The Zanthodon MEGAPACK ™: The Complete 5-Book Series

by Lin Carter

  Grunting a command, he reached up, grabbed the projecting rock which had saved them from certain death, and hoisted himself upon it.

  They began to climb.

  * * * *

  Garth and the tribe of Sothar marched across the plains in the direction in which the thakdol had borne away his daughter, Yualla.

  The scouts and huntsmen of the Sotharians ranged far afield, searching for any sign or token that the young girl was dead or alive. With keen eyes, alert and vigilant, they scanned the thick grasses, the muddy places, the many small, meandering streams, but without finding that which they sought.

  It seemed dreadfully likely to the chieftains of Garth’s council that the thakdol had carried Yualla home to its nest, to feed its young upon her flesh. This was, after all, the way of hunting thakdols from time immemorial, and there occurred to them no reason why a thakdol should change its habits now.

  A realistic man—for monarchs should be practical, at very least—Garth inwardly agreed with the assessment of his counselors as to the gomad Yualla’s grisly fate. But within his mighty breast there lurked an optimist, as well; and he determined that he would not give over the quest until positive proof had been found, or until such time had elapsed that the last faint hope of his daughter’s survival dwindled and died.

  As they marched, they hunted and slew game. When they made their brief camps to rest and refresh themselves, the women of the tribe cooked the game thus taken, and they fed.

  These pauses to rest were, as I have said, brief, for time was of the essence—an apparent contradiction in a people innocent of the very concept of time, I know, but I can do no other than record here what they did without trying to interpret what I cannot understand or explain.

  Suffice it to say, some inward urge—call it an instinct of necessity—drove them constantly on, and they paused to rest only when they must. In a world without beasts to ride, where the remotest ancestor of the horse is a small plump mammal no bigger than a collie, men must perforce travel on what used to be called shank’s mare. They must walk.

  With every waking period of the march, the barrier of mountains known as the Walls of Zar crept nearer. After every sleep, they arose to find the mountains before them still tantalizingly distant, but no more distant than the “night” before.

  And somewhere among those fang-like peaks, in an untidy nest littered with thakdol droppings, might repose the gnawed bones of young Yualla.

  Conversely, somewhere amid that wilderness of jagged and cloven rock, she might well be wandering—lost, alone, hungry and defenseless, having by some miracle survived the claws and fangs of the pterodactyl.

  It was that hope which drove them on.

  * * * *

  Unfortunately for the warriors of Sothar, the people of the Scarlet City did not depend upon the mountainous barrier alone to protect them from the savage tribes and monsters which shared this world with them.

  For these plains were patrolled by the Dragonmen, that guard of Zarian males who rode mounted on great, stalking dinosaurs tamed by the mysterious telepathic crystals which the wizards of Zar had long ages ago perfected.

  They were not numerous, these patrols, but numbers are not needed when you ride upon the backs of monster reptiles thirty feet in length. They tended to follow no fixed patrol routes, but to trace huge, random circles before the walls of Zar. And on one of these circuitous rides, the Dragonmen espied—still a great way off, but steadily coming nearer—the Sotharian host.

  As things turned out, it was the squadron of Captain Raphad which discovered the approach of the Sotharians. This same officer, you will recall, had been responsible for the capture of Xask, Professor Potter, and myself, although there is a considerable difference between seizing two or three men, and facing a pitched battle against hundreds of stout warriors.

  Whereas the folk of Zar, the city-dwellers, sheltering behind that mighty range of mountains, guarded from harm by their vigilant patrols of Dragonmen, tended to dismiss the Cro-Magnon tribes as mere ignorant, naked, superstitious savages—Raphad knew better. He had faced and fought the blond barbarians before, and he knew and respected their fighting prowess and dauntless courage.

  While the Cro-Magnon warriors were fighting men of superb skill and bravery, the one thing they lacked, to Raphad’s way of thinking, was discipline. Like all savages, the Cro-Magnon tribesmen fought individually, chieftains taking a stand surrounded by their own warriors, rather than presenting a united front as was the custom among civilized nations such as the ancient Minoan colony.

  Raphad clambered up the long neck to the head of his reptilian mount, and from that lofty vantage point scanned the approaching host. He could not count individuals from such a distance, but it was obvious to him that the Cro-Magnons were to be numbered in the hundreds.

  While many of these would be women and children, of course, this did little to lessen the advantage in numbers which the strangers held over his squadron. For the blond savages are taught the cruel arts of survival from their mothers’ breasts, and even the women and older children make dangerous and formidable adversaries in an open conflict.

  As ever, Raphad counted upon the fear which his monster saurians inspired in the breasts of the barbarians to weigh mightily in his favor. Always, on previous encounters, had this proven greatly to his advantage, and doubtless it would do so now.

  For the mighty dinosaurs are the most fearsome and enormous brutes the world has ever known, and the Cro-Magnon and Neanderthal warriors give them wide berth, avoiding them if at all possible. This is only common sense, when you find yourself face to face with something weighing many tons.

  Of course, the giant lizards upon which Captain Raphad and his scouts were mounted were not meateating predators, but were instead docile and relatively harmless vegetarians. But the Cro-Magnons rarely had the leisure to differentiate between the meat-eaters and the grass-eaters, preferring to avoid anything taller than the trees.

  And even a placid vegetarian the size of a two-story house can tread men to slime underfoot.…

  Therefore, without particular trepidation, Raphad ordered his men forward so as to meet the Sotharians face to face.

  * * * *

  Even as Raphad spied from afar the Sotharians, so of course did the Sotharians spy from afar the Zarians. In fact, they saw the Dragonmen first, mounted, as they were, on the monstrous reptiles.

  Garth of Sothar set his jaw grimly. That these were foemen was certain: in his savage world, all strangers are considered enemies, until proven otherwise.

  And he greatly feared the huge lumbering brutes upon which the slender olive-skinned men were so curiously mounted, and which they had so mysteriously under their control.

  Nevertheless, he drew up his men for battle, positioning the women and children in the rear with the baggage. His fighting chieftains each sought advantage of the best ground possible—a knoll or hillock, or a hedgy place of concealment, with their warriors ranged about them, shields of tanned hide sheltering their bodies, spears and axes and bows at the ready.

  As there seemed to be no way to avoid the encounter, then let it come: that was Garth’s fatalistic philosophy.

  He stood, massive arms folded upon his mighty chest, and watched the line of Dragonmen approach with slow and ponderous tread.…

  CHAPTER 17

  WHEN ZARYS COMMAND

  There was no question about it—it was my pistol. There could not possibly be two Colt .45’s here in the Underground World!

  Which meant that Xask—that wily schemer!—had gotten to the Empress at some point, and had told her of the power of my “thunder-weapon,” as the Zanthodonians called it. This meant that all of the other tribes and nations of Zanthodon were in mighty big trouble. For Zarys would not have been Zarys had she not lusted to extend her empire to cover as much of t
he subterranean world as could be conquered.

  “You recognize the weapon, do you not?” Zarys demanded, with one of those lightning changes of mood that I was to discover part of her mercurial makeup. I acknowledged the fact, as there was nothing to be gained by a pretense of ignorance.

  “And is it truly as terrible as Xask has described?” she pressed.

  “Terrible enough,” I admitted.

  “And did he truly slay a gigantic drunth with your thunder-weapon?” she inquired sharply.

  I shrugged. “As to that, Majesty, I cannot say, for I did not see him do it.” Which was only the honest truth, after all.

  “Xask has told me of the drunth he slew with a single stroke of lightning from your device,” she said.[1]

  Now, a drunth is quite a hefty critter, to be sure. Professor Potter believes it to be the same as the stegosaurus, and it’s bigger than a fire engine. So if Xask really did fell a drunth with a single shot, it must have been pure and simple luck. And I said as much to Zarys.

  She seemed satisfied, purring with pleasure, fondling the automatic sensuously. I would have snatched it from her if I had dared, but something in the demure glance she gave me told me that guards were positioned nearby—behind the wall-hangings, perhaps, or in niches behind that screen of carved and lacy alabaster.

  For one moment I thought of taking the gun and holding Zarys as a hostage, forcing her to permit our escape from the city. But where, in the winding and labyrinthine ways of the Scarlet City was the Professor right now—for I certainly could not leave without him.

  No, this was not the time to try for an escape. There were too many things I needed to know, like how to get out of the city, for instance, and how to get across the mountains. So I held off, if only for a while, cursing my faint-heartedness.

  This opportunity might never come again, I grimly knew.

  Zarys touched a chime. A single bell-like note rang sweetly. The handmaiden, Ialys, entered and knelt by the couch to touch her brows against the bare feet of her Empress.

  Zarys indicated the automatic.

  “Show me,” she said.

  I blinked, astounded.

  “How—?”

  She nudged Ialys with the toes of one rosy foot.

  “Kill this slave,” she said, not even glancing down at the girl who knelt on the furs of the floor.

  I set my jaw truculently.

  “I don’t murder people in cold blood,” I snapped. “Especially not people who have never harmed me!”

  Temper flared in her magnificent eyes.

  “When Zarys commands, lesser mortals obey!”

  “Not this lesser mortal, lady,” I growled. From her kneeling position at the Empress’s feet, Ialys shot me one unreadable glance in which astonishment, gratitude, and some third emotion were mingled.

  Her superb breasts heaving with the tumult of her emotions, the Empress stared at me as if trying to conquer my will by her will alone. I matched her stare for stare, though inwardly I had some qualms about getting out of this spot with a whole skin.

  Then her mood changed again, and she became playful.

  “If I summon Xask, will you demonstrate your weapon upon him?” she demanded with a faint smile.

  Well, I was tempted. I admit it. Xask was certainly no friend of mine; in fact, I owed him a couple right in the chops. On the other hand, what I had already said was perfectly true. I will kill an enemy in combat any way I can, sure. I will kill to save a friend, of course. I will kill to protect a woman, beyond question. But I have never in my life murdered anybody in cold blood, and I didn’t intend to start here.

  Certainly not just to impress a painted temptress like Zarys of Zar.…

  I shook my head. Whether or not the gesture is understood in the Scarlet City, she must have been able to read the answer in my face.

  She tapped her fingers on the carven arm of the couch, studying me meditatively.

  “I could have you whipped, or beaten,” she remarked.

  “So you could,” I growled.

  “Why are you so stubborn?”

  I had to laugh, although it came out more like a snarl.

  “A few minutes ago you were praising me for being uncompromising,” I reminded her. “Now you want to whip me for being uncompromising. Doesn’t make much sense to me!”

  She must have agreed with me, in spite of herself, for a mischievous twinkle shone in the depths of her eyes, and the corners of her lips twitched in a brief half-smile.

  “Well…we shall discuss these and other matters further, at a later time,” drawled the Empress lazily, stretching like a cat and putting away the automatic—very carefully, I noticed.

  Ialys rose to her feet and led me from the chamber that was like a hollowed pearl.

  I was almost trembling with exhaustion from that interview, but somehow I had gotten away with it.

  Maybe the Divine Zarys rather liked to be faced up to and denied something…after all, it must have been a novel experience for her!

  * * * *

  At first, Jorn fell like a stone, turning end over end: The speed of his descent was such that the wind tore the breath from his lungs, and the boy knew that long before he could be hurtled to death against the rocky floor beneath he would likely perish of suffocation.

  To hurl from a height to dash your brains out against jagged rocks is a cruel death, to be sure. But to die as young as Jorn the Hunter, with most of your life still ahead of you in the womb of the unborn future, is doubly cruel.…

  The wind whipped his eyes savagely, making them water. Squinting against the gale, Jorn suddenly spied the glimmer of a mysterious blueness beneath him, as the floor of the plain came rushing up toward him—

  Then the sheer instinct for survival took over.

  He extended his legs behind him, pressing them together. He pointed his arms over his head, hands pressed palm to palm. And what had been a whirling fall turned into a perfect dive.

  Cold water struck him a numbing blow. He cleaved the surface, stunned from the impact, and touched the muddy bottom of the little mountain lake that had broken his fall.

  The icy shock of the water about him roused him from his state of momentary unconsciousness. Kicking against the lake bottom, he floundered clumsily back to the surface again.

  All about him, heavy boulders fell, churning the surface of the lake into exploding froth.

  Sucking air into starved lungs, he dove again, and swam toward the nearest shore. To every side, rocks sank through the muddy water. One grazed his shoulder, another scraped against his leg. But luckily, the impact of striking the lake surface had broken the fall of the rocks as it had broken his, and they sank through the water too slowly for these collisions to do him any particular harm.

  He dragged himself out upon a rocky shelf and lay there, gasping for breath.

  He felt pummeled and bruised, and he ached in every muscle known to anatomy. Groggy, shaken; boneweary—yet, miraculously, he still lived!

  * * * *

  After a brief rest, Jorn felt much recovered from his narrow scrape with doom.

  The hot, humid air of Zanthodon dried his flesh and warmed the chill from his bones. He had taken no injury from his fall into the lake, although a split second one way or another and the impact could easily have snapped his spine or broken his legs.

  Fortune seemed to be smiling upon Jorn the Hunter.

  When he felt better enough to move, the boy looked around, taking stock of his situation.

  All of his weapons had been lost in the fall; he retained nothing of his accouterments but the scrap of fur wound about his loins, the thong which bound the loin-covering to his lean waist, and his sandals.

  Above him, lifted the mountain. Jorn groaned within him at the tho
ught of attempting to climb that height again, especially in his present bruised and shaken condition. Food would do much to restore him to his full strength and alertness, but where could he find anything to kill, here in this rocky wilderness among the foothills?

  He headed out upon the grassy plains, having found a sharp splinter of rock, hoping to make a lucky kill.

  Instead, he saw someone who was about the last person in all the world whom he could have expected to see.…

  CHAPTER 18

  THE CUNNING OF XASK

  One moment Yualla was sound asleep, deep in the innocent slumbers of the young and healthy—the next instant she was shocked awake. To find herself crushed under the panting weight of Murg!

  The scrawny little man writhed atop her, striving with one hand to pin her wrists above her head while with his other hand he fumbled, pawing at her naked breasts, with his hot breath searing her face as his slobbering lips sought her mouth.

  The girl was frightened, and amazed. Rape was not a crime unknown to her primitive society, but it was a rare one, truly. The tribe of Sothar was small and inbred so that nearly every male was related, however distantly, to nearly every female—cousins, second and third cousins, and so on. And in nearly every society known to man, incest has been the most loathsome and despicable of crimes.

  Yualla, however, remained frozen by shock and surprise for moments only. The gasping, grunting creature which wriggled atop her, clawing at the brief garment about her loins, was thin and scrawny. And he was no fighting man, was Murg. So—

  Writhing to one side, turning her head away from Murg’s foul-breathed kisses, the lithe jungle girl raised one leg sharply between the legs of her assailant. Her smoothly muscled thigh caught him a shrewd blow in the crotch—and, in the same instant, her pointed elbow struck the little man in the breast, just below the heart, where a cluster of ganglia lie which are extremely sensitive.