The Zanthodon MEGAPACK ™: The Complete 5-Book Series

by Lin Carter

  In the humid and tropical climate which seems to pervade all of this Underground World of Zanthodon, nobody wears much clothing. Hence all the girl wore was a beautifully tanned fawnskin garment resembling a brief apron which covered her slim loins and extended over one shoulder, concealing one pointed young breast and leaving the other bare. A necklace of colored seashells hung about her slender throat, and her feet were shod in supple buskins, laced up to mid-calf.

  All the rest of her was naked, clear, golden-tanned, vibrantly beautiful—girl.

  * * * *

  Unknown to Yualla of Sothar, another hunter was abroad that day, also on the track of the tasty and defenseless little herd of uld. This second hunter was one of the most fearsome of all of the predators of Zanthodon, the dreaded thakdol—the mighty pterodactyl of the dim Jurassic.

  Aloft on its batlike, membranous wings, the flying lizard floated against the golden glow which permeated the misty skies of this primitive world like some monster out of nightmare. With its fanged, elongated jaws (which were not unlike those of the alligator or crocodile), its horrible bird-clawed feet, its long and snaky tail, the thakdol was hideous to behold—and every bit as dangerous and deadly as it was hideous.

  It was not long before the minuscule brain of the thakdol saw and recognized the tiny figure far below as something edible. Not as tasty or as defenseless as the uld, of course, but the aerial monster had eaten of human flesh many times ere this, and found the dish to its liking.

  The intelligence of the dragon of the skies was dim and rudimentary, for the pterodactyl was virtually nothing more than a murder machine, a flying stomach. And its minute brain could only contain one thought at a time. Up until this moment that peanut-sized organ had entertained naught but the idea of uld…tempting, juicy, squealing, fat uld. Thus at first, and for some little time thereafter, the thakdol ignored the running figure beneath it as irrelevant to its fixation on uld-hunting.

  But in time the notion filtered into the dim brain of the flying reptile that the cave-girl would easily provide it with the luncheon it hungered for, and the idea of girl began to take dominance over that of uld.

  It was perhaps too much to ask of the thakdol’s rudimentary brain to expect it to weigh its chances. The pterodactyl well knew from former encounters that, as often as not, the two-legged prey bore sharply pointed sticks with which they were accustomed to thrust and jab at the tender bellies of such as it. And, on other occasions, they had been known to wield heavy stone axes, or to loose from stringed sticks flying slivers of wood that could be an annoyance, even a bother.

  No, the thakdol was hunting, and it was hungry. And when this happened, it simply took wing from its mountaintop aerie and hunted until it found something to kill. Then it feasted.

  However, some instinctive element of caution may have awakened within the brain of the flying reptile. For, although it could not have known this, the running girl as yet remained ignorant of the thakdol’s existence.

  Thus when it folded those broad, batlike wings and fell out of the skies like a plummet, the girl did not realize her danger until it was too late for her to defend herself.

  A hideous black shadow fell over her. Throwing back her head, Yualla stared with a thrill of incredulous horror at the fanged monstrosity which hurtled toward her out of the heavens. There was no time to string the bow she held, no time to loose so much as a single arrow at that mailed breast. The winged monster would pounce upon her in another breath: already its clawed feet were spread, ready to rip and rend her tender flesh—

  * * * *

  Yualla did the only thing possible—she threw herself flat and rolled into the thick grasses. It was a vain hope, that of hiding herself among the grasses, but it was all that she had. And, as it happened, it was probably the wisest thing she could have done, under such circumstances.

  For the thakdol hunts as the eagle hunts, swooping out of the sky to snatch its prey into the air. And, lying close against the flat earth as she was, the cave-girl presented the hardest possible target for those terrible claws. Thus, when the bird descended, it was forced to hang on beating vans while scrabbling about for her slender form, which it could not see because she was underneath it and its own body blocked its view.

  Breathless, with furiously beating heart, the girl rolled this way and that upon the meadow, striving to elude the clutches of those horrible, hooked claws, and narrowly succeeding.

  But then one claw closed by accident about her lower leg. It caught her above the ankle of one foot, and, as it chanced, when the claw snapped shut like a curved trap, it closed and curled about the limb but did not bite into it.

  Sensing that it had seized its prey, the thakdol instantly rose, raising a dust storm from the beating of its mighty wings.

  As it rose into the air, it dragged the helpless girl with it.

  By a miracle, the girl was as yet uninjured. Had the reptile ascended with the swooping flight that had been its original intention, the shock would doubtless have broken Yualla’s leg. But now it rose from an almost stationary posture, slowly and laboriously due to the girl’s weight, and thus the ascent was slower than it might have been. And Yualla had the presence of mind—which was remarkable, under such circumstances—to dangle loosely and limply, rather than to kick or struggle.

  Through it all, she had somehow managed to hang onto her bow. So the blond cave-girl was not unarmed, although there was little she could do to fight in her present awkward position. She was, after all, hanging head down.

  For an instant, she entertained the wild notion of trying to put an arrow through the belly of the brute, which was directly above her and exposed and vulnerable. But already the plain was swaying and dwindling beneath her as the monster gained the upper air, and long before she could have strung the bow and nocked an arrow, she was too high. To have fallen from such a height as this would have killed her instantly.

  Flapping on slow and laboring wings, burdened by the weight of its captive, the thakdol flew off across the plain in the direction of that range of mountains which led to Zar, in whose peaks its nest was concealed.

  CHAPTER 10

  ZARYS OF ZAR

  Identical in every respect with my lost Princess, the beautiful woman on the throne stared down at me with surprise—and with some other emotion I could not at once identify—in her wide and innocent blue eyes.

  There was no question about it—the Empress of Zar was none other than Darya of Thandar! Although how this impossible thing could ever be was a mystery defying my solution at that time.

  The long slim legs, the superb, pointed breasts, the magnificent mane of curling golden hair, framing the clear oval of that lovely, flower-like face—all, all were Darya’s.

  But, whereas my Princess had gone clad in abbreviated furs, her small feet buskin-shod, crude jewelry clasped at throat and wrist, this magnificent woman was one blaze of jewels.

  Clasped about the base of her throat, a yoke of gems threaded on crimson silk clad her upper torso, rising and falling with her lovely, half-naked breasts. Suspended from the terminals of this pectoral yoke, long silken threads, strung with gems, fell to veil but not conceal the exquisite lines of her belly and hips and slim thighs. It was with a distinct shock that I saw, beneath this incredible garment of jewels, she was utterly nude.

  “Who is this barbarian,” she demanded imperiously, “who seems to recognize us, but upon whom our eyes have never laid—and why does he insolently stand erect, when all men kneel in our presence?”

  The moment she spoke, I knew that she could not be the Darya I had known. My beloved Princess spoke with clear, soft, bell-like tones and silvery chiming laughter; this woman’s voice was throaty, husky, deep, with a seductive purr behind its music.

  “Divine Zarys, I shall bend those stubborn knees,” rumbled a bass voice. A burly, dwarfish
man clad in golden greaves and glittering breastplate strode from his station at the foot of the dais, glaring at me.

  I was too dazed with shock to think straight or to move. As the gorgeously caparisoned officer came strutting up to me and made as if to club me over the head with his black enamel baton, I merely balled one fist and sank it into his solar plexus with all my strength.

  There was, you see, a gap between the bottom of the cuirass and the ornate buckle of the heavy girdle which clasped his waist. It was about the size of my fist, I calculated.

  It was, too.

  He staggered as if he had walked into an invisible wall, purpled, then turned pale as curdled milk, and sagged to his knees, metal greaves clanking on the tiles. Then he lost his lunch rather noisily.

  I filed away for future reference the interesting fact that the Minoan Cretans, despite their urban sophistication and remarkable advances, remained ignorant of the fine art of pugilism.

  The Empress made a sound of disgust and rose from her throne, striding down the steps of the dais like a glittering waterfall of gems, fastidiously avoiding her sprawled and vomiting officer, and strode through a curtained doorway into an inner chamber.

  I gathered that the audience was over.

  And, from the murderous glare I received from the officer I had knocked down, I gathered my life was to be reckoned in minutes, or however long it would take him to get through with being sick.

  One of his lieutenants helped him stagger to his feet. Another wiped his lips and chin with a corner of his cloak. I guessed the man was a personage of some considerable prominence, from the way toadies and underlings hurried to fawn about him, shoot me frosty glares, and tut-tut over his “accident.”

  “Ialos, lend me your sword,” he said thickly.

  With a gloating smile in my direction, his lieutenant made haste to put the weapon into his hand.

  Stiff-legged as a barnyard rooster whose private henhouse has been invaded by another rooster, the man I had hit came toward me. I balled my two fists and prepared to give him a second lesson in the fine art of fisticuffs. As it turned out, the opportunity did not come.

  A slim dark girl in diaphanous silks, who had come silently up behind him, laid one hand on his brawny forearm.

  “General Cromus, your revenge must wait upon another time, for the Goddess will see this barbarian privately,” she said in a soft, lisping voice.

  Cromus froze, licked his lips, stared at me with hot, hating eyes, and reluctantly returned the weapon to his underling.

  All this time, the pudgy Grand Panjandrum (I soon discovered him to be the Royal Chamberlain, and his name turned out to be Hissab) and the Professor remained facedown on the tiled floor, neither daring to move. Hissab now inched his head about and stared at me with blank astonishment. I judged that private audiences were seldom awarded, and never to unruly barbarians. I tipped the fat man a wink which seemed to scandalize him.

  The girl came up to me, eyeing me from head to foot admiringly.

  “This way,” she said demurely, leading me off.

  * * * *

  Beyond the portal lay a small, dainty, rosy-lit room which seemed to serve as the retiring room of the Empress. When I came in, following the girl sent to fetch me, her maids were in the process of assisting their monarch to disrobe. The jeweled collar had been unclasped, baring to my view her beautiful breasts, and the fabulous garment slid away showing me rather more naked girlflesh than I was comfortable at seeing.

  The Empress, after one indifferent glance in my direction, continued to submit to being undressed by the maids, who stored the robe of jewels carefully away in a chest of carven wood painted with octopi and seashells. The naked woman ignored my presence as if I were a pet dog.

  I was intrigued; also, I was a little affronted. Women, especially when naked, tend not to ignore me.

  One of the maids gently adjusted a gauzy robe about the shoulders of her mistress. This clasped only at the throat, opening all the way down whenever she moved, so the view continued to be a distraction. Also, the robe was about as transparent as a veil of smoke, so none of the attractions were all that concealed from my eyes. But I felt a little more comfortable, somehow.

  Then she glided across the fur rugs to curl up on a sofa which was piled with many small, plump, bright-colored cushions. She then calmly regarded me with faint curiosity in her eyes, as well as that emotion I had glimpsed before. Was it—admiration? Or was I flattering myself?

  “Does the animal speak a civilized tongue?” the Empress asked.

  The girl who had come to fetch me said: “According to the Lord Chamberlain, Divine Mistress, the creature is not unproficient in our tongue.”

  “Remarkable,” drawled the woman on the sofa. Then she patted the cushions at her side and ordered (or invited? It was hard to tell) me to sit at her side.

  I did so, a bit gingerly. We looked each other over with frank curiosity.

  Up close like this, I noticed subtle differences between Zarys and Darya which had been invisible at first look. The Empress used cosmetics. Something like kohl darkened her long lashes, discreet use of paints made her eyelids mysterious and shadowy blue, accenting her superb eyes, and a scarlet cream reddened her full, seductive lips.

  Since she was virtually naked, I could not help noticing other differences, as well. Darya was slim and lean, deliciously curved where nature designed women to be deliciously curved, and firmly muscled as a boy, without an ounce of fat.

  The Empress of Zar, on the other hand, was softer and rounder, and just the slightest bit more svelt than Darya. She was also, I think, three or four years older, and there was a trace of petulance around her mouth and a hardness in her gaze, an arrogance, which Darya did not have. Still and all, the resemblances between them were astonishing: twin sisters could not have been more alike than the two women.

  “Palaika,” murmured the Empress, tossing her head. One of the maids came gliding over and, with a distinct shock, I watched her take off the wig.

  Yes, that glorious curling mane of golden hair was a-wig! I was appalled: beneath the wig (which was of gold wire, spun finer than silk thread), the Empress’s head was shaven bald.

  Somehow, it did not make her any the less gorgeous.… Later, I came to understand that the palace aristocrats of Zar were all alike, slim, olive-skinned, black haired. They prized and hungered after novelty, and the current fashion was to emulate the beauty of the Cro-Magnon slave women, who were, of course, blonde. I have never understood where Zarys got her big blue eyes from—perhaps from some antique Mycenaean Greek ancestor in the remote past—but her golden hair was nothing but a golden wig.

  “Is it true you are acquainted with our language?” she asked me curiously. I stammeringly said something to the effect that I was beginning to pick it up a little. My barbaric accent made her wrinkle up her nose, but my uncomfortable expression made her smile mischievously—and she looked more like Darya than ever. They had the same smile!

  “In the Pasiphaeum you seemed to recognize me, yet you are not of our race, and a stranger to our realm. How is this?”

  “‘Pasiphaeum’?” I repeated.

  She shrugged impatiently. “As a direct descendant of the Goddess Pasiphae, wife of the Divine Minos, I…but here I am answering a slave’s questions, and him a barbarian as well! Answer me: you seemed to recognize me. How?”

  “Well, uh,” I began: and falteringly I tried to explain about Darya and how much they resembled each other. She seemed intrigued at being the mirror image of a Cro-Magnon girl, rather than being offended by the comparison.

  “I see,” she murmured. “You were, when captured by the Outriders who guard the approaches to my realm, in the company of the despicable Xask, exiled former prince of the city; how is this?”

  “Accident, more than anything else. H
e is my enemy as well as yours, your majesty.”

  A pouting smile touched those full red lips.

  “’My majesty’…how quaint! But my subjects generally give me the title Divinity or Goddess…my name, however, is Zarys. Do barbarians of your tribe have given names?”

  I was getting just a little tired of being called a barbarian. However, I held my temper and told her my name.

  “Eric Carstairs,” she repeated. “How uncouth a name…nonetheless, it seems to suit you.”

  She caressed me slowly with her eyes, her expression demure, a tantalizing smile playing about her mouth. I blushed a little as she looked me over, feeling like a prize bull on display at a cattle auction. At the same time, I felt her nearness powerfully: she was so very much like my lost beloved that I ached to seize her in my arms, to crash her against my chest, to cover her flower-like face with my hot, panting kisses.

  And something of what I was feeling must have shown in my eyes, for she smiled a slow languorous smile and touched me gently on the thigh.

  “We shall speak again, Eric Carstairs, at dinner.…”

  I was led out, feeling absurdly as if I had narrowly escaped what the authors of Victorian melodrama would have called A Fate Worse Than Death.

  PART III: ACROSS THE PLAINS

  CHAPTER 11

  MURG IS MISSING

  They were eating their breakfast, camped on the plain, when Ragor noticed that Murg was missing from their number. The Thandarian mentioned the fact to his brother-warrior, Erdon.