The Zanthodon MEGAPACK ™: The Complete 5-Book Series (62 page)

With Sarga and his fleet-footed huntsmen in the lead to guide them, the tribe moved at a rapid pace. Both men and women could hold this steady pace for hours, if necessary, without yielding to fatigue. They are a hardy race, these direct descendants of our own Cro-Magnon ancestors, and virtually to the last individual they are superbly healthy physical specimens. I suppose this is because the life they lead is a hard one, with many perils, and thus the weak and sickly die early.

Garth did not know how distant the mountains were, for the Sotharians have not developed a system of measurements sophisticated enough to be of use. Neither did he have any notion of exactly how long it would take his tribe to reach the foothills of those mountains, because in their timeless world the Zanthodonians have no real conception of time.

He simply headed in the direction of his choice, knowing that he would eventually reach his goal.

As it chanced, other eyes were watching as the tribe traversed the grassy plains in search of the lost girl.

The people of Zar were effete, their vigor sapped by the endless round of pleasures, but they were not fools. The saying that the price of liberty is eternal vigilance would have struck a responsive chord within their breasts.

And the Dragon-riders who had captured the Professor and Xask and me were not the only mounted troops patrolling the plains which stretched before the gates of Zar.

CHAPTER 14

THE LANDSLIDE

The mighty wall of mountains which guarded the way to the Scarlet City was tall and sheer, but certainly not unscalable. The Cro-Magnon warriors took the climb by easy stages, resting often in order to conserve their strength. Only Hurok found the ascent truly difficult, but this was not because he lacked strength; no, it was that his bowed legs and splayed feet were not designed for mountaineering. However, he set his prognathous jaw grimly, and toiled along in the wake of the more lithe and limber Cro-Magnons.

Jorn the Hunter fell back in order to accompany his chieftain. A strange, almost unspoken comradeship had grown into being between the burly Neanderthal and the young huntsman. Neither could quite account for it, but it was there, nonetheless.

For an hour or so they climbed the sheer wall, finding hand- and foot-holds where you or I might have seen nothing. The vertigo which might well have claimed us did not bother them: true savages, children of the Dawn Age, they were as supple and fearless as monkeys, and could climb nearly as well.

How old these mountains might be none of them could tell, but the Professor has since voiced as his considered opinion that the Walls of Zar (as the denizens of the Scarlet City term this range) are relatively young. Doubtless they were thrust up from the bowels of the earth by volcanic forces in one of those titanic convulsions of nature which shaped our own world and that of Zanthodon. For the rock whereof they were composed was relatively soft and porous, and centuries of wind and rain had crumbled and flaked it into its present state. Ledges and crevices, wherein one might find temporary hand- and foot-holds, were numerous, which made the ascent of the sheer cliff vertiginous and laden with peril, but very far from impossible.

From time to time, the cliff was broken by a level ledge, where sheets of strata had crumbled or broken away. Seldom were these ledges more than a foot or two wide, but narrow as they were they afforded the warriors sufficient security to snatch a few moments rest before continuing the climb.

The goal for which they were striving was a cleft between the mountains which formed a pass. Unlike the dragon-guarded pass through which the Professor and I had been escorted by Captain Raphad and his Dragonmen, the pass to which Hurok and the others strove was situated much higher up the wall of the mountain. Still quite distant, it loomed above them tantalizingly. In time they would, of course, reach it, and from that point on the descent down the farther side should be much easier than the way up had proven to be.

Such, at least, was the hope of Hurok and the others.

It is to be regretted that Fate or Destiny, or whatever name you wish to use to designate the unseen and inscrutable Force which controls our lives, from time to time intervenes to frustrate our desires. The future is an unknown road veiled from our vision by clouds of mystery, and it is doubtless a great mercy that we are not permitted foreknowledge of those events which are yet to come, since there is no way known to men to avoid them.

Such was the case with Hurok and his men as they snatched a brief few moments of rest upon a narrow ledge. Suddenly, and without warning, that ledge and the mountainside wherefrom it obtruded, began to quiver as if to the beatings of a mighty heart. Small crumbs of rock, dislodged by the vibration, fell clattering down the cliff to sprinkle upon them as they crouched warily, eyes wide with alarm.

“The mountain shakes, O Hurok!” cried Varak. “What shall we do?”

The Apeman of Kor shook his head slowly. Nowhere within the reach of his eyes could he discern a cave opening or any other breach in the cliff wall wherein they might seek refuge from the hail of pebbles. And that this hail of pebbles might easily presage an avalanche was all too apparent to the Neanderthal.

Were a landslide to occur above their precarious perch, the tide of boulders resultantly dislodged would certainly sweep them from the ledge, hurtling them to a swift and sudden doom far below. And there was nothing which they could do to prevent this from happening, being men and not gods.

The warriors huddled upon the ledge peered about them fearfully. There was nowhere to go and naught that they could do. Whatever earthquake or volcanic perturbation might be the cause of the present danger, it was impossible to avoid the doom which yawned before them.

“
Look!
” cried Warza, suddenly pointing.

Hurok followed the direction in which his warrior was gesturing, and saw a portion of the cliff wall somewhat farther along the same ledge on which they crouched. At that point a massive outcropping of heavier, more weather-resistant ore thrust from the side of the cliff like a great sheltering hand. Were they to take refuge under that shelf of rock they might, just possibly, manage to avoid the rain of boulders which now they expectdd momentarily.

“Come—follow me!” boomed Hurok. Rising, and clinging to the quivering wall, he moved with slow and careful steps down the declination of the ledge and toward the spot where it seemed they might crouch in safety under the protection of the protruding shelf of stone. One by one, in single file, his warriors followed his example. They perforce ignored the pebbles and bits of stone which fell upon their heads and shoulders like hail; they squinted their eyes against the stinging clouds of rock dust which hissed and swirled about them.

And, far above their heads, they heard a mighty grinding, cracking, crunching sound, as of massive amounts of stone breaking loose from the upper peaks.…

* * * *

Now that Yualla had found Murg, or vice versa, the two fell into argument concerning which route to take from this point on. Murg, as we already know, heartily craved the protection which would be afforded by his rejoining the host of the two tribes. But, as soon as he whiningly revealed that Hurok and Jorn and the others had launched an expedition to free Eric Carstairs and the Professor from the hands of Zar, the adventure-loving heart of the blonde girl desired to join in the excitement.

You must try to understand Yualla. Very seldom did the young spitfire manage to elude the stern and watchful gaze of her parents in order to enjoy an adventure of her own. Most of the time she was forced to submit patiently to being protected by those in whose care nature had placed her. Which did not mean that she submitted willingly, of course.…

But now that, through no fault of her own, she had perhaps only temporarily escaped from the vigilance of her father and his mate, the girl impulsively foresaw no consequence more desirable than to seize the opportunity and join the small band of warriors on their adventure.

She knew that her parents and friends would worry about her. And she also knew that they probably feared her slain and eaten by the pterodactyl. It was not that she intended to inflict suffering upon those who loved her…it was just that the temptation to play hooky for a little while was well nigh irresistible.

Later, she would rejoin the tribe of Sothar, which would rejoice at her return. And she, somewhat guiltily, was counting on that thankfulness which would well up within the hearts of her family to forgive the small transgression which she now considered.

“Yualla will journey to the mountains, to join with Hurok and the other warriors,” the girl said determinedly. “Murg, however, may traverse the plain to rejoin the tribe of Sothar, if such be the wish of Murg.”

“Alone…” faltered the valiant Murg, lips dry, heart pounding.

The cave-girl shrugged carelessly.

“If Murg wishes to rejoin the Sotharians, then he must make his way back across the plains alone, for Yualla is determined to go forward toward the mountains,” she said firmly. “The decision is up to Murg.”

Now, Murg all too clearly remembered the terrible encounter with the gigantic xunth, which had occurred on this very plain and at no particular distance, too. And he also understood that the dreaded Dragonmen patrolled this grassland—they who had seized and carried off Eric Carstairs and Professor Potter. And, while Murg certainly did not want to go back to face the scorn and contempt of the comrades he had deserted and from whom he had thieved, the only alternative seemed even grimmer.

Having found companionship, Murg was exceedingly reluctant to abandon it.

So Murg at length yielded to Yualla’s determination, and began retracing his steps. Whining and whimpering every foot of the way, he trudged gloomily along behind the briskly striding girl toward the mountains.

It seemed to Murg, poor Murg, that the Fates were conspiring against him. Everytime he managed to escape from one perilous situation, he was compelled to enter an even more terrible one. It certainly wasn’t fair, not fair at all!

* * * *

All that long, interminable day, Murg slunk at the heels of Yualla, until after many hours, weariness and hunger overcame the eager zestfulness of the high-spirited girl. Her bow brought down game; a fire was built; they rested and fed, lacking only a source of fresh water to appease their physical needs.

The meal consumed, Yualla stretched out under the humid skies of perpetual noon, closed her blue eyes, and promptly fell asleep. Hers was the deep and undisturbed slumber of a healthy young animal.

Murg, however, tossed and turned, unable to compose his mind sufficiently to woo the slumbers which his weary and aching muscles clamored.

From time to time, rolling over to seek a more comfortable place amid the soft grasses, the little man glanced accusingly over to where the girl lay sound asleep. Nor did the rise and fall of her firm pointed breasts elude the lingering gaze of Murg, nor the sleek length of her bare thighs and slender legs.

It was then that an alternative to following Yualla’s path occurred to Murg. If the girl could be bound, made subject to his will, helpless to oppose his slightest whim, he could go where he pleased without giving up the pleasures of companionship in peril.

His eyes lingering on the slim body of the half-naked girl, it came into the mind of Murg that those companionable pleasures, in the present instance, might well prove headier and more exciting than had heretofore entered into his imagination.…

Eyes gloating on the nude flesh of the girl, a cunning smile creasing his thin lips, Murg chuckled throatily, and began to creep toward the sleeping girl across the grasses.…

CHAPTER 15

THE LIPS OF ZARYS

When Ialys, the Empress’s handmaiden, led me from the banqueting hall for what she had euphemistically described as “a private audience,” I felt a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. I had a nasty hunch the audience was going to be a lot more than just “private”—
intimate
, would be more like it.

The only thing that pleased me about the prospect was the venomous glance of purest hate Cromus shot after me as he watched me leave. I had the feeling that splendid fellow had designs in that direction, himself…and why not? What better way for an unscrupulous, ambitious officer to gain the coveted crown than by wooing and winning the beautiful young woman who currently wore the royal bauble?

Not that the Divine Zarys was not worthy of being coveted completely for herself, with or without a crown. She was, truly, one of the most exquisite women I have ever had the good luck to set eyes upon.…

This being the case, my reader may legitimately wonder why I felt so squeamish about the amorous tussle which I anticipated in the immediate offing. I spent a few moments rather pondering the same question, myself. After all, I have spent a lot of years knocking around some of the seamier corners of the world, and more than a few lovely ladies have succumbed to my raffish charm. I have never exactly taken vows of chastity, either. Why, then, did I more or less dread the coming “interview”?

I guess it’s because, being an old-fashioned man in some ways, I like to be the one that makes the passes. To be summoned into the royal bedchamber gets my back up; not that it has ever happened before, of course. It’s rather like being sent for as one sends for a pet dog.

And I don’t intend to be anyone’s lapdog.

Ialys led me into a high, vaulted chamber whose walls were of fretted alabaster through which a lustrous, dim light shone softly, transforming the interior of the circular room into something which I imagine is very like the heart of a hollow pearl.

Glowing fruits in bowls of hammered silver rested on low tabourets of rare woods. Wine breathed from an open amphora which sat in a bed of crushed ice. The floor, tiled entirely in three kinds of jade, was covered—not by carpeting, but by silken furs. Ornaments and fixtures glittered with cut jewels. The room breathed luxury from every pore: only unlimited power and unimaginable wealth could have fashioned such a nest.

In the center of the chamber lay a sort of chaise longue draped with gleaming fabrics, and heaped with many small, plump cushions colored magenta, orange, canary, lavender, and pink.

Thereon reposed the Empress. Her long-sleeved feasting gown had been discarded in favor of a voluminous and very transparent peignoir of fragile lace. Beneath this flimsy robe her tender flesh was bare: warm, naked womanflesh gleamed through the interstices of the woven lace.

At the foot of this couch Ialys left me, with a single, demure smiling glance. I felt very foolish and awkward just standing there, but there was nowhere for me to sit, unless I wished to share the Empress’s couch. And that was coming soon enough, I thought uncomfortably.

She selected a ripe grape from a bowl near the chaise longue and popped the morsel of fruit between soft, rosy lips. All the while she looked me over with a slow, appraising glance that was thoughtful, even admiring, but somehow not degrading.

“It is customary, Eric Carstairs,” she said after a moment, “for lesser mortals to prostrate themselves in my presence.”

I opened my mouth to say something inane, or stubborn, or possibly both; but she stilled me with a lazy gesture.