The Zanthodon MEGAPACK ™: The Complete 5-Book Series (51 page)

The brandished blade fell from suddenly nerveless fingers, to clank against the tiles which lined the edge of the flowerbed.

For a moment, Achmed swayed on his feet like a tree torn from the earth in a gale.

Then, knees buckling, he fell sideways and crashed to earth to move no more.

When Grond awoke from his daze, he found his head cradled upon the soft thighs of a weeping, fearful Jaira. For a long moment the bewildered caveboy did not comprehend what had occurred. When he did, he grinned and almost laughed aloud.

Jaira, as I have remarked previously, was more shy and timid than most of her sisters of the Cro-Magnon tribes, who for the most part can hunt and fight almost as well as can their men. But even a shy creature like Jaira responds with alacrity when her lover is threatened.…

Climbing stiffly to his feet on bruised and aching limbs, Grond hobbled over to examine the sprawled figure of the fallen Moor. The fresh blood which pooled behind his turbaned head was sufficient to satisfy the curiosity of Grond, who did not even need to see the fist-sized dent in the back of Achmed’s broken skull.

Again, the young Cro-Magnon grinned, hugging the happy girl to him and kissing her with pride.

For Jaira—timid little Jaira!—had brained Achmed with a heavy flowerpot.

CHAPTER 24

THE TRIBE DEPARTS

It was not very long after these events that Tharn began to ready his warriors for their departure from the fortress isle.

The last of the corsair galleys had burnt to the waterline. Floating, half-submerged, flame-blackened hulks, they would encumber the harbor of El-Cazar and make perilous that formerly safe haven for years to come.

This, of course, made it virtually impossible for the Barbary Pirates to rearm and sail in pursuit of their conquerors…at least, for a considerable length of time, until they could build new ships from whatever stores of timber might lie in the warehouses of El-Cazar.

Armed with their bright new weapons of edged steel, the Cro-Magnons regained their dugout canoes and paddled across the waters of the bay to the island on whose far side there still lay hidden the women and children, the older people and the wounded of the nation of Thandar.

Once all were reunited, and the freed slaves of El-Cazar were distributed amongst the boats, the flotilla set out to sea again, bound for the mainland of Zanthodon. Across the steamy seas of the waters of the Sogar-Jad they sailed, brawny arms plying crude oars. In the forefront of the lead vessel, Tharn stood, his magnificent form leading the way like some majestic figurehead.

One powerful arm was wrapped protectively about the slim shoulders of his beloved daughter; having at last and in the fullness of time found and rescued the gomad Darya from the midst of a thousand perils, the jungle monarch had vowed deep within his heart never to let her stray far from his sight again.

In another dugout canoe, Jaira sat close to her sweetheart Grond, as he plied his oar with lusty arms. She was very happy, was the Cro-Magnon girl: whatever the future might hold for the two of them, at least they would face it boldly—and together.

* * * *

In each of the dugout canoes of the Thandarians, vigilant bowmen sat with their arrows hocked and at the ready, keen eyes warily searching the misty surface of the Sogar-Jad for any sign of the fearsome yith. Fortunately, it seemed that the ghosts of their ancestors favored the men and women of Thandar on that day, for none of the dreaded plesiosaurs made their appearance.

Many rocky islands broke the dim expanse of the steamy sea, and vision was difficult, making navigation something of a problem. But the Cro-Magnons, in lieu of the compass, possessed an innate instinct for direction, and knew that they were sailing in the proper direction.

Before very much longer, a line of jagged rocks; about whose black bases swirled foaming white water, signaled their approach to the northernmost shores of the subterranean continent. And before it was time to rest and share a meal and sleep, the last of the Cro-Magnons had disembarked.

Tharn had considered that much time might have been saved had they continued to sail on down the coast of the continent, but had at length dismissed the notion.

In the first place, he felt that he had very little to fear from the vengeance of the Barbary Pirates, for he had rendered them incapable of pursuit and it would take them many wakes and sleeps to rebuild their fleet, by which time he and those that followed him would long since have returned to their distant homeland far to the south.

In the second place, he thought it distinctly unwise to venture so near to the island of Ganadol, where there yet lurked those of the Drugars, or Neanderthals, who had survived the stampede of the great woolly mammoths on the plain of the trantors. Their wounds licked to health by now, and their cruel lust for revenge surely whetted, the Drugars would have found sufficient time to rebuild their own fleet of dugout canoes, and might well attempt to assault the Thandarian flotilla, had it ventured into those waters.

But his third reason was the best of all: Tharn was heartily sick of boats and islands, and hungered for the solidity of the good earth beneath the heels of his sandals, and for the comfortable gloom of the jungle aisles about him once again.

Pausing to rest and eat, they began the trek “south.” It would be a long road home to Thandar, down the rocky coast and across the Peaks of Peril, then “south” through plains and jungles and mountains. But at the journey’s end lay…
home
.

* * * *

Moustapha had not sailed very far into the islands and archipelagoes of the northern seas before a sudden storm drove the flagship of his squadron upon hidden reefs, gouging a hole in the hull of his galley just beneath the waterline.

Cursing sulphurously, the corsair ordered his ship about, and bade his first mate to set a course directly for El-Cazar. Hasty patchwork had crudely repaired the pierced hull, and the pumps would keep the vessel from foundering, but Moustapha knew that only in El-Cazar could his crippled ship receive the skillful craftsmanship she required.

And so he limped back to his home port, in a villainous temper, having raided not a single village or captured so much as a single Cro-Magnon slave.

When he arrived in the vicinity of the pirate isle, he was amazed and alarmed to see the pall of dense black smoke which hung over the city. Sailing nearer, he saw that the source of the pall of smoke was in the burning ships which had foundered, blocking the harbor.

Consternation seized the corsair—what in the name of the Beard of the Prophet had chanced to occur on El-Cazar during his brief absence? Had some unknown enemy launched an invasion of the pirate kingdom? Had riot and insurrection broken out among the quarrelsome Captains of the Brotherhood? Had the Cro-Magnon slaves, long docile and believed fully cowed into submission, revolted against their masters?

Anchoring his crippled galley near an offshore island—by a quirk of whimsical Fate, the very same island on which Tharn had concealed his wounded and the women and children—Moustapha launched a longboat with a full complement of well-armed seamen, led by his own first mate. He instructed them to ascertain what had happened in El-Cazar, and to return to the galley with word. Before he knew exactly what he was sailing into, it behooved the corsair chieftain to remain wary and to practice caution. It would never do to risk his flagship from mere curiosity.

Before very long, the boat returned with the astounding news that El-Cazar had been taken unawares by a great host of savages in dugout canoes, who had stormed the town and had succeeded in seizing the palace citadel of Kliradine Redbeard, and that they had taken, as well, the heads of Moustapha’s fellow captains.

All save the head of Kâiradine Redbeard himself, of course, whose whereabouts remained unknown.

Now Moustapha would not have been human had it not occurred to him that, in the absence of the other captains and of the Prince of El-Cazar himself, the leadership of the pirate kingdom was easily within his grasp. Although Moustapha had always been a staunch supporter of the Redbeard, and would never have taken any part in a rebellion against his prince, the domain of the Barbary Pirates was now leaderless, and the throne of El-Cazar was, so to speak, up for grabs.

Moustapha of El-Cazar was no more and no less ambitious than any other man. And, although no single drop of the blood of Khair ud-Din the mighty Barbarossa of the Mediterranean was mingled in the veins of Moustapha, he cunningly knew that every line, no matter how ancient or illustrious, must end at last and that every dynasty must terminate eventually, giving way to a new sequence of monarchs.

So…El-Cazar was his!

* * * *

Wasting no time, Moustapha ordered his squadron to anchor beyond the mouth of the harbor, which they could not enter due to the smoldering hulks which blocked the entrance. Then he and a full company of his mariners, armed to the teeth, descended upon the town and began putting things to rights.

Demoralized by the sudden conquest, shaken by the loss of their captains, the men and women of El-Cazar were easily brought to heel. Under Moustapha’s stern directives, they began to clear the streets of rubble, to extinguish those fires which still smoldered in some of the wrecked houses, and to cart away the dead for rapid burial against the menace of the pestilence.

Moustapha also commanded that a full accounting be made for every man and woman in El-Cazar, so as to ascertain who lived and who had perished in battle against the savages. While this was being accomplished, he moved his personal belongings into the now empty residence of Kâiradine Redbeard, and had himself proclaimed
de facto
Prince of El-Cazar by the leaders of the Brotherhood.

He then ordered that every able-bodied man not otherwise employed be set to work attempting to clear the harbor. Some of the hulks were still only half-submerged, and by dint of much toil could be hauled out of the way, their unburnt timber and cordage and canvas salvaged and stored away toward the construction of future galleys.

When he received the accounting of the dead and missing, the totals were indeed disheartening. All of the captains, and most of their veteran officers, were dead. Quite a large number of the ordinary seamen had fallen in battle against the savage horde which had invaded the pirate isle, and many others had suffered injuries serious enough to incapacitate them for many weeks to come.

Moreover, almost to a man, the Cro-Magnon slaves and captives had fled the island—apparently in company with the blond invaders. All of which left the fighting strength and work force of El-Cazar very seriously depleted, indeed. And this would prolong the time required to put the pirate city to rights again.…

Moustapha growled an oath, then shrugged philosophically. There was no point in weeping over spilled blood, and the dead could not return to life to assist the living. So, in the meanwhile, he directed that repairs go forward on his crippled flag-ship, the
Lion of Islam
and on two of the smaller galleys which had escaped the serious demolition at the hands of the Cro-Magnon conquerors.

For Moustapha fully intended to follow the savages to the mainland and extract a bloody vengeance from them.

Also, he needed slaves.…

So, just as soon as enough ships could be made seaworthy again, he determined to descend upon the subterranean continent of Zanthodon and put the warriors of Thandar to the sword, carrying off their women and children to replenish the harems and bordellos of El-Cazar.

* * * *

But where, during all of these events, was Kâiradine Redbeard? This unanswered question plagued Moustapha sorely, for the former Prince of the Barbary Pirates was not to be found either among the rosters of the slain or the listings of the living.

Moustapha knew his prince from of old to be a cunning and a cautious man. Perhaps he had taken refuge in some secret hiding place known only to himself.…

But if so, why did he persist in remaining in hiding?

There was no answer to that ominous question, and it made Moustapha distinctly uneasy.

CHAPTER 25

MURG HAS A SECRET

The mighty thodars of Zar traversed the great plains of the north with ponderous but unwearied stride. The Divine Empress had mustered an imposing host from the decimated legions of the Scarlet City, for she meant to fall upon the blond barbarians and wreak a fearful slaughter in vengeance for the destruction of the Scarlet City of Zar.

Only grudgingly did she permit her men and beasts brief respite from the march. They barely had time to relieve nature and munch a hasty meal before the trumpets summoned them back into the saddles again. As for the huge saurians they rode, the poor reptiles scarcely had time to gulp down a few mouthfuls of meadowgrass before mentally commanded to continue the journey.

Zarys knew, or shrewdly guessed, that the savages were not very far ahead of her pursuing legions. She could not, of course, have known that Garth of Sothar had taken a dreadful wound and was near death, which greatly slowed the flight of the Cro-Magnons across the plain to the edge of the sea, where they hoped to rejoin their brethren, the warriors of Thandar. But she sensed the savage horde was not very far ahead, and for this urgent reason the Empress begrudged every moment “wasted” on food or rest, as it delayed interminably the sweet hour of her sanguinary revenge.

At the forefront of the legions, mounted upon one of the monstrous reptiles which the Zarians employed in lieu of horses, rode Xask, resplendent in his glittering gold-washed armor as commander of the host.

The wiley vizier vastly enjoyed the power and prerogatives of his new office. Every advance in the favor of the Divine Zarys added to his authority and prestige; every new honor which he could wrest from his adversaries or rivals enhanced his own importance to the Empress, and put him one step nearer to the ultimate goal upon which he had decided long ago to direct his every energy.

To tell the truth, Xask was not exactly dissatisfied with this expedition, although privately he disapproved of revenge as essentially childish and nonproductive. But on an adventure such as this, who could foretell what accidents might befall?

Even an Empress might succumb to a stray arrow or a mishap.

Which would, of course, leave the Throne of Zar empty and untenanted…and not very far out of the reach of one as clever and cunning as, say, Xask.…

It would seem that the Machiavellian little vizier and Moustapha of El-Cazar had more in common than either of them could have guessed.

None of this would have come as any particular surprise to the Divine Zarys, could she have read the plots and counterplots that seethed through the busy brain of her vizier, behind the bland, obsequious mask of his features—although she would not have believed him capable of aiming at the throne itself, in all likelihood, since he was not even remotely descended from the sacred line of the immortal Minos.

But Zarys was herself a shrewd and capable judge of men, and knew their ambitiousness. Indeed, she played the ambitions of one courtier against those of another, to achieve excellent service and to maintain something of a balance of power between the rivals, each jealous of the other’s post or birth or position of favor.