by Lin Carter
“Now that these matters have been settled,” Von Kohler said, turning to Professor Potter again, “I really must return to my Colonel; I could wish that you and the fraulein might accompany Schmidt and me back to our camp to enjoy what rude hospitality we have to offer, but if you wish to return to your own camp, I will certainly understand, and let us part as friends, on the understanding that the world is small and we shall all doubtless meet again.”
The Professor cleared his throat.
“Kerr-hem! Well, and as for that, we have not been absent long enough to be seriously missed, or to cause our friends to worry concerning our safety and welfare, and … Holy Hippocrates, sir, I have some little understanding of medicine, and feel obligated to offer your Colonel whatever help I may be able to give-”
“I am delighted to accept your kind offer, Herr Doktor! Our camp lies in that direction-Schmidt! Fall in behind to guard our rear.”
And with those words, Manfred Von Kohler turned, offering Darya his hand to assist her over a fallen tree, and the four of them disappeared in the underbrush.
Xask followed Darya, the Professor, and the two German’s back to their camp in the jungle, with poor Murg whimpering at his heels. The vizier was afire with lust to get his hands on one of the thunderweapons with which the strangers seemed so lavishly equipped. Surely, before very long, an opportunity for him to do so would present itself, for neither the Professor nor Darya knew that he was anywhere in the vicinity, and the German soldiers were not even aware of his existence.
From the cover of the underbrush between the tall trees, he and Murg observed as the party entered the camp. Yet another soldier was on guard with yet another Mauser rifle, and he clicked his heels and saluted with the weapon as the Oberlieutenant came up to him. They conferred briefly, and then Von Kohler led his guests to the rude hut where an older, white-haired man lay on a crude litter. His garments had been torn away from his side, and a gory mass of bandages was held there by strips of cloth. It would seem that the Colonel had been gored in the side by a beast, and from the looks of him, Xask shrewdly guessed that the older man had not very long to live.
The camp was situated at the edge of a small stream, with its back against the shelter of large rocks.
Bedrolls were neatly lined up beside a small fire which crackled merrily, browning plucked-and-gutted zomaks suspended above the flames on a spit made from tree branches.
While the Professor knelt to gingerly undo the wad of blood-soaked bandages and examined Colonel Dostman’s injuries, Xask quickly surveyed the camp. Obviously, when the next sleeping-period came, the bedrolls would be occupied, with at least one of the Germans standing guard lest hostile natives or dangerous beasts attack the sleeping men.
Xask had no way of guessing which of the German soldiers would occupy which bedroll, but he noticed that one of the rolls of blankets was nearer to the huge rocks than were the others. He thought he could circle the camp without causing any sound, and, with a little bit of luck, creep through the boulders to purloin one of the thunder-weapons, which would doubtless be laid on the greensward beside its slumbering owner.
Finding a secure niche, he curled up on a bed of dry leaves between the enormous roots of a giant tree, and patiently awaited his chance to steal the rifle; leaving Murg to watch the camp.
For a time we followed the trail the Professor had blazed on the trees of the jungle without difficulty. He seemed to be heading directly south and east, heading straight for Fire Mountain without diverging from his path, save to go around natural obstacles.
And then, quite suddenly, the trail of marked trees ended. He went on a bit, then paused, looking around.
This section of the jungle seemed no different in any way from the other parts of the jungle, and we could not at once determine the reason why the blaze marks had ended so abruptly.
“Perhaps the old man, your friend, was frightened by one of the great beasts,” suggested Warza to me. I shrugged.
“Maybe, but I don’t see any signs of the passage of a beast large enough to have scared the Professor into flight,” I said. And indeed there were no trampled underbrush, broken branches, or footprints in the turf which would have suggested the sudden arrival on the scene of a dangerous predator.
“A vandar prowls silently, gliding through the bushes, and seldom leaves prints,” Jorn pointed out. I had to agree with him, and, armed only with a spear, the Professor would certainly have taken flight before the advance of the giant sabertooth, rather than staying around to fight the cat with so flimsy a weapon.
I turned to Zuma, who, with his sharp eyes and wilderness training, was the best scout in my retinue of companions.
“Perhaps we should stay here, Zuma, while you circle about to see if you can pick up the trail of the Professor,” I suggested.
The black warrior grinned. “Zuma has tracked the fleeting uld across the veldt ere this,” he said without boasting, “and he has no doubt that he can find the spoor of the old man, your friend.”
At his side, Niema spoke up.
“Niema will accompany her mate for two pairs of eyes are better than none,” she offered. But the male Aziru shook his head decisively.
“Niema will remain here with the other women, under the protection of the warriors,” he said firmly.
The black girl bridled for a moment, then smiled demurely and said that she would gladly obey her mate. Her tones were meek and I believe the amazon girl rather enjoyed being told what to do by her man. Most women do, although on this point the women’s liberation movement would doubtless disagree with me, and that strongly.
Without further words, Zuma glided into the brush and was gone. He moved as silently as any Algonquin brave ever did, and was all but invisible in the jungle gloom due to the dark coloration of his skin. I felt confident that if any of us could locate the Professor’s trail, it would be the black warrior.
We settled down to wait. The jungle still seemed as silent as the grave, although the earthquake and the volcanic eruption were over for hours; still the dangerous beasts remained cowering in their lair, or so it appeared. What, then, could have frightened the Professor into flight, in such haste to be gone that he stopped leaving his marks upon the trunks of the trees?
Time would tell, as it always does.
And there was nothing for us to do but wait… and wonder.
Chapter 24. THE THUNDER-WEAPON
Professor Potter examined the injuries of Colonel. Dustman and found them as serious as Von Kohler had stated. Half delirious, the older officer was running a fever and his wounds were infected.
With the medicinal virtues of certain leaves and jungle herbs known to Darya of Thandar, which were steeped in boiling water, the Professor cleaned and dressed the Colonel’s wounds. Cold, wet cloths were laid upon his brow and Darya prepared a hearty broth from cooked meat which she fed to the German officer. After a time, somewhat eased of his discomfort, the older man fell into a deep sleep, which the Professor and the Cro-Magnon princess felt would do him probably as much good as had their crude doctoring.
They joined Von Kohler at the campfire and shared the meal together, talking in low tones so as not to disturb their patient.
“I fear it would be gravely unwise to attempt to move your Colonel until ‘tomorrow,’” said Professor Potter, chewing thoughtfully. By this, he meant “until after we have slept again,” but Von Kohler understood his meaning without the need for explanations.
The officer nodded, saying nothing. He had already thanked his two guests in quiet tones for their assistance in tending the wounded man, and there was little more to be said. He refrained from asking their opinion as to whether or not Dostman would soon recover-probably because he felt in his heart that there was little or no hope that the Colonel would ever recover, and wished to spare his guests the painful necessity of admitting the uncomfortable fact.
Von Kohler grimly knew that very soon, perhaps within hours, the so
le responsibility of command would devolve upon his shoulders. It was a sobering thought, but it had to be faced. Fortunately, during the long and weary years they had wandered through the swamps and jungles and grassy plains and mountains of the Underground World, seeking a way out of Zanthodon by which they might return again to the Upper World, he had come to know and like and trust the soldiers that had survived, and knew himself capable of their leadership.
But he had gone for so long under the command of his Colonel, that he knew he would for a time feel lost without the wisdom and experience of the older man.
The pleasures of a hot meal made them all sleepy, after the excitements and exertions of the day, so they resolved to take their rest now. In Zanthodon there are no clocks, and time is a purely subjective experience: the folk of the subterranean cavern world sleep when they are sleepy, eat when they are hungry, and wake when they have enjoyed sufficient rest, without recourse to arbitrary schedule’s.
“If you, Herr Doktor, and the young fraulein, would care to, why do you not spend this sleep-period as our guests?”
Von Kohler suggested. “Private Borg will take the first guardwatch, and there is no need for you to make the return journey through the jungles to rejoin your friends until you have slept.”
Darya and Professor Potter agreed that this was only sensible, and were given the loan of blankets by Schmidt, who seemed in charge of the supplies. Without further ado, the elderly savant and the jungle maid curled up to either side of the campfire and fell asleep. Von Kohler strolled the perimeter of the encampment, and looked in briefly on the sleeping Colonel, before seeking his own rest. Borg stood with his rifle slung at the ready, leaning against the boulders, taking his guardpost.
Murg awakened Xask when these things eventuated, and the vizier observed the sleeping camp. He had intended to creep through the boulders, but with Borg stationed there, alert and armed and vigilant, this now seemed to the wily Zarian a risky and less than certain course of action.
Circling the encampment on careful and stealthy feet, Xask approached the rear of the small lean-to in which Colonel Dostman slumbered. The little structure was fabricated from branches tied together with thongs, with palm leaves stretched across the upper parts to afford some protection from the sudden torrential jungle rains.
Creeping up behind the rear of the flimsy structure, Xask peered through the interstices between the wooden sticks. He saw the silver-haired officer stretched out on his litter, blankets tucked about him, obviously in a deep sleep.
Propped against the side of the lean-to, stood the Colonel’s rifle, a Mauser like the others. A gleam of pure greed flamed in the cunning, narrowed eyes of Xask as he discovered himself so temptingly close to one of the thunderweapons he had for so long coveted.
This meant he would not have to attempt to steal one from the sleeping soldiers, risking discovery from Borg, but could safely purloin the Colonel’s weapon from the interior of the little hut.
Xask had carried off from the debacle of the three-way battle between the savages, the corsairs and the Dragonmen of Zar, a slim, sharp knife of that peculiar reddish-silvery metal which the Professor has tentatively identified as orichalcum, the mystery metal of the fabled Atlanteans.
Drawing the blade from its sheath, he sawed stealthily at the thongs which bound the tree branches together to form the rear wall of the lean-to. Erelong, he succeeded in creating an opening large enough for his slender form to make entry. Moving with all of the cautious stealthiness of a stalking cat, the Zarian entered the lean-to and reached out to grasp the precious firearm.
The sleeping officer opened sharp blue eyes and looked at the thief!
Without a moment’s thought or hesitation, Xask struck like a cobra. The Minoan dagger was still clenched in one fist; an instant later it was sunk to the hilt in the throat of the injured man, who stared up at Xask with wide, astonished eyes, which soon were closed in the final sleep of death.
Murg lurked miserably at the edge of the clearing, just behind the cover of a thick wall of bushes, whispering woefully to himself. He was, in fact, counting in the only way known to a savage race who have yet to progress farther in their mathematical computations than the number of fingers on their hands.
” . Thakdol … thakdol … thakdol- … thakdol,” whispered the little man to himself, according to the prearranged plan in which Xask had sternly instructed him. It had been Xask’s opinion that he would need a diversion to draw the attentions of the sentry from the encampment; and he had commanded Murg to count thakdols on his fingers until he had counted the sum of both hands three times over. Then he was to throw a gourd which Xask had found lying at the base of one of the palmlike trees which grew in this part of the jungle.
This, Xask presumed, would draw Borg away and give him time to enter the camp and steal one of the rifles lying beside the bedrolls of Von Kohler or Schmidt. As we have just seen, the small stratagem proved unneccessary, for at the last moment Xask had switched to a new plan, entering the but where Colonel Dostman slept. But Murg had no way of knowing this and assumed Xask by this time to be hiding among the huge rocks at the far end of the German camp.
Counting thakdols is dreary, boring work, and it left Murg’s mind free to wander among happier memories and more pleasant vistas of the imagination. The miserable little rogue heartily feared and detested Xask, who used him with casual cruelty, ignoring his feelings. Feverishly did Murg wish that Xask would never return from the German encampment, or that he would be caught, thus affording Murg an excellent opportunity to creep off into the jungle and vanish to some haven of safety which, surely, he could find in this uninhabited wilderness.
But he was afraid not to throw the gourd, fearing that Xask would return and beat him for ignoring his commands. So, when, at length, he had counted the thirtieth thakdol, the little fellow rose, hefted the hollow gourd, and flung it into the depths of the jungle where it thumped and clattered against the trunk of a tree and fell with a muffled thud to the ground.
The clattering noise came from the pebbles which Xask had inserted into the hollow gourd.
Even as Xask had expected, Borg stiffened, swiveling his eyes toward the direction from which this unusual sound had come. He strained his ears, but heard no crackle in the underbrush which would be the sign of a dangerous predator’s furtive advance upon the camp. However, all in all, it would be wiser to investigate the sound, before dismissing it as harmless, reasoned Borg to himself. Charged as he was with the safety of his sleeping officers and fellow-soldier in the camp, the conscientious Borg stepped away from the rocks he had been leaning against, and crossed the clearing to peer through the trees in the direction from which the small sound had come.
The sound had been too small to arouse the sleepers, who still lay wrapped in their blankets.
Now Xask, armed with the stolen Mauser rifle, came from the entrance of the lean-to and crossed the greensward himself, after a quick and careful look at Borg, who had disappeared through the trees, having gone some little ways into the jungle.
On swift feet, Xask crossed to crouch beside one of the blanket-shrouded sleepers. His sharp eyes had, of course, noticed that Professor Potter was among the visitors to the German camp, and, next to the thunder-weapon, he most fervently desired to take captive the one man in all of Zanthodon who knew the secrets of its manufacture.
But, alas, things have a way of turning out wrong, it seems. For Xask himself had been dozing when the Professor and the others took to their rest, and, although Murg had pointed out to his master the blankets under which the Professor slept, Murg had blundered in his identification.
So, when Xask reached out to snatch away the blanket from the sleeper’s face and, with the other hand, thrust the muzzle of the thunder-weapon threateningly into that face, he saw with a start of surprise that it was Darya who blinked amazedly at him from the bedroll.
Chapter 25. MURDER!
Prowling like a hunting panthe
r, Zuma glided on silent feet through the thick underbrush of the prehistoric jungles, every sense alert to the presence of danger. The black warrior knew no other life than this, having been born and raised in the kraal of his tribe on the edges of the jungle to the north, where it bordered upon the plain of the thantors. A trained, experienced hunter since boyhood, instructed in the arts of stalking game by the mature men of his dwindling people, Zuma knew the jungle and its ways as well as you and I know our own living rooms.
He knew the thousand small signs which indicate the perils which might lurk to every side-the snapping of a twig beneath the weight of a crouching beast, the rustling in the foliage overhead as leaves gave way to the gliding coils of a monstrous serpent, the sudden deathly silence that falls upon the jungle as the small, timid beasts huddle in trembling terror when the great predators are aprowl.
But when there came to the sensitive ears of Zuma the thump and hollow rattle of the gourd thrown by Murg when it struck the tree, the black warrior froze into instant immobility. Such a sound-slight disturbance though it was-was unfamiliar to the Aziru, and it puzzled him.
Instants later there was borne to his nostrils with the shifting of the breeze the unmistakable scent of burning wood, as from a campfire.
This was followed by a slight rustling in the bushes, as if some large and bulky form were attempting to pass through them.
Without thought, Zuma dropped his assegai and leaped into the air. Catching hold of a low bough he swung himself lightly up into the cover of the leafy branches, flung himself at full length along a broad branch and watched with keen eyes to discover what was about to appear.
The man who stepped through the wall of brush to peer about was strangely clothed to the eyes of Zuma and was a stranger. The black warrior had learned from his experience with Eric Carstairs and the Cro-Magnons that white men, albeit strangers, are not necessarily to be counted as among his enemies; still and all, Zuma had not survived the perils of Zanthodon to this point in time by acting on rash, imprudent impulse. So he held his tongue and watched, and waited.