The Zanthodon MEGAPACK ™: The Complete 5-Book Series

by Lin Carter

  Besides, to linger in these parts might well be dangerous as well as fruitless. For, surely, the Divine Zarys would not delay very long in launching her pursuit of the tribe—which was, as you have already read, the very case.

  So, after a time, we turned “south” and followed the coastline down the curve of the subterranean continent. Somewhere “south” of the jungles which proliferated below the Peaks of Peril and the plain of the trantors, we knew, lay Thandar. We thought that we could probably find it…and that every league we put between ourselves and the pursuing enemy would add to our already slender margin of safety.

  * * * *

  Thus it was, unfortunately, that Varak and his bride, Ialys, had hardly any time at all for a honeymoon—if, indeed, the Cro-Magnons of Zanthodon or the Minoans of the Scarlet City of Zar know the custom. At any rate, while they sought—and were given—as much privacy as they wished, they did not exactly have a chance to enjoy that blissful idyll that is what honeymoons are all about.

  The warriors of my retinue rather missed the companionship of the cheerful, good-humored youth, whose jests and gibes and pranks had enlivened much of the trek for us this far. But all of us, even solemn old Hurok, understood instinctively that the young couple desired nothing so much right now as their own company. Only Professor Potter griped.

  “What a priceless opportunity, my boy, to witness the nuptial ceremonies of our remote ancestors, doubtless preserved for countless ages here in the Underground World! Frazier forever, how will the anthropologists of the Upper World ever forgive me, if I do not—”

  “Doc,” I said severely, “you are not going to spy on them so long as I can lift a fist to slug you.”

  He huffed and swelled like a bantam cock, then wilted, as if deflated by the merciless gleam in my eye.

  “Oh, very well!” snapped the old boy pettishly. “But the loss to science be upon your own pointed head, Eric, and not upon my own!” With that he stalked off in a high fury, to sulk alone. I suppressed a rueful grin.

  Hurok looked puzzled.

  “What does he say, the old one?” he inquired in his slow, deep voice.

  I tried to explain—not only the young couple’s need of privacy, but the Doc’s scientific curiosity. Neither attitude made much sense to the simple Neanderthal, but eventually he shrugged and ignored it.

  “Hurok shall never understand the ways of the panjani,” he sighed, turning away.

  As a panjani born and bred myself, I could have admitted that many of the ways of my own kind were pretty mystifying even to me, but he was gone by then.

  We marched “south,” along the coast.

  * * * *

  Before very long, it became obvious to the more alert and keen-sighted of our host that a large body of men had but recently marched along this same path. It was the scouts and rangers of Sothar who apprised me of this, pointing to the marks of many sandaled feet scarcely visible in the scant patches of bare earth along our way.

  Once these things were called to my attention, it was easy to see them and I was puzzled that I had not noticed them before. One of the scouts, a grizzled veteran named Quaron, perhaps explained it best.

  “The chieftain did not see the marks-of-many-feet because he was not looking for them,” he remarked.

  I quirked an eyebrow.

  “And was the scout Quaron looking for them?” I inquired tartly.

  The older man smiled briefly.

  “It is the duty of a scout to be constantly looking for everything,” he said succinctly.

  Surely, the footprints could only have been made by the warriors of Thandar! That was the easiest and most obvious explanation, and the one which came most quickly to mind. Which implied that, were we to stretch our stride a bit, we might, ere long, catch up with our friends. Which we endeavored to do, upon the urgings of Garth.

  I was as eager as any of the others to press forward with all speed, for it occurred instantly to me that if the horde of Thandar was already on the route “south” to their homeland, the only explanation for this could be that my beloved Darya had been found by her people, and thus was not very far ahead of me.

  We pressed on.

  * * * *

  Again, before very long, it became obvious to us that we were being followed Scouts set their ears against the ground, and reported a faint drumming in the earth, which could only be the result of the feet of many marching men or beasts.

  “Who could it be?” murmured Garth thoughtfully to himself, from his stretcher of tanned bides fastened over parallel poles. “What foe have we in these parts?”

  “We are too far ‘north’ to have attracted the attention of the Drugars of Kor,” I pointed out, “and not far enough ‘south’ for any lingering and surviving remnants of the Gorpaks of the cavern city to be on our trail.…”

  “It can only be the Dragonmen of Zar,” was the announcement uttered by Hurok in his deep tones. We looked at him nonplussed.

  “Surely, there has not yet been enough time for Zarys to mount a counterattack,” I protested. Then I cut my protest off at the expression of bafflement in his small, deep-set eyes, remembering that the men of Zanthodon have only the most rudimentary notion of the very existence of time. Here beneath the eternal noon of their undarkening skies, time remains as yet unguessed by even the wisest of the tribesmen.

  “Let us continue on our way,” said Garth heavily. “Whoever our unknown pursuers are, they will be upon us soon enough.”

  And that was one prophecy soon proven true.…

  CHAPTER 27

  KIRADINE REAPPEARS

  On the fortress island of the Barbary Pirates, the work of clearing away the wreckage, burying the dead, repairing the few ships which were left more or less whole and of removing or sinking those which the savage hordes had burnt was progressing with every speed possible.

  Moustapha, the new—and self-styled—Prince of El-Cazar, felt, and that rightly, that his prestige and authority over his fellow corsairs rested, to a considerable degree, with the swiftness and thoroughness with which he pursued and punished the Cro-Magnon savages for their temerity in invading and conquering the island of the Barbary Pirates.

  There had been, and was, considerable grumbling and dissatisfaction over his prompt assumption of the princely title among the corsairs. It was not so much that Moustapha was not esteemed as one of the captains, or that he was disliked, for he had always been both popular and respected by his brother buccaneers. It was, simply, that he was not of the race of the great Khair ud-Din of Algiers, the original Barbarossa, and that from the distant time of their flight into the Underground World of Zanthodon, a son of the line of the mighty Barbarossa had always ruled El-Cazar.

  In this, if in little else, the Barbary Pirates tended to be strictly traditional. However, as no rival rose to challenge Moustapha with a clearer claim to the throne, his assumption of the regal authority aroused mere grumbling, and no organized opposition.

  As soon as his repairs were completed on his flagship and the other vessels of his squadron were refurbished, and those of the less damaged ships in the harbor had been made seaworthy, the new Prince of El-Cazar moved with alacrity to enlist a strong force of fighting men and made preparations for the voyage to the shores of the subterranean continent.

  The unexpected intervened, however—as might have been expected.

  * * * *

  Moustapha was alone in the great hall of the princely citadel, studying the lists of men and weaponry and provisions, when a mocking laugh sounded from behind his back.

  Snarling an oath, Moustapha whipped about, ready to lash out at any servitor who might have dared to enter his solitude unannounced and uninvited—

  Only to pale to the lips with astonishment as he saw and recognized the man who had laughed.

 
For, lounging gracefully against a stone pillar, stood none other than Kâiradine Redbeard.

  Moustapha’s consternation must have been written clearly upon his swarthy features, for at sight of his face, Kâiradine laughed again. And, in truth, the consternation of the other was more than understandable: the Redbeard had vanished from the knowledge of the buccaneers weeks before, at the time of the Thandarian invasion, and had not been seen or heard from since. He was dead or had disappeared, all men believed, and most accounted him among the very many corpses burned or hacked out of all recognition. Yet here he stood—alive and hale and hearty!

  For a long moment, Moustapha stared wide-eyed at this amazing apparition, licking dry lips with a dry tongue.

  “M-my prince!” he stammered foolishly.

  Kâiradine grinned sardonically.

  “Your prince, is it? By the Fiends of Kaf, but I had heard that you yourself, my faithful and loyal Moustapha, had assumed that title, along with my citadel and my very crown!”

  Moustapha stammered something inarticulate but apologetic. Suddenly, the playfully mocking manner of the Redbeard changed, as he showed ever his mercurial nature.

  “Get off of my throne,” he snapped icily, one dark, strong hand gliding to curl its fingers about the hilt of his sword.

  Moustapha stumbled to his feet, parchment sheets sprawling over the dais. Eyes wary, he backed away as the other mounted the stone steps and seated himself in the place thus made vacant.

  “That is better, you rogue,” said Kâiradine. “Your place is at the foot of those steps, not on the throne atop them.”

  “Yes, O reis,” whispered Moustapha. “I thought…we all thought—?”

  “Kâiradine Redbeard knows full well what you thought, you shallow-pated fools,” grinned the Prince of El-Cazar. Negligently, with the point of his blade, the Redbeard punctured one of the parchments, removed it and glanced over it casually.

  “I see that you had planned to launch an expedition against the mainland, to attack and wreak vengeance upon the savage host,” he drawled lazily.

  “Yes, O reis,” murmured Moustapha.

  “The plan is an excellent one, for only by so doing will the mariners of the Brotherhood regain their self-esteem and their faith in their leader,” said Kâiradine. “Your plan will go forward with, of course, the slight alteration of the name of the leader.”

  “Naturally, O reis.”

  “As the accursed savages burned my Red Witch to the waterline, I will assume the command of your Lion of Islam as my flagship,” purred Kâiradine. “I trust that the Captain Moustapha has no objection to this?”

  “None, O reis!”

  “I thought not! Very good, then . . you may remove your gear and possessions from my palace, and return to your own house. When all arise from slumber, there will be a council of the senior seamen in this hall, not only to formally reinstate your prince and to revoke your own unlawful assumption of my power, but to select the leaders of the ships which I shall lead against the savages—a question?”

  Moustapha spoke hesitantly.

  “O my prince…the command of the ships of my squadron has already been vested in tried and trustworthy captains—”

  “Yes, captains of your own choosing, loyal to you, at least,” snapped the Redbeard. “I no longer trust you, Moustapha; and I cannot, therefore, place any reliance in men loyal to you and, perchance, somewhat less than loyal to myself.”

  “It shall be as you command,” murmured Moustapha tonelessly.

  “So it shall,” smiled Kâiradine. “Now you have our leave to withdraw.”

  Moustapha bowed with a wooden face, and left quickly. He felt fortunate to have escaped that confrontation with a whole skin.

  The men of El-Cazar welcomed the mysterious reappearance of their prince wholeheartedly. They had never been informed of the decision of the Council of the Captains which had deposed the Redbeard, as the abrupt invasion of the host of Thandar had come so swiftly upon the heels of this act that the news of it had never been circulated. And, as well, since all of the participants in that Council, saving only Kâiradine Redbeard alone, were now slain, there remained no one to inform them that it had ever taken place.

  The selection of captains pro tem for the few ships which remained seaworthy out of the fleet of the corsairs went forward swiftly, following a simple formula: anyone that Moustapha had chosen to command a vessel was automatically disqualified and was replaced with a man known to be true to Kâiradine Redbeard.

  There were no exceptions to this, and, considering the vicious temper of the Prince of Pirates, hardly any muttering about it.

  The squadron departed from El-Cazar on the day appointed, and rapidly negotiated the foggy and hazardous waters. The many shallow reefs and rocky islets which rendered these seas dangerous were well known to the Barbary Pirates, and in less time than it would take me to describe they had reached the shores of the northern extremity of the underground continent. Here Kâiradine decided that they should voyage south, following close to shore, until the host of savages or their tracks could be glimpsed by his keen-eyed watchmen stationed high in the rigging.

  Erelong, the host was discovered trudging through the plains.

  Anchoring offshore, the pirates clambered into longboats and cast off. Beaching their hulls, they organized in ranks and advanced on the trail of the blond savages.

  The blades of the Brotherhood were out and ready, keen and thirsty to drink the blood of the Cro-Magnon primitives who had dared incur the wrath of the sons of Islam.

  CHAPTER 28

  THE BATTLE IS JOINED

  The Divine Zarys was consumed by impatience. She sat in the embossed leather saddle, her strong, bare thighs clasping the sides of her giant reptile, a slim, three-pronged trident of the silvery-reddish metal the Professor believed to be the fabled orichalcum of Lost Atlantis tightly gripped in the fingers of one hand, while with the other she held the reins.

  Every hour that went by only served to stoke the fires of impatience which blazed within her heart. She drove her legions on mercilessly, begrudging every moment wasted on rest and food. The savages could not be very much farther ahead, and her scouts were closely following the trail they left on the beaten earth, the crushed grasses.

  Here they had paused, near the sea; then they had turned to journey south along the coast of the Sogar-Jad. Here they had camped, where the ashes of a fire were still warm.

  She lifted her head and stared before her, where the craggy heights of gaunt mountains lifted against the mistily luminous skies of the Underground World. These were the Peaks of Peril, although Zarys could not have known that name, for never yet had her legions come this distance from the Scarlet City. With a hunter’s instinct, however, she realized that whatever passes might wind between these mountains, they would be narrow and difficult to negotiate. Here, then, the horde of yellow-haired barbarians would perforce move forward but slowly; with their backs against the wall of cliffs, they would be unable to avoid her attack, and the tactical advantage thus afforded her troops would be decisive.

  Or so, at least, she believed.

  The Empress of Zar had given much thought to exactly how best to conduct the assault upon the savages. Never again could she risk having her own thodars turned against her by the power of the gemstudded circlet which, presumably, the savages still held. When she came within view of the Cro-Magnon army, then, she had decided to order her soldiers to dismount and to turn their giant steeds loose to graze upon the long meadow grasses which clothed the plains. Confident that her people could summon to them the wandering thodars with their circlets, she saw no danger in turning the beasts loose, and, after all, there was simply no way to tether reptiles so enormous and so strong, especially here amidst the empty plains where no trees grew.

  The air of Zanthodo
n is humid and misty, and the luminosity of the sky is less intense than is the light of the sun in the Upper World. These factors combined to make it difficult to perceive objects clearly at any great distance, hence her scouts and out-riders ranged far ahead of the mounted legions; in order to detect the army of savages before they approached them.

  Now one of these scouts came up to where she rode beside Xask at the head of the formation. He reined his ponderous steed to a halt and saluted crisply.

  “What is the word, Gorus?” she demanded.

  “Sacred One, the army of savages is directly ahead of us, near the barrier of the mountains,” the scout reported.

  Zarys smiled. “That is, indeed, good news!” she exulted. “In your opinion, should we dismount at this point and press on afoot?”

  Gorus nodded, but there was a strange reluctance visible in his manner.

  “There is something else?” she inquired.

  “It is difficult to perceive clearly, Divinity, but—”

  “But what? Speak up, man!”

  “There are the sounds of fighting ahead, the clamor of a battle…the dust raised by the battling of many warriors makes it impossible to discern the identity of the combatants, but surely the blond savages are one of the adversaries.”

  Zarys frowned in puzzlement: who else besides herself could possibly be in pursuit of the barbarian horde? What other foe could they have in these remote and unsettled parts of Zanthodon?

  Well, there was only one way to find out!

  She directed her commander, Xask, to give the signal, and watched as her legions dismounted and assembled into battle formation.

  Then they began their march.

  * * * *

  Whoever the unknown host might be, they were approaching us with all possible speed, coming (it seemed) from the direction of the seashore, for we were not very far inland from the margins of the Sogar-Jad.