The Zanthodon MEGAPACK ™: The Complete 5-Book Series (59 page)

I gathered the Empress might be a Goddess, but was mortal enough to fear assassination.…

* * * *

One by one the people who had gotten there ahead of us were summoned into the Presence. I kept looking around, wondering what had become of Xask—with a cunning, unscrupulous sneak like him around, you like to have him where you can keep your eyes upon him—but he had been separated from us in the bathing chamber and we hadn’t seen him since.

Eventually it was our turn, and we were led into the throne room by the Panjandrum, who strutted importantly to the foot of the dais, very suddenly and quite completely lost all of his importance and fell down on his belly, ground his face into the tiled floor and kissed it humbly, while groveling.

I gathered that much the same performance was expected of the Professor and myself. I’m afraid I had something else to occupy my mind. In fact, I was staring up at the slim figure on the throne with utter amazement written all over my features.

I have never been so absolutely and completely astonished in all of my life—

For there, seated demurely upon the high throne of Zar, sat my beloved Princess—
Darya of Thandar
.

CHAPTER 9

YUALLA OF SOTHAR

The two tribes continued their long march across the northernmost extremity of the continent, following the coastline for many sleeps and wakes. The Cro-Magnon warriors had no clear, precise idea of where they were headed, but they knew that they would recognize it when they found it.

They did not, however, find the spoor of the lost Darya nor of my party of warriors. This puzzled them more than a little, but to retrace their steps seemed futile—almost as futile as trying to find our tracks amidst the grassy plains.

Like the true woodsmen they were, the men of Sothar and Thandar lived off the land. Daily—if I may use the term in this world where there is neither night nor day but only a perpetual noon—their scouts and huntsmen spread out, flushing game from the grasses and making their kills with spear or bow.

One of these huntsmen, not surprisingly, was Yualla, the teenaged daughter of Garth, Omad of the Sotharians. I say “not surprisingly,” because the women of the Cro-Magnon tribes were not the pampered playthings of their men, nor was the range of their activities limited to such domestic tasks as cooking and child-rearing. Life is hard in this primitive world, filled with hostile tribes and monstrous beasts, and the women learn to hunt and fight and track game as do the men. Frequently, they prove to be better at one or another of these supposedly masculine occupations.

This was the case with Yualla. The girl had demonstrated a keen eye, a steady hand, and a cool nerve when tracking and bringing down game, and she was a dead shot with her bow. Thus, neither the male hunters nor her royal father felt there was anything inappropriate when she volunteered to join the hunting parties.

The truth was, Yualla was bored and restless. She was about Jorn’s age, and stunningly attractive, with clear blue eyes and a long, unruly mane of blond hair. Her young body was slim and lithe and supple, the body of a dancer or a gymnast, without a superfluous ounce of flesh. She could run like a deer, climb like a monkey, and fight as well as any boy of her own age.

The only trouble with Yualla was, that, being the Omad’s daughter, she was more than a trifle spoiled and accustomed to having her own way. This made her reckless and adventurous, which more than once had gotten her into trouble.

As on the occasion of which I speak.…

* * * *

Under the command of one of the senior huntsmen, a grizzled and veteran warrior named Sarga, Yualla had departed from the camp early that morning with a band of other hunters in search of game. Of which there was certainly a plenitude in these parts, for zomaks nested along the rocky coastline and herds of uld roamed the prairie-like plains.

The uld, by the way, are small, harmless, and quite edible little mammals which resemble fat, shortlegged deer. Professor Potter identified them as eohippus, the ancestor (or
an
ancestor) of the modern horse; anyway, they are quite tasty when roasted or broiled.

Quite early during this expedition, the limber, adventure-loving cave-girl had outdistanced her comrades, preferring as always to hunt alone rather than in company. There was hardly a chance of her getting lost, for the plains were wide and flat and the smoke of cookfires from the tribal encampments could be seen a very long distance off. Nor were there any dangerous predators which employed the plains for their own hunting grounds, insofar as the Cro-Magnons knew.

She struck deep toward the center of the plain, following the tracks of a small herd of uld which were scarcely discernible in the thick grasses. Slung over her back, she carried a narrow quiver containing some sixteen flint-bladed arrows; her unstrung bow she carried in her left hand. The only other weapon the cave-girl had with her was a fine bronze knife, a present from her royal father, which had a deerskin scabbard. This she wore tied by thongs to her right thigh.

In the humid and tropical climate which seems to pervade all of this Underground World of Zanthodon, nobody wears much clothing. Hence all the girl wore was a beautifully tanned fawnskin garment resembling a brief apron which covered her slim loins and extended over one shoulder, concealing one pointed young breast and leaving the other bare. A necklace of colored seashells hung about her slender throat, and her feet were shod in supple buskins, laced up to mid-calf.

All the rest of her was naked, clear, golden-tanned, vibrantly beautiful—girl.

* * * *

Unknown to Yualla of Sothar, another hunter was abroad that day, also on the track of the tasty and defenseless little herd of uld. This second hunter was one of the most fearsome of all of the predators of Zanthodon, the dreaded thakdol—the mighty pterodactyl of the dim Jurassic.

Aloft on its batlike, membranous wings, the flying lizard floated against the golden glow which permeated the misty skies of this primitive world like some monster out of nightmare. With its fanged, elongated jaws (which were not unlike those of the alligator or crocodile), its horrible bird-clawed feet, its long and snaky tail, the thakdol was hideous to behold—and every bit as dangerous and deadly as it was hideous.

It was not long before the minuscule brain of the thakdol saw and recognized the tiny figure far below as something edible. Not as tasty or as defenseless as the uld, of course, but the aerial monster had eaten of human flesh many times ere this, and found the dish to its liking.

The intelligence of the dragon of the skies was dim and rudimentary, for the pterodactyl was virtually nothing more than a murder machine, a flying stomach. And its minute brain could only contain one thought at a time. Up until this moment that peanut-sized organ had entertained naught but the idea of uld…tempting, juicy, squealing, fat uld. Thus at first, and for some little time thereafter, the thakdol ignored the running figure beneath it as irrelevant to its fixation on uld-hunting.

But in time the notion filtered into the dim brain of the flying reptile that the cave-girl would easily provide it with the luncheon it hungered for, and the idea of
girl
began to take dominance over that of
uld
.

It was perhaps too much to ask of the thakdol’s rudimentary brain to expect it to weigh its chances. The pterodactyl well knew from former encounters that, as often as not, the two-legged prey bore sharply pointed sticks with which they were accustomed to thrust and jab at the tender bellies of such as it. And, on other occasions, they had been known to wield heavy stone axes, or to loose from stringed sticks flying slivers of wood that could be an annoyance, even a bother.

No, the thakdol was hunting, and it was hungry. And when this happened, it simply took wing from its mountaintop aerie and hunted until it found something to kill. Then it feasted.

However, some instinctive element of caution may have awakened within the brain of the flying reptile. For, although it could not have known this, the running girl as yet remained ignorant of the thakdol’s existence.

Thus when it folded those broad, batlike wings and fell out of the skies like a plummet, the girl did not realize her danger until it was too late for her to defend herself.

A hideous black shadow fell over her. Throwing back her head, Yualla stared with a thrill of incredulous horror at the fanged monstrosity which hurtled toward her out of the heavens. There was no time to string the bow she held, no time to loose so much as a single arrow at that mailed breast. The winged monster would pounce upon her in another breath: already its clawed feet were spread, ready to rip and rend her tender flesh—

* * * *

Yualla did the only thing possible—she threw herself flat and rolled into the thick grasses. It was a vain hope, that of hiding herself among the grasses, but it was all that she had. And, as it happened, it was probably the wisest thing she could have done, under such circumstances.

For the thakdol hunts as the eagle hunts, swooping out of the sky to snatch its prey into the air. And, lying close against the flat earth as she was, the cave-girl presented the hardest possible target for those terrible claws. Thus, when the bird descended, it was forced to hang on beating vans while scrabbling about for her slender form, which it could not see because she was underneath it and its own body blocked its view.

Breathless, with furiously beating heart, the girl rolled this way and that upon the meadow, striving to elude the clutches of those horrible, hooked claws, and narrowly succeeding.

But then one claw closed by accident about her lower leg. It caught her above the ankle of one foot, and, as it chanced, when the claw snapped shut like a curved trap, it closed and curled about the limb but did not bite into it.

Sensing that it had seized its prey, the thakdol instantly rose, raising a dust storm from the beating of its mighty wings.

As it rose into the air, it dragged the helpless girl with it.

By a miracle, the girl was as yet uninjured. Had the reptile ascended with the swooping flight that had been its original intention, the shock would doubtless have broken Yualla’s leg. But now it rose from an almost stationary posture, slowly and laboriously due to the girl’s weight, and thus the ascent was slower than it might have been. And Yualla had the presence of mind—which was remarkable, under such circumstances—to dangle loosely and limply, rather than to kick or struggle.

Through it all, she had somehow managed to hang onto her bow. So the blond cave-girl was not unarmed, although there was little she could do to fight in her present awkward position. She was, after all, hanging head down.

For an instant, she entertained the wild notion of trying to put an arrow through the belly of the brute, which was directly above her and exposed and vulnerable. But already the plain was swaying and dwindling beneath her as the monster gained the upper air, and long before she could have strung the bow and nocked an arrow, she was too high. To have fallen from such a height as this would have killed her instantly.

Flapping on slow and laboring wings, burdened by the weight of its captive, the thakdol flew off across the plain in the direction of that range of mountains which led to Zar, in whose peaks its nest was concealed.

CHAPTER 10

ZARYS OF ZAR

Identical in every respect with my lost Princess, the beautiful woman on the throne stared down at me with surprise—and with some other emotion I could not at once identify—in her wide and innocent blue eyes.

There was no question about it—the Empress of Zar was none other than Darya of Thandar! Although how this impossible thing could ever be was a mystery defying my solution at that time.

The long slim legs, the superb, pointed breasts, the magnificent mane of curling golden hair, framing the clear oval of that lovely, flower-like face—all, all were Darya’s.

But, whereas my Princess had gone clad in abbreviated furs, her small feet buskin-shod, crude jewelry clasped at throat and wrist, this magnificent woman was one blaze of jewels.

Clasped about the base of her throat, a yoke of gems threaded on crimson silk clad her upper torso, rising and falling with her lovely, half-naked breasts. Suspended from the terminals of this pectoral yoke, long silken threads, strung with gems, fell to veil but not conceal the exquisite lines of her belly and hips and slim thighs. It was with a distinct shock that I saw, beneath this incredible garment of jewels, she was utterly nude.

“Who is this barbarian,” she demanded imperiously, “who seems to recognize us, but upon whom our eyes have never laid—and why does he insolently stand erect, when all men kneel in our presence?”

The moment she spoke, I knew that she could not be the Darya I had known. My beloved Princess spoke with clear, soft, bell-like tones and silvery chiming laughter; this woman’s voice was throaty, husky, deep, with a seductive purr behind its music.

“Divine Zarys, I shall bend those stubborn knees,” rumbled a bass voice. A burly, dwarfish man clad in golden greaves and glittering breastplate strode from his station at the foot of the dais, glaring at me.

I was too dazed with shock to think straight or to move. As the gorgeously caparisoned officer came strutting up to me and made as if to club me over the head with his black enamel baton, I merely balled one fist and sank it into his solar plexus with all my strength.

There was, you see, a gap between the bottom of the cuirass and the ornate buckle of the heavy girdle which clasped his waist. It was about the size of my fist, I calculated.

It was, too.

He staggered as if he had walked into an invisible wall, purpled, then turned pale as curdled milk, and sagged to his knees, metal greaves clanking on the tiles. Then he lost his lunch rather noisily.

I filed away for future reference the interesting fact that the Minoan Cretans, despite their urban sophistication and remarkable advances, remained ignorant of the fine art of pugilism.

The Empress made a sound of disgust and rose from her throne, striding down the steps of the dais like a glittering waterfall of gems, fastidiously avoiding her sprawled and vomiting officer, and strode through a curtained doorway into an inner chamber.

I gathered that the audience was over.

And, from the murderous glare I received from the officer I had knocked down, I gathered my life was to be reckoned in minutes, or however long it would take him to get through with being sick.

One of his lieutenants helped him stagger to his feet. Another wiped his lips and chin with a corner of his cloak. I guessed the man was a personage of some considerable prominence, from the way toadies and underlings hurried to fawn about him, shoot me frosty glares, and
tut-tut
over his “accident.”

“Ialos, lend me your sword,” he said thickly.

With a gloating smile in my direction, his lieutenant made haste to put the weapon into his hand.