The Zanthodon MEGAPACK ™: The Complete 5-Book Series (66 page)

“There are sentinels atop the taller structures,” observed Warza, pointing. “They will have been chosen for their posts by alertness and vigilance, to say nothing of possessing the sharp eyes of hunting hawks. And they will see us as we descend the slope.”

“Then we shall conceal ourselves as best we may,” grunted Hurok, “and descend the slope with care, taking advantage of such cover as we may find.”

“And then?” demanded Parthon the Sotharian. “How can we enter the city? True, it is not guarded by a palisade, but see how the buildings crowd together, with but narrow ways between. Surely, these are guarded!”

“And how shall we be able to swim the moat, for in truth it is more than a lake, this place, almost a sea!” cried Varak impatiently. “The stone bridges are guarded—see? And there? Can mere men swim so far unseen?”

“They will slay us with arrows before we have swum even half the distance to the island,” muttered Ragor gloomily.

Hurok shrugged his burly, anthropoid shoulders irritably. Idle talk always depressed and annoyed him, for he preferred the more direct and simple course—taking bold action, rather than endlessly talking about which action to take.

“We shall swim beneath the wider of the stone bridges,” he rumbled. “Men cannot see through the solid floor beneath their feet. The bridge is supported upon pilings sunk into the floor of the sea, and there are struts of heavy logs built between the pilings to brace and strengthen them: upon these shall we rest when we become weary from so long a swim.…”

“But—I have heard that Hurok of Kor knows not how to swim!” cried Erdon, remembering my account of how I had once saved the Korian from death by drowning when a great yith (or plesiosaurus) overturned a dugout canoe.
[3]

“That is true,” admitted Hurok somberly.

“How then will Hurok swim the waters of the sea?” inquired the other. The Apeman of Kor shook his head dumbly.

“Perhaps Hurok will learn by doing,” he said.

The others looked at one another, questioningly. They had learned to swim as boys in jungle rivers and in the many lakes which dotted the countryside. And they remembered that the skill was not all that swiftly or easily acquired.…

“We shall have to have Hurok sit upon a log large and light enough not to sink beneath his weight, and steer him along by swimming beside the log, guiding it with one hand,” suggested Varak to his companions.

“Hurok will not do it,” said that worthy in firm tones. The very notion of squatting gingerly atop a fallen tree, being towed along by his warriors, while they twisted through the water, lithe and supple as so many eels, would tend to make anyone feel ridiculous. And Hurok had a very well-developed sense of personal dignity.

“Hurok must do it, or something very like it, if he is to cross the moat with us,” Parthon pointed out.

Grumbling and growling to himself, the Neanderthal subsided into a lame silence.

They waited for his acknowledgment that they were right. But none came, as the Apeman maintained a stubborn, truculent mien.

“What does Hurok say?” Warza asked at last.

“Hurok says: let us climb down the slope, and leave crossing the moat to the moment when we are face-to-face with that problem,” growled Hurok shortly. “Perhaps, with any luck, Hurok will trip and fall down the mountainside, and break his neck!”

Grinning, but avoiding his angry eye, they began with great care and caution to descend the mountainside, taking every advantage of cover and concealment which presented itself. From time to time a diversion occurred: two galleys collided in the midst of the lake-like sea, starting a loud argument between the two merchant skippers, which attracted the amused attention of everyone within earshot and eye-reach.

The warriors took advantage of this noisy incident to sprint a good way down the slope, flinging themselves into the bushes as the argument began to subside.

A bit later, three thakdols soared over the inland sea at an unusually low height, providing another diversion. The warriors got down into the lake up to their necks and waded along the offshore area until the width of the bridge concealed them beneath it.

“That was close,” muttered Parthon grimly.

“Yes, but I would enjoy thanking those thakdols personally,” quipped the irrepressible Varak.

“There’s a good log, O Hurok,” said Ragor, pointing to the trunk of a fallen tree which had become lodged among the pilings which supported the end of the bridge. Hurok looked gloomy.

* * * *

But not so gloomy as he looked when, a bit later, he sat hunched atop that very log, clinging for dear life to the stubs of brokers-off branches, as six grinning warriors steered him across the lake with many a humorous remark at his expense.

PART V: THE THUNDER WEAPON

CHAPTER 21

I BREAK OUT OF JAIL

Following the unsatisfactory conclusion of my private interview with the Empress, I found myself being escorted to a new suite in another part of the palace. I was left alone there, kept under strict guard, although every courtesy was shown me and my prison cell was luxurious.

It bothered me that I could not see the Professor. The old geezer and I had been through some interesting times together, and had shared some remarkable experiences and adventures. No one would answer me when I asked why I could not see my friend, and I was not again summoned into the presence of Zarys.

I was more than a little thankful for
that
.

And I was more than a little anxious about the meaning of all of this. When I discovered that Zarys had my automatic, many things fell into place like the pieces of a puzzle. Obviously, that wily rascal, Xask, had been busily at work behind the scenes, and the attempted seduction—or whatever it was—had been a try at winning my cooperation in the manufacture of the thunder-weapon.

Zarys was no fool: she must have known from my words and my manner that there was no real hope of coercing or coaxing me into revealing the secret. But why was I being kept apart from Professor Potter?

I fretted the long days of my captivity away. Perhaps “captivity” is the wrong word to use for a sumptuous and airy apartment crammed with gorgeous tapestries and wallpaintings, adorned with perfumed lamps and silken cushions, where I dined splendidly on the rarest and most succulent foods and wines.

If this was what being in jail was like in Zar, thought I to myself, I’ll take it to being in jail anywhere else in the world.

Since my repeated requests for an interview with Zarys or Hassib the Grand Panjandrum fell on deaf ears, after a week or so of this sort of kid-gloves treatment, I resolved to take things into my own hands. One “night” I climbed out on the narrow ornamental balcony of the window in my room and secured one end of a long line to the railing of carven stone.

I had manufactured this line by knotting together strips of strong cloth torn from my surplus bedding. Not having been able to give my handiwork a genuine test, I prayed to whatever gods watch over crazy adventurers like myself, and clambered down the line. About thirteen feet beneath my windowsill a stone ledge ran along the outer wall, parallel to the parks and grounds below. It was there purely for decoration, but I thought it looked strong enough to bear my weight.…

It was.

But it was only about fourteen inches wide. I crept along it, inching my way with my shoulders pressed fiat against the outer wall and feeling my way along with bare toes.

I tried not to look down. I’ve always had an average head for heights, which is to say I would have made a mediocre-to-crummy mountain climber. But vertigo is an affliction to which the human animal is universally subject, and I tried to keep cool. Which makes me laugh, thinking back on that dreadful trip, for all the while I was sweating like a bull.

In the perpetual noontime of Zanthodon anyone who cared to glance up could have discovered me inching my way along the wall, and probably would have roused the gendarmes to pry me off it. Gardeners toiled beneath my feet, trimming hedges, spading moist earth, and doing the other grubby little things that keep gardeners busy. But not one of them turned to look at me.

After what seemed like about half an eternity, I found the ledge had brought me within arm’s length of another balcony and another window. Risking much, I peered in and discovered the room to be empty. Not only that, but it seemed untenanted as well, for the couch was stripped of bedding and the carpets were rolled up and stacked against the farther wall. I climbed in through the window and tested the door. It was locked from the outside—naturally, I suppose.

I set my shoulder against it and heaved. Nothing happened. Another heave, and a bit more muscle behind it this time. Something within the lock mechanism went KRAK!. and I opened the door ever so slightly and peered both ways. The corridor was empty.

Moving on quick, light feet, I went down the hall, choosing a direction at random. I was by now completely disoriented and had no idea where I was. I also began to curse myself for taking such a chance, as the first person to come along would spot me as an escaping prisoner and would sound the alarm.

Well, what the hay! So long as your captors want something out of you, they’re not very likely to feed you to the cobras for a minor transgression. And—aren’t prisoners supposed to try to escape, anyway?

The slap of leathern sandals up ahead, around the curve of the hallway, alerted me. I just barely had time to conceal myself behind a heavy tapestry before a squadron of palace guards went clanking by. I felt mighty grateful that the Minoans seemed unusually fond of wall-hangings, because over the next two hours of my prowl through the palace, I was able to avoid discovery and capture by taking similar refuge about six times.

* * * *

I had timed my expedition to a fine degree: it would be four hours before the next meal was brought to me, which gave me a comfortable margin of time to cover as much ground as possible before beating (hopefully) a retreat and regaining my rooms before the maids came in.

What I hadn’t figured on was that the palace was as large and as complicated as it turned out to be. I had thought that, with a little diligent prowling, I would soon encounter familiar territory and find the apartments in which the Professor and I had first been situated, and in which the old fellow was presumably still staying.

After two solid hours of searching, I had to abandon my plan. I simply didn’t find anything that looked familiar.

I was about to turn back, retrace my steps, get back up my line and give it up for this time, anyway, when the unexpected happened. I say “unexpected,” but actually I should have expected it.

I turned a corner and walked smack into a girl!

With a frightened squeak, she dropped to her knees and bumped her forehead against the floor. Looking down, I saw that she wore the slave collar of a palace servant.

Then she looked up timidly, obviously fearing that she had collided with a snooty member of the local aristocracy, and I had another shock. I knew her!

It was Ialys, the Empress’s handmaiden
.…

I must have looked about as flustered and tongue-tied as I felt, for her expression of surprise swiftly gave way to one of sly amusement. She rose to her feet and saluted me deferentially.

“Is the Lord Eric taking a bit of a stroll?” she inquired demurely.

I shrugged, forcing a laugh which rang false even to my ears.

“You’ve got me!” I said. “Actually, I wasn’t really trying to escape; I was just trying to find my friend—you know, the old man with the little white beard?”

She nodded, humor dancing impishly in her eyes.

“Has the Goddess given her noble guest the freedom of the Great House?” she asked. “If so, Ialys has heard nothing of this.…”

“I’m afraid not,” I confessed with a grin. “I sort of took it on myself to go for a walk. And I’d be eternally grateful, Ialys, if you wouldn’t give me away. I’m honestly not trying to escape.”

Her expression sobered. She examined me thoughtfully.

“When the Goddess commanded that you use the thunder-weapon upon her handmaiden, why did you dare to refuse?” she asked.

I cleared my throat awkwardly.

“Like I said at the time,” I muttered, “I’m not used to killing nice people in cold blood.”

“But Ialys is not a ‘person,’ she is a slave.” She said this with a questioning lilt in her voice, and her eyes were puzzled. In her world, I gathered, one does not risk disobedience to goddesses—and certainly not over one so lowly and unimportant as a mere slave.

“In my country, there are no slaves,” I commented. “Oh, sure, we had them once, to our eternal regret and guiltiness. But the wisest and most humanitarian of our statesmen and philosophers taught us that no person has the right to own another person. And in my country it is against the law to own a slave.…”

Her face expressed her wonderment, and the emotion in her beautiful eyes was all but unreadable. Tears welled up but were quickly suppressed.

“Ialys could wish that she had been born in your country,” she said wistfully.

I nodded, saying nothing, for there was nothing I could think to say. She studied me for a long, long moment, her face inscrutable. Then, before I could stop her, she took my hand and pressed her lips against the back of it.

“What was
that
for?” I demanded, flushing.

A sad smile touched her warm lips.

“For having the courage and the manliness to spare the life of a worthless slave,” she said softly.

“No human life is worthless,’’ I said stoutly.

“Is that another wise teaching from the philosophers of your country?”

“I believe it is.”

“They breed wise men in that far land,” she observed. “And brave and gallant men, too.”

“They do that.”

Her eyes were inscrutable. But from the way she squared her shoulders and took in a deep breath, I gathered that Ialys had reached a decision. She took my hand again, but not to kiss it this time.

“Come,” she said simply. “I will take you to your friend. But Ialys fears that the Lord Eric will not at all like what he is about to see.…”

A cold stab of fear went through my vitals at that. But I set my jaw grimly and let her lead me to the Professor.

CHAPTER 22

JORN TO THE RESCUE

When Jorn emerged from the ravines which twisted between the low hills, his gaze fell upon a spectacle which astonished him.

There, trotting at a rapid pace directly toward him were the young Sotharian girl, Yualla, and the runaway, Murg. Jorn did not at once notice that Murg’s hands were bound behind his back and that the cave-girl was leading him along like a dog on a leash.

This he did not have time to notice because of what else met his gaze.

Directly in front of him, with its back toward him, a gigantic sabertooth tiger crouched in the concealment of the long grasses
.

The girl did not see Jorn, who stood in the shadows. Neither did she apparently see the giant vandar, crouched belly to earth concealed in the long meadow grasses. But Jorn took the entire situation in with a single sweeping glance.

The young hunter knew the vandar was about to pounce upon the Sotharian girl. He knew this from the way the muscles in its hindquarters were bunched with tension, and from the restless twitching of its tail-tip.

Jorn had hunted vandars in his native land, and knew well their habits. Within a split second, the beast would leap upon the girl and dash out her brains with a single swipe of its mighty paws. They were as heavy as sledgehammers, those velvet paws.

And Jorn was unarmed.…

Nevertheless, he did not for the slightest fraction of a second hesitate in what he next did. Chivalry is innate in the human breast, it seems, as the Cro-Magnons—who happen to be just about the finest people I have ever encountered—were very much human.

With a wild, crazy yell, the boy leaped full upon the back of the giant cat just as it began its lunge for the girl.

He landed between its shoulders; locking his legs about the barrel of the cat, he clung with both arms tight around the beast’s neck and buried his face in the coarse, dry fur at the base of its throat.

Startled by the unexpected weight upon its back, the vandar’s leap miscarried. It sprang to one side, missing the amazed Yualla, landing lightly on the turf. The weight of its unwanted burden, and the maddening man-smell, drove the sabertooth into a frenzy. It rolled over on its back, seeking to crush its rider beneath its weight. Fortunately, the grass was long and thick here, and very springy; all this maneuver accomplished was to drive the air out of Jorn’s lungs.

Regaining its feet, the great cat sprang into the air, landing heavily. Obviously, it hoped to jar the grip of its rider loose. This, too, failed.

Next it attempted to reach back with snapping jaws and rip the offending weight from its shoulders. Those hideous ivory fangs clashed within mere inches of the boy’s face. Its stinking breath blew foul in his nostrils, and gobbets of foam from its dripping jaws splattered his neck and shoulders.

Through it all, Jorn clung grimly to the back of the beast as one clings for dear life to a log in a maelstrom.

* * * *

The paralyzing shock which froze Yualla proved only momentary. An instant later, the girl dropped Murg’s tether and whipped up her bow, a weapon, with which she was extremely expert. Time and time again she sought to loose a shaft into the belly or side of the rampaging sabertooth, but each time she faltered, fearing to transfix her rescuer with the shaft.

Moments later she saw her opportunity, and trained reflexes took command with the swift surety of instinct. She sank an arrow to the feather in the fleshy underpart of the beast’s throat, just below the jaw.

Coughing blood, the brute shook its head, dazedly; then, mad with pain and fury, it gave voice to a thunderous yowl and hurtled toward her.

Yualla stood her ground just long enough to loose a second shaft, then threw herself to one side. The great cat stormed by, missing her so narrowly that its harsh fur brushed her bare legs. It wheeled to come at her again, a striped juggernaut of tawny-furred death—then reeled, lurched, and fell heavily on its side.

It lay there, panting raggedly, dribbling hot gore from between open, distended jaws.

Then it heaved one great sigh, and its eyes glazed, and it lay still.

The second arrow had caught the sabertooth directly in the left eye and had driven its cruel barb deep into the brain.

Crying and shaking like a leaf, Yualla half-dragged, half-shoved the dead weight of the vandar off Jorn’s leg and helped him to his feet. He was shaken and stunned, bruised and battered, but otherwise unhurt.

When both boy and girl had recovered themselves and had regained a modicum of calm, they regarded each other somewhat warily.

“Jorn of Thandar, the Hunter, is grateful to the gomad Yualla for her assistance in slaying the beast,” the boy said solemnly.

“Yualla of Sothar is grateful to Jorn the Hunter for risking his life to save her own,” the girl replied with equal solemnity.

These ceremonial exchanges of gratitude done with, her eyes flashed angrily.

“What does Jorn
mean
—‘assisting’ in slaying the beast?” she demanded scornfully, staring obviously at his hands. “Did Jorn the Hunter hope to slay the vandar with his bare teeth or with his naked hands?”

The boy began an angry retort, then subsided, blushing, with a shamefaced grin.