by Lin Carter
“Men call them the Peaks of Peril,” he said in his solemn, deep voice. “Black Hair would be wise to avoid them, for they have an unwholesome reputation. And Black Hair’s she could not possibly have gone so far.”
“How do you know?” I demanded testily. “She could be anywhere, by this time.”
Hurok regarded me, a look of baffled uncomprehension in his dim eyes. I have remarked before on the remarkable fact that the warriors of Zanthodon are completely ignorant of the existence of time, and have no word for the concept in their language. I had, unthinkingly, employed the English word in lieu of a Zanthodonian equivalent.[4] Hence, I had puzzled him.
We plodded along in the wake of the more swiftly moving Thandarians, who advanced along the margin of the jungle at a steady, space-devouring trot. I found myself lagging behind.
“Black Hair does not wish to accompany his people?” inquired Hurok after a time. I had explained to him that these were not my people, of course, and that my own homeland lay a vast distance away, but to the limited intelligence of the Apeman there were only two races of men—Drugars and panjani. And I was a panjani; hence Darya’s people were my own.
I shook my head wordlessly, not bothering to answer, knowing I could not successfully put into words the vague feelings that oppressed my spirits. But I kept looking across the plains at the row of sharptoothed mountains my companion had called the Peaks of Peril. Something about them attracted my restless, wandering attention.…
* * * *
When Xask and Fumio had observed, from the safety of the great trees which stood like a palisade along the jungle’s edge, the carnage which had destroyed all but a few of the Drugars when they were caught and trampled under the thundering feet of the stampeding pachyderms, they rightfully concluded that their continued presence in these parts could easily constitute a disaster; for, if Tharn and his warriors caught them lurking in the underbrush, both would have a heavy price to pay.
Xask was known as the renegade vizier who had formerly served Uruk, High Chief of the Apemen of Kor. And, as for Fumio, like all cowardly traitors, he was tormented by dread that his attempted rape of Tharn’s daughter had been discovered by now. Neither of this pretty pair of villains wished to hang around long enough to be discovered, and neither desired to face the music.
So, after a mutual glance, they melted into the underbrush and vanished among the trees. True, neither could think of any particular haven of safety to which they could flee, but almost anywhere else in Zanthodon was healthier for them than where they were.
So eager were they to be gone that they did not stick around long enough to learn that One-Eye had cleverly escaped the doom of his countrymen. The cruel and brutal bully had survived the stampede by the merest chance, flinging himself prone in a narrow trench as the mammoths came thundering down upon the Apemen. Bruised and battered, covered with dirt and nearly deafened from the earth-shaking tread of the maddened pachyderms, he had nevertheless lived through the ordeal and was not seriously harmed. As soon as he could safely do so, One-Eye came scrambling up out of his hole in the ground and took to the trees.
With the agility of the apelike ancestors he so closely resembled, he quickly scaled one of the lofty Jurassic conifers. Lying flat upon a mighty branch, he searched the aisles of the jungle beneath his aerie with one squinting, keen eye. And thus it was that he observed the hasty and surreptitious flight of Xask and Fumio, both of whom-he instantly recognized.
To be lost and alone in a jungle now swarming with his deadly enemies was not a situation which exactly appealed to the hulking Neanderthal. Without thought, almost by instinct alone, he sprang from the branch, seizing a long jungle vine, and swung into the upper branches of a neighboring tree. Traveling in this manner, he was able to outdistance the Thandarians, and to keep his two erstwhile confederates in view.
For a plan was slowly evolving through the dim, dull wits of One-Eye.
And unfortunately it involved myself!
* * * *
It was not long before Xask and Fumio discovered that they were being pursued.
Seizing the slight arm of his comrade, Fumio uttered a warning word. Then, dropping prone upon the ground, the Thandarian warrior pressed one ear against the turf. Far and faint the sounds of running feet were, but a hunter of the Stone Age develops keen senses or starves.
He raised a frightened face to Xask. “They are following us!” whimpered Fumio. His companion regarded him quizzically.
“Who is following us?” he inquired curiously.
“It can only be Tharn—Tharn the Mighty!” cried Fumio in an agony of despair.
“Tharn, whose daughter you attempted to rape, before Jorn the Hunter made you turn tail and run?” inquired the other, maliciously.
The eyes of Fumio faltered and fell. “Even so,” he breathed.
Xask regarded him thoughtfully. A tall and strikingly handsome specimen of manhood was Fumio of Thandar, but nature had made his heart weak and cowardly, and Jorn’s fist had demolished his slim, handsome nose. Now, pale and sweating with fear, his sleek mane rumpled, his hands shaking, he was a remarkably unattractive specimen. And, for a moment, Xask considered deserting him and escaping alone, for he was becoming more of a liability than an asset.
But then he reconsidered. So far as Xask knew, the warriors and huntsmen of Thandar as yet had not learned of Fumio’s traitorous attempt on the maidenhood of his princess. Thus they could hardly have reason to pursue the fugitives; doubtless, they were merely searching the jungles, hoping to find some trace of the lost girl.
In rapid words he apprised Fumio that his fears were groundless. Although relieved, Fumio was still worried.
“Perhaps so,” he panted, “but if they continue in this direction, they will find us, nonetheless.…”
“Then we will climb a tree,” suggested Xask. “And they will go by underneath us. Since they are not searching for us, they will not bother searching the treetops to find us. Come—let us do this quickly. I have no wish to be taken prisoner by the enemies of Kor, for many of them will know of my former position among the Drugars.”
Fumio possessed great strength and vigor, nor was Xask, with his slender, wiry build, exactly feeble. They ascended the nearest tree and found places to conceal themselves behind convenient masses of dense foliage.
Before long, the two observed a grizzled Thandarian enter their vicinity. Fumio easily recognized the man as Komad, leader of the scouts. They watched as he went past their airy perch without once pausing to search the foliage aloft with his keen eyes. He vanished into the jungle gloom, soon followed by others.
Once the main body of the Thandarian war party had passed them by, both fugitives breathed easier.
But not for very long. With startling suddenness, a massive weight descended upon the broad branch where they crouched and huge hairy hands caught both men by the scruff of the neck, knocking their heads together with a resounding thump.
Dizzy—fear-frozen—they stared up into the ugly, grinning visage of One-Eye!
Displaying broken, discolored, tusk-like teeth in a broad grin, their captor uttered a phlegmy grunt, which was obviously his version of amused laughter.
“One-Eye never knew before that snakes could climb trees!” he chuckled.
* * * *
Hurok surveyed me puzzledly, for the two of us had fallen well behind the main body of the Thandarians and I must have seemed to my giant friend reluctant, for some mysterious reason, to keep up with them.
“If Black Hair lingers here, his people will outdistance him,” he observed at last.
I nodded, saying nothing. The fact of the matter was, quite simply, something within me clamored urgently to know about that row of distant rocky spires the savages knew by the ominous name of the Peaks of Peril.
A silent inward voice
seemed to be drawing my attention thither. And I could not explain this to my huge companion any more than I could explain it to myself. But a lifetime of adventure and danger had taught me to trust my intuition.
And intuition told me I should strike forth on my own and venture among the Peaks of Peril.
I had, at that time, no way of knowing that it was into the shadow of those mysterious mountains that Darya, my beloved, had vanished. Instinct alone urged me thither.
But to leave the safety afforded by numbers and to venture forth on my own was more than reckless, it was downright foolhardy. And I certainly had no right to risk the life of my faithful, loyal friend Hurok in following a mere hunch.
“I have decided not to accompany the panjani,” I explained haltingly to my companion. “Something calls me to those peaks, and I must follow that call.…”
He regarded me with curiosity in his small, dim eyes.
“Is it that Black Hair feels his stolen she might be found in the mountain country?” he asked after a small lapse of time in his heavy bass voice. I shrugged helplessly.
“I do not know!” I confessed.
He regarded me stolidly, his expression unreadable.
After a time, he grunted, “To quit the war party of the panjani and go forth into an unknown country is very dangerous.” It was a remark made in neutral tones, not a complaint or an argument.
“I know,” I said. “And I will not ask you to go with me, Hurok, my friend. The panjani will not harm you, for they know you to be my friend. You need not accompany Black Hair into the unknown—for those peaks, you have told me, have a most unsavory reputation. Let me go on my own way and follow where my heart urges me; you can always go back to Kor and rejoin your own people. With Uruk and One-Eye dead, you could become the High Chief yourself! It would be very selfish of me to try to hold you by my side when you have no longer any reason to journey with me.”
He regarded me with a somber gaze.
“Is it that Black Hair no longer wishes the company of Hurok?” he inquired at last.
I opened my mouth to deny that assumption. Then I closed it, saying nothing. Perhaps the most gentlemanly thing for me to do was to permit him to think I no longer wished his companionship, although that was certainly untrue. But to urge him to go with me into danger for my own selfish purposes was unfair. Guiltily, I decided to evade the question.
“You may think what you wish,” I said coolly.
He gave me one long, searching look. Then, without a word or gesture of farewell, he turned on his heel and vanished into the underbrush.
I sighed, feeling a pang of dismay and loss go through my heart. But it did seem, at the time, the only thing to do.
Nevertheless, I had a feeling that I had just made one of the worst mistakes in my life.…
I turned away and struck out across the plains, heading for the shadowy peaks to which my heart called me.
And behind me in the treetops, three cold and cunning pairs of eyes gleamed with unholy joy as my giant companion deserted me and I went forth alone and friendless into the Unknown.
CHAPTER 3
Beyond the Peaks of Peril
At this time only one person knew the truth of Darya’s whereabouts and the mystery of her predicament, and that person was my old friend Professor Percival P. Potter, Ph.D.
Since the Professor and I first penetrated the earth’s crust and discovered this forgotten land of Zanthodon, we had been constant companions. Together we had descended down the hollow shaft of the inactive volcano. Together we had been captured by the Apemen of Kor, making the acquaintance of Darya, Fumio and Jorn the Hunter, who had been among our fellow captives. Together we had shared many exciting adventures and had faced shoulder to shoulder many perils.
But events had sundered our paths, and each of us had gone our own way.
Jorn the Hunter, that brave young cave boy, and the Professor had followed in the direction the pterodactyl had flown when it had carried off Darya from the jungle clearing. It had borne its helpless burden beyond the jungle’s edge and across the grassy plains to its nest high among the Peaks of Peril. And thither had Jorn and Professor Potter journeyed, hoping to rescue the girl.
But other dangers were to come, and from the very last of these she was not to effect an escape. For Jorn and the Professor had found a path through the Peaks, emerging to find on the other side a spectacle as inexplicable as it was amazing.
Having managed to escape from the nest of the pterodactyl, descending from the heights to the beach beyond the mountains, Darya had been enjoying a refreshing bath in the river when an unseen watcher surprised her.
And what Jorn and the Professor observed when they penetrated at last to the far side of the Peaks of Peril was a scene fantastic, terrifying and incredible!
Naked and struggling in the brawny arms of her villainous and swarthy turbaned captors, the Princess was about to be forced aboard an astonishing vessel. It was a full-rigged galley of Moorish or perhaps Saracenic design, with a green banner fluttering from its masthead, charged with the star and crescent of Muhammad the Prophet of Islam.
Such ships have not sailed the seas of the Upper World for generations—but here one was, and the Professor could only gape incredulously at the sight.
While Jorn stared with grim alarm, the Professor, shaken to the core of his being with sheer amazement, uttered a dazed ejaculation. From his omnivorous reading and the broad range of his scientific studies, he was able to recognize the sailing vessel and the dark-hued, bearded sailors as none other than mysteriously surviving descendants of the notorious Barbary pirates who had made all of the Mediterranean their realm until crushed by European troops in the early nineteenth century. They had since scattered, vanishing from the pages of history.
But what were Barbary pirates doing here in Zanthodon?
There could not yet be a simple answer to that mystery. But the enormity of the Underground World had already afforded a haven of safe refuge to many doomed denizens of past ages, from the dinosaurs and pterodactyls of the dim Jurassic to the Neanderthals, Cro-Magnons and giant sabertooth tigers of the Ice Age. Perhaps a handful of Barbary pirates, fleeing inland to avoid capture by the victorious Europeans, had made their way into Zanthodon, as well.
Such seemed to be the case, obviously.
While Professor Potter mused in his absentminded, scholarly way over the mystery, the simpler wits of Jorn grasped the girl’s danger, and acted upon it instantly. Flinging his lithe young body into the seething waves of the Sogar-Jad, he swam to the galley’s side in a gallant but hopeless attempt to save his Princess.
And then the villainous commander raised one bejeweled hand in a languid gesture, and archers cut the youth down even as he reached the galley’s side. He sank without a trace and, as the Professor watched dazedly, numb with horror, the laughing pirate commander bore the nude body of the struggling Darya within his cabin and the ship got underway, cruising into the north, soon to vanish into the distance.
In reaction the old scientist fainted dead away there on the sandy shores of the underground sea. And, for a time, he knew no more.
When Professor Potter awoke from his swoon, his first instinct was to peer aloft into the misty skies of Zanthodon, thereby to ascertain the approximate hour of day from a perusal of the position of the sun. But there is, of course, no sun that illuminates the cavernous dome of the Underground World; vexed, the old man bit his lip and uttered a rude expletive.
He might have lain unconscious for many hours—or for only a few seconds. There was, quite simply, no way to tell. But, searching the billowy expanse of the Sogar-Jad, he, saw no sign of the swarthy and beturbaned mariners who had carried off the Stone Age girl, nor any sign of their astoundingly antique vessel.
“Eternal Einstein!” said the Professor querulou
sly. “The galley might be mere yards around the curve of the coast, or it could have sailed for leagues—and I have no way of telling which!”
Now, Percival P. Potter, Ph.D., was small and scrawny and elderly, certainly no young and vigorous fighting man. But the spark of old-fashioned chivalry that burns within the breasts of good and decent men blazed high within his gallantheart; and, man of action or no man of action, it went against the grain of such as Professor Potter merely to turn his back on Darya’s frightening predicament and seek to return to the safety of his friends.
So he began to explore the curve of the coastline to make certain whether or not the galley was still in view. At this particular point, the shores of the Sogar-Jad protruded in a long promontory which, like a sheltering arm, protected the small lagoon in which the Barbary pirates had moored their craft. In order to gain a full and unimpeded view of the sea itself, the Professor would have to traverse this promontory to its farther side. And without a moment’s hesitation, he proceeded to do so.
Thick tropical vegetation clothed the length of the narrow peninsula, down whose length marched like a rocky spine an extension of the Peaks of Peril, through which the Professor had but recently passed with Jorn.
And the moment this heavy wall of jungle closed about the old man, shutting from his view the warm light of open day, a peculiar premonition chilled his heart. There was nothing to meet the eye that hinted of concealed danger, and not the slightest sound reached the keen ears of the Professor, for all of the jungle drowsed in the simmering warmth of Zanthodon’s eternal noon. But the senses of men, even civilized men, number more than the known and recognized five; some faint instinct of self-preservation roused within the breast of Professor Potter, alerting him to the fact that all was not well in this jungle.
Globules of cold perspiration burst forth upon his bald and bony brows, and a clamminess was in his sweating palms, while his brave old heart beat lightly but swiftly. Again and again, the savant wished mightly that I, Eric Carstairs, could have been at his side. For not only was I younger and stronger than he, and used to extricating myself from dangerous predicaments by brawn or brains or luck—but I still bore at my side the precious automatic pistol wherewith I had slain the brutal Uruk.