The Zanthodon MEGAPACK ™: The Complete 5-Book Series

by Lin Carter

  Grond, she knew, was rumored to have been dispatched by their master, Yussef ben Ali, on a mission to admit these very fighting men into the bastions of the fortress city. Therefore, it seemed likely to the timid Jaira that, if Grond was to be found, he was unquestionably to be found among the blond warriors.

  The turmoil of the streets, the whirling battle, the surging to and fro of shouting, struggling men, frightened the young girl. As a band of wild-eyed corsairs came clumping down the way, glittering scimitars naked in their hands, she shrank fearfully into a doorway.

  The buccaneers had eyes only for their stalwart blond adversaries, however, and not for escaping slave girls, so they passed her by with scarcely a glance. Panting with relief, her heart pounding wildly, the girl slumped against the closed portal, bewildered, wondering how, in all this chaos of rioting men, she would ever find her lover.…

  Then it occurred to Jaira that, if Grond had been dispatched by Yussef ben Ali on a secret mission to confer with the leaders of the Thandarian host, he must logically be in the forefront of the battle, where those leaders were most likely to be found.

  As far as she could tell, the main thrust of the Bronze Age host was in the direction of the palace citadel of Kâiradine Redbeard, which crowned the summit of the height upon which the city sprawled, and which was not very distant from the house of Yussef ben Ali.

  Furtively, the blonde girl stole in that direction, keeping hidden as well as she could and trying to avoid the knots of struggling, cursing men. She crept through an alley, finding herself near the wall which enclosed the gardens adjacent to the palace of Kâiradine Redbeard. The invaders had already stormed the gates of the palace and seemed to be sacking it thoroughly, and the shy cavegirl did not dare expose herself to the brawling tumult which raged within the halls and suites of the palace…but she could safely hide in the gardens, if she could find a way to enter them.

  It was not for the fawnlike slavegirl to do as Darya had done much earlier, and boldly climb over the wall. So she crept along one side of it, casting fearful glances to every side, hoping to find an entrance. Before long she did indeed find one, a narrow opening whose door was a grille of wrought iron teased into graceful arabesques. It was through this little entrance that the merchants who provided the kitchens of Kâiradine Redbeard made their entry in order to deliver viands for the monarch’s table, although Jaira guessed it not.

  She unlatched the gate and slid through into the gardens—hastily latching the gate behind her, against the possibility of another band of intruders.

  Her heart beating as wildly against the cage of her ribs as ever a captive bird fluttered against its own cage, the girl glanced around, seeking a place in which to conceal herself until the proper moment arrived for her to seek out the leaders of the Thandarian host. She spied a little structure resembling a gazebo, which stood amidst a small grove of prehistoric cycads, girdled about with shoulder-high flowering bushes unknown to her. Therein could she hide herself, therefore the Cro-Magnon girl hastened to direct her steps in that direction.

  As she shouldered her way through the dark-leafed foliage—very suddenly and without the slightest warning—a powerful swarthy arm locked about her throat and a hard, callused palm was clapped over her mouth, blocking out the shriek of pure terror which rose instinctively to her lips.

  * * * *

  Tharn of Thandar stood upon the dais of the great hall of the palace of Kâiradine Redbeard, harkening to the reports brought to him by scouts and messengers.

  “My Omad,” reported one of these, a wiry long-legged lad called Doran, “the chieftains bade me inform you that the last pocket of resistance within the palace has been crushed.”

  Tharn nodded somberly. The entire structure had been ransacked, without any sign of the whereabouts of Darya of Thandar, although many slaves and servants eagerly agreed that she had been imprisoned here by Kâiradine Redbeard not long since.

  Another scout, this one a leathery-faced veteran, whose bright hair was dimmed by streaks of iron gray, came forward.

  “My Omad,” said the older man, “all of the leaders have been accounted for, save for one Moustapha, who departed into the ‘north’ before our attack, Kâiradine Redbeard himself—for such seems to be the name of him that carried off your daughter, the gomad Darya, and another warrior called Achmed the Moor, who was a powerful chieftain under the Redbeard. These last two are known to have escaped the slaughter and to be alive, for the palace slaves have viewed the corpses of the dead corsairs and are unanimous that this Kâiradine and Achmed are not among their number.”

  Again, Tharn nodded.

  “Set free the slaves, those of them that are of our own kind, and tell them that they are free to join with us or to strive to return to their own homelands, as they wish.”

  The second messenger touched his brow by way of salute, and left. Tharn turned to two of his chieftains, who with him had led the assault on the palace.

  “How go things in the city proper?” he inquired.

  The first chieftain shrugged. “There is still much fighting in several quarters and certain areas are blockaded and are strongly defended. The buccaneers seem to have recovered from their confusion—for our coming, it seems, took them very much by surprise and completely unprepared—and are giving vigorous resistance.”

  “I agree with Brogar, my Omad,” interjected the second of the chieftains. “And would point out, if I may, that were the corsairs to find themselves a strong and determined leader, our position here could become untenable. Defeated though they were, they are very many and we are few.”

  Tharn smiled grimly.

  “All of their captains are slain, save for Kâiradine and this Moustapha who is far away, so I doubt me that any leader will come forward to assume the command. As well, the slaves and captives I have freed will greatly augment our number, and will fight with extreme courage and vigor so as to avenge themselves upon their former masters.”

  “The Omad knows best,” responded the other.

  “Let us hope so,” said Tharn humorlessly. “Sometimes, I wonder. However, rifle the palace armory to arm the former slaves, and bid the warriors of Thandar seize up the edged weapons of metal with which the buccaneers so valiantly defended themselves. These weapons are called ‘swords,’ and hold a sharper edge than do our knives and spears of bronze. It is the wish of your Omad that every warrior arm himself with these weapons, and learn to care for them.”

  “It shall be done,” said the second chieftain. His name, by the way, was Rhak.

  “Where has Grond gotten to?” inquired Tharn the jungle monarch.

  Brogar smiled. “He has gone off to the house of Yussef ben Ali, Kâiradine’s rival, to find the woman he would make his mate.”

  “I wish him well, for he is a good and brave man.”

  “Has the Omad any further instructions?” inquired Rhak.

  “The Omad has. We have searched the palace for the gomad, to no avail. Release our captives, but disarm them. Then bid all of our warriors, and those of the former slaves who wish to join with us, to quit the premises.”

  “It shall be done,” said Rhak, and turned to follow the orders of his king. Tharn then regarded Brogar solemnly.

  “My Omad?”

  “Organize search parties. It is my intention to explore every portion of this island city until the gomad Darya has been found…alive or dead. See that this is done.”

  Brogar saluted and left the hall.

  Tharn stood alone in the vast room, arms folded upon his massive chest, broodingly staring at nothing, with a frown of determination creasing his lofty brows.

  CHAPTER 19

  DARYA’S RESCUE

  As has already been told, Grond the Gorthakian parted company with the warriors of Thandar just as soon as he could conveniently do so. Once t
he palace was securely taken and could be firmly held, the former slave of Yussef ben Ali had departed for the now-deserted mansion of his former master, so as to ascertain the safety and the whereabouts of his sweetheart, the girl Jaira.

  He searched the house rapidly, from top to bottom, without finding her. By this point, the house of Yussef ben Ali was completely deserted, save for ’Dullah, who fled as Grond made his entry, and certain others, including captives immured in the cells beneath the mansion for purposes of punishment.

  These he set free, suggesting that they take up arms against their former masters, joining their strength to that of the victorious fighting men of Thandar.

  The Gorthakian had completely searched the deserted mansion, before he chanced to recall the hidden chamber beneath the house, wherein it had been the wont of Yussef ben Ali to hold his secret meetings with his fellow conspirators, Ayyub and Zodeen. It seemed to Grond highly unlikely that the timid Jaira would have sought refuge in the secret chamber below the house, for as far as he knew the Cro-Magnon girl was ignorant of its very existence. Nevertheless, Grond was a thorough man and was unwilling to overlook any possibility, however remote it might seem.

  When the former slave had been escorted thither, on the occasion of his commission by Yussef ben Ali to serve as emissary to the host of Thandar, he had paid careful attention to the route which led to the secret room. This was by way of being a trait of Grond’s, to vigilantly accumulate every bit of information about his captors he possibly could do; for it seemed to the young warrior that one could never tell when any specific item of knowledge might come in handy.

  And Grond was one slave who had never bowed his will to his masters. Ever had he kept alive in his heart the desire for freedom, and the determination to escape someday from the island fortress.

  * * * *

  The Cro-Magnon warrior raised the trapdoor which led into the hidden room with particular care, not knowing who or what might have taken refuge in the gloomy chamber. His sandals made no sound as he descended the wooden stair, his scimitar naked and ready in his hand.

  The secret room was cloaked in shadows. Only the fitful glimmer of a gold candelabrum lit the gloom with the wan luminance of its seven waxen tapers. But there was light enough to enable Grond to discover a grim tableau.…

  Her wrists tightly bound by leathern thongs, a naked young woman of his own race dangled. The thongs which bound her wrists with savage tightness were looped over an iron hook deep-sunk in one of the tarry beams which supported the ceiling.

  Facing the girl, but in such a position that he could not observe its features, a robed and hooded figure stood, brandishing a whip of braided leather.

  Even as Grond took in the scene, the hooded figure lifted one dark-skinned arm. In the next moment the nude girl would suffer the terrible blow of that cruel length of oiled and supple leather.

  For Grond, to observe was to act. He could not observe the features of the naked girl, but she was of an age with his darling Jaira, and of much the same appearance. He leaped to the conclusion that he had, indeed, found Jaira, and just in time to rescue her from a sadistic whipping.

  The Cro-Magnon warrior hurled himself across the room like a great jungle cat. Candlelight flashed upon the oiled steel of his scimitar as he swung it down upon the wrist that held the whip.

  A shriek of intolerable agony rang through the stonewalled chamber.

  Zoraida stared unbelievingly as her right hand, neatly severed at the wrist, fell to the pave with an obscene thud. Crimson gore spurted from the stump of her wrist. Pale and wrung with torment, the Moorish dancing-girl sank to her knees, clutching at the stump of her wrist. Hot red blood squirted from between her fingers, staining the robes wherein her voluptuous figure was swathed. She fell back against the wall, whimpering like a hurt animal, crawling into the darkest corner as if to nurse her pain in solitude.

  Fumio, who stood at the end of the table, had gone unobserved by Grond as the young warrior flung himself across the room to strike down Zoraida. For all his faults, Fumio was a brave and mighty fighting man. He was unarmed, was Fumio, and did not even bear Darya’s dagger, as it had fallen from her hand when he leaped upon her in the dark alley and he had not bothered to retrieve it.

  But now his eye fell upon one of the wine goblets from which Yussef and Ayyub and Zodeen had drank during their meeting earlier. The cup was capacious and long-stemmed, with a rounded base, and it was wrought of heavy red gold.

  Surely, it was heavy enough to crush in a man’s skull.…

  Snatching it up, Fumio lunged across the room at Grond, who had his back turned to his assailant and was lifting his dripping blade to cut loose the wrists of the blonde girl.

  Darya, staring over Grand’s shoulder at the sudden flicker of movement from the shadows, cried out a warning.

  Like a cat, Grond whirled, sword lowered and outthrust.

  Fumio was a larger man, and could not move as swiftly.

  He ran full upon the point of Grond’s sword, which sank into his heart.

  He lurched drunkenly upon unsteady legs, like a man who has drunk too deeply of strong wine.

  He grinned weakly and tried to say something. But red blood gushed from his mouth, stilling whatever words he had meant to speak.

  Then he fell down upon the floor, groaned once, and died.

  * * * *

  Wiping his wet blade on the hem of Fumio’s cloak, Grond cut the naked girl down and helped her to a chair. By coincidence, it was the same chair in which Yussef ben Ali had earlier sat. He removed the thongs from her wrists and chafed the bruised flesh until the circulation returned into Darya’s hands.

  “You are not the woman I thought,” said Grond somberly. “I was searching for Jaira, my beloved.…”

  “I know her not,” replied Darya. “But I am thankful that you came this way in time to spare me from the lash.”

  “The woman is Zoraida, whose former lover was Kâiradine the Redbeard,” muttered Grond thoughtfully. “And the man I slew was one Fumio, a slave in the house of Yussef ben Ali whom once I interrogated at the behest of my then master. But you I have never seen before.…”

  “I am Darya, the daughter of—”

  Excitement flashed in the clear blue eyes of the warrior.

  “Darya, the daughter of Tharn the Mighty? Darya, the long-lost gomad-of Thandar?”

  “None other,” sighed the girl. “But how do you know my name, when I have never seen you before?”

  Grond smiled. “You may not know it, Princess, but since your capture by the Redbeard, it seems that half the world has come looking for you!”

  Darya looked bewildered. Grond laughed, and gave her a cup of wine. The drink was tepid by this time, but Darya drank it down gratefully.

  “I am Grond, formerly a warrior of the tribe of Gorthak upon the mainland, more recently a slave in the house of Yussef ben Ali. It was Yussef who dispatched me on a mission to your father, Tharn—”

  “My father!” the girl gasped, hope leaping up within her heart. “You have met my father? Where? Is he near—?”

  “Near?” laughed Grond. He is here—even now he stands upon the throne of Kâiradine Redbeard, who has fled into hiding. The Omad your father has invaded and conquered the island of the Barbary Pirates, and Yussef and all of the other Captains of the Brotherhood are slain. You are safe at last, Princess Darya, and among friends.”

  The blonde girl paled and slumped back in the tall chair, weak with relief.

  “I can hardly believe it,” she murmured. “My father, here in El-Cazar.…”

  “And master of it, by this time,” said Grond. “Come: I will take you to him.”

  * * * *

  It was none other than Achmed the Moor who had seized Jaira and stiffed her cries with his rough hand.

  Th
e burly Moor had taken refuge in the palace gardens, as by now the streets in the immediate vicinity were overrun by the blond invaders of El-Cazar. He had hoped to hide until all was quieter, then make his way to the harbor and board the Red Witch, which stood at anchor there. With a few seamen under his command, the Moor felt confident he could put to sea and venture north, there perchance to find the squadron of Moustapha. With these ships at their command, and Moustapha’s horde of lusty rogues, they might well return to El-Cazar and turn the tide of battle. With the fortune of Allah smiling upon them, all might yet be put to rights in the private kingdom, and the yellow-haired savages slaughtered to the last man.

  He did not know the slave girl Jaira, but from the sigh engraved upon the slender silver collar which she wore he knew her to belong to the house of Yussef ben Ali. What she was doing here in the palace gardens he could not guess, but all who were of the following of the traitorous Yussef ben Ali were the enemies of Kâiradine Redbeard, and the enemies of Kâiradine Redbeard were the enemies of Achmed the Moor.

  He bore the struggling girl into the gazebo and hastily tied her arms and legs with strips of stout cloth torn from the hem of his robe. Her mouth he stuffed with a ball of torn cloth, bound into place with another strip, so that she could not cry out and give the alarm. Then he crouched near the entrance to the flimsy structure, peering about grimly.

  All of the world seemed topsy-turvy to the Moor: his lord and master was overthrown by his own captains, and El-Cazar was itself overthrown by savages. Achmed was bewildered by the swift transition, and his strong hands itched for employment.