The Zanthodon MEGAPACK ™: The Complete 5-Book Series (69 page)

The roof and walls of the tunnel were of dressed and fitted stone, and seemed secure enough as no fallen or crumbling blocks could be seen. Down the middle of the floor trickled a slimy stream of black water which reeked of human offal. If one could endure the darkness (he thought slowly to himself) and ignore the horrendous stench—and if the sewer tunnel truly extended as far as the palace citadel on the height, one could with luck and fortitude traverse the city unseen, by the remarkably simple expedient of traveling
beneath
it.

Slow-witted and unimaginative primitive Neanderthal though he certainly was, Hurok of Kor possessed a native shrewdness that sometimes serves one better in adversity than a dozen college degrees.

“What is it that Hurok has found?” inquired Parthon as his leader slowly straightened and turned to confront the little band.

A rare grin slowly stretched the thick lips of the Apeman. Humor and relief gleamed in his little sunken eyes.

“The pathway to the place where our chieftain lies in prison,” he grunted.

The Cro-Magnon warriors blinked and stared at each other, then bent to regard the black opening in the alley’s floor and the even blacker tunnel thus revealed.

They were troubled and dismayed; if the darkness of the narrow-walled alley had discomforted them, how could they endure the stench and the unbroken gloom of the underground road Hurok had found?

In low tones, rather ashamed of their complaining, they put this question to the great Neanderthal who had become their leader. He grinned again, and gave voice to a throaty chuckle.

“Are the warriors of Thandar and of Sothar children that they fear the darkness of a cave?” he inquired sarcastically. “If this is so, then let them employ the flints they carry to ignite a torch by whose illumination the darkness may be driven hence and they may see their way!”

“Flints we have, as Hurok knows,” grumbled Warza sourly. “But torches we have not, as Hurok also knows.…”

The Apeman of Kor gestured with one mighty arm at the mounds of rotting garbage which blocked the mouth of the dark alley.

“There before Warza lie broken boxes and discarded rags,” he said significantly. “Surely, one so clever as Warza can fashion therefrom a torch or two?”

Flushing a little at the implied rebuke, Warza bent to the task. Wrenching apart the slats of a broken crate, he wound one end with filthy rags. Flint struck fiery sparks when dashed against flint; with a little encouragement, the makeshift torch was set burning.

It burned smokily, true, sending a coil of sooty black smoke into the air. And the light it cast was fitful and even feeble. Still and all, it
was
light and would certainly serve to alleviate somewhat the gloom of the sewer tunnel.

One by one the warriors lowered themselves gingerly into the black mouth of the opening, finding themselves up to their ankles in dirty water and not quite able to stand erect. The torches Warza had fashioned shed a dim, wavering orange glow which disclosed to their eyes the gradually ascending tunnel that extended in the direction of the central parts of the Scarlet City.

Holding their breath against the fetid stench, they began to inch along. The stone trough which ran down the middle of the sewer tunnel was slimed with layers of ancient grease and mold and nameless ooze. It was uncomfortable not being able to stand erect, and the air was of vile quality.

Nevertheless, they went up the tunnel and began their unpleasant trip to the citadel of the Witch Queen of Zar, the Scarlet City.

What they should find when they reached the end of the underground road none of them knew or could even guess. Perhaps, another grilled opening such as the one whereby they had entered into the sewer. Or perhaps a sheer pipe leading upwards into the structure of the palace, a vertical ascent which not even the nimblest or most agile of their number could hope to climb.

But, at every step of their quest to rescue Eric Carstairs and Professor Potter, they had faced up to and overcome obstacles which had, at the time, seemed unconquerable. By courage and strength, patience and ingenuity, they had come this far in their search for their captive chieftain.

And this was merely one more obstacle to be met and overcome.…

These thoughts passed slowly through the mind of Hurok of Kor as the mighty Apeman plodded through the underground tunnel. Like the true leader he was, like the actual leader he had become, the burly Neanderthal tried to foresee the hazards that might lie ahead, the dangers they might soon face, and the problems which the future might soon reveal, so as to plan a means of surmounting them.

Of course, not a man of them—not even Hurok—could possibly have guessed what they would face when they reached the end of the underground road.…

PART VI: GODS OF ZAR

CHAPTER 26

MY BLUFF FAILS

Cromus regarded me with blank astonishment. Obviously, the little commander had thought me safely mewed up in my silken, sumptuous cell. To find me here, in the secret factory where the Professor was busily reinventing firearms was about the last thing the pompous, strutting little bantam could have expected.

There was no hope of fighting my way through half-a-dozen armed men, so I resolved to try to bluff my way out of this predicament. Permitting no trace of my shock or consternation to show, I folded my arms across my breast and regarded the gaudy little officer with a casual smile.

“What do you here, prisoner?” demanded Cromus in harsh tones. I shrugged and turned upon him a serene and guileless gaze.

“The chosen lover of the Divine Zarys,” I said blandly, “is free to come and go as he wishes in the palace of his beloved.”

The features of Cromus darkened, flushing with anger and jealousy. His thin lips parted, then closed to stifle an angry retort. As he eyed me truculently and suspiciously, chewing his lower lip in obvious indecision, I realized my advantage.

Cromus knew very well that I had been granted private audience with the woman he desired. Palace scuttlebutt probably had it that I had been offered the love of Zarys. The frustrated and madly jealous heart of Cromus quite likely pictured the scenes which his tormented imagination painted—scenes of myself in the cool arms of Zarys, of myself pressing fiery kisses upon the moist and panting mouth of Zarys—scenes certainly calculated to do nothing to assuage or lessen his hatred of the man who had knocked him down before all of the assembled nobles.

Palace scandal doubtless also reported that I had scorned the love of Zarys, and had been locked up for weeks in order to meditate upon my refusal of her favors, and, perhaps, repent.

However, to refuse the arms and lips of the Goddess was something so incredible and unprecedented as to seem utterly impossible to a rejected suitor such as Cromus. And now my cool-words confirming his darkest fancies, so that his acceptance of the rumor was deeply shaken.

“And now if the commander would kindly step aside, I shall be on my way,” I suggested. It couldn’t do any harm to try bluffing my way out of this, for I was already in enough hot water to scald the toughest hide.

He eyed me dubiously, trying to make up his mind what to do. Of course, it would hardly be wise for him to offer violence to the chosen lover of Zarys…on the other hand, supposing that I lied, it would hardly be wise to let me go scot-free.

It was a pretty problem!

Cromus solved it in such a way as to earn my admiration, although I disliked the strutting popinjay almost as much as he disliked me.

“Come, then,” he grunted. “I and my soldiers will escort the Lord Eric to the apartments of the Divine Empress as a, ah, guard of honor. Surely, the Goddess will appreciate the esteem and honor we will thus bestow upon her chosen.…”

Then he shot me a sly and cunning glance.

“And surely the Lord Eric will not offend those who would do honor unto him by refusing to accept that honor!”

Well, he had me there, all right! There was nothing that I could think to do but nod with cool politeness and let the guardsmen lead me through the corridors beyond the Professor’s laboratory.

Ialys, looking pale and frightened, had perforce to accompany us. Two soldiers closed in on either side of the handmaiden so that she must walk between them.

My mind racing furiously as I strove to figure out some way of getting out of this spot, I barely noticed the suites and halls and stairways by which we traversed the bewildering maze that was the palace citadel.

I didn’t notice much of anything, in fact, until with a sudden shock I found myself standing before the veiled aperture which led to the private apartments of the Empress.

Here we halted while Cromus strutted forward to exchange a few words with the guard captain stationed before the door. These words were breathed in tones too low for my ears to catch their meaning. Saluting, the captain entered the suite and within a moment or two he returned.

“The Divine One will see you now,” he said to Cromus. “
All
of you.”

* * * *

Within the boudoir of the Goddess, another shock awaited me. It certainly was turning out to be a day full of surprises.…

For the Empress, it seemed, was in her bath
.

It was a sunken tub, tiled with pale jade and rich lapis Lazuli, wherein she reclined in sudsy, perfumed water, reposing languidly while handmaidens as naked as was she gently laved her slender limbs.

She regarded us lazily, with a little smile. How beautiful she was I give my reader leave to imagine for himself. Her slim, bare limbs gleamed lustrously through the soapy water; foamy bubbles clung to her perfect, pointed breasts like pearls.

I hastily averted my eyes while Cromus, coming stiffly to attention, began making his report.

“Goddess, I found the Lord Eric in the workshop where the wise one toils at the fashioning of the thunder-weapon,” he said. “Understanding that he had been made a prisoner by the command of Your Divinity, I inquired into his presence and learned from his lips that, as the chosen companion of the Divine Zarys, he might come and go as freely as he wished. Not daring to contradict one who might, indeed, be speaking the truth and be thus intimate with the Divine Presence, and therefore sacrosanct, I merely escorted the Lord hither to make this report.”

He darted a snaky glance at Ialys who stood, white-faced and trembling, between two strong guards.

“And his accomplice, as well,” he added.

The Empress studied me and the hapless girl for a long moment, the brilliance of her gaze veiled by silken lashes. Her expression was inscrutable.

“So, Eric Carstairs,” she drawled at last in a lazy, purring voice, “you claim to be my lover? You boast to others of that relationship which was offered unto you, and which you so rashly declined? And, to make matters even worse, you have subverted—if not even seduced—my faithful handmaiden?”

I tried a bit of bluff again. Shrugging and grinning with a touch of bravado, I said: “Well, I went for a little walk, I must admit! Gets awfully tiresome, locked up with nothing to do. As for Ialys, she had nothing to do with it. I just sort of ran into her along the way—”

Those magnificent eyes flashed dangerously.

“Do not dream that you can make a fool of the Divine Zarys with your flimsy lies!” she snapped. “Guiltiness is written upon the girl’s face for every eye to read. If she had naught to do with your escape, why, then, has she turned as pale as fresh milk? Why do her limbs tremble, and why do her eyes mirror forth the fear that is within her heart? What is there to fear, if one has done nothing for which to deserve punishment?”

“I was just looking for my friend, the Professor—” I began, hoping against hope that simple honesty would convince her that I had no sinister intent. “If I had been intending to escape, I wouldn’t have been prowling around the palace, but off and over the walls—”

“Enough, barbarian!” She lifted one slender hand, her voice imperious. “I have only contempt for your lies, and they will avail you naught—nay, nor will they interpose between my wrath and the guilt of the girl, Ialys, whom I loved and trusted!”

At this the little handmaiden choked a sob and fell to her knees beside the tiled pool, burying her face between shaking hands.

“Mercy, O Divine One—” she implored in a quavering voice.

The face of the Goddess softened as she stared at the weeping girl. One hand emerged from the water to touch gently the girl’s head, to smooth back the locks of her complicated hairstyle, which had become disarranged.

In the very next instant—with that quicksilver, catlike change of mood I found so disconcerting—her face hardened and her superb breasts heaved with emotion.

“One whom I trusted and have given favor to has betrayed that trust,” she hissed coldly. “And one to whom I offered the ultimate favor has deceived and lied to me. For crimes of such affront to the Sacred Throne, there can be but one punishment great enough!”

“And that is…?” inquired Cromus with a leer, licking his lips gloatingly.

“These two shall be immurred within the Pits of Zar, to await death in the great arena on the comingforth of the God,” she commanded.

And I must confess my heart sank into my boots. Except that I wasn’t wearing any, of course.…

* * * *

While it had proved a pretty crummy day for me, Cromus obviously found it something to write up in his diary, if the Zarians keep diaries, that is, and if he could write.

As he led us to the cells beneath the arena, he was strutting and preening himself like a peacock, shooting me smirking and malevolent little glances all the while, and in general really enjoying himself.

As for myself, I tried to keep a calm composure and an unruffled mien. It wouldn’t do me any good to show my feelings, or the depths of despair in my heart. and to do so would only have pleased Cromus all the more. So I hung onto my cool and didn’t even respond to his jibes.

The arena is a great amphitheatre ringed about with stone benches, and built up against the cliff-wall on whose top the palace citadel rises. The Pits, as the dungeon cells are known, lie beneath the floor of the arena, much like the ones tourists see in the ruins of the Roman Coliseum.

And I can guarantee they are just about as uncomfortable.

CHAPTER 27

THE PROFESSOR DECIDES

Interminable though they seemed, the sewers beneath the Scarlet City of Zar
must
end…this Hurok and the warriors knew; but it seemed as if they had been crawling through the fetid subterranean passageways for an abnormal length of time.

The darkness was penetrated only by the feeble, flickering rays of light cast by their torches, which burned poorly in the vitiated, moist air of the sewers. At no point along the tunnels had it ever been possible for the little band to stand erect, so they were forced to progress in a stooping position, half bent over. At times, the tunnel narrowed and the arched ceiling closed down so closely that they were forced to crawl on hands and knees.

By this time, they were all heartily sick of the experience. But there was nothing else to do but to trudge grimly on, trying to ignore the claustrophobic closeness and the stench.

After a time, the tunnels angled steeply upwards and it seemed to the Apeman of Kor that they must be nearer street level. The air became no fresher, neither did the black gloom of their surroundings lighten, but the primitive senses of the great Neanderthal told him that they were near the surface.

The others sensed it, too. No less primitive in such respects was Neanderthal than Cro-Magnon; the senses of both had been honed to keenness by the harsh struggle for survival in the jungle wilderness of savage Zanthodon.

“O Hurok,” muttered Varak from ahead, “it seems that we are coming to the end of this warren.”

“Hurok senses it, too,” grunted the Apeman. The others felt their nearness to the street level, and their sodden spirits lifted.

“It will be a pleasure to leave these filthy holes in the ground, and fight face-to-face with the foe in the clear light of day!” said Erdon with an eagerness in his voice they all shared.

“And the fresh air of the open sky,” chuckled the irrepressible Varak. “Do not forget the fresh air!”

“I have almost forgotten what it smelled like, in this vile place,” returned Erdon.

“Save your breath for climbing,” advised the Neanderthal in his heavy tones. “It gets a lot steeper here—”

And, indeed, it did. From just ahead of their present position, the tunnel rose almost vertically, obviously almost at its end. Ascending the steep incline, Hurok blinked above, awed at the glimmer of daylight now clearly visible beyond another barred grating similar to the one they had pried free to enter the sewers.

“How do we get up
that?
” muttered Warza, indicating the vertical rise. Hurok shrugged.

“As we ascended the wall of the mountain,” he growled. “We climb!”

And climb they did. Fortunately, ages of running water had crumbled and washed away the mortar between most of the great blocks of stone, and these interstices afforded them handholds and toeholds. But the throat of the sewer tunnel was slimy and very slipppery. They began to climb slowly and with much care, after falling a few times.

At length Hurok, who had taken the lead, reached the barred grating which covered the opening. So dazzled were his dim little eyes by the unaccustomed brilliance that he could make out little of the scene which awaited beyond the grating. He caught the blurred impression of noise and tumult and movement, although he could not at once make out anything in clear detail.

Bracing his splayed feet and wedging his burly shoulders against the throat of the tunnel, he clasped the iron grill in his great hands and heaved with a mighty surge of strength.

Incrustations of rust and filth groaned, cracked, flaked—gave way. The grill he thrust aside, crawling upward to hook his elbows over the brink of the opening; he emerged, cramped and filthy and sore in many muscles, to clamber to his feet and blink about him in the light of day.

One by one, his warriors emerged from the sewer to group behind him.

As his dazzled vision cleared, Hurok peered ahead and saw two things that astounded him.

One of these was the one person in all of Zanthodon whom he most wished to see.

The other was a titanic monster such as he had never seen, even in his most horrendous nightmares
.…

* * * *

Sadly watching Cromus and his bravoes march the girl and me off to face the judgment of Zarys, Professor Percival P. Potter heaved a heart-deep sigh, and returned gloomily to his work.

The elderly scientist had no way of guessing what would be the fate of his young friend, but he somberly feared the worst. Cromus he knew to be a vindictive, jealous bully and coward, who envisioned Eric Carstairs as a rival for the love of the Divine Empress of Zar. And now that same Cromus had me where he wanted me!

Hours later, during the sleep period, the old man tossed and turned, unable to still the tumult of his thoughts. My words had pierced him to the heart, showing him the frivolous nature of his scientific curiosity, and the tremendous danger which his reinventing of gunpowder presented to the world of our Cro-Magnon friends. Guiltily, he cursed his avid quest for knowledge and the fascination which Xask’s challenge had awakened in him.

All that “night” he wrestled with his conscience. To stop work on the project now would be futile, for already the gunbarrels were forged and the crude black powder, although still undergong purification, was already perfectly usable. Even if the Professor stubbornly declined to continue his work on the weapons, the master smiths and artisans could carry it through to fruition without him.