The Zanthodon MEGAPACK ™: The Complete 5-Book Series (55 page)

“That we, his warriors, should stand idly by—nay, should hide in the grasses like cowardly uld!—while our chieftain, Eric Carstairs, is borne away by the Dragonmen of Zar is a disgrace to our manhood!” the boy cried, his voice shaking a little with the intensity of his emotion.

Varak of Sothar clapped the youth on the shoulder, companionably.

“I know, boy,” he said. “We all feel miserable about it, not just you. But, remember, the last order which Eric Carstairs gave us before his capture was that we do just as we did.”

“Aye,” said another warrior, one Parthon. “And had we not, we should all have been taken prisoner—or been slain.”

“Better to die defending our chieftain and our honor than to live like cowards!” spat Jorn the Hunter fiercely.

“We live,” said a deep voice from behind him in somber tones. “And thus we may follow and rescue our chieftain and his friend.”

Jorn turned to look Hurok of the Kor up and down. If he had not been so upset, I strongly doubt that the boy would have uttered the phrase he uttered then.

“What does a Drugar know of honor?” the youth snarled.

Hurok blinked as if he had been struck; then his face darkened and his mighty hand curled about the haft of the heavy axe which hung at his side.

“As much as any panjani,” he growled. “And perhaps more—”

Varak stepped between the two, his hands raised to mollify.

“Let us not quarrel! Are we not comrades—Drugar or panjani? There is much in the words Hurok has spoken: we have saved our lives, and our freedom, by behaving like cowards, even as Jorn has said. It now remains for us to employ our lives and our freedom in a cause which will redeem our lost honor.”

“It was the wish of Eric Carstairs that we pursue the men-that-ride-on-water, and rescue the Princess from their hands,” murmured Ragor of Thandar. His comrade, Erdon, nodded in agreement.

Jorn’s eyes faltered and fell. “That is true, I had forgotten,” he whispered in a low voice, ashamed of his outburst. Ragor clapped him on the back.

“We are all distressed that our chieftain is gone, boy,” he said. “It now remains for us to decide which course of action to follow. What say you all, friends—shall we follow the track of the Dragonmen and seek an opportunity to rescue our chieftain and the old man, his companion—or shall we continue on in the path along which Eric Carstairs was leading us, to the rescue of Darya of Thandar?”

Each of the warriors eyed the other, no one wishing to speak up first. Either course of action was equally dangerous, and neither was certain of success.

Jorn spoke up at last.

“As for myself, I will devote my honor to the Princess,” the boy said stoutly. For much of her recent adventures, Darya had gone championed by Jorn, who was a youth of her own tribe, and the lad regarded her with unselfish devotion.

Varak studied the Apeman of Kor with inquisitive eyes. The Sotharian warrior, one of those I had rescued from hideous captivity in the cavern-city, knew that Hurok was among the panjani only by sufferance and because of his close friendship with Eric Carstairs.

“What is the decision of Hurok?” inquired the Sotharian.

The mighty Drugar regarded him in silence. Then he spoke.

“Hurok will pursue the Dragonmen and give his life, if needs he must, to help his friend,” he said stolidly.

“Well spoken,” nodded Varak approvingly. “But—what if the rest of us choose to follow the Princess?”

“Then Hurok will go alone to save Black Hair from the men of Zar.”

Cringing little Murg now had gathered enough courage to speak his mind. “Would it not be wiser for us to return to the main body of the host, and to apprise the High Chiefs of Sothar and of Thandar of what had chanced to occur?” he whined. “Then a mighty band of warriors could split, half to pursue the stolen Princess and the other half to rescue Eric Carstairs!”

“To do so would lose the advantage,” said Hurok. “Even now, the Dragonmen recede from us rapidly, for their beasts can stride more swiftly than a man may run. Ere we could return to the host, they would be very far away. The warriors must decide now what they will do.”

“Then let each man speak in turn,” suggested Varak. “As for myself, Varak of Sothar will follow the spoor of the great beasts and attempt to rescue Eric Carstairs.”

One by one, the little band spoke its mind. Murg wished to return to the safety of the host, while Warza and Parthon wished to aid the Princess. Ragor and Erdon were mightily inclined to that mode of action, as well, feeling that the cave-girl needed their help more urgently than did Eric Carstairs or the Professor, who were, after all, men, and therefore presumably—according to the manly code of this harsh, prehistoric world—able to fend for themselves. Jorn stoutly determined to seek the Princess.

“Very well,” said Hurok. “Hurok of Kor will go his way, then.” And without further words, the hulking Neanderthal began to truss his weapons securely to him, binding the spear across his broad shoulders with thongs and strapping the stone axe against his hairy thigh. It was obvious that the Apeman intended to run after the Zarian party, so as not to permit them the advantage of drawing even farther ahead.

The Cro-Magnons watched him with uncertainty in their hearts. It was true that they yearned to rescue their chieftain; also, it was tantamount to desertion to permit the lone Drugar to go off into the wilderness, somehow to stage a one-man war against the feared Dragonmen. They rather felt as if they were deserting him—and Eric Carstairs, as well.

As Hurok prepared to depart, Jorn laid one hand tentatively upon his massive arm. The Apeman peered down at the handsome youth inquiringly.

“If Hurok permits,” breathed Jorn fiercely, “Jorn of Thandar will accompany him. Two fighting men may succeed, whereas one man, however mighty a warrior, would certainly fail.”

“It will please Hurok to have Jorn the Hunter at his side,” said the Apeman with simple dignity.

Varak sighed. “And, surely,
three
will have a better chance of success, than two,” he said resignedly, stepping to join them.

Hurok grunted and his lips twitched. The moody Neanderthal almost smiled, but not quite.

The others looked at each other with indecision. Finally, Ragor, Erdon, Warza, and Parthon stepped forward to join the party.

“When we are so very few already, it seems foolish to divide our numbers,” said Parthon philosophically.

Only Murg wavered, fear visible in his dry, twitching lips and bulging eyes. With every fibre of his miserable little being, the scrawny Sotharian yearned for the safety of numbers. And yet he feared to traverse the plains, the savage jungles, the mysterious promontory, and the hills alone.

Finally, snuffling hopelessly, he shuffled after the others.

It was Hurok who set the pace. It mattered little to him whether he went after Eric Carstairs alone or in the company of the other warriors. For he had intended all along to pursue the Dragonmen and to do whatever could be done to rescue the first panjani who had ever treated him like a friend and an equal.

The splay-footed Neanderthal was not exactly built for running. Hurok must have tipped the scales at three hundred pounds, and the best runners are lightly and trimly built—Jorn, for instance. But Hurok had strength and iron endurance and enough grim, single-minded determination to make three other men. And the pace he set, while a grueling one, was not beyond the powers of any of his comrades, save possibly Murg, who very soon fell behind, whining and snuffling and complaining.

“Varak could wish that Murg had chosen
not
to accompany us,” admitted Varak to Hurok who trotted along at his side.

The Neanderthal grunted noncommittally.

“Surely, he will only slow us down, and when it comes to fighting, and it will certainly come to that in the end, you know,” chatted Varak, who was a bit loquacious and of a humorous, mischievous bent of mind, “when it comes to fighting, he will be even more of a hindrance than a help. What is the opinion of Hurok?”

The huge Drugar grunted sourly and spat.

“It is the opinion of Hurok,” he said, “that Varak would be wise to save his breath for running, not waste it in talk.”

And with that, he drew ahead of the Sotharian warrior and forged on in the front.

“Um,” said Varak lamely, wincing. Then he stopped talking and saved his breath for running, as he had been advised.

CHAPTER 3

THE MYSTERY OF THE CIRCLET

As we ate, I pondered gloomily our chances of making an escape. If we were to attempt it, now would seem to be the time, for we were both untied, although our ankles were tethered, and the Dragonmen would be hampered in their attempts to pursue us as it would take them some time to round up their reptiles again.

I said as much to the Professor. Chewing on his steak, he gave me a dubious look.

“But they are all around us, my boy, and are a dozen or more to our two,” he observed.

“Yeah, but I bet—with a bit of a head start—we could outrun them,” I said. This was probably true, certainly of myself, and of the Professor as well. I had seen the old scientist in a sprint before, and, while he is not exactly Olympic material, those skinny legs were capable of a very decent pace, given strong enough motives for flight.

“And if we do not outrun them, what next?” he inquired. “We have nothing but our bare hands with which to fight, while they are armed.…”

Of course, that was so. The little olive-skinned Minoans bore short bronze blades which rather resembled the ancient Roman
gladius
, and other weapons as well: poniard-like long daggers, slender spears of some glittering, unfamiliar metal, lassos, and three weighted balls on a cord. This last implement bore a strong similarity to the bolo of the Argentine gauchos, and was probably used in the same way.

I balled one fist and let him look at it.

“Bare hands can be decent weapons, you know,” I said suggestively.

“Um,” he remarked doubtfully. “It does seem to me unlikely that we could elude recapture for very long…out on this interminable plain, there is simply nowhere to go and, quite certainly, nowhere to hide. Once they have remounted, they have only to ride us down and seize us again.”

I knew that he was right, of course, but it irked me to be taken captive again, after winning my freedom so very recently. I said as much to the older man, with a surly tone.

“I feel much the same way, Eric,” he agreed. “But would it not be wiser to wait until an even better opportunity presents itself? To try to escape now, and to fail in the attempt, would only put the Zarians on their guard. They would watch us from that point on with redoubled vigilance, and our chances for another try at getting away would be few and frail.…”

“Watch it, here comes Xask,” I growled. The Minoan renegade, finishing his lunch and wiping his lips fastidiously on a bit of fabric, now rose to his feet and sauntered over to where we sat, with a pleasant smile on his smooth face.

“Well, Eric Carstairs,” he said mildly, “the fortunes of war seem to have turned the tables once again. Formerly, you were
my
captive—my deeply honored guest, rather—and here we are, both the, ah, ‘guests’ of my fellow countrymen.”

He didn’t exactly use the above colloquialisms, but you get the idea. I said nothing, giving him a contemptuous glance, then ignoring him. The Professor, however, had the gall to engage the fellow in conversation.

“Tell me, Xask, why did you—as it were—volunteer for capture by the soldiers?” he demanded. The other smiled.

“Since I was unfortunate enough to lose the friendship of the Sacred Empress and to earn sufficient enmity as to be driven into outlawry, I have not exactly enjoyed my exile. For a while, as you know, I found a safe haven of refuge among the Apemen of Kor, and rose to a position of influence with the late Uruk, the then High Chief. But life, among the bestial Drugars, for a man of my sophistication, was far from pleasant. I have yearned for a method whereby I might regain the favor of the Empress…and thanks to you, Eric Carstairs, I believe that I have found it.”

“Oh, yeah?” I said skeptically. “And what’s the trick you have up your sleeve this time?”

With a bland smile, he opened a flap in his tunic. To my amazement I glimpsed the blue steel barrel of my long-lost automatic! He had taken it from me when One-Eye jumped me earlier, but I had assumed he would have thrown it aside in his panicky flight when he ran from the charging aurochs.

I did not at this time know that Xask had already used the gun at least once, and had a canny notion of its powers. Now a dreadful foreboding entered my heart, however, curiously combined with a lifting of my hopes. For if I could get the automatic from Xask, the Professor and I would have a mighty good chance of getting free of the Minoans.

He was watching the expression in my eyes, and easily withdrew a bit from close proximity to me, concealing the pistol beneath his garments once again.

“I have observed your marvelous thunder-weapon in action, Eric Carstairs,” he drawled lazily. And by that I guessed that he had been watching from the underbrush at the edge of the jungle when I had put a bullet through Uruk’s brain during the battle between the warriors of Thandar and the Apemen of Kor.

“So?”

“So…if you will only teach me the secrets of its manufacture, I’ll have a potent weapon to present to the Empress upon my return to the Scarlet City,” he said smoothly. “Armed with a number of thunder-weapons of similar design and composition, the legions of Zar can easily conquer all of Zanthodon. For no comparable force exists to delay their march to victory, as they will be opposed by mere bands of savages armed with spears and stone axes!”

The audacity of his plan was stunning. Also, it turned my stomach: I could visualize the brave and gallant warriors of Sothar or Thandar charging the legions of Zar and being cut to ribbons by bullets from guns patterned after mine. The picture was sickening.

“I will not cooperate, surely you know that,” I told him levelly.

He shrugged good-humoredly.

“We none of us can know what we are capable of doing if the proper inducements are employed,” he pointed out with a twinkle of cold menace in his eye.

I didn’t care for the sound of that, for he was right, of course. Once, he had threatened to have One-Eye work me over unless I told him the secrets of the .45, and the only thing that saved me that time had been the aurochs charging us.

I tried to look grimly determined, but just then, Raphad came over to rebind our wrists, as it was time to mount up and ride on, and we had no more time to pursue this conversation.

In obedience to some unheard signal, the herd of dinosaurs left their feasting and came stalking back across the plain to be resaddled by their masters. The sight fascinated Professor Potter and piqued his curiosity.

“Tell me, Captain, by what means do you control the great beasts?” he inquired. “I certainly heard no whistle or other call summoning them, and from what I know of their kind, the dragons are simply too stupid to be easily domesticated and too unruly to be kept for very long in a state of docility.”

Raphad touched the circlet which adorned his brows. I have mentioned it before, but as he was the only man in the troop who wore one, I had assumed it to be a mark of his military rank. Now, looking more closely at it, I noticed that the band of peculiar ruddy silver was set with a large faceted stone like a clear crystal.

“By means of this,” he replied enigmatically. Then he turned away to oversee the remounting of his troops. And shortly we rode on across the plain in the direction of tall mountains which loomed mistily in the distance.