

It seemed to Achmed the Moor that he had crouched here in cowardly concealment for days, seeking to elude capture by the yellow-haired savages who had so swiftly overrun the pirate kingdom. Ever since he had found a hiding place in the little gazebo-like structure which adorned the gardens of the palace of Kâiradine Redbeard, the burly Moor had sweated in a fever of impatience to find a more secure place of refuge, and in an agony of apprehension lest he be discovered by the primitives.

Bound and gagged, the girl Jaira helplessly lay by his side. Achmed could not have explained to you exactly why he had spared the life of the slave-girl, any more than he was able to explain it to himself. But it surely was not from any tenderness or feelings of compassion, for such did not exist in the hardened and calloused heart of the Moorish corsair. Perhaps he let Jaira live as a possible hostage to his own freedom and security—a potential bargaining point in the event that his hiding place was discovered; and then again, perhaps not.

But for what seemed an interminable length of time, the burly Moor had squatted behind the little wooden structure, peering fearfully about as the savages came and went on mysterious errands and unknown missions, dreading at any moment that the halloo would be raised and he would have to fight for his life.

That this did not, in fact, occur is probably to be explained by the simple answer that few of the warriors or chieftains of Thandar had much notion of Achmed’s very existence. With the captains of the corsair kingdom slain or missing, their junior officers seemed of no consequence, whether they were alive and fled or captive, or themselves slain.

It would greatly have disgruntled the Moor had he known that his very existence was of no consequence to the conquerors, of course. We have, all of us, an understandably inflated notion of our own importance in the great Scheme of Things—an opinion most likely not shared by very many of those around us.

* * * *

For an equally interminable period of time, Jaira had suffered her captivity in a terror of impending death at the hands of her grim captor. The shy, frightened girl was somewhat more delicate and very much less brave than were her savage sisters, but after many hours of being a bound and helpless captive at the cruel mercies of the Moor, it eventually dawned on Jaira that perhaps after all, she was not going to be murdered in the next instant. And with this realization her fears calmed somewhat; recovering from the paralysis of her panic, the girl began to puzzle a way out of her horrible dilemma.

Achmed had bound her hastily and clumsily, and as time passed Jaira noticed that certain of her bonds had slipped from their original position and that her limbs were less cramped and confined than they had been. This inspired the blonde girl to attempt to free her wrists: twisting and turning, striving with every small strength at her command—and virtually ignored by the huge Moor, who crouched fearfully sweating, peering in every direction as the savage warriors came and went—she eventually managed to slip one slim hand free. From that point it was not difficult for her to unobtrusively writhe loose of her bonds.

When at length she had succeeded in freeing herself, the girl fearfully glanced at her captor, expecting momentary discovery. But Achmed had his broad back turned upon his captive, and was paying not the slightest attention to her. With her heart in her mouth, the girl began stealthily to creep from the gazebo.

Although it seemed to take an agonizing eternity, she managed to reach the relative safety of the bushes which grew close about the little ornamental structure. Then she rose furtively to her feet, hopeful of gaining the security of the nearest group of trees—but at that which met her eyes in the very next instant, she stood transfixed; all thoughts of stealth fleeing from her mind, Jaira uttered a shrill and piercing cry of astonishment which jerked Achmed, cursing vilely, to his feet, one huge hand seizing up his scimitar.

* * * *

Grond was halfway down the garden path, on his way to accomplish a final errand for Tharn of Thandar, when a well-remembered voice raised in a sharp cry of alarm arrested his steps.

The Cro-Magnon whirled about to see a sight at once delightful and dreadful—

For there, not far away, stood his beloved staring at him with incredulous delight. At her back, rising into view, was a gigantic black figure armed with a glittering scimitar.…

CHAPTER 23

JAIRA STRIKES BACK

Kâiradine well knew that his life was forfeit were his whereabouts to be discovered. If the leader of the blond barbarians was, indeed, the father of Darya, the girl he had stolen away and would have ravished, then her father—like all fathers—would be satisfied with nothing less than his blood.

Although wary and cautious in the extreme, the Redbeard was not fearful of discovery. No one knew as thoroughly as did he the thousand hiding places open to a fugitive in the immense and ancient warren of El-Cazar.

So, drawing the hood of his cloak over his face in order to conceal his features, and affecting a limp which should serve to disguise his swaggering, arrogant stride, the former Prince of the Barbary Pirates slunk furtively down the alley and into a main thoroughfare.

The savage conquerors were everywhere, but as none of them save only for the girl Darya could possibly have recognized him, Kâiradine put a bold face on it, and mingled with the crowd which wandered to and fro. No trade was being conducted in the grand bazaar on this day, for those merchants who would otherwise have been boastfully declaiming the virtues of their wares hid behind bolted doors and closed shutters, fearful lest the conquerors should come seeking loot and plunder.

It is natural for men to judge others by themselves, thought Kâiradine wryly to himself as he slunk through the square. Since the Barbary Pirates lived on loot and plunder, they expected no less from others—least of all, from their savage conquerors. The truth of the matter was, of course, that the “simple” Cro-Magnons had no conceivable use for gold or silver or gems, and were uninterested in accumulating such bright but essentially worthless trash.

What they
were
interested in, were the excellent steel swords and daggers used by the corsairs. Thus, when Kâiradine crept past a swordsmith’s booth, he noticed the savages emerging therefrom, their bare and brawny arms laden with glittering weapons. He did not, of course, know that Tharn of Thandar, instantly recognizing the superiority of the Berber weaponry, had commanded his men to arms themselves with such.

Keeping out of sight as much as was possible, and choosing the shadows rather the bright and revealing light of day, the Pirate Prince traversed the broad plaza of the bazaar without incident, and vanished into the narrow doorway of a disreputable dive.

A few dispirited Berbers huddled on the long benches or sprawled in the booths to the rear, heavily gone in drink and obviously trying to forget the ignominy of their defeat at the hands of oafish primitives armed with stone axes and crude bronze spears. None of these so much as glanced up as Kâiradine, muffled to the eyes, limped past them and sank into a curtained booth near the kitchens.

Hastily drawing the curtains, Kâiradine sank back with a sigh of relief into the welcome gloom. Then, rousing himself, he searched with nimble fingers beneath the edge of the table, finding a cleverly concealed switch. At his touch, a panel creaked open in the rear wall, through which he glided. A moment later, the panel closed again, and the booth was empty of any occupant.

* * * *

Down a narrow wooden stair Kâiradine descended, gaining at length a small apartment sumptuously hung with woven stuffs and furnished with luxurious furniture of rare woods and even a rarer craftsmanship. Pouring himself a goblet of wine from a stoppered bottle on a tabouret, the corsair captain kicked off his boots and sank into the soft embrace of velvet cushions with a sigh of relief.

None in El-Cazar knew of this hiding place which Kâiradine had long ago prepared for himself in the eventuality of revolt or treason. Under the name of his lieutenant, Achmed, he owned the tavern and workmen at his direction had prepared the secret panel, the hidden stair and the unknown hiding place—before mysteriously vanishing from the sight of men, with slit gullets.

Here he had squirreled away his chiefest treasures—objects of gold and silver worth a satrap’s ransom, and bags and sacks and chests stuffed with gems of inestimable worth, together with rare and exotic curiosities such as few of the pirates had ever seen.

Here too he kept several changes of clothing and a supply of weapons, together with stores of food and drink sufficient to last him for many days before hunger or thirst drove him forth into the light of day.

Here he could hide, biding his time, planning his escape from the clutches of his enemies.…

And his vengeance!

* * * *

Without a moment’s thought or hesitation, Grond launched himself upon the burly black giant who menaced his sweetheart, Jaira. He flung himself across the intervening space which separated himself from the girl he had sought like a charging leopard, and such was the swiftness of his action that Achmed the Moor was quite taken by surprise.

The Moor growled a savage curse to his African gods as he spun about, lifting his heavy scimitar to meet this unexpected adversary. Ducking under the blade, Grond clamped one iron hand about the massive throat of the burly Moor, digging his thumb into the corsair’s windpipe. His other hand locked about the wrist of the Moor’s swordarm.

While Jaira stood frozen, one hand to her parted lips, eyes wide with fear, heart pounding against her ribs, the two men struggled breast to breast and thigh to thigh, grunting like beasts, faces black and distorted with effort.

Slowly but surely, the superior weight and strength of the great Moor began to tell, as his younger, lighter adversary weakened and his grip relaxed.

The moment his throat was free of the grim pressure, Achmed stole a precious moment from the conflict in order to suck air into his starved and laboring lungs. But Grond did not pause: balling his hard fist, he sank it into the pit of the Moor’s stomach with all the steely strength packed into his powerful arm, shoulder and back.

The Moor’s paunch collapsed like a pricked balloon; breath whistled from his open mouth and his eyes popped comically. Grond spun about, clamped his other hand about the pirate’s arm—and heaved!

Achmed whirled head over heels at this primitive jujitsu and landed with a paralyzing thump on his back, while his sword went spinning across the garden to splash into a pool, startling the lazing fish.

In the next instant, Grond again flung himself upon his foe, and now, locked in each other’s iron grip, they rolled over and over, grunting and panting, crashing through the underbrush, the flowerbeds, the pebble-strewn walks. Weakened by the sledgehammer blow in the pit of his stomach, partially stunned by his fall, Achmed found himself temporarily helpless in the savage grip of the Cro-Magnon warrior.

Within moments, however, the giant Moor had recovered himself and, once again, his greater weight and strength began to tell in the balance of the struggle.

Suddenly, he felled the blond youth with a lucky blow to the jaw, and, standing with spread legs straddling the half-conscious Grond, his swarthy features convulsed in a grin of cruel delight, he tore a long poniard from his sash and raised it high—to plunge it into the heart of his helpless foe.

In the next second, the silence of the gardens was broken by a dull, resounding
thud
.

His evil grin relaxed into a stupid expression of bewilderment.