The Zanthodon MEGAPACK ™: The Complete 5-Book Series (52 page)

Zarys had once before banished Xask from the Scarlet City, exiling him to a harsh life in the hostile wilderness beyond the mountains which encircled Zar, for a slip which had disclosed somewhat of his schemes against her throne. She had accepted him back into her service because he had promised her the secret of the thunder-weapon (as the folk of Zanthodon call my .45 automatic), which he believed he could extract from either Professor Potter or myself, and could then duplicate to arm her legions, rendering them invincible.

That this plan had fallen through—“blown up” would be the more apt phrase!—was not really the fault of Xask, who had been very close to achieving success. Still, he had betrayed her once, and now, for a second time, he had let her down.

The Empress resolved to keep a close eye on Xask. It was for this very reason that she had appointed him to the command of her legions, a post left vacant by the demise of Cromus. That meant he would remain at her side where she could keep an eye on him.

The only other alternative would have been to leave Xask behind in Zar, while she left her kingdom to pursue the fleeing savages.

And Zarys of Zar was certainly not fool enough to take
that
risk!

* * * *

In the rear of the Zarian force, Jorn the Hunter and Yualla of Sothar rode in the saddle of one of the thodars.

The saddle was capacious enough to accommodate both of the young Cro-Magnons, whose wrists were bound with stout thongs of leather. Yualla was seated in front of Jorn, whose hands were fastened around the girl, resting in her lap. Despite the dismal fact of their captivity, the caveboy and the cavegirl were very conscious of each other’s body. Jorn’s hands were upon the firm warm thighs of the scantily clad Cro-Magnon princess, and she was leaning back in the circle of his arms, very aware of his bare and muscular chest.

For a time, neither of them spoke. Then they began to converse in whispers, and the subject on which they conversed was, of course, their possible chances for escape. At the moment, these seemed few and frail, but one could never tell what lay in the womb of time.

Yualla wore only a soft, tanned hide which shielded her loins and extended up her slim body to cover one breast, leaving the other bare, while a strap of fur continued over her shoulder and was fastened to the rear portion of her brief garment. Her slender waist was cinched in by a girdle of leather.

“If only we had a sharp instrument, we could perhaps sever our bonds,” murmured Jorn in her ear. She nodded.

“I have such an instrument,” she confided to the boy in low tones. “A bronze knife, given to me by my father, Garth.”

Hope leaped up in Jorn’s heart.

“Where do you keep it?” he inquired.

“Beneath my garment,” she replied, “scabbarded below my right breast. I cannot reach it with my wrists tethered to the saddlehorn.…”

“My wrists are tethered to the saddlehorn, too,” said Jorn glumly. “Otherwise, perhaps I could reach it.”

“Your bonds are within reach of my fingers,” the girl whispered. “Perhaps I can untie them—”

“You can try, anyway.”

And try she did. It was difficult work, and she strove not to look down to her lap to see what she was doing, lest she catch the attention of the Dragonmen who rode to either side of them, directing the beast on which they were mounted with beams of telepathic thought.

It was slow and agonizing work, fumbling with the tightly knotted leathern thongs, but at length it seemed to Yualla that she had found the key to loosening the bonds of the boy. In time, one strap fell away, then another was loosened sufficiently for the young hunter to work one hand free of the rest. He kept his hand pressed against the warm thigh of the girl so as not to attract attention, while assisting her to free his other hand.

“At the next rest stop,” he said, once his hands were free, “we can make a break for freedom!”

“No,” said the girl decidedly. “It would not work—we cannot run fast enough to elude the Dragonmen of Zar, neither could we find any place to hide amid these flat and featureless plains.”

“Then what shall we do?” demanded Jorn restively. Yualla urged him to be patient.

“When the Dragonmen have reached the host of Sothar,” she said, “and are attacking, in the confusion of the battle surely we can slip away to rejoin my people.”

“I hope that you are right,” he said grimly.

“I hope I am, too,” the girl sighed.

They rode on in silence, as he cut her bonds with the bronze knife he had slipped from beneath her garment.

* * * *

As for poor, miserable Murg, he rode behind the two young people, sharing his saddle with a Dragonman called Ophar. The two did not at all get on well together, for Ophar did not care to share the saddle of his thodar with a savage, and resented having been ordered to do so, and seized upon every opportunity to take his resentment out on the hapless Murg.

It seemed to Murg’s way of thinking, and probably there was quite a bit of truth behind his opinion, that recently life had not played exactly fair with Murg. He had gone from one calamity to the next, from the horrible slavery of the Gorpaks in their ghastly cavern city to the cruel hands of the Neanderthal bully, One-Eye; from the dangerous adventurings with Hurok and my band of warriors, to being tethered by Yualla (whom, he had conveniently forgotten, he had tried to ravish while she slept); and from that condition to his present unhappy bondage by the Dragonmen of Zar, whom he feared mightily.

In short, Murg heartily wished that he had never left home. Of course, home to Murg was the tribal village of Sothar, which had been riven apart by earthquakes and then buried beneath seething rivers of liquid fire (which was how Murg named molten lava to himself), so to have remained back in Sothar would have been distinctly uncomfortable, at best, and doubtless seriously injurious to his health. But people like Murg can only feel sorry for themselves.

At any rate, Murg was thoroughly weary of a life which seemed to consist of one dangerous captivity after another. He wished only to be back with his tribe, surrounded (and, of course, protected) by the stalwart warriors of Sothar.

Alas, that wish seemed extremely unlikely of ever finding fulfillment: once the Dragonmen caught up with the warriors of Sothar, there would quickly ensue a frightful battle, and Murg didn’t like battles any more than he liked being someone’s slave.

But Murg had not survived to his present age in the hostile wilderness of Zanthodon without having long since learned to keep his eyes and ears open, and to remain alert to every slightest advantage that might come his way. Thus, while the Dragonmen remained oblivious to the fact, the keen eyes of Murg were not long in discerning that the hands of Jorn and Yualla were somehow freed. True, the boy and the girl had cunningly wrapped their thongs about their hands to simulate bondage, but it became obvious to Murg that the two had managed to free themselves, and were undoubtedly waiting for some sort of a diversion before making their break.

Murg saw everything in the light of what possible advantage it might afford the well-being of Murg. So he long and thoughtfully pondered this present discovery, without finding the advantage. Mounted on another thodar, the Cro-Magnon youngsters could hardly free Murg, even if they wished. Separated as they were, he could not threaten them with disclosure of their secret unless they took him along, because there was no chance for them to converse privately. Of what use to Murg, then, was this knowledge?

Then Murg thought of Xask.

The cunning tricksters of this life seem to recognize their brethren at a glance, and therefore Murg had long been aware that Xask was not unlike himself. At the first rest stop, therefore, Murg dared address the surly Dragonman whose saddle he was forced to share.

“If the lord pleases,” whined Murg in servile tones, cringing in anticipation of a blow, “I have important information for the lord Xask—”

“The Lord Commander Xask is not to be conversed with by the likes of you,” snarled the Dragonman, cuffing Murg aside.

“That,” declared Murg with unexpected and atypical daring, “is a matter which only the Lord Commander Xask may properly decide. And if the Lord Ophar refuses to permit this lowly one to pass along the important information of which I speak, then the wrath of the Lord Commander may perchance fall upon the Lord Ophar’s head.…”

Ophar was about to knock Murg to the ground for this impertinence, but stayed his hand. The whining cur might well speak the truth, and Ophar had great and good reason to fear the disapproval of Xask, who was a ruthless and unforgiving man.

“If the Lord Xask is unimpressed by the information whereof this scrawny savage boasts, then at least he will not fail to approve of the alert vigilance of Ophar, who did not scruple to bring to his attention anything that might be of interest to the Lord Xask. At any rate, how can I suffer for so doing?”

Thus reasoned the clever Ophar to himself. Then, aloud, to Murg, he said:

“Oh, very well, come along—but the information you claim to possess had better be of interest to the Lord Commander, or your miserable hide will bear the brunt of his—and my—disapproval!”

Murg nodded obsequiously, and trotted along at the heels of Ophar.

In his weaselly little heart, Murg hoped desperately that his news would indeed be of interest.…

But only time would tell.

PART VI: BATTLE BENEATH THE WORLD

CHAPTER 26

TRACKED BY THE UNKNOWN

By slow and easy stages the tribe of Sothar traversed the great northern plain, reaching at last the rocky coastline of the sea of Sogar-Jad.

It was at this place, I was informed, that the twin tribes had split in twain, with the tribe of Thandar continuing their search for their lost princess, Darya, while Garth and his tribe struck off across the plains, following the few and faint traces which denoted the direction in which Yualla had been borne.

Arriving at this rocky shore, we found no slightest trace of the Thandarians. After this length of time, there was, of course, no way we could guess of the direction in which they had traveled, or the destination which they sought. Our only clue was that we knew Tharn of Thandar was searching for the stronghold of the Barbary Pirates, the fortress isle of El-Cazar. But we had no idea where, in all this expanse of misty sea, strewn with small rocky islets and archipelagoes, El-Cazar might lie.

Garth, the Omad or High Chief of the Sotharians, had regained much of his vigor during the long, slow trek from the “east,” and his mighty frame had largely repaired itself, the injury inflicted upon him by the assassin Raphad being by now very nearly half-healed.

I believe I have noted before the remarkable healing powers of the Cro-Magnons of Zanthodon. Perhaps their extraordinary recuperative powers result from the simple, natural life they lead, close to the manner in which our common and remote ancestors lived; this perhaps accounts for their abilities to recover so swiftly from serious injuries; again, it may be due to some substance in the soil of Zanthodon, in some element in the food they eat, or some mysterious quality in the very air of the Underground World, which enables them to experience such miracles of swift healing.

I do not know. But Garth, now much recovered, wisely advised that we could spend our lives searching these unknown northern shores in quest of our Thandarian friends, while we might better strike south along the coastline, hunting for Thandar itself, in which land we had been promised welcome and refuge.

Besides, to linger in these parts might well be dangerous as well as fruitless. For, surely, the Divine Zarys would not delay very long in launching her pursuit of the tribe—which was, as you have already read, the very case.

So, after a time, we turned “south” and followed the coastline down the curve of the subterranean continent. Somewhere “south” of the jungles which proliferated below the Peaks of Peril and the plain of the trantors, we knew, lay Thandar. We thought that we could probably find it…and that every league we put between ourselves and the pursuing enemy would add to our already slender margin of safety.

* * * *

Thus it was, unfortunately, that Varak and his bride, Ialys, had hardly any time at all for a honeymoon—if, indeed, the Cro-Magnons of Zanthodon or the Minoans of the Scarlet City of Zar know the custom. At any rate, while they sought—and were given—as much privacy as they wished, they did not exactly have a chance to enjoy that blissful idyll that is what honeymoons are all about.

The warriors of my retinue rather missed the companionship of the cheerful, good-humored youth, whose jests and gibes and pranks had enlivened much of the trek for us this far. But all of us, even solemn old Hurok, understood instinctively that the young couple desired nothing so much right now as their own company. Only Professor Potter griped.

“What a priceless opportunity, my boy, to witness the nuptial ceremonies of our remote ancestors, doubtless preserved for countless ages here in the Underground World! Frazier forever, how will the anthropologists of the Upper World ever forgive me, if I do not—”

“Doc,” I said severely, “you are
not
going to spy on them so long as I can lift a fist to slug you.”

He huffed and swelled like a bantam cock, then wilted, as if deflated by the merciless gleam in my eye.

“Oh, very well!” snapped the old boy pettishly. “But the loss to science be upon your own pointed head, Eric, and not upon my own!” With that he stalked off in a high fury, to sulk alone. I suppressed a rueful grin.

Hurok looked puzzled.

“What does he say, the old one?” he inquired in his slow, deep voice.

I tried to explain—not only the young couple’s need of privacy, but the Doc’s scientific curiosity. Neither attitude made much sense to the simple Neanderthal, but eventually he shrugged and ignored it.

“Hurok shall never understand the ways of the panjani,” he sighed, turning away.

As a panjani born and bred myself, I could have admitted that many of the ways of my own kind were pretty mystifying even to me, but he was gone by then.

We marched “south,” along the coast.

* * * *

Before very long, it became obvious to the more alert and keen-sighted of our host that a large body of men had but recently marched along this same path. It was the scouts and rangers of Sothar who apprised me of this, pointing to the marks of many sandaled feet scarcely visible in the scant patches of bare earth along our way.

Once these things were called to my attention, it was easy to see them and I was puzzled that I had not noticed them before. One of the scouts, a grizzled veteran named Quaron, perhaps explained it best.

“The chieftain did not see the marks-of-many-feet because he was not looking for them,” he remarked.

I quirked an eyebrow.

“And was the scout Quaron looking for them?” I inquired tartly.

The older man smiled briefly.

“It is the duty of a scout to be constantly looking for everything,” he said succinctly.

Surely, the footprints could only have been made by the warriors of Thandar! That was the easiest and most obvious explanation, and the one which came most quickly to mind. Which implied that, were we to stretch our stride a bit, we might, ere long, catch up with our friends. Which we endeavored to do, upon the urgings of Garth.

I was as eager as any of the others to press forward with all speed, for it occurred instantly to me that if the horde of Thandar was already on the route “south” to their homeland, the only explanation for this could be that my beloved Darya had been found by her people, and thus was not very far ahead of me.

We pressed on.

* * * *

Again, before very long, it became obvious to us that we were being followed Scouts set their ears against the ground, and reported a faint drumming in the earth, which could only be the result of the feet of many marching men or beasts.

“Who could it be?” murmured Garth thoughtfully to himself, from his stretcher of tanned bides fastened over parallel poles. “What foe have we in these parts?”

“We are too far ‘north’ to have attracted the attention of the Drugars of Kor,” I pointed out, “and not far enough ‘south’ for any lingering and surviving remnants of the Gorpaks of the cavern city to be on our trail.…”

“It can only be the Dragonmen of Zar,” was the announcement uttered by Hurok in his deep tones. We looked at him nonplussed.

“Surely, there has not yet been enough time for Zarys to mount a counterattack,” I protested. Then I cut my protest off at the expression of bafflement in his small, deep-set eyes, remembering that the men of Zanthodon have only the most rudimentary notion of the very existence of time. Here beneath the eternal noon of their undarkening skies, time remains as yet unguessed by even the wisest of the tribesmen.

“Let us continue on our way,” said Garth heavily. “Whoever our unknown pursuers are, they will be upon us soon enough.”

And that was one prophecy soon proven true.…

CHAPTER 27

KÂIRADINE REAPPEARS

On the fortress island of the Barbary Pirates, the work of clearing away the wreckage, burying the dead, repairing the few ships which were left more or less whole and of removing or sinking those which the savage hordes had burnt was progressing with every speed possible.

Moustapha, the new—and self-styled—Prince of El-Cazar, felt, and that rightly, that his prestige and authority over his fellow corsairs rested, to a considerable degree, with the swiftness and thoroughness with which he pursued and punished the Cro-Magnon savages for their temerity in invading and conquering the island of the Barbary Pirates.

There had been, and was, considerable grumbling and dissatisfaction over his prompt assumption of the princely title among the corsairs. It was not so much that Moustapha was not esteemed as one of the captains, or that he was disliked, for he had always been both popular and respected by his brother buccaneers. It was, simply, that he was not of the race of the great Khair ud-Din of Algiers, the original Barbarossa, and that from the distant time of their flight into the Underground World of Zanthodon, a son of the line of the mighty Barbarossa had always ruled El-Cazar.

In this, if in little else, the Barbary Pirates tended to be strictly traditional. However, as no rival rose to challenge Moustapha with a clearer claim to the throne, his assumption of the regal authority aroused mere grumbling, and no organized opposition.

As soon as his repairs were completed on his flagship and the other vessels of his squadron were refurbished, and those of the less damaged ships in the harbor had been made seaworthy, the new Prince of El-Cazar moved with alacrity to enlist a strong force of fighting men and made preparations for the voyage to the shores of the subterranean continent.

The unexpected intervened, however—as might have been expected.

* * * *

Moustapha was alone in the great hall of the princely citadel, studying the lists of men and weaponry and provisions, when a mocking laugh sounded from behind his back.

Snarling an oath, Moustapha whipped about, ready to lash out at any servitor who might have dared to enter his solitude unannounced and uninvited—

Only to pale to the lips with astonishment as he saw and recognized the man who had laughed.

For, lounging gracefully against a stone pillar, stood none other than Kâiradine Redbeard.

Moustapha’s consternation must have been written clearly upon his swarthy features, for at sight of his face, Kâiradine laughed again. And, in truth, the consternation of the other was more than understandable: the Redbeard had vanished from the knowledge of the buccaneers weeks before, at the time of the Thandarian invasion, and had not been seen or heard from since. He was dead or had disappeared, all men believed, and most accounted him among the very many corpses burned or hacked out of all recognition. Yet here he stood—alive and hale and hearty!

For a long moment, Moustapha stared wide-eyed at this amazing apparition, licking dry lips with a dry tongue.

“M-my prince!” he stammered foolishly.

Kâiradine grinned sardonically.

“Your prince, is it? By the Fiends of Kaf, but I had heard that you yourself, my faithful and loyal Moustapha, had assumed that title, along with my citadel and my very crown!”

Moustapha stammered something inarticulate but apologetic. Suddenly, the playfully mocking manner of the Redbeard changed, as he showed ever his mercurial nature.

“Get off of my throne,”
he snapped icily, one dark, strong hand gliding to curl its fingers about the hilt of his sword.

Moustapha stumbled to his feet, parchment sheets sprawling over the dais. Eyes wary, he backed away as the other mounted the stone steps and seated himself in the place thus made vacant.

“That is better, you rogue,” said Kâiradine. “Your place is at the foot of those steps, not on the throne atop them.”

“Yes, O
reis
,” whispered Moustapha. “I thought…we
all
thought—?”

“Kâiradine Redbeard knows full well what you thought, you shallow-pated fools,” grinned the Prince of El-Cazar. Negligently, with the point of his blade, the Redbeard punctured one of the parchments, removed it and glanced over it casually.

“I see that you had planned to launch an expedition against the mainland, to attack and wreak vengeance upon the savage host,” he drawled lazily.

“Yes, O
reis
,” murmured Moustapha.

“The plan is an excellent one, for only by so doing will the mariners of the Brotherhood regain their self-esteem and their faith in their leader,” said Kâiradine. “Your plan will go forward with, of course, the slight alteration of the name of the leader.”

“Naturally, O
reis
.”

“As the accursed savages burned my
Red Witch
to the waterline, I will assume the command of your
Lion of Islam
as my flagship,” purred Kâiradine. “I trust that the Captain Moustapha has no objection to this?”

“None, O
reis
!”

“I thought not! Very good, then . . you may remove your gear and possessions from my palace, and return to your own house. When all arise from slumber, there will be a council of the senior seamen in this hall, not only to formally reinstate your prince and to revoke your own unlawful assumption of my power, but to select the leaders of the ships which I shall lead against the savages—a question?”

Moustapha spoke hesitantly.

“O my prince…the command of the ships of my squadron has already been vested in tried and trustworthy captains—”

“Yes, captains of your own choosing, loyal to you, at least,” snapped the Redbeard. “I no longer trust you, Moustapha; and I cannot, therefore, place any reliance in men loyal to you and, perchance, somewhat less than loyal to myself.”

“It shall be as you command,” murmured Moustapha tonelessly.

“So it shall,” smiled Kâiradine. “Now you have our leave to withdraw.”

Moustapha bowed with a wooden face, and left quickly. He felt fortunate to have escaped that confrontation with a whole skin.

The men of El-Cazar welcomed the mysterious reappearance of their prince wholeheartedly. They had never been informed of the decision of the Council of the Captains which had deposed the Redbeard, as the abrupt invasion of the host of Thandar had come so swiftly upon the heels of this act that the news of it had never been circulated. And, as well, since all of the participants in that Council, saving only Kâiradine Redbeard alone, were now slain, there remained no one to inform them that it had ever taken place.

The selection of captains
pro tem
for the few ships which remained seaworthy out of the fleet of the corsairs went forward swiftly, following a simple formula: anyone that Moustapha had chosen to command a vessel was automatically disqualified and was replaced with a man known to be true to Kâiradine Redbeard.