by Lin Carter
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 longlegged, 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 eye’s 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.
After the meal was slain, cleaned, cooked and eaten, while all those not stationed on sentry duty were bedding down for the sleeping period, Tharn stood with strong arms folded upon his mighty breast, staring with brooding eyes back across the plain and the abyss to the edges of the jungle.
There Garth and his mate, Nian, joined him.
“Is all easy in your heart, my brother?” the High Chief of Sothar solicitously inquired. Tharn nodded somberly.
“My country of Thandar lies only a few wakes’ march to the south of these jungles,” he said. “Very soon we will return to our villages and you will enter the new home of your people, and our tribes will be joined in friendship forever. It is only that I wish that Eric Carstairs and his warriors, and Darya the gomad were with us.”
Garth nodded understandingly, saying nothing. He knew that Zanthodon is always full of surprises, and that in the weird subterranean cavern world, the unexpected usually happens.
They turned away to seek their rest, leaving Tharn to brood on the missing.
Chapter 22. WHEN COMRADES MEET
“What the devil am I supposed to do with you!” repeated the Professor, and indeed it was a bit of a problem.
Baron Von Kohler regarded him thoughtfully.
“If I may ask a question, Herr Doktor,” he said, “then permit me to inquire, now that the war is over and ended, are our two countries still enemies?”
Professor Potter slowly shook his head.
“No, as a matter of fact, sir, they are firm friends and allies,” he said reluctantly. The German officer smiled.
“Then, since we are no longer at war with each other, cannot you and I, and the pretty fraulein here, emulate our governments and be, if not exactly friends-for friendship must be earned before it is returned-at least allies?”
The Professor thought it over, chewing on his moustache.
Von Kohler smiled. “After all, we are civilized white men marooned in an unknown world among primitive savages and terrible beasts, a world torn by storm and earthquake, where deadly perils are to be found on every side. Should not civilized gentlemen stand together against the common dangers with which we are so continuously beset?”
The Professor looked at him with candid suspicion.
“Your words are persuasive, and peaceable, my dear Baron,” he admitted. “But it is difficult for me to decide whether they are honestly representative of the emotions within your heart, or, as seems more than likely, prompted by the fact that my spearpoint is leveled at that same organ.
“In a word, sir,” he added bluntly, “I do not know whether I can trust you.”
The officer nodded thoughtfully, with a charming smile. “Your caution is only common sense, I suppose,” he admitted. “And were I in your position, sir, I have no doubt that I wou
ld feel the same.
Well, then, what are we to do? I cannot remain long absent from my camp, for my superior is gravely injured and, before long, one of the two men under my command will come looking for me. If you will permit me to return to my camp, I give you my word of honor as an officer and a gentleman that I shall neither interfere with your own freedom nor attempt to molest either you or the young fraulein.”
They both glanced at the Mauser which lay at their feet.
“I am, however, reluctant to brave the hazards of these jungles without the comfort and security of my rifle,” Von Kohler added.
“I can understand that,” muttered the Professor fretfully. “As I am reluctant to permit you to resume possession of the firearm, while the girl and myself have nothing wherewith to defend ourselves against you save for these flimsy spears.”
“We are on the horns of a dilemma, then, as one of your English poets has so graphically put it,” said the officer. “In all candor, Herr Doktor, I wish that I could think of a way in which to demonstrate decisively to you that my men and I mean you and the young lady no harm, and would in fact desire to become friends and allies with you and your people. But, alas, I have nothing but the words uttered from a sincere heart—”
At that moment someone cleared his throat behind them.
“Herr Oberlieutenant, I am here!” said a guttural voice in German. The Professor felt his heart sink into his boots, or would have, if he had been wearing any boots, which he was not.
He turned to see a second German in tattered army uniform, leveling a Mauser rifle at himself and Darya.
Heaving a gusty sigh, the old scientist let the spear drop to the ground as Von Kohler knelt and recovered his own rifle, which he snapped to safety and slung over his shoulder.
“Thank you, Schmidt, your intervention is a timely one,” he said crisply. Then, turning to the old
scientist, he said with equal crispness:
“And now, Herr Doktor, the conditions are reversed. How does it please you to no longer have the upper hand?”
My hunters had mostly returned with game, which we cleaned and began to cook. We had dug a fire pit in the sandy shores of the underground sea, and were relaxing when a far-off halloo called to our attention the return of the missing hunter, Varak.
His companions were such a surprising and a welcome sight that we sprang to our feet in delighted amazement.
“Jorn! Yualla!” I exclaimed. The two youngsters were grinning broadly as we crowded around, all talking excitedly at once. Since none of us had ever expected to see them alive and whole again, our excitement was understandable.
“Yualla,” I said, hugging the smiling girl, “your father, Garth, will certainly be relieved to see you, for he long since presumed you slain by the thakdol.”
“Where is my father, and our people?” she asked. I pointed into the jungles.
“The tribes are on their way south to the land of Thandar, your new home,” I said. “Nor are they very far ahead, for we but recently parted from the host in order to find Hurok of Kor-”
Jorn, who had grown to love the huge, hulking old fellow during their march across the plains of the north to the range of mountains known as the Walls of Zar, grabbed my arm.
“What has become of Hurok?” he demanded. I shrugged helplessly.
“He left us during the sleep-period,” I explained. “We tracked him here, to the shores of the Sogar-Jad, but can go no farther. We believe that he returned to his island homeland for some reason, but whether or not he will return to rejoin us on the mainland, we do not know.”
“Have you seen Niema?” interrupted Yualla of Sothar, looking around her, hoping to see her new friend.
“Who is Niema?” I asked.
“A beautiful, tall woman,” Jorn informed us, “who joined us in the mountains and captured Xask and that little villain, Murg.”
“Xask and Murg, eh?” growled huge Gundar at my side. “Are those two still about?” The giant Goradian
had known of Xask’s villainies while a gladiator, fighting at my side in the arena of Zar during the Great Games. And he had heard tell of Murg since then. We all looked at one another with grim consternation, for while nobody had much to fear from pitiful little Murg, Xask was a wily and cunning foe, and an adversary to be reckoned with.
“Jorn forgot to tell you that Niema is black of skin,” offered Yualla. My frown cleared, for now I recognized the name as that of the black woman for whom Zuma had been searching.
I opened my mouth to say as much, when the swift movement of events made my remark unnecessary.
Varak yelled excitedly, pointing with his spear. We turned to look down the beach and saw a most welcome sight, indeed. For toward us strode a grinning Zuma with his arm about the supple waist of a stunningly handsome black woman garbed and armed as he … and behind them waddled the huge, hairy form of Hurok of Kor, accompanied by a smaller, slighter Korian, obviously the female of the species.
Before long we were all together again, and many tales were told and Zuma introduced us to his mate, Niema of the Aziru, while Hurok made us known to his she, Gorah of Kor.
Niema greeted us modestly, beaming with happiness at finding her beloved Zuma, but Gorah was more timid and reluctant and hung back shyly, saying little and half afraid to meet our eyes. She had seen very few of the panjani and had always been taught to regard them as her implacable enemies, and the enemies of all her kind.
For our part, however, we looked the Neanderthal woman over with frank curiosity, never having before seen a female of the race. As I have mentioned, Gorah was smaller and lighter of build than her mighty mate, and where his muscular body was thatched with matted russet fur, her skin was less hairy than his, and the fur was more downlike and silky, a lovely shade of coppery-red. It grew on her forearms to the elbow, and on her heavy thighs, and a patch grew between her shoulder-blades, while the hair on her head was heavier and longer than Hurok’s. As well, her features were less crude and more refined than his, although she was certainly not to be considered handsome beside the Cro-Magnon women.
Still and all, in the eyes of Hurok she was beautiful, and, after all, that’s what really mattered.
“Now we are missing only the old man, your friend, for our number to be complete once again,” sighed Varak, sliding his arm around his own mate, little Ialys of Zar. I nodded grimly.
“I would have thought the old fool would have returned quite a while ago,” I grumbled, “since the volcanic action has subsided long since.” And it was true: an hour or so had gone by since the eruption and earthquake had shaken the jungle and split the southern plain, and still Professor Potter had not returned to our camp.
“Then it is the suggestion of Zuma that we go and find the old man,” said that warrior.
By this time we had all eaten, sharing our food with the new arrivals, who were rested from their various exertions and adventures, so we broke camp, extinguished the cook-fire by raking dry sand over the glowing coals, took up our weapons and entered the jungles.
“See! Did not Varak speak the truth awhile back?” exclaimed Varak, pointing to where a crude mark had been cut in the bark of a tall cycad.
And I remembered that he had earlier predicted that the Professor would not be foolish enough to try to go through the jungle without blazing a trail so that he could find his way back to our encampment on the beach, since one part of the jungle looks so very much like every other part of the jungle, and it is easy to lose one’s way therein-especially if one lacks the Zanthodonians’ innate sense of direction.
“Thank heaven for small favors!” I said grumpily.
Following the trail the Professor had left, we moved swiftly through the jungle country.
Chapter 23. THE LOST TRAIL
With a gloomy look on his face, Professor Percival P. Potter surrendered his spear and Darya did likewise, while Manfred Von Kohler stood smiling at his ease, his own rifle now slu
ng upon one shoulder.
“Well, sir, we are your prisoners now, for the sudden appearance of your comrade has quite effectively turned the tables,” said the old scientist stiffly.
Von Kohler smiled broadly and clicked his boot heels together, inclining his head in a brief nod.
“I thank you, Herr Doktor! And I must admit that this turn of events pleases me deeply, for it gives me precisely the sort of opportunity I was just wishing for.”
While the Professor and Darya looked at him uncomprehendingly, the officer turned to the second soldier who stood at the far side of the glen, his rifle leveled.
“Corporal Schmidt!”
“Ja, Herr Oberlieutenant?”
“You will oblige me by putting up your rifle,” said the officer crisply. Schmidt blinked, but obeyed, slinging the Mauser over his shoulder.
Von Kohler turned to the Professor and the Cro-Magnon princess.
“Herr Doktor, if you and the fraulein would likewise oblige me, you would take up your weapons again,” he said.
The Professor wasted no time in stooping to snatch up his spear and Darya took up her own.
“Now you are armed again, and our firearms are across our shoulders,” said the Baron. “Corporal Schmidt’s unexpected appearance on the scene has granted me the very opportunity I wanted-the perfect way to-prove to you and the fraulein that I and my soldiers wish to be your allies, not your captors or even your enemies!”
The Professor gaped.
“Well, upon my soul,” he stammered helplessly. But Darya proved herself quicker on the uptake than was the savant. With a warm, generous smile, she shouldered her spear and stepped forward to lay the palm of her hand lightly upon the breast of the German officer. It was the simple Cro-Magnon equivalent of a friendly handshake, the welcome to a new ally.
And the officer gallantly returned the gesture in his own way, by lifting her hand gently to his lips with a courtly bow which the jungle girl privately thought charming.
