The Zanthodon MEGAPACK ™: The Complete 5-Book Series (77 page)

Murg thought about that for a while. He admired the perceptiveness of Xask, whom he regarded as possessing intelligence vastly superior to his own, in which he was, of course, quite right.

“Then why—” he began, but Xask cut him off abruptly.

“Save your breath,” he snapped, “for running.”

“Um,” grunted Murg, subsiding.

* * * *

It took Xask and Murg what must have seemed like an interminable length of time to cross the plains and return to the scene of the battle. For, despite the urgency which drove him on, Xask could not, after all, travel at any faster pace than whimpering little Murg would maintain, otherwise he would have had to leave the pitiful fellow behind. And Murg could develop a pebble in his sandal, a limp, a stitch in his side, or a thorn in his foot—anything to slow the pace to what was to Xask a maddening crawl—with the greatest of ease.

They paused to make a scanty meal, and to sleep. And they had to pause to rest and drink, for Murg could get thirstier more often than seemed humanly possible, and shortness of breath was among his many failings. In all, it seemed to take them forever to get back to the battlefield.

It is really not so difficult to understand why Xask kept the miserable Murg with him, useless encumbrance that he was, rather than slitting his throat and going on alone.

Xask was one of those people who cannot feel superior without having a distinctly inferior person around, so as to shine by comparison. Also, it pleasured him to have someone to cow, to bully, to intimidate. Earlier is these adventures, you may recall, he had similarly bound the hapless Fumio to his service.

At any rate, so long as he had the likes of Murg to kick around—verbally, rather than physically—Xask was happy enough.

What made him even happier, shortly thereafter, was the two people he found curled sleepily together amid the long grasses, sound asleep.

It was the very two he most wanted to find, Jorn the Hunter and Yualla of Sothar!

Cautioning Murg to silence with a curt gesture, Xask unlimbered his trident and crept forward to hold at bay and disarm the two, before they could once again elude his clutches.

Then he felt the spearpoint between his shoulders, gently pressing in—

CHAPTER 9

HUROK FINDS A MATE

Niema slept but briefly, and rose to find the two Cro-Magnon youngsters fast asleep in each other’s arms, with Yualla’s golden head pillowed on the youth’s shoulder. A tender smile softened the austere features of the black woman. Only a few years their senior, she felt vastly more mature than her charges, and had developed a genuinely maternal affection for them both—in particular for Yualla, whose spirit she admired.

They had traveled for hours, tracing the line of the range, and arrived at the southern end of the pass through the Peaks of Peril, only to find that the tribes had passed this way into the south. Weary from the long trek, they had paused to refresh themselves and to eat, then felt slumber stealing upon them.

Leaving the two to their cozy dreams, Niema took up her weapons and set forth to scare up some breakfast. She ranged across the grassy plains, running lightly and swiftly, her long bare legs flashing, as she tested the air with sensitive nostrils. She had tasted her fill of roasted zomak and now she hungered for the juicy taste of succulent uld.

In time she found a waterhole, concealed herself in the bushes and crouched there immobile for a considerable length of time. Her patience was eventually rewarded when her bow brought down two fat, quivering eohippi, which she gutted, washing the meat clean in the gushing stream which fed the waterhole, and, slinging her kill across her strong shoulders, returned to where she had left the sleeping youngsters.

Niema’s expertise at hunting was only equaled by her skills in warfare. The Aziru, in her time, were a dwindling people, and the women of the tribe fought at the side of their men, and were often as fierce and implacable as Amazons. Whether this had been the case when the Aziru had lived in the Upper World, I have no idea, but it was certainly the case now. She could fight and hunt as well as Zuma, for although her bodily strength was less than his, she was swifter on her feet, more agile, and a better runner, being lighter of build.

But I digress.

Approaching the place where she had left Jorn the Hunter and Yualla of Sothar safely asleep, Niema was startled to observe two strangers advancing upon them stealthily. The black woman flung herself prone in the grass, and wriggled forward on her belly as lithely as any serpent, until she had come up to the scene.

Then, as the one whom she would later know as Xask approached with drawn steel while the other, a shriveled and cowardly looking little man with skinny legs and fearful eyes, held back timidly, she waited until his back was turned, then came to her feet in a supple movement and set the hard, sharp point of her assegai between his shoulder blades.

Xask uttered a choked cry, paled to the lips, and turned to give a wide-eyed glance over his shoulder. At the sight of the magnificent naked black woman, his eyes widened all the more. Never having seen a member of the Negroid race, he was paralyzed with astonishment. This may explain the fact that he did not move a muscle, although that spearpoint between his shoulder blades may have had something to do with it.

“My…dear young woman,” he protested faintly. But, at the grim expression in Niema’s lovely face, he permitted the words to ebb away into silence.

His voice roused Jorn and Yualla from their sleep. They sprang up with a gasp, snatching at their weapons, but there was no need for their assistance, as the black amazon had the matter firmly under control.

She looked at the Cro-Magnon boy. “Do you know this little man?” she demanded. “When I approached, he was creeping up on you with that funny-looking spear in his hand. Shall I kill him for you now?”

Xask gave voice to a bleating cry that was meant to be a suave, light laugh.

“My dear boy, please explain to this…remarkable young woman that we are old and valued friends!” he said hurriedly, casting a placating smile in Jorn’s direction. “Finding you and your little friend alone and undefended, I was merely coming to your assistance when this—this—”

Words failed him—which very seldom happened to Xask.

With a grin, Jorn quickly explained to Niema that this was the man from whom they had recently escaped, and who had been obviously pursuing them all this while. He disarmed the vizier while Yualla strolled over to where Murg squatted, snuffling and trembling, and searched him for weapons.

Niema grinned, remembering Xask’s smooth words, which reminded her of one of the wise proverbs of her people, which she repeated to Jorn.

“The serpent has a pleasant voice, but he carries poison in his mouth,” she said succinctly. Xask flushed and tried to look indignant.

Jorn bound his wrists and ankles with thongs, then retired a short distance away to discuss the matter with the Aziru woman. Now that Xask was helpless, what were they to do with him?

“If we just let him and Murg go, they will sneak after us again, hoping to catch us off guard,” said Yualla. Jorn nodded seriously.

“And yet, if we have to take them with us, we’ll have to keep an eye on them every moment!” he explained.

They explored the few avenues of action open to them without coming to any conclusion that sounded satisfactory. It was Niema who came up with the most practical solution to the problem.

“Let me put my spear into him,” she suggested. “The other little man can do us no harm, but
this
one is sharp and clever. He will work us ill, if he can figure out a way to do it.”

Jorn was mightily tempted. The Cro-Magnon tribes have a rude code of justice which our effete civilization might consider overly swift and sanguinary. Still and all, it went against Jorn’s grain to just spear a bound man, even an enemy, in cold blood and leave him to rot.

In the end, they decided to take Xask along with them. And without further ado, they started off in the direction of the jungle’s edge, following the trail of trampled grasses which was clearly the route the twin tribes had taken, a spoor so blatantly obvious that even city dwellers like you and me would have had no trouble in following it.

Of course, they took little Murg along with them. So insignificant and harmless did the sniveling little wretch seem that Niema had ignored him when springing to hold Xask at bay, and they had not even bothered to bind him.

No one ever paid much attention to Murg, and it was hard to believe him capable of causing any harm—an oversight which at least one of the small party would have good and grievous cause to regret later on.

* * * *

Her heart pounding against her ribs, Gorah of Kor watched with wide and fearful eyes as the two Apemen battled for her. The male who would have raped her was one Ugor, a feared and hated bully whom all of the shes despised. Hurok she recognized at once, although she had not seen him for many months, and, in common with the rest of the folk of Kor, believed him long since slain.

Ugor might have been a bully, but he was a magnificent specimen of Neanderthal manhood, nearly seven and a half feet tall and tipping the scales at four hundred fifty pounds of solid beef. Hurok was a few inches shorter and several pounds lighter, but his fury more than made up the difference, for he had instantly recognized the cavewoman as she he had come to Kor hoping to find.

As their blood heated in the frenzy of combat, and the red haze of murder-lust thickened before their eyes, the two Apemen forgot their weapons and grappled hand to hand, breast to breast, gorillalike arms locked about each other, straining every thew and sinew in the effort to break the other’s back.

Gorah of Kor would not have seemed attractive to you or me, for the Neanderthal women are hardly less heavy, hairy and huge than are the males of their species; but everything that was feminine in her thrilled her to the core of her primitive heart as the two males fought for possession of her body.

The mating rituals of the Apemen of Kor were rude and simple. Any male may bellow his claim to any female of marriageable age who is not already mated, and then he must fight to the death any male who challenges that claim. So the outcome of the struggle was a matter of vital interest to Gorah, since the result would decide her future life. And she would have vastly preferred Hurok for her mate rather than Ugor.

The battle was noisy and ferocious. Hurok broke Ugor’s grip by ramming his elbow into his adversary’s throat. Ugor grunted, gagged, and let loose. Then he kicked Hurok in the belly, and when he fell to the ground, sprang upon him and began trying to break his ribs with vicious kicks of his enormous splayed feet.

Hurok kicked him in the groin, and Ugor sagged to his knees, spewing up the contents of his belly. Hurok hit him in the side of the head with one huge fist—a blow that would probably have crushed the skull of an ox. Ugor fell over backwards, then climbed stiffly to his feet and tried to brain Hurok with a rock he had picked up.

Hurok moved his head to one side so that the blow whistled past by a fraction of an inch, and hit Ugor full in the face, smashing his nose to gory ruin. Ugor blinked, shook his head dazedly, then lowered his head and butted Hurok in the belly. Hurok caught Ugor in his arms and they fell over backwards, blunt tusklike teeth snapping as each tried to tear out the other’s throat.

The Apemen of Kor have yet to learn the Marquis of Queensbury’s pugilistic niceties, you will observe.

Eventually, Hurok doubled up his legs, planted both feet in the middle of Ugor’s chest, and kicked him ten feet away. He slammed up against a boulder and sagged there, dazed and groggy. Hurok staggered over, caught his adversary with a firm grip on both ears, and bashed his head against the rock. He got a punch in the belly in return. Shrugging it off, he slammed Ugor’s head against the rock several more times until at length he managed to crack the other’s skull.

Letting go of the limp corpse as soon as he was reasonably certain that it
was
a corpse, he let it fall to the ground and lurch over to where Gorah crouched, her small eyes filled with awed admiration. He caught her by the arm and pulled her to her feet.

“Hurok came back to Kor to find a mate,” he said thickly, between mashed lips. “Of all the shes, Hurok desires most that Gorah become his mate.”

It wasn’t much of a proposal, I suppose, but it thrilled Gorah to the heart. She smiled timidly.

“Hurok has fought Ugor for Gorah, and Hurok has won Gorah for his mate,” she said quietly. Hurok looked down at her.

“It is what Gorah would desire?” he asked. She looked surprised and faintly scandalized at the question, but nodded happily. The huge male put his great arms around her and held her against his hairy breast. She nestled there contentedly. Hurok was covered with blood and had just sustained a beating that would have killed you or me in the first exchange of buffets, but in the eyes of Gorah he was wonderfully handsome.

He hugged her, wincing just a little at the pain it caused one or two cracked ribs. But then he hugged her again because the pressure of her body against his own felt very good to Hurok.

“Hurok comes hither in a dugout which he concealed in the rocks,” he grunted. “Hurok wishes to leave at once to rejoin his friends, the panjani. Gorah must go with him now.”

Gorah did not understand what the Apeman her mate could possibly mean by referring to the panjani as his friends, for there is eternal warfare between Drugar and panjani and it has been so since the world began, as far as she knew. But she did not question her mate on this topic.

Together, they made their way through the tumbled rocks down to the beach, where Hurok had concealed the dugout.

Approaching within view, Hurok froze, a warning growl rising in his deep chest, gesturing the female to silence.

Five armed Drugars had found the boat, and were examining it curiously.

CHAPTER 10

ZUMA SAVES A LIFE

The man who had dropped from the trees to land lightly before me on the sward was the most magnificent black man I had ever seen. Nearly naked, his splendid body was black as ebony, and glistened with an oiled sheen in the shafts of daylight that speared down through the leafage overhead.

He was several inches taller than six feet, with broad shoulders, a lean waist, narrow hips, and long rangy legs. His hair was a cap of tightly curled black wool, fitted closely to the contours of his skull. He had a long neck, strongly handsome features, and long hands. A double necklace of the fangs of the sabertooth was clasped about his throat; crudely hammered copper wire was coiled about his left wrist; a leathern quiver of arrows was slung across his back and a long flint knife slept in its fur sheath, which was strapped to his upper thigh.

I absorbed these details in one, all-encompassing, lightning-swift glance. Most of my attention was on the arrow pointed (it seemed) at my chest. He drew back the bow and released it and it flashed over my right shoulder to thud into some obstruction behind me and by me unseen.

I heard a squall of pain and turned to see the vandar behind me. The shaft the black warrior had loosed had sunk to the feather in its eye, piercing the brain. As I watched, numb with amazement, it writhed, ripping at the turf with unsheathed claws, and died.