The Zanthodon MEGAPACK ™: The Complete 5-Book Series

by Lin Carter

  The Professor nodded thoughtfully.

  “Well, then, my dear Baron,” he said tentatively, “I believe that we can permit you to lower your arms to your sides, if you wish, although I most earnestly entreat you not to attempt to pick up your rifle. Both the young woman and myself are remarkably proficient in the employment of these crude weapons,” he said with a meaningful gesture of the spear he still held at the back of the German officer.

  Manfred Von Kohler nodded and said nothing. He had no doubt that the beautiful Cro-Magnon girl could use the spear with great skill, and would not hesitate to do so, were he foolish enough to try for his firearm, but he rather felt inclined to think that the old American scientist overstated, to some degree, his own skill with the weapon.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said, lowering his arms to his sides.

  And they stood for a moment without words.

  “Well,” said the Professor at last, clearing his throat uncertainly, “and now we must decide—what the devil I am supposed to do with you!”

  CHAPTER 20

  XASK MAKES A DISCOVERY

  With Niema, as usual, taking the lead, the three adventurers moved on swift and silent feet through the jungles of Zanthodon. Jorn and Yualla knew they could not be very far behind their tribes, for so huge a host of men, encumbered with women and children, the aged and the injured, can move only as rapidly as the weakest among them.

  Thus it came as no particular surprise to them when, of a sudden, Niema froze, motionless, with a quick gesture at the two Cro-Magnon youngsters behind her, commanding silence.

  The bushes parted before where she stood, revealing a tall blond-headed young man armed with a long knife at his waist and a bronze-bladed spear held at the ready. Spying the long-legged black woman, he paused momentarily, eyes widening in amazement.

  In the next instant, Jorn and Yualla came crashing forward, and all three embraced, laughing with joy while the Aziru girl watched uncomprehendingly.

  “Varak—is it really you!” exclaimed Jorn the Hunter with delight. The other hugged him fiercely, tears of happiness agleam in his blue eyes.

  “The question should be—Jorn, can it be that you still live?” declared Varak. “We thought you long since dead from that fall you took from the mountain ledge…and, unless my eyes are lying, is not the girl at your side Yualla, gomad of the Sotharians?”

  “I am Yualla,” laughed the girl.

  “Your father and mother will be heartily relieved that you still live…but were you not carried off by a hunting thakdol[2]? By what marvel have you both survived? By what incredible luck do you come to be here? And, before my heart bursts with curiosity, do tell me who that amazing black colored woman is…although I suddenly am able to guess her identity.”

  Interrupting each other, the Cro-Magnon boy and girl related to Varak a brief and somewhat confused account of their adventures while Niema stood with a warm smile lighting her lovely face, affectionately sharing the excitement and joy of these reunited friends. For Varak, of course, had been on the mountain with Hurok and the others of my retinue when they had striven to seek the Professor and me amid the bewildering ways of the Scarlet City, that time we had been held captive by Zarys of Zar.

  Varak interrupted this torrent of narrative just long enough to answer a question from Yualla.

  “My news will please you,” he grinned. “For we are all together again, or soon will be…Eric Carstairs and the Professor are with us, and all of our other comrades, although Hurok had strayed from us, I hope but briefly. And, Yualla, your mother and father, and all of your tribe, are not far ahead, for we parted from them only a little time ago in order to search for our huge and hairy friend. Soon we will all be united again, to continue the journey south to Thandar…but tell me, Jorn, how it was that you escaped from the little men of Zar?”

  The tale was taken up again, and when at length it came to a narration of the most recent of their adventures, and the two youngsters mentioned how they had been found and befriended by Niema, the tall warrior interrupted a second time, to turn a smiling face upon the silent amazon girl. “If you are truly Niema of the Aziru,” he said, “and surely there cannot be two such women as you in all the length and breadth of Zanthodon, then I have welcome news for you, lady, which will be pleasant to your ears, I doubt not!”

  “What news is that?” inquired Niema, and, as if by foreknowledge of the words the warrior was about to speak, her heart lifted within her breast in a surge of glorious hope.

  “The black warrior who would be your mate, Zuma of the Aziru, is among us and we are already friends!” said Varak triumphantly.

  The blaze of joy that lit up Niema’s face was truly wonderful to see.

  “Can it be the truth?” she breathed faintly. “Tell me that he is well and unharmed, and searches for me still!”

  “He is—he does—!”

  “Where, then, is he at this moment?” she demanded. Varak pointed toward the sea.

  “We split up to hunt for food for our meal,” he said. Hefting his spear with a rueful expression on his face, he added: “I came into the jungle, hoping to find uld, but the shaking-of-the-earth seems to have scared them all into hiding, for not yet have I so much as made a single kill! As for Zuma, he went down the beach, hoping to spear fish in the tidal pools along the shallows, and for aught I know paces the sands even now—”

  “Ai-raa!” shouted Niema in a loud voice filled with exultant joy, startling them all. And, without another word, the black girl turned and plunged into the brush and vanished from their view in the direction of the shores of the Sogar-Jad, eager not to waste another moment before hurling herself into the arms of the stalwart black warrior whom she had long desired to take as her mate.

  * * * *

  When Manfred Von Kohler blew the head off the giant python to save Darya of Thandar from its gaping jaws, the shot was heard by other ears than those of Professor Percival P. Potter.

  Moving stealthily through the brush on the heels of Niema, Yualla and Jorn the Hunter, Xask and Murg were keeping their quarry in sight when the shot rang out, echoing through the stillness of the wood.

  Xask allowed a gasp of surprise to escape, his lips, and sank his fingers into the skinny arm of Murg. An unholy light flashed in the dark eyes of the Zarian vizier, for he at once recognized the sound as that made by the thunder-weapon which Eric Carstairs carried, although on second thought it seemed to him that it was different in timbre and in loudness.

  How this could be eluded his imagination, for surely, there could not be two such weapons in the Underground World—not since the explosion set by the Professor back in the Scarlet City had totally destroyed all of the weapons which his wiles had coaxed and coerced the scrawny old savant into making for him and his Empress.

  Instantly abandoning the tracking of the Cro-Magnon couple and the tall black warrior woman who had befriended them, he turned to plunge through the bushes in the direction from which the shot had come.

  With an unerring sense of direction, the vizier led his whining, stumbling little companion to the glade where they arrived in time to be eye-witnesses to the confrontation between Darya of Thandar, Professor Potter, and the unknown stranger in peculiar garments who held a weapon of dark metal such as neither Xask nor Murg had ever looked upon before.

  Xask instantly deduced that it was a thunder-weapon of similar power to the small hand weapon which Eric Carstairs carried and which Xask had long coveted, for in trigger and in barrel it resembled the automatic. He could not imagine how two such weapons came to be here in the jungle world of Zanthodon, but he could not deny the evidence of his eyes.

  Cautioning his companion to silence, he crouched in the brush and overheard their conversation. Many of the words and terms they employed were unfamiliar to him, but Xask disregarded this fact, since t
here was nothing he could do to alter it. Agleam with cupidity, his eyes were riveted on the thunder-weapon as Manfred Von Kohler, with the Professor’s spear jabbing him between the shoulder blades, bent and gently deposited the deadly thing on the greensward at his feet.

  So fixed was his attention on the scene taking place before him in the glade that he did not notice the stealthy approach of another until Murg timorously nudged him in the ribs to apprise him of the fact.

  Xask could see that the second stranger was garbed in clothing similar to the first, in hue and design, and that these were also scrupulously clean but worn almost to tatters and carefully patched. He was larger and fuller of face than the first stranger, and was going bald. But none of these details was of any particular interest to the vizier.

  What caught his fascinated eye was the fact that the second stranger also bore a rifle similar to that which the first had just surrendered, and that a small hand weapon very much like that belonging to Eric Carstairs, was holstered at his hip.

  Glee lit the dark eyes of Xask; there were now at least four thunder-weapons in the Underground World, rather than merely one!

  Which quadrupled his chances of getting his hands on one, so that the surviving artisans of the Scarlet City could duplicate them and arm the legions of Zar with a weapon of such irresistible might as to conquer the entire world.

  [1] A rank in the German army comparable to that of a Colonel in our own army.

  [2] The Zanthodonian word for the immense Jurassic winged reptile we know as the pterodactyl.

  PART V: SOLDIERS FROM YESTERDAY

  CHAPTER 21

  HOW NIEMA FOUND ZUMA

  When the huge, hairy giant burst growling from the underbrush to jab his crude spear at the naked breast of Zuma, the black warrior instinctively leaped backward and raised his own Aziru assegai in defense. The two circled each other warily while a second apelike creature, obviously female with full bare breasts, cowered fearfully amid the shrubbery.

  Zuma had never faced an opponent so large and impressively muscled, or at least not a human opponent. Or was the growling creature before him fully human? His broad, sloping shoulders and long apelike arms were matted with russet fur, and his low, jutting brow and prognathous jaw made him resemble a beast as much as a man. Zuma had lived all of his days in Zanthodon and therefore had never seen a gorilla such as dwell in the jungle’s of the upper world, but he had heard fearsome tales told of such dangerous manlike creatures from the lips of his grandsires, and this was the first thought that rose to his mind.

  The hairy Apeman jabbed at Zuma’s breast, but the black with swiftness and agility deflected the spear with his own, although the strength of his foe’s thrust jolted the black to his very heels.

  In a contest of sheer muscle, Zuma knew, he stood little chance against so huge an enemy. All he could hope for was that his intelligence and quickness were of an order superior to that of the Apeman.

  He aimed a cunning thrust at the hairy beastman’s abdomen, and, as he had hoped, the other lowered his spear to deflect it. In the same instant, his belly-stroke having been a mere feint, Zuma’s point flashed for the other’s thick throat.

  Gorah—for of course it was she—spied the feint in the same moment, and cried out in fear and warning.

  “—Hurok!”

  Zuma managed to turn his thrust awry in the very nick of time. Amazement flashed in his dark eyes and he stood back, half-lowering his assegai.

  “Are you truly the one called Hurok?” he asked.

  Blinking curiously, his foe lowered his crude spear.

  “Hurok is Hurok,” he growled. “But how can that name mean aught to one whom the eyes of Hurok has never beheld ere this?”

  Zuma grinned. “I am a friend of Eric Carstairs and the white warriors,” he explained swiftly. “They have mentioned your name in Zuma’s presence and have related of their search for their missing comrade. I am Zuma, a warrior of the Aziru people.”

  Hurok examined the tall, lithe black warrior narrowly, rather liking what he saw. Slowly he grounded his weapon and a huge smile creased his thick lips.

  “If you are a friend of Black Hair, as am I, then it is good that Hurok and Zuma did not slay each other,” he said in slow, deep tones.

  Zuma grinned and dropped his own weapon.

  “Things could not have turned out happier for Zuma,” the black declared. “In truth, the strength of Hurok’s arms is such that Zuma is relieved there is no need for us to fight one another. Eric Carstairs and his friends will be pleased that Hurok has returned to Zanthodon, for they were bewildered by your disappearance and have traveled hither in search of you.”

  Hurok dragged the reluctant she female from the bushes and proudly displayed her to the Aziru.

  “Hurok returned to the country of Kor to fetch hither a mate from among the shes of his people,” he explained. “Is she not a fine she?”

  “She is indeed, and Hurok has every reason to be proud,” said Zuma, with some prevarication. In all honesty, the Neanderthal woman looked unappetizing to him, and his memory summoned forth the image of the slim and beautiful young woman of whom he nightly dreamed and for whom he had sought so long.

  Gorah then tugged at the powerful arm of her mate and pointed timidly back up the shore.

  “O Hurok,” she said timidly, “behold where another dark-skinned one approaches!”

  Zuma turned to see the person to which the Neanderthal woman referred, and froze as if rooted by sorcery to the spot. For a long instant, the dazed warrior believed himself caught up in another of his nightly dreams, for the long-legged, slim and beautiful black woman who came sprinting lightly down the beach to where he stood in converse with the two Korians was none other than his beloved Niema!

  Calling her name, he ran to meet her and caught her up in his strong arms. As she was crushed against the stalwart chest of her beloved, held tightly in the embrace of those powerful arm’s, her cheek against his naked breast, feeling the pounding of his heart, Niema felt bliss such as she had only dreamed of. Zuma covered her beautiful face with fierce, happy kisses and she smiled and lifted her lips to his.

  After a time, he held her away from him at arm’s length, his face serious, his eyes stern.

  “Niema, daughter of Kirah and Junga, virgin of the Aziru, I, Zuma, the son of the chief Waza, claim you for my mate against all the world,” he said formally. “Look not henceforth with the eyes of love upon another warrior, and, for his part, Zuma will no longer look with desire upon any other woman.”

  She smiled, saying nothing. The ceremonial phrase did not require her acquiescence. But then Zuma spoke another query, softly, for no ears to hear but her own.

  “Is this what Niema truly wishes in her heart?” he asked.

  “Niema could not ask for more than this,” she said simply, “unless to pray that the Ancestors permit the loins of Niema to bear many strong sons and healthy daughters sprung from the seed of Zuma of the Aziru.”

  While the two Neanderthals watched with only dim comprehension, the two briefly embraced, exchanged a chaste kiss, and turned smiling to face the Korians.

  “Hurok and Gorah of Kor,” the warrior said formally, “this is my mate, Niema.

  “Is she not beautiful to behold?” he asked, grinning proudly.

  Hurok admitted that she was, although privately he thought the black woman much too skinny and vastly preferred Gorah, whose proportions were ampler. But everyone to his own taste, he thought to himself.

  The mating ritual of the Aziru is short and simple. By publically claiming Niema before all challengers, Zuma had married her.

  It was that simple.

  * * * *

  Tharn and his fellow chief saw to it that their people had crossed the deep crevasse and were assembled in good
order on the far side. The herd of grymps had moved far off in the eastern corner of the plain and were by now too far distant to be of any potential danger to the Cro-Magnons.

  At council, it was decided that the tribes should skirt the marshy borders of the swamp, circling them in order to march across the plain and reach the jungles of the south.

  Long ago, at the very beginning of our adventures in the Underground World of Zanthodon, Professor Potter and I had gone by this same route into the north, when we were captives of the Neanderthal slavers from Kor. It was during this brief but irksome period of captivity that we had first made the acquaintance of Darya and Jorn, and the villainous Fumio. Hurok of Kor had been one of the warriors accompanying the slave-raid, of course, so all of these parts of Zanthodon were more than familiar to us.

  Tharn regretted the absence from the tribes of my own company, although he understood and sympathized with our desire to find the missing Hurok before continuing on south to Thandar; and he was annoyed that his daughter Darya had gone back into the jungle to find Eric Carstairs.

  He was reluctant to venture into the southern jungles until all of us were rejoined to the tribes.

  “Let us camp on the edges of yonder jungle,” he said to Garth, “within easy view of our missing friends when they emerge from the brush.”

  “That is agreeable to me,” said Garth. “And may I suggest that it would be wise to leave the felled trees in place so as to afford an easy bridge across the abyss for them when they arrive on the scene.”

  Tharn of Thandar agreed that this was a sensible idea, and issued commands to his chieftains to set up camp once they had crossed the small plain, circled the swampy area, and reached the jungle’s edge.

  This was accomplished in very little time, and, while the scouts and huntsmen ranged afield to procure food for the meal, youths and oldsters dug fire pits in the floor of the grassy plain and women and girls constructed braces and spits from tree branches, wherefrom to suspend the hunters’ kill above the coals.