by Lin Carter
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.
After breakfast, while being escorted to the workshop, he continued moodily puzzling over the few courses of action which were available to him, striving to choose the one true action which would redeem him in his own eyes, if not in those of Eric Carstairs.
"Greetings, O wise one!" the master artisan Phorias hailed him as he entered the busy workshop.
Absently, the Professor returned the greeting.
"The Goddess has requested to know how much longer it will be before the thunder-weapons are ready for use in training her troops," Phorias informed him. The Professor shrugged gloomily and muttered something or other.
"She desires to know, because on the morrow all of Zar will be in the great arena for the Great Games and the worship of the God .. . ."
"Oh, ah?" mumbled the Professor, not really paying much attention. A gleam of malice flickered in the shrewd eyes of the bald, olive-hued artisan.
"Yes! And you should be there, as well, for on the morrow your youthful companion walks forth alone to face the God," he added suavely.
The Professor snapped out of his moodiness as if struck in the face. He stared at the other man, his old heart pounding.
"What's that you say?" he demanded fearfully. "Eric!-the dear boy? To 'face the God'-what God?"
"Mighty Zorgazon, the Supreme God of Zar, to whom the Divine Zarys herself is bride and sacred consort," replied the other.
Blinking rapidly, the Professor strove to recall if he had ever heard of this Zorgazon before. He knew that the Zarians worshipped a male divinity, of course, but had paid little attention to the matter. And now it seemed to the old savant that he was going to have to stand idly by and watch Eric Carstairs sacrificed to some hideous idol or other ....
"Get about your work and leave me to my computations," he rasped irritably, waving the other man away. With a polite smile, which was almost a mocking sneer, Phorias saluted and returned to supervising the purification of the gunpowder.
All the rest of that endless day, Professor Potter grimly wrestled with his conscience. That he must do something to eradicate the evil he had caused was perfectly obvious; exactly what to do was the problem.
And now, as if this weren't enough to struggle with, yet another problem had intruded. He must do whatever was humanly possible to rescue his young friend from these cold-hearted fiends . . . . He would never be able to sleep easily again, if he were forced to sit idly by and watch Eric Carstairs offered up as a human sacrifice to some Cretan idol.
Toward the end of that day, a notion occurred to him. Promptly, he dispatched a guard to request a certain object from Xask, the Empress's counselor, who was theoretically in charge of the manufacturing of the thunder-weapon.
His request was couched in cunningly phrased language which seemed, on the surface, casual and insignificant. But Potter knew the shrewdness of Xask, and feared mightily that even this innocuous request might arouse the suspicions of Xask and alert him to what the Professor was planning.
Fortunately, Xask was attending upon the Empress at her court, and one of his servants complied with the request. The guard returned with a small object wrapped in white silk, which the Professor hastily concealed beneath his garments.
Later, as the workmen and smiths left, the Professor lingered behind, pretending to be busied with a few last details. Once he was alone and unobserved-except, of course, for the guards who waited at the entrance to escort him back to his apartments-he set about his work hastily but with great care.
Breaking open one of the wooden casks of gunpowder, the Professor poured a gritty trail of shining black particles on the floor. The line began at the stack of kegs which held all of the gunpowder thus far produced, and ended at the front door of the workroom. From there, out of direct view of anyone at the door, the professor produced a length of tallow-soaked twine. One end he inserted into a small heap of the black powder, at the end of the trail, and the other end he extended across the floor into a far corner of the room.
The Professor had earlier planned to use just such twine in the nature of a fuse, when he had conceived of a slightly different design for his weapons. Through experimentation, he had learned exactly how slowly the tallow-impregnated twine burns. Thus he knew to a nicety how long it would take for a spark to consume the considerable length of the twine he had stretched across the floor.
Just before leaving the workroom and locking the door, the old man struck flint and steel.
And lit the long fuse . . ..
Chapter 28 THE GREAT GAMES
Life in the Pits of the Scarlet City was about as crummy as you might suppose it would be, and the only thing that made it endurable was the knowledge that it would soon end.
Very soon. A little too soon. Our fellow captives in the Pits of Zar gloomily informed us that the Day of the Great Games was almost upon us. They certainly didn't seem very happy about the fact, but then, they knew what was coming and I was still in a state of blissful ignorance.
I guess I suspected the Games to be on the order of gladiatorial combats-sort of a cross between The Last Days of Pompeii and the Olympics.
Shows how much I knew ....
There were two things, actually, that made the dungeons endurable. The other was the prisoners we were locked up with. For the most part, these were a surly, frightened bunch of Zarians who knew all too bloody well what was coming. They were a seedy lot-thieves, usurers, a murderer or two. Fat merchants caught counterfeiting or something. You can imagine the sort of scum.
The others, though, were former Cro-Magnon slaves condemned to the Games for one or another transgression, like refusing to whip a fellow slave to death or failing to kiss the dirt between some aristocrat's feet.
None of these fellows was from Sothar or Thandar, although they were the same sort-stalwart, handsome, superbly built warriors with fair skins, blue eyes, and yellow hair.
They told me that their nations were Gorad and Numitor, which were to be found far to the "south"-well, they waved vaguely in what seemed to be that direction. None of them had been born in slavery, but all had been taken captive by slave raiders who periodically descended from Zar to replenish the supplies of livestock, so to speak. None of them had adjusted very well to slavery, which explained why they were here.
I liked them, especially one big blond warrior named Gundar of G
orad, who had the broadest shoulders I've ever seen this side of my old pal, Hurok. Another man, younger and with a winningly cheerful way about him that reminded me of Varak, I also made friends with. He was of the tribe of Numitor; his name was Thou.
All told, there were about thirty Cro-Magnons chained in the Pits, awaiting the Great Games. We did a lot of talking about a plan of escape, but there really didn't seem to be much point to it, although it helped us keep our spirits up.
Ialys clung constantly to my side. The daintily reared maiden felt lost, her life in ruins. I felt guilty, as she was being kind to me when Cromus caught me off guard, and because of helping me she found herself in this present predicament. So I took care of her the best that I could, and protected her from the men. Not the Cro-Magnons, of course, for they are courteous and chivalric gentlemen, for all that they are little more than savages-no, from the other Zarians. They would have heartily enjoyed a bit of gang-rape on their way to the Games ....
As I have already said, we didn't spend much time in the Pits of Zar, because the Day of the Great Games was nearly upon us. Just how nearly was anybody's guess, in this world without time. But that "night," just as we stretched ourselves out for some sleep, Ialys who had crept up beside me, laid her slim small hand on my shoulder.
"What is it?" I asked drowsily.
"When we awaken, Lord Eric," the girl said solemnly, "it will be to face the God in the arena."
"What God is that?"
"Zorgazon, who made the world," she informed me.
"Oh, yeah?" I yawned.
Then she said something that woke me up fast enough
With a pitiful expression in her large, beautiful eyes, the Zarian girl whispered: "Yes . . . when we awaken, it will be to look upon the world for the last time. For in his beast-avatar, great Zorgazon is very terrible . . . and on the Day of the Games, he is very hungry . . . farewell, Lord Eric! Soon, all our sufferings will end, and we will be at peace. . . "
Then she fell asleep, cuddled at my side.
But-let me tell you-I didn't get much sleep that night. "Gladiatorial games"-hah!
These people were going to feed us to a monster.
We were awakened and, oddly enough, considering what was shortly to happen to us, fed an excellent meal.
"'The condemned man ate a hearty breakfast,"' I quipped. The Cro-Magnons regarded me solemnly.
"Sorry, fellows," I said with a feeble grin. "Joking helps to keep my spirits up!"
Thou of Numitor glanced at me with a twinkle in his eye but said nothing. My huge friend, Gundar, more grim and stolid and less mercurial than the Numitorian youth, looked at me with a certain admiration.
"It is a brave man who can jest in the very jars of due," he rumbled. I winced.
"Please, Gundar-do you have to say things like that?" I protested. He shrugged.
"The jaws of Zorgazon are mighty jaws, Eric Carstairs. I have attended my Zarian owners in this arena many times, and have seen the monster-worshiped."
"Let's change the subject," I begged. "Ialys is losing her appetite.
The girl smiled wanly, but said nothing.
In a little while they assembled us into ranks, and marched us out into the daylight. We walked across a sand-strewn floor about the size of a football stadium, and to every side rose tiers of stone benches crowded with gaily dressed Zarians in their holiday finery. They cheered and hooted as we emerged blinking into the light.
"Looks like a full house," I muttered to myself, trying to muster a bit of swagger into my stride.
The guards halted us in the center of the arena, and left hurriedly, closing the thick-barred gate to the Pits behind them.
In a curtained box, Zarys lolled in a glittering harness of gilded leather studded with flashing gems. To one side of her, Xask reposed, favoring me with a slight smile. To the other, Cromus sat, looking me over with a gloating, malevolent grin.
I could cheerfully have throttled him.
Beneath the royal box, a very huge door swung slowly open on ponderous hinges of solid brass, revealing the yawning mouth of a black cavern.
I put my arm about Ialys's trembling shoulders.
Out of the gate stalked Zorgazon.
The crowd gasped and quailed. The Zarians in our little band fell to their knees, wailing and pressing their brows against the sand in abasement. The Cro-Magnons stood tall and proud . . . and, like myself, empty-handed. Not that any weapon this side of a howitzer would have done any good.
For the God of Zar was a gigantic tyrannosaurus rex!
As the host of Sothar approached the entrance to the pass which led to the Scarlet City, Garth eyed without comment the gigantic dragon heads positioned to either side, hewn from the living stone of the cliffs. I had seen those very heads when Raphad and his troop had led us into the pass, and remembered that Xask had humorously referred to them as "very good likenesses" of the God of Zar. Which indeed they were.
Suddenly, Garth threw up his hand, halting the march. For his keen eyes had seen his scouts hurrying through the foothills, running with all fleetness, as if being pursued.
"Archers! Bend your bows," rumbled Garth, hefting his long spear and loosening his war axe in its sling.
The bowmen nocked their bows and held them at the ready.
The first of the scouts came running up to where Garth stood in the forefront of the Sotharian host.
"What have you seen that impels you to return in such precipitous haste, Mordan?" inquired the Chief.
The scout panted for a moment, recovering his breath. Then he spoke.
"Withdraw to better ground, my Omad!" said Mordan hurriedly. "A great host approaches down the pass which leads through the mountains. They will be upon us sooner than you might suspect!"
Garth nodded, lifting his aurochs horn to summon the chieftains. When they were assembled, he gave rapid orders. The host withdrew to a large knoll which stood amid the grasses of the plain some little distance away. To his practiced eye, it looked to Garth to offer as much advantage as could be expected in such flat land.
His warriors encircled the knoll in a triple ring of men. They locked their long, kite-shaped shields together, for all the world like the Vikings of olden time, and crouched behind them so as to offer the least possible target to their approaching adversaries.
Atop the knoll, Garth and his personal guards stood waiting for whatever was coming to emerge from the mouth of the pass.
There was a long moment of stillness, as if the very world of Zanthodon held its breath in suspense.
Then the ground seemed to tremble slightly, as if to the tread of ponderous feet.
"Dragonmen, my Omad!" one of the guards said alertly. From a little distance away, the Minoan prisoner, Captain Raphad, smiled slightly. He, too, recognized the heavy tread of the feet of the thodars.
In the next moment, a host of running figures burst from the pass to flee into the plain.
At their very heels came stalking along the giant forms of the mounted dinosaurs.
"Who are those warriors in front of the line of beasts?" rumbled Garth, shading his eyes with one hand.
"I recognize one of them, at least, my Chief," observed a keen-eyed warrior. "Is it not-? It is! It is ...."
In the next instant, the eyes of Garth of Sothar widened incredulously, and his bearded jaws gaped in a startled cry.
Chapter 29 ZORGAZON!
The thing was as big as a house. Quite literally; it stood on enormous legs towering as tall as a three-story building. In contrast to its huge hind legs, the forelegs were small but sinewy, and armed with hooked claws like wicked sickles. Its hide was leathery, pebbled rather than scaled, of a browngreenish hue on the back which faded to muddy yellow on the chest and belly. It stank like a pit of squirming snakes.
Its hideous head seemed to be all gaping jaws packed with fangs longer than cavalry sabres. Under the shelving of its brow, scarlet eyes blazed-soulless, unwinking orbs
filled with ferocity and wild hunger. I have little doubt that the Zarians had starved the brute for days to give it sufficient appetite-for us.
As it came clambering up the runway into the arena, Zarys rose to her feet and saluted her husband and consort with a regal gesture. The tyrannosaurus seemed to recognize her, for as she lifted her arm in salute it threw back its horrible head and gave vent to a screeching cry like a tugboat's steam whistle.
Then, with an eloquent gesture, she drew its attention to us. That ghastly, grinning head lowered; we met the impact of those mad scarlet eyes.
"Zorgazon!" she cried imperatively.
"Zorgazon," moaned the vast throng as with one voice they hailed their monstrous God.
With a ponderous stride that shook the ground, the giant reptile came stalking across the arena toward us. We stood our ground, the Cro-Magnons and I, and I held little Ialys tightly against my chest. But the Zarian captives broke and ran, squealing.
Zorgazon peered down at them curiously, fang-bristling jaws agape, saliva dripping in slimy ropes from its scaly chin.
Then one huge splay-toed foot lifted and came down on a whimpering cluster of Zarian thieves.
They.. . squelched.
The foot lifted, dripping crimson. I shuddered and bit my lip.
Beside me, giant Gundar gripped my shoulder. "Steady," he rumbled.
I nodded grimly.
Zorgazon broke into a loping stride. Half-bent, it snatched with those sinewy little grasping forelimbs.
Shrieking men were plucked into midair, popped into that vast maw like peanuts.
Zarian after Zarian it snatched up and gobbled down. It seemed to be ignoring us, perhaps saving us for last, as a diner samples the hors d'oeuvres first, while savoring the approach of the main course.
Then those blazing scarlet eyes glared down at us, and our turn had come.
There was nothing we could do to defend ourselves. But, then, bare hands were every bit as useless against that titan of the Dawn Age as swords or spears would have been. Its leathery hide was tough-impenetrable.