The Zanthodon MEGAPACK ™: The Complete 5-Book Series (60 page)

Stiff-legged as a barnyard rooster whose private henhouse has been invaded by another rooster, the man I had hit came toward me. I balled my two fists and prepared to give him a second lesson in the fine art of fisticuffs. As it turned out, the opportunity did not come.

A slim dark girl in diaphanous silks, who had come silently up behind him, laid one hand on his brawny forearm.

“General Cromus, your revenge must wait upon another time, for the Goddess will see this barbarian privately,” she said in a soft, lisping voice.

Cromus froze, licked his lips, stared at me with hot, hating eyes, and reluctantly returned the weapon to his underling.

All this time, the pudgy Grand Panjandrum (I soon discovered him to be the Royal Chamberlain, and his name turned out to be Hissab) and the Professor remained facedown on the tiled floor, neither daring to move. Hissab now inched his head about and stared at me with blank astonishment. I judged that private audiences were seldom awarded, and never to unruly barbarians. I tipped the fat man a wink which seemed to scandalize him.

The girl came up to me, eyeing me from head to foot admiringly.

“This way,” she said demurely, leading me off.

* * * *

Beyond the portal lay a small, dainty, rosy-lit room which seemed to serve as the retiring room of the Empress. When I came in, following the girl sent to fetch me, her maids were in the process of assisting their monarch to disrobe. The jeweled collar had been unclasped, baring to my view her beautiful breasts, and the fabulous garment slid away showing me rather more naked girlflesh than I was comfortable at seeing.

The Empress, after one indifferent glance in my direction, continued to submit to being undressed by the maids, who stored the robe of jewels carefully away in a chest of carven wood painted with octopi and seashells. The naked woman ignored my presence as if I were a pet dog.

I was intrigued; also, I was a little affronted. Women, especially when naked, tend not to ignore me.

One of the maids gently adjusted a gauzy robe about the shoulders of her mistress. This clasped only at the throat, opening all the way down whenever she moved, so the view continued to be a distraction. Also, the robe was about as transparent as a veil of smoke, so none of the attractions were all that concealed from my eyes. But I felt a little more comfortable, somehow.

Then she glided across the fur rugs to curl up on a sofa which was piled with many small, plump, bright-colored cushions. She then calmly regarded me with faint curiosity in her eyes, as well as that emotion I had glimpsed before. Was it—admiration? Or was I flattering myself?

“Does the animal speak a civilized tongue?” the Empress asked.

The girl who had come to fetch me said: “According to the Lord Chamberlain, Divine Mistress, the creature is not unproficient in our tongue.”

“Remarkable,” drawled the woman on the sofa. Then she patted the cushions at her side and ordered (or invited? It was hard to tell) me to sit at her side.

I did so, a bit gingerly. We looked each other over with frank curiosity.

Up close like this, I noticed subtle differences between Zarys and Darya which had been invisible at first look. The Empress used cosmetics. Something like kohl darkened her long lashes, discreet use of paints made her eyelids mysterious and shadowy blue, accenting her superb eyes, and a scarlet cream reddened her full, seductive lips.

Since she was virtually naked, I could not help noticing other differences, as well. Darya was slim and lean, deliciously curved where nature designed women to be deliciously curved, and firmly muscled as a boy, without an ounce of fat.

The Empress of Zar, on the other hand, was softer and rounder, and just the slightest bit more svelt than Darya. She was also, I think, three or four years older, and there was a trace of petulance around her mouth and a hardness in her gaze, an arrogance, which Darya did not have. Still and all, the resemblances between them were astonishing: twin sisters could not have been more alike than the two women.

“Palaika,” murmured the Empress, tossing her head. One of the maids came gliding over and, with a distinct shock, I watched her take off the wig.

Yes, that glorious curling mane of golden hair was a-wig! I was appalled: beneath the wig (which was of gold wire, spun finer than silk thread), the Empress’s head was shaven bald.

Somehow, it did not make her any the less gorgeous.… Later, I came to understand that the palace aristocrats of Zar were all alike, slim, olive-skinned, black haired. They prized and hungered after novelty, and the current fashion was to emulate the beauty of the Cro-Magnon slave women, who were, of course, blonde. I have never understood where Zarys got her big blue eyes from—perhaps from some antique Mycenaean Greek ancestor in the remote past—but her golden hair was nothing but a golden wig.

“Is it true you are acquainted with our language?” she asked me curiously. I stammeringly said something to the effect that I was beginning to pick it up a little. My barbaric accent made her wrinkle up her nose, but my uncomfortable expression made her smile mischievously—and she looked more like Darya than ever. They had the same smile!

“In the Pasiphaeum you seemed to recognize me, yet you are not of our race, and a stranger to our realm. How is this?”

“‘Pasiphaeum’?” I repeated.

She shrugged impatiently. “As a direct descendant of the Goddess Pasiphae, wife of the Divine Minos, I…but here I am answering a slave’s questions, and him a barbarian as well! Answer me: you seemed to recognize me. How?”

“Well, uh,” I began: and falteringly I tried to explain about Darya and how much they resembled each other. She seemed intrigued at being the mirror image of a Cro-Magnon girl, rather than being offended by the comparison.

“I see,” she murmured. “You were, when captured by the Outriders who guard the approaches to my realm, in the company of the despicable Xask, exiled former prince of the city; how is this?”

“Accident, more than anything else. He is my enemy as well as yours, your majesty.”

A pouting smile touched those full red lips.

“’My majesty’…how quaint! But my subjects generally give me the title Divinity or Goddess…my name, however, is Zarys. Do barbarians of your tribe have given names?”

I was getting just a little tired of being called a barbarian. However, I held my temper and told her my name.

“Eric Carstairs,” she repeated. “How uncouth a name…nonetheless, it seems to suit you.”

She caressed me slowly with her eyes, her expression demure, a tantalizing smile playing about her mouth. I blushed a little as she looked me over, feeling like a prize bull on display at a cattle auction. At the same time, I felt her nearness powerfully: she was so very much like my lost beloved that I ached to seize her in my arms, to crash her against my chest, to cover her flower-like face with my hot, panting kisses.

And something of what I was feeling must have shown in my eyes, for she smiled a slow languorous smile and touched me gently on the thigh.

“We shall speak again, Eric Carstairs, at dinner.…”

I was led out, feeling absurdly as if I had narrowly escaped what the authors of Victorian melodrama would have called A Fate Worse Than Death.

PART III: ACROSS THE PLAINS

CHAPTER 11

MURG IS MISSING

They were eating their breakfast, camped on the plain, when Ragor noticed that Murg was missing from their number. The Thandarian mentioned the fact to his brother-warrior, Erdon.

“Sometime as we slept, it seems, our friend Murg decided to seek the greater safety that lies in numbers,” said Ragor, nodding. “There, see? His few possessions are gone, and he himself is nowhere to be seen.”

Erdon grunted, unimpressed by the urgency of the news. “So that is what has become of my water bottle,” he muttered. “And of my spare sandals?”

The two Cro-Magnons grinned at each other briefly.

“If we speak of this to the others, Hurok may decide to turn back and seek the little man,” Ragor pointed out.

“That is so. Let us say nothing, then. After all, Murg was no good in a fight, and of no use in the hunt, so he will hardly be missed, even by his fellow tribesmen.”

They decided to say nothing of their discovery. A bit later, Varak of Sothar came up to where they sat.

“I have lost my best dagger,” he complained. “The one with the obsidian blade and the handle made of thantor ivory. Has either of you seen it lying about?”

By thantor, he referred to the woolly mammoth.

“Ragor has seen naught of the dagger belonging to Varak,” said that worthy.

“Neither has Erdon,” grunted Erdon.

Varak looked nonplussed. “It was my best dagger,” he said in grieved tones. “The blade withstood nicks better even than the bronze knife which Hurok carries tucked in his furs—the one he took from the Gorpak captain back in the cavern city.”

“That is too bad,” said Erdon. “I, too, have lost something—my water bottle of greased leather.”

Varak scratched his jaw with his thumbnail. “I don’t understand it! Surely, we have no thief amongst us.…”

“Not any longer, anyway,” grinned Ragor.

Varak, puzzled, asked, “What do you mean by that?”

Ragor chuckled. “Look around you. As we slept, your friend Murg stole off, presumably hoping to rejoin our two tribes. And that’s not all he stole; doubtless, his disappearance serves to explain the vanishing of your dagger.”

“Murg, is it?” growled Varak angrily. “No friend of mine—my best dagger!” Then he paused to reflect. “Well…at least we shall be able to make better time from here on. I never saw a man who got more thorns in his foot and needed to pause to remove the offending object from his sensitive flesh. But why have you said nothing to the others of this?”

Erdon shrugged. “Hurok may wish to turn back and find him. Our Drugar friend is excessively tender hearted—for a Drugar. And I would much rather rescue Eric Carstairs and Professor Potter, than rescue Murg. Let the little whimpering weakling fend for himself. Perhaps he will be eaten by a xunth,” he added, smiling.

“Or a thakdol,” suggested Varak.

“Even an uld could do the trick,” laughed Ragor.

* * * *

Breaking camp, the small war party continued the journey. They had reached the foothills before the range of mountains, and were skirting their flanks, seeking for a way over the immense barrier. They saw nothing of the guards and sentinels of Zar, but; then, guards and sentinels are stationed to see and not to be seen. Neither did they see aught of any dangerous predators, save for a number of thakdols which nested amid the peaks above and who could be seen flapping and circling about the sky.

If Hurok noticed that Murg was missing from their number, he said nothing about it to anyone. It is, of course, the duty of a leader (even a
de facto
leader like Hurok) to assume the responsibility for his men, even those who are unpopular, or, as in the case of Murg, heartily detested. One presumes, from his actions, or, rather, from his lack of actions, that Hurok was more concerned with the safety of Black Hair and his elderly friend than he was with the safety of Murg.

After several hours, during which the war party continued north along the mountain-guarded borders of the land of Zar, the sharp eyes of Varak the Sotharian succeeded in spying a cleft between two mountains which turned out on closer inspection to be a pass across the mountains. It was somewhat narrower than the well-guarded pass of the stone dragonhead, and it would be much more difficult to traverse, but it was better than trying to scale one of the mountain peaks.

After a brief pause to rest, and with Hurok in the lead, the warriors entered the foothills and began to ascend the flanks of the mountain toward the mouth of the little pass. The ground was covered with broken, loose rocks, the detritus of centuries of erosion and landslides, and the going was slow and difficult. But none of the men made complaint about this.

“If Murg were here, he would be complaining of a pebble in his sandal by now,” remarked Ragor to Varak.

“If Murg were here he would have done so long before this,” grinned Varak.

Hurok, whose eyesight might be dim but whose huge ears missed nothing, grunted a retort to the two warriors.

“Since Murg is not here, Hurok suggests that Varak and Ragor save their breath for climbing,” advised the massive Neanderthal.

The two nodded guiltily and climbed with redoubled vigor.

* * * *

As for the object of their humor, poor little Murg had spent a miserable “night.” The dwarfish Sotharian had seldom felt so completely alone in his life, and did not enjoy the experience in the slightest. Burdened as he was with the supplies and extra weapons he had purloined from his erstwhile comrades, the homely little man made very poor time in crossing the plain. Moreover, weariness assailed him; a succession of jaw-cracking yawns drew to his attention that he was intolerably sleepy. But to curl up alone amidst the waste was to fall prey to the very first hungry predator that came roaming by in search of a midnight snack.

Unhappily, Murg decided to go on. He wanted to put as much distance between himself and the others as possible before they awoke. He had a well-developed imagination for a caveman, and could envision all too well the punishment that would be sternly meted out to him should he again encounter the warriors from whom he had thieved.

Too sleepy to go on and too frightened to fall asleep, Murg faced quite a troublesome dilemma. Whining and sniffling and grumbling to himself, the little fellow staggered on through the thick grasses, burdened down by all the extra rations of food, the sleeping hides, the weapons and water bottles he had stolen before making his hasty escape from the camp.

To risk sleep, thus risking being eaten alive? To continue has journey, weary though he was? Which course should he follow? The question, to his exhausted mind, seemed insoluble.

Fortunately—for him, if not for another—Fate quickly solved Murg’s problem for him.

And in so doing, presented him with yet another problem! But, then, that is one of Fate’s little tricks.

A black shadow fell across Murg as he trudged along, whimpering miserably to himself. He looked up and saw a monstrous thakdol descending toward him on ragged, batlike wings.

With a squeal of terror, Murg flung down the load he was carrying and picked up his heels to run for safety. Almost at once he tripped over a root and fell face down in the thick grasses.

Dust blew about him as the pterodactyl descended to earth. Cowering in the grasses with both hands firmly clamped over his eyes, Murg shuddered, awaiting his doom.

The thakdol rose after a moment and flapped away. Eyes squeezed shut, Murg dared neither move nor breathe, momentarily expecting to be eaten up.

But nothing happened.

Then—and
very
unexpectedly—the toe of a sandal prodded him in his bony ribs.

Squawking in fear, Murg rolled over on his back, knees doubled up to protect his fat little belly. Although what possible protection those skinny knees could have afforded against the hook-like claws of a thakdol, even Murg could not have explained.

“Don’t eat me, don’t eat me!” begged Murg in a tremulous voice, eyes still squeezed shut.

“I won’t,” said a girl’s voice in somewhat impatient and shaky tones, “but I may have to kick your ribs in before you give me your attention.”

Astounded, Murg opened his eyes and stared up into the face of a lovely blonde girl who was about the last person he would have expected to see here in the northern parts of the plain. It was, of course, Yualla.

“Wh-what is Yualla the gomad doing here?” he quavered in utter amazement.

The girl shrugged, ill-humoredly. “For that matter,” she countered, “what is Murg doing here?”

* * * *

The thakdol which had carried the cave-girl off had not been fully grown, it seems. One of the flying lizards in the full prime of its strength could have borne her away to its mountaintop nest with relative ease. But the half-grown brute wearied erelong of its burden and descended to the surface of the plain to rest.

Probably, it had planned to devour its captive there on the plain, and to regurgitate the meal later into the clacking beaks of its hungry offspring—if offspring it had.

At any rate, Yualla, who had kept her wits about her, made use of the first opportunity that came along. As the claws opened to drop her, the limber girl whirled in midair, landing on her feet as lightly as a cat.

Disconcerted, the pterodactyl peered at her with first one eye and then the other. It was not used to prey which remained unaccountably alive. Making a tentative pass at the blonde girl with one cruel claw, the reptile received an arrow through its upper leg in result. For Yualla had not dropped her bow during her inadvertent voyage through the upper air.

This was too much for the tired, hungry, and more than a little confused young thakdol. Rising hastily on flapping wings, it circled off in search of more amenable prey, leaving Yualla alone on the plain.

Or so she first assumed. Until, of course, she spotted Murg cowering amid the grasses, trembling like a leaf and moaning with fear.

Shrugging exasperatedly, the girl strolled over and kicked him in his scrawny ribs, with the resultant brief conversation quoted above. Lost amidst the plains though she was, at least she was not alone or defenseless.

Not that Murg would have been the companion of her choice, had she been given a choice.

CHAPTER 12

A BANQUET IN NEW CRETE

Following my brief interview with the Empress, one of her hand-maidens led me back into the throne room where I rejoined the Professor and Hissab, the Grand Panjandrum. General Cromus was still there, being tended by his sycophants. All of the other courtiers and guards were there, too, since the Empress had neither dismissed them nor officially terminated the audience.

I discovered how quickly one can rise in popularity here in Zar. When, that is, one has just spent thirty minutes alone with the Divine Zarys.

The guards and courtiers fawned upon me. An ivory chair was fetched for me. Wine and a tray of goodies were handed to me by sleek, smiling, clean-shaven men. Beautiful women with naked breasts fluttered their long eyelashes in my direction and bathed me from head to foot with admiring, flirtatious glances.

Even Cromus, who purpled with fury at the sight of me, forced a feeble welcoming smile—although the cold venom in his eyes belied it.

“Well, Eric, my boy!” said the Professor, breathing a sigh of relief. “I see you have survived your ordeal…I was uncertain whether you were being led away for instant execution or to some sort of, ahem!, a ‘male harem.’ But here you are, alive and well, and most obviously the hero of the hour.…”

“I wouldn’t rule out either the execution, or the harem bit yet, Doc,” I grinned, downing a gulp of the purple wine and biting into a seed-crusted honey cake. The wine was overly sweet to my taste, and had rose leaves floating in it, or petals anyway. But the little cakes tasted fine.

The Grand Panjandrum came ambling over to where I sat, his plump face wreathed with oily smiles. His little slitted eyes, I noticed, however, were shrewd and calculating.

“The Lord Hissab rejoices that the distinguished barbarian has found favor in the eyes of the Immortal Zarys,” he said smoothly, ducking his head in the tiniest possible bow. “All the while it was the most earnest hope of this individual that the Goddess might well find her newest guest an interesting and attractive addition to the court.…”

“I just bet it was,” I said with a grin. Then my grin widened, for across the room, under guard, Xask stood, face grim. He shot me a glance of the purest malignancy, and my grin turned into a chuckle. My sudden rise in status had put the slimy little villain off his stride; he had planned, I have no doubt, to make a grandstand play before the throne, bragging how he had maneuvered me into the grasp of Zar, and displaying the automatic with a splendid flourish, boasting of how his loyalty to his Empress was such that he was ready to lay at her exquisite feet the thunder-weapon which would conquer the Underground World for Zar.

Now, suddenly, his plans had gone awry. The Empress had not even noticed him, and I was almost elevated to the position of Royal Favorite—all because I had intrigued her curiosity with my astonishment at seeing her, and had knocked General Cromus on his keester with a single blow.

The same thought must have flashed through Xask’s seething brain in the identical instant, for he turned a thoughtful and appraising glance in the direction of that fine fellow, and a small thin-lipped smile played about the corners of his mouth.

I might have made a very powerful friend in the last few minutes…but I had also made a rather dangerous enemy.

He glanced in my direction, caught my eye, and smiled one of those bland, cunning smiles of his.

Oh, we understood ourselves perfectly, Xask and I!

* * * *

No more slave pens for the likes of the Professor and me; we were moved into a sumptuous suite of apartments which opened upon a small walled garden. The rooms were handsomely furnished with many low, silken divans, heaps of cushions, oddly shaped but not uncomfortable chairs, small tabourets and huge hassocks.

Soft carpets of glowing colors and bold maritime designs lay piled underfoot. Charming frescoes of nymphs and fauns at play in Arcadian woodland glens adorned the plastered walls. Lamps of fretted brass and silver depended from long chains. In them, perfume-impregnated oils burned, shedding a soft glow of light and a rich incense.