The Zanthodon MEGAPACK ™: The Complete 5-Book Series

by Lin Carter

  Achmed would from time to time glance resentfully over to where Jaira lay, her eyes wide with fear. At such a time as this, fleeing for his life, it was an inconvenience to have to be burdened with taking captives. Even now, he grimly guessed, the leaders of the savages would have ascertained from slaves of their own race who were the leaders of El-Cazar—among whom as first mate of the flagship of the corsair fleet and lieutenant of Kâiradine Redbeard himself, Achmed the Moor was surely to be numbered.

  The savages would be anxious to seek out and dispatch every last one of the leaders of the pirate kingdom. Therefore, they would be searching for him. With his height and bulk, it would be difficult enough for Achmed to escape especially if he must lug along a captive Cro-Magnon girl.

  But carry her with him he must, for he did not dare to leave her behind as she could probably guess his identity and would inform her fellow savages of his whereabouts.

  Then it was that the cunning eyes of Achmed narrowed and a glint of cruelty came to them. His powerful hand crept to the hilt of the long dagger he bore thrust into the sash about his waist.

  Why must he drag her along to encumber him? There was no reason. Neither need he leave her behind to raise the alarm and to send the hunters after him.

  Would it not be safer to slit the throat of the girl and leave her gory corpse behind in the gazebo to puzzle and confuse the barbarians?

  CHAPTER 20

  DEATH AND MARRIAGE

  Kâiradine stifled the hasty exclamation that rose unbidden to his lips as he perceived the body of a woman sprawled in a pool of gore in the dimness of the farther corner of the room. Traversing the secret chamber in a rapid stride, he knelt and, with trembling hands, turned the body over so that he might peer into the features of the corpse.

  He dreaded to recognize the body of Darya, whom to this moment he desired with a hunger transcending thought and all reason. But the body was that of—Zoraida!

  “Beard of the Prophet!” groaned the Prince of the Barbary Pirates hoarsely, “but what has transpired in this accursed place?”

  Swiftly he examined the body of the dancing-woman who had been his mistress. Her right hand had been severed neatly at the wrist, and the blow had been a clean one, performed with a heavy, sharp-bladed instrument, perhaps a scimitar. The Mooress had lost very much blood, but the flame of life, although it flickered wan and low within her tawny flesh, yet burned, however feebly.

  Moistening her eyes and lips with a few drops of wine, he succeeded in bringing the half-dead girl back to consciousness. Her eyelids fluttered. Her glazed eyes wandered about the dim stone-walled chamber uncomprehendingly, indifferently, finally coming to rest upon his own features. A wan smile creased her colorless lips.

  “What happened here?” demanded the Redbeard harshly. “And where is the savage girl, Darya?”

  “…Darya?…” murmured Zoraida in the ghost of a whisper. A half-remembered resentment flared briefly in her dull gaze. “Was that not the name of the scrawny slut whom my Kâiradine came to prefer to his beloved Zoraida?”

  “What if it is?” he said hotly. “What have you done with her, you traitress?”

  A pale flame gleamed in the eyes of the dying Moorish Woman.

  “Once you loved Zoraida, and called her your ‘Flame of Araby,’” the dancer whispered. “And now you name her whom you adored with a deathless passion ‘traitress’…”

  In his fury, the corsair almost shook her slender shoulders.

  “Speak, curse you!” he grated. “Where have you hidden the savage girl?”

  “In a place where you can never reach her,” breathed Zoraida faintly. “In a place where you can never find her…search for her, my beloved, as you will.…”

  The lips of Kâiradine writhed back from his white teeth in a wolfish grin. Hellfires blazed in the depths of his dark eyes. His mouth opened to curse Zoraida, but then he perceived that it was no use. For Death had come into that stony chamber on silent and invisible feet, to steal her shade away to his amazing kingdom, and she was beyond all of his curses now.

  With a muffled groan Kâiradine Redbeard let the corpse fall back into its pool of blood and squatted there on his heels, hugging his knees for a long moment or two, brooding on nothingness. Betrayed by his captains, his very kingdom invaded by remorseless enemies, and the girl he desired lustfully stolen from him by a faithless whore whose lips Death had locked upon the secret of her hiding place, it seemed to the Prince of the Barbary Pirates that he had lost everything in life which had possessed meaning or value for him—even revenge!

  “By the Scarlet Fiends of Kaf,” he groaned from the bottom of his heart, “but I swear that I shall find her if I must ransack the entirety of this world from end to end!”

  Then he sprang lithely to his feet and strode from the chamber, and vanished into the secret passage. And silence fell upon that gaunt room of stark horror and grisly murder.

  * * * *

  During the several wakes and sleeps that we consumed in crossing the northern plains—moving by slow and easy stages, with many frequent pauses to rest, lest we strain the fragile health of Garth—many curious and interesting things transpired.

  When my comrades and I had fled from the captivity of the Scarlet City of Zar, and joined forces once again with the tribesmen of Sothar, we bore with us very many of those who had been the former slaves and captives of the Minoans. Most of these were Cro-Magnon men and women stolen from other tribes than those of Sothar or of Thandar—such as the two good and true friends I had made in the Pits of Zar, while we were awaiting our death in the Great Games of the monster god, Zorgazon.

  I refer, of course, to youthful Thon of Numitor, that cheerful good-humored and likable young warrior, and to the grim and stalwart Gundar of Gorad, that mighty and hulking strongman, whose massive chest and burly shoulders and iron arms were those of some heroic gladiator of the Dawn.

  Both were from tribes alien to the men of Sothar, and unfamiliar to them. Ordinarily, I have perceived that the Cro-Magnon nations view with intense suspicion and downright hostility any stranger, be he as blond and blue-eyed as are they. In the unremitting struggle for survival against ravening monsters and impassable jungles that is everyday life here in Zanthodon, one learns to cleave to one’s own kin and to regard all other men as, at very least, potential foes.

  But the strangers who had fled with me from the captivity of Zar had stood and fought side by side with the warriors of Sothar against the mounted troops of the Scarlet City, earning at least the reluctant admiration of the Sotharians. Now, during our lengthy trek across the plains, I observed that they were beginning to win a deeper kind of acceptance from their hosts, by their uncomplaining sharing of the burdens and tasks of the march and the hunt, if by naught else.

  At first the newcomers were left strictly alone by the men and women of Sothar, permitted grudgingly to share in the provisions but left very much alone, ever viewed with truculence and suspicion. Things, however, began to change soon enough.

  I had, from the start, quietly encouraged their acceptance by welcoming several of the strangers among my own company of warriors. As a full-fledged tribal chieftain, I had the authority to admit into my own retinue of followers whomever I wished. And thus Thon of Numitor and Gundar of Gorad and one or two others who had seized my fancy became warriors in my group.

  My example was followed not long after by others of the chieftains for I was by way of being something of a national hero to the men of Sothar, if I may immodestly admit to the fact. This was because of my role in freeing the Sotharians from their grim captivity in the cavern city of the Gorpaks and their ghastly masters, the vampiric Sluagghs. Warriors by the score had clamored to join my retinue, and in the beginning I had enlisted in equal numbers those of my friends among the Thandarians and the Sotharians. Now several of the newcomers joined my
ranks at my invitation.

  Where Eric Carstairs, chieftain of Thandar and of Sothar led, the other chieftains were not long in following, I am proud to say. Thus, days before we reached the seacoast of the Sogar-Jad, the new men were all but fully assimilated among the tribal warriors.

  * * * *

  More than a few of purest Zarian blood had fled with us from the Scarlet City, as well. These men and women were of a different racial stock than were the blond Cro-Magnons, being small and slight of build, with olive skins and dark hair and eyes.

  Picture, if you will, the Cro-Magnons as essentially Nordic or Aryan in appearance, and the Zarians as Mediterraneans, and you will have a clearer view of the racial differences. While the Zarians were not of such height and strength as the Cro-Magnons, their lighter, slenderer bodies were well-knit and trim, lending them the grace and tireless agility of dancers or acrobats. At my subtle suggestion, Garth’s chieftains employed these men as scouts and huntsmen—roles for which agility and stealthiness are valuable traits to possess. And in these occupations they proved singularly adept.

  They also proved much more skillful craftsmen than the larger, clumsier Sotharians. They were better at making arrows and javelins and at the fashioning of leathern buskins and fur garments, as their small and nimble fingers could better ply the bone needles and other tools. So, in time, even these foreigners became also more or less assimilated among the blond, blue-eyed warriors.

  The one awkward and uncomfortable note of discordance in all of this was the girl, Ialys.

  The slim and beautiful, dark-eyed Zarian lady had been one of the handmaidens of the Divine Empress. She had befriended me, and the ever-jealous and suspicious Zarys had both of us condemned to death in the arena, believing that we had conspired together—which, by the way, was not in the least true. But try to explain something to a jealous woman—!

  When we made our hasty and precipitous flight from Zar, there was no alternative available to me but to bring Ialys along, for the Empress would surely have had her sacrificed to propitiate the monster god Zorgazon had she remained behind. Ever after, on our trek across the plains, Ialys had cleaved closely by my side, somewhat to my discomfort, I assure you, for I came in for quite a bit of friendly kidding from my comrades about the beautiful black-haired girl who accompanied me everywhere.

  At times I found her nearness a matter of considerable embarrassment. It was not that I feared the Zarian girl had fallen in love with me or anything, for she continued to refer to me deferentially, in the courtly manner of Zar, as “Lord Eric.” It was just that…well, damn it all, there are times a man wants to be alone with his thoughts, or off hunting and carousing with his friends, and having Ialys tag along reminded me of my boyhood friends—those unfortunately saddled with little sisters to take care of, right in the middle of baseball season!

  This problem—well, it really wasn’t that much of a problem, more of a minor annoyance—this annoyance quite soon resolved itself to everyone’s satisfaction, and much to my surprise.

  * * * *

  Rather often, while I was at the head of my troop, I noticed that it was Varak of Sothar who attended to the needs of little Ialys. Varak is one of the warriors who had joined my company very early on: a warm-hearted, good-natured, cheerful and uncomplaining fellow, as likable and loyal as Thon or any of the others.

  It became Varak whom Ialys tagged along after, when I was busy; Varak who chivalrously assisted her to cross boggy places or rocks or defiles: Varak with whom she shared her meals, and very much low-toned conversation.

  Then I noticed Varak disappearing at intervals into the woods, returning with succulent fruit and occasionally, gorgeous blossoms, which he rather unobtrusively gave to Ialys. I noticed this, I repeat, rather off-handedly, being busy with the responsibilities of chieftainship. But notice it I did, thinking very little about it. Until one day.

  The two came up to me during a rest stop, and I noticed that they were holding hands. I caught myself staring and recomposed my features.

  “Yes, Varak?” I inquired.

  “Er, ah,” said the usually articulate and even voluble young warrior.

  “Um?” I grunted encouragingly.

  He blushed scarlet to the tips of his ears and muttered something in a low mumble.

  “What was that?”

  Clearing his throat with an effort, Varak put a severe expression on and said straightforwardly: “I wish Ialys to be my mate!”

  “Your…what?” I repeated.

  “My mate.”

  “Oh. Well…Ialys, is this agreeable to you?”

  She lowered her lids shyly, and a rosy flush colored her cheeks.

  “It is my wish, Lord Eric, that Varak become my mate,” she whispered demurely.

  “Well, then,” I said heartily, “congratulations to you both!” (Inwardly, I was wishing that I knew something about the marriage customs of the Cro-Magnons, a subject on which I had never yet had reason to desire knowledge of…)

  “We can do it right now, if that’s all right with you,” added Varak.

  “Oh, can you?” I murmured, somewhat dazedly. “Well, it’s all right with me, of course…”

  A few minutes later, with the whole of my company assembled for witnesses, Varak took Ialys’s hand and claimed her as his mate, while she in turn repeated the same claim. My warriors raised a lusty cheer, and clapped the two of them approvingly on the shoulders.

  All the while Varak stood awkwardly, with a foolish grin on his face, looking very much like a simpleton.

  I bent down and gave Ialys a fatherly kiss on the cheek, murmuring my best wishes.

  She raised to me starry eyes brimming with tears of happiness.

  The two of them looked very much married.

  That “night,” rolled up in my sleeping-skins, I dreamed of Darya, wondering if I were ever to claim her for my mate before the tribe, I would look as foolish as Varak.

  I had a feeling that I certainly would.

  [1] These events are related in greater detail in the third volume of this series, entitled Hurok of the Stone Age.

  [2] Mordan’s recollection was obviously correct, or the men of Thandar would not have been forced to march south again in order to find a forested region where they could build the fleet of dugout canoes they used in their invasion of El-Cazar.

  [3] Thodars rather resemble the extinct brontosaurus, but are considerably smaller and seem to have become adapted to life upon the plains and to browsing on the meadow grass, unlike the true brontosaurus, which is a denizen of marshy or seashore areas and which feasts on seaweed. Professor Potter considers the thodars of Zar a hitherto unknown species of dinosaur.

  PART V: BLADES OF THE BROTHERHOOD

  CHAPTER 21

  THE VENGEANCE OF ZAR

  It will be recalled, by those who have perused the previous volumes of these memoirs, that while Hurok and the other warriors of my retinue were seeking an entry into the Scarlet City of Zar, where they presumed me to be held captive, my young friend, Jorn the Hunter, fell from the cliffs during an avalanche.

  Hurok and Varak and the others believed him to have perished on the rocks below, for who could have guessed that the boy had been lucky enough to have fallen into a mountain lake, which broke his fall?

  Indeed, Jorn yet lived, as did Yualla, the daughter of Garth of the Sotharians, who had been carried off by a pterodactyl and whom Jorn at length encountered, leading miserable, whimpering little Murg at the end of a leash, who had attempted to ravish her as she slept.

  The boy and girl decided to scale the cliffs, hoping to join the forces with Hurok and the others. Murg perforce must accompany them.

  The tide of events has carried us far from the story of Jorn and Yualla and their adventures. Let us rejoin them now, a
nd take up again the thread of their tale.…

  * * * *

  The Divine Zarys returned to Zar in a magnificent temper. Just as the world had turned upside down for our friend Achmed the Moor, even more unprecedented had been the changes wrought upon the Empress of this last, surviving colony of Minoan Crete.

  For the beautiful queen was very accustomed to having her own way in everything. And then into her island city came Eric Carstairs and the Professor, and things began to go haywire. First, I declined to share her loyal bed—not because I am a celibate, I hasten to assure you, but because I was deeply and forever in love with my adorable Princess, Darya of Thandar, to whom, by the way, the Divine Zarys bore a remarkable resemblance. For this refusal she had me imprisoned.

  Then she discovered me conspiring—it seemed to her, although she was mistaken in this assumption—with the lovely, dark-eyed Zarian girl, Ialys, her own handmaiden. For this she had me sent to the arena, to face Zorgazon the Great God in the sanguinary and gladiatorial Games of Zar.

  Then my old pal, Professor Potter, blew her palace citadel sky high by detonating his gunpowder factory—her wily vizier, Xask, having somehow talked the old boy into reinventing firearms. The explosion (which was a doozy, by the way) drove Zorgazon crazy. He broke through the walls of the arena and trampled half of the Scarlet City into wreckage on his way back to the wild.

  Zorgazon turned out to be a titanic tyrannosaurus rex, the most fearsome and mighty of the monstrous reptiles of the dim Jurassic. He was built on the order of King Kong, and weighed about as much as a railroad train laden with anvils…and when something drove Zorgazon crazy, he went crazy like you can hardly imagine. He plowed through the solid stone tiers which lined the wall of the arena like an Italian baker punching through a thin sheet of pizza dough.…