The Zanthodon MEGAPACK ™: The Complete 5-Book Series

by Lin Carter

  Komad paused, at the far end of the trapdoor, turning his head from side to side as if baffled. He continued on for twenty paces; then he returned to the place whereon first he had paused. Loose patches of windblown soil lay ahead, and a patch of damp moss flourished in the shadow of a tall boulder. Had Darya and her companion continued farther ahead from this spot, surely they would have left the marks of their passage in one or the other place.

  But neither the windblown soil nor the damp moss had recently been disturbed. And there was no sign or token that the lost Princess and her companion had veered to either side of the clifftop to attempt a descent.

  Komad scratched his grizzled cheek, baffled. It was as if the viewless air had opened an invisible jaw to swallow the two up. But this was nonsense; ghosts and monsters and witch doctors there might well be, but anything physical enough to have done such a deed would itself have left markings. And no such markings met his eagle eye.

  Since they had gone neither ahead nor to either side, nor had they retraced their steps, in what other direction could the two possibly have gone?

  That was the question Komad posed to himself as he stood immobile, deep in thought.

  He looked down.

  The stone slab under his feet seemed as solid as did the rest of the cliff. And he could not discover so much as a hairline crack that seemed artificial. Nevertheless.…

  Had Komad of Thandar ever, by some miracle, been able to read Conan Doyle’s tales of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, he would have nodded in agreement with that master detective’s most celebrated dictum: “Eliminate the impossible. Whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

  Borrowing a stone axe from one of the warriors—who crouched on their heels in silent vigil, alertly watching as Komad strove to trace the whereabouts of Darya—the scout rapped against the stony slab and listened with ears no less keen than were his eyes.

  Then he moved two paces farther on, and repeated the action.

  Then two paces more.

  Suddenly, the sound seemed to him subtly different. In the first two places, the stone had rung with a faint but definite echo to the blow of the axe. But beyond those two sites, the stone rung with a dull thud. Komad looked up.

  “The stone is hollow there,” he said, pointing.

  Without a moment’s delay, Tharn gave the proper commands to the men who stood eager and ready.

  As far as the High Chief of Thandar was concerned, he was perfectly willing to rip the very Peaks of Peril asunder in order to find his missing daughter. And the warriors of Thandar were themselves no less willing, if only it would enable them to rescue their lost Princess.…

  * * * *

  From the edge of the cliff, behind where Tharn and his warriors chopped and pried and levered at the rocky slab, the Barbary pirates watched from places of concealment, baffled at the mysterious actions of the savages.

  The Thandarians were too numerous and too well-armed for Achmed of El-Cazar to risk an open battle; besides, there seemed to be no need to fight the jungle men. For the moment, he was perfectly content to wait, to watch, to spy upon them, for it seemed that they, too, were searching for something.

  It never occurred to Achmed to guess that both his men and the savages were searching for the same young woman.

  “What is it that they do, the wild men?” inquired Tarbu in a hoarse whisper, from where he crouched at the elbow of the first mate of the Red Witch.

  Achmed shrugged, mystified.

  “Allah alone knows,” he muttered. For it seemed to him as if the savages were trying to break into the very fabric of the cliffs. Although why they should, or what it was they were after, was beyond the imaginings of the Moor.

  “Let us fall upon them, and slay,” grumbled a burly Turk named Kemal, who crouched nearby in the shade of the boulder. “To lurk like dogs—to slink and scurry—is not seemly for the heroes of El-Cazar.”

  Achmed gave him a glare of fierce reproof.

  “You will lurk and scurry like dogs, O dog of Istamboul, if I bid you do so,” he snarled. “They are armed and they are many—”

  “No more than are we,” grunted the Turk, hefting the hilt of his dented scimitar significantly, his magnificent mustachios (which were his pride and joy) bristling belligerently.

  “Still thy tongue, O Kemal, or I shall slit it for thee, and thou shalt croak all thy days like a raven,” said Achmed coldly. “It behooves us now to wait and watch and listen—”

  Grumbling and calling upon his prophet, the fat Turk subsided. The Barbary pirates had watched from the shelter of the trees as the primitives had felled and trimmed the tall saplings whereby they had scaled the sheer wall of the cliffs. Once the savages were gone farther down the rocky spine of the promontory, Achmed had cautiously bade his corsairs ascend the cliff by means of the same crude ladders. Now they held the rear of the Thandarian host, crouched behind tall spires of rock and round boulders, watching carefully.

  “The Barbarossa would not hide like a starveling cur,” grouched Kemal to the man nearest him, but in low tones so that Achmed would not overhear.

  “The Barbarossa is not here, dog of a Turk,” spat the lean Arab at his side. “And the mate Achmed is. So we must do his bidding…of what use to engage a band of howling savages? We are not here for war, but to seize a runaway girl. Now be silent, and let us observe in silence…”

  Powerful and determined were the warriors of Thandar, and indefatigable. But, for all the vigor of their unrelenting effort, the secret of the mechanism which controlled the stone trapdoor continued to elude them.

  Nevertheless, they toiled on.

  Tharn frowned, his head heavy. For all the jungle monarch knew, every moment might count. Even at this moment, a horrible doom might be creeping upon his helpless daughter in those black and unknown depths below his feet.

  Somehow he guessed that time was running out.…

  But there was nothing to do but strive on.

  CHAPTER 18

  Burning Bright

  Harsh gongs awoke us from our restless, troubled slumbers. The bars were withdrawn which blocked the door to our pen, and bandy-legged little Gorpaks came waddling between the rows of sleeping men and women, rousing us with flicks of the whip and sharp, barking commands.

  When we were assembled into ranks, my personal adversary, little Captain Lutho, came strutting and preening before us, eyeing us up and down with shrewd, gloating gaze.

  “Attention, animals!” he snapped. “It is now your inestimable honor to serve Those who are in every way greater than yourselves, as They are in every way superior even to us Gorpaks, their servants and minions! Reluctance and recalcitrance will not be tolerated, for your entire purpose in this world is to obey the least whim of Those who are as far above you in the scheme of nature as you are above the worms that delve in the dark places of the earth.…”

  The pompous little dwarf went on in this general line for a lengthy harangue, before we at last were herded out of our dungeon and down a winding corridor to our unknown doom.

  As we marched stolidly along, I caught the opportunity to exchange meaningful glances with Hurok, Varak and Garth, the Omad of the men of Sothar. During the sleep period just past, we had talked long, laying our plans. Garth had been of the opinion that we should spring upon the Gorpaks the moment they dispersed down the aisles between our rows of sleeping places, but I counseled delay.

  “Let us wait until they march us forward to meet their Masters,” I had argued. “Both the Sluaggh and the Gorpaks are more accustomed to dealing with the cowed and broken cavern people than they are with brave and determined fighting men. And I have a little surprise in store for the Sluaggh.…”

  In the end, Garth yielded to the superior wisdom of my scheme. At least, I hoped that my wisdom was superior, but only ti
me would tell…and time, for us, was swiftly running out.…

  At some juncture in the maze of wandering corridors we encountered another pack of captives, who were under heavy guard by the Gorpaks. I guessed at once that this crowd contained the other Sotharian party, and Jorn and my beloved Princess as well. Nor was I wrong: across the heads of the blond warriors, my eyes flew to Darya’s lovely face, and her blue eyes clung to mine. I strove to convey confidence in my expression, but I do not know if she saw anything there but that which she expected to see.

  We were formed together, and the men of Sothar who had been long parted from their friends and family members in the other group, clung together, happily weeping, until separated by blows of whip and cudgel. But the cruel Gorpaks, for all their brutality, could not prevent the men and women of Sothar from looking into the faces of their mates, their relatives and their friends.

  * * * *

  By my side, Professor Potter limped along, grumbling. Behind me, Hurok loomed protectively, saying nothing. Farther down the line, One-Eye stumped along, his huge head lowered, and beneath his russet fur and coating of dirt I knew his ugly features were pale and sweating with craven fear.

  My heart was in my throat. This long trek through the caverns might well be the last journey for me and my friends. But I consoled myself with the knowledge that, at least, we would go out fighting. It wasn’t as much consolation as I could have used at that moment, but it was all I had. And I wondered to myself if my plan would work.…

  We came at length into the enormous stone room of which Hurok had told me in his account of his own adventures. All was as he had described it to me, the great slab of a trapdoor beneath which, I assumed, the hideous Sluaggh lolled, awaiting their repulsive repast. Above, I glimpsed the unrailed balcony from which the Apeman had observed the leeches at their Feasting. Around the walls of the vast, echoing chamber, torches widely spaced were set; and, like those that illuminated the rest of the cavern city, they burned exceedingly dim.

  Here the Gorpaks left us for a time, although a squad remained on guard at the doorway. We huddled together by prearranged plan, as if for comfort in the proximity of our comrades. And, with Sotharian warriors placed so as to block our actions from the watchful Gorpaks, we proceeded to perform an action that might well have seemed inexplicable to you, had you been present to observe it.

  We all took off our clothes.

  I have already alluded to the fact that the human inhabitants of Zanthodon are no Puritans. They feel no particular shame at exposing their bodies to the indifferent gaze of others. Indeed, in the steamy, tropic warmth of Zanthodon’s eternal noon, to wear very much in the way of clothing is unnecessary and quite uncomfortable.

  So it was that, men and women together, we stripped off our few, scant garments. Sharp teeth and strong hands tore the furs and pelts into strips. Agile fingers knotted these together swiftly into a long rope (pray the Lord it would prove long enough!), which we hastily coiled and concealed with our bodies as the Gorpaks returned in force.

  It did not seem to me very likely that the Gorpaks would pay any attention to our nakedness. They were accustomed to seeing the pale, listless cavern folk go about their duties unclothed, and, as they regard us as “animals,” they could be assumed to be indifferent as to whether we covered ourselves or not.

  This remained to be seen; and much hinged upon our hope that they would not notice our state of undress and become suspicious.

  Thank God they did not.

  Scarcely giving us a glance, they formed us into two lines, and then there stepped forth the bald and wizened old shaman of the Gorpaks, the one called Queb, of whom Hurok had told me. He was a ridiculous figure in his beads and bangles, head wobbling under his fantastic headdress, but sinister enough in light of his purpose.

  Queb began to harangue us in a shrill, unpleasant voice, lecturing us on our good fortune to be selected for this Feasting, to yield up the rich nourishment of our blood to the need of Those who were as immensely our superiors as we were superior to worms and grubs. The hysterical speech went on and on and more than a few of us became fidgety.

  Finally, the sermon was over, and Queb lifted to his lips the whistle he wore about his scrawny old neck, and shrilled forth a piercing cry.

  The slab rolled back with a heavy grating noise.

  And there they were, just as Hurok had described…the huge, wriggling leeches sprawled lazily amid filthy puddles of stagnant water and slick beds of stinking slime. My gorge rose at the fetid reek of the Sluagghs’ lair, but I clamped my lips tightly together. It would not do to get sick now, with so much to be done.

  The first of the monstrous leeches came slithering forward to the edge of the slime pit. I caught a glimpse of its six lidless unwinking red eyes, and felt my mind brushed by chill tendrils of uncanny force. With an effort, I wrenched my gaze away from that stare, but the person behind me was not quite so quick as I to avert her eyes.

  It was Darya!

  Her face went blank, her jaw slack. Like a mindless automaton of warm flesh, the naked girl began walking toward the edge of the pit, and my heart froze within me.

  I sprang forward, seized her by the upper arms as she teetered on the very brink, jerked her roughly away and shook her until her head wobbled.

  Still her eyes were glazed, indifferent.

  Forgive me, but I slapped her face! Her head snapped back and the old familiar Darya again inhabited her glorious eyes. For a moment, rubbing her reddened cheek, she looked angry; then her gaze softened, as she became cognizant of what had occurred.

  “Thank you, Eric,” she whispered.

  But now others of the Sotharians were caught in the icy glare of the Sluaggh.

  “Don’t look them in the eyes!” yelled Professor Potter in a loud voice that made everybody jump.

  The echoes of his sudden shout bounced from wall to wall. The Gorpaks were frozen with mingled astonishment and outrage, for this was to them, I guess, a solemn, perhaps even a sacred, moment.

  I whirled into action.

  Balling one fist, I knocked down the guard that stood nearest to me. He toppled over on his back, squalling.

  I jumped over him and sprinted for the wall. Reaching it, I sprang up and seized the bracket which held the feebly burning torch. I drew the flaming length of chemical-soaked wood forth, and dropped to the floor again, heading back to the edge of the pit.

  The Gorpaks, yelping with fury, were waddling toward me to block me from my goal.

  Then Hurok strode forth among them, huge fists striking from left to right like heavy pistons. With each smacking blow, a Gorpak went down with a broken neck, a shattered jaw, a dislocated shoulder or whatever. And behind Hurok came Garth and Varak and the other warriors, hurling themselves upon the Gorpaks from behind, pulling them down and trampling them into unconsciousness.

  I circled around the embattled Gorpaks, heading for the edge of the pit. Near it, I crouched, and from the scrap of cloth I held balled in one hand I poured a whiff of dry, black powder over the burning end of the torch I held.

  With a loud spitting and sizzling of sparks, a furious brilliance flared up to destroy the twilight gloom of the Chamber of Feasting.

  Brightly now burned the torch—not as bright as the luminance of open day, but bright enough! The Gorpaks squeaked and yelped, covering their beady little eyes from the unusual radiance.

  At the very edge of the pit, averting my eyes, I held forth the torch. Its searing light fell upon the fetid swamp-like bed whereon the loathsome Sluagghs wriggled. Their lidless eyes, which could not endure anything more than the twilight of the caverns, drank in the sizzling fury of the flame.

  And they went mad! Coiling and uncoiling, flopping and writhing, they slithered about in the stinking slime, uttering a thin, ululating cry so high pitched as almost to be inaudibl
e.

  I stood there grinning, brandishing my torch, letting its light drive them into panicky flight. “Serves the slimy bastards right,” I thought to myself with grim satisfaction.

  Now Potter and Hurok came up to where I stood, having retrieved two more torches from brackets along the nearer wall. I handed the Professor my other packet. He sprinkled his torch with the dry gunpowder which last night I had emptied out of the few cartridges remaining in my gun belt. And his torch flamed up, spitting sparks, adding its light to my own. Soon all three torches were ablaze, and in the triple radiance, the Gorpaks stumbled blindly, mewling piteously and trying to shield their eyes. Garth’s warriors made short work of them.

  “I told you it would work, didn’t I, my boy!” the Professor commented, very pleased with himself. “I thought the powder in your cartridges would unite with the chemical-impregnated torch wood to flare up like fireworks!”

  “You can take credit for a lot more than that, Doc,” I grinned. “From the very moment you told me about that scene in the glade, where the Sluaggh flinched back from the direct light of day, I’ve been trying to figure out how to use that fact against them. The only weapon we had to use was to pit their own weakness against them—they cannot endure light.”

  “Very kind of you to give me the credit, my boy,” said the Professor. “I suspect their inability to stand direct daylight stems from the fact that, in their natural habitat, they dwell in fetid burrows deep underground. Doubtless they evolved in those depths, living in utter darkness.”

  “They’re not some form of prehistoric life from the surface world, then?”

  “I believe not,” mused the old scientist. “We have no fossil record of any leech so large as they…no, I believe the Sluagghs are indigenous to Zanthodon and have never penetrated to the world above our heads.”