by Lin Carter
He paled to the color of fresh milk; his heart sank into what remained of his waterlogged boots and remained there, feebly palpitating; and his scientific curiosity awoke within him to acute and fascinated intensity.
During the weeks that he had spent here in the Underground World, the Professor had seen a wide assortment of rare and remarkable survivals from the remote eons of Earth’s distant past.
The omodon, or great Cave Bear of the Ice Age, and its contemporaries, the wooly mammoth which the men of Zanthodon call the thantor and the dreaded sabertooth tiger, the vandar. As well, he had viewed with awe and amazement survivals from the Age of Reptiles, such as the grymp, or triceratops, the plesiosaur, which the primitives call the yith, and that fantastic flying dragon of the dawn, the mighty pterodactyl—the thakdol, as the men of the Underground World term it.
But the elderly savant had also observed species hitherto unknown to men of science and as yet unrecorded in their fossil histories, and had heard of yet others unfamiliar to him and probably unknown—such as the enormous albino spiders called the vathrib, and a kind of giant serpent, the xunth, which attains a length of more than thirty feet.
The creature which now came creeping upon him out of the underbrush was like nothing which Professor Potter had ever seen or heard of before.
It was a huge, slimy, crawling slug or leech, and it was nearly five feet in length. The curved back of the creature was in color a slick, leathery brown, but its under-surface was tender pink in hue.
That tender and fleshy underbelly was lined with hard suckers, like craters left by a broken pustule. The Professor shuddered in loathing at the thought of those suckers clasping naked human flesh, and sucking therefrom the hot blood of men, as do the smaller leeches of the Upper World.
But the most horrible and repellent feature about the monstrous leech was not its size or its nature, but the uncanny gleam of cold, inhuman intelligence that burned in its eyes.
For the front portion of the enormous slug-like thing tapered into something like a curled snout. This obscene proboscis—it could hardly be dignified by calling it a head—bore rows of small, gleaming red eyes. These were six in all. And within them glowed an alien sentience that was appalling: they possessed at once the chill, unwinking fascination of the eyes of a cobra…and an intellect vast, frigid, awesome.
The unblinking gaze of those six staring eyes held the old man frozen where he stood, as the gaze of a serpent reputedly is able to root to the spot the helpless fowl which is to be its prey.
Dizzily, the Professor stared into that febrile, unwavering and multiple glare. In his fear-frozen mind, it seemed that the six eyes expanded like unto mad red moons, until staring into them was like staring into the lambent but motionless depths of a sea of scarlet luminance.
And all the while that it held the old man rooted to the spot with its unwinking and hypnotic stare, the monstrous leech-like thing crept slowly nearer and nearer to where he stood.
Sick with fear, petrified with fascination, the Professor dimly guessed that the gigantic leech lived upon the blood of men and of beasts, much as do the smaller leeches he was familiar with in the world above. They are noisome and squeamish-making, but due to their smallness, can do a fullgrown man little harm.
But the leech that slithered and crept toward him now was nearly as tall as he was.
And the horrible mouths of those crater-like excresences that lined its pink and tender underbelly could suck a man dry in minutes.
There was nothing the old man could do to defend himself against the slimy vampire leech. Fast fixed in the hypnotic gaze of those snakelike eyes, he was utterly unable to move so much as the tip of one finger. And even if he had been able to move, his back was set against a sheer wall of unbroken stone, and the only aisle through the dense, thick wall of solid vegetation was the aisle down which the loathsome slug came slithering toward him.
Cold sweat slicked the old man’s bald brow. It ran down the insides of his thighs and down his bony ribs. Fear and loathing such as he had never before experienced or even imagined rose within his heart. Sick with horror and disgust, he stared into the soulless glare of those inhuman eyes, and watched the most hideous death known to him as it crept to his very feet.
Now that wriggling proboscis touched the toe of his boot, all the while holding him entranced and helpless with the glare of its unwinking multiple eyes.
He endured the sensation—although his skin crawled and sickness was in the pit of his belly—as it fumbled at his feet.
Then—horribly!—it reared up before him with a lithe, snaky motion ghastly to watch.
For one unbearable instant those hideous eyes stared at the same level directly into his own.
And then it was upon him, and the Professor felt his consciousness dim into roiling blackness as he sank into the loathsome embrace.
And he knew no more.
* * * *
I must now turn back from the course of my narrative to recount certain events which transpired only a little earlier. If you have perused the first portion of the story of my adventures in Zanthodon the Underground World, you will recall how the Professor and the young Stone Age boy, Jorn the Hunter, found a narrow pass which wound through the cliffy walls of the Peaks of Peril, and how they emerged to view the shore and the lagoon and the amazing vessel of the Barbary pirates—whose presence here in the Underground World neither of them had ever suspected.
When Jorn exited from the mountain pass just in time to see his lost Princess borne a naked and helpless captive aboard the pirate galley, the brave cave boy did not for one moment hesitate to spring to her rescue.
Without a word to his companion, the warrior flung his lean, strong body into the seething waters that boiled in the wake of the Moorish galley.
As the half-naked lad clove the waves, heading directly for the strange ship—whose like he and his people had never seen before—the sailors along the rail caught sight of him and raised their voices to hail their captain, who had just come aboard, burdened with the struggling cave girl.
“O, reis Kâiradine! Behold!” they shouted, pointing. And the hawklike gaze of the Barbary pirate had narrowed, considering. He could not help admiring with faint astonishment the reckless and foolhardy daring of the savage boy, to strive singlehandedly to rescue the savage girl whom Kâiradine presumed to be his jungle sweetheart. But he wished to be gone from this place, and to enjoy his prize at leisure.
Therefore he had raised his jeweled hand carelessly in a languid gesture. And in the next instant his pirates unlimbered their horn bows, nocking barbed and deadly arrows and drawing the bows until the feathered shaft nestled against their ears.
An instant before the murderous rain of arrows hissed about him, Jorn sucked in a deep, hasty breath, and dove to the shallow bottom of the lagoon. He had just sunk into the depths as the deadly hail tore the muddy waters to froth. So closely simultaneous had been his diving to the bottom and the fall of the vicious barbed rain directly where his body had been but an instant before, that the sailors, squinting into the bright, dancing waters, believed they had slain the youth.
Moments later, the pirate galley came about into the breeze and swung out into the bosom of the Sogar-Jad. But, unbeknownst to any aboard the vessel, clinging to the keel was a stalwart youth with murder in his heart.
Pausing only to catch his breath, Jorn swung himself up out of the fuming wake and clambered up the rudder to a position just below the windows of the captain’s cabin, which gave forth a view of the ship’s wake.
Clutching the wooden sill in strong, wet hands, Jorn levered himself up and peered through the panes to see Darya struggling naked on the bed with the corsair towering above her, one heavy hand raised to deal the girl a resounding buffet.
Thus had Jorn, without a moment’s pause for thought, pulled hi
mself up and hurled through the swinging windows to spring upon the astounded Barbary pirate like a striking leopard. He bore the larger man to the floor beneath the impact of his hurtling weight, and in the next instant his strong hands locked about the throat of the corsair, just beneath his thin fringe of red beard.
As Kâiradine kicked-and struggled, striking Jorn about the face and shoulders, the savage boy buried his face in the pirate’s breast to avoid his stinging blows; and all the while his sinewy hands closed upon the throat of his gasping adversary with throttling pressure.
As for the pirate, his mouth was open, froth beading his thin lips and flecking his fringe of trim beard. His face blackened as he strove with starved and laboring lungs to suck in one precious breath of air, and a red mist darkened before his gaze while a stealthy numbness crept like some insidious venom through his veins. Taller and stronger was the older man, and in an even match there was little doubt that Kâiradine would, with some effort and a bit of good luck, have been able to best the savage youth.
But when the boy’s leap had bowled the pirate over, his turbaned brow had struck the edge of the bunk with stunning force. Half unconscious from the numbing blow, even the sinewy strength of the pirate chieftain was of little avail against the tigerish fury of the cave boy. And this terrible truth burned like a branding iron through the darkening brain of Kâiradine Redbeard as he sank into swirling darkness and knew no more.
“Reis? Lord Kâiradine? Is aught amiss?” came startled voices at the door, and the drumming of pounding fists. It was obvious that the noise of their struggle had aroused the pirate’s crew to the defense of their chieftain. Reluctantly, Jorn let his crushing grip loosen about the throat of the pirate. Automatically, the unconscious corsair drank into his starved lungs a delicious gulp of fresh sea air.
“Jorn!” cried Darya, springing from the bunk. “We must be gone from here before they come to aid him—”
The boy nodded. Seizing up Darya, he flung her through the open window. As she fell into the sea he sprang upon the sill, and launched his lithe bronzed body after her.
In an instant, both had vanished in the boiling waters of the ship’s wake. And when, a moment later, the wild-eyed corsairs burst into the cabin to find their captain halfthrottled and semi-conscious on the floor and his young captive vanished as if into thin air, the superstitious pirates rolled their eyes in fright at each other, and mumbled half-forgotten texts from the Book of the Prophet.
In their tension and excitement, the corsairs did not notice that the rear windows of the cabin were even at that moment swinging slowly shut as the pirate galley pitched to the roll of the waves. Had Jorn burst through the portal, smashing his way into the cabin in a shower of shattering glass, the sailors would at once have realized the method of exit employed by the captive cave girl. But this had not been necessary, for Jorn had thrust the windows open with a nudge of his shoulders as he had levered himself up to the sill.
Hence the vanishing of the girl was a mystery which struck uncanny fear into their wild and untutored hearts.
For a grown man, in the full noontide of his strength, to be beaten to the floor and half-strangled to death by a mere slip of a wench scarcely out of her teens—who then inexplicably dissolved into empty air, leaving not a trace behind—caused the pirates to recall, with a shuddering foreboding, every weird and frightful legend they had ever heard whispered of the fearsome and mysterious Jinn.
[1] Survive it did, and it came into my hands by curious means I am still not permitted to disclose. Suffice it to say, however, that the first volume of Eric Carstairs’ account of his adventures in Zanthodon has been edited by myself and was recently published by DAW books under the title of Journey to the Underground World. Since I am unable to explain how the manuscript came into my possession, my publishers have chosen to regard this as purely a work of fiction, placing no credence in my claims that the story is presumably a true account, and it was published under the name of Lin Carter.
[2] Such directions are, of course, utterly meaningless in this subterranean world where the sun never shines. Lit forever by the perpetual phosphorescence of the cavern’s roof, the Underground World and its denizens have no need for such referents. But I believe Eric Carstairs uses such terms as north, south, east and west in the manner of a convenient verbal shorthand. The Cro-Magnons had yet to invent the compass.
[3] Drugars, in the universal language of Zanthodon, means “the Ugly Ones,” and is used by the Cro-Magnons to refer to the Neanderthals. It may be presumed that, among themselves, the Drugars employ a more polite name for their own race. Panjani means “smoothskin” and is used by the Neanderthals to describe the Cro- Magnons, who doubtless also have another name for themselves.
[4] Remarkable, indeed, but doubtless natural enough, in a world devoid of day and night, whose climate remains eternal summer, without the cycle of the seasons or the grand wheeling of stars and constellations. The denizens of such a world would probably have no reason to invent so abstract a concept as that of time.
PART II: THE PEAKS OF PERIL
CHAPTER 6
Any Port in a Storm
Hurok of the Drugars had not gone very far into the depths of the jungle before he paused to linger indecisively in a small glade. As the huge, hulking Neanderthal stood there, his heavy brows knotted in thought, his mighty form dappled by light and shade, he made a striking picture. For, ape-like though indeed were his sloping shoulders, splayed feet and long, dangling, massively muscled arms, there was about the simple Drugar an element of natural majesty. Perhaps it was that within his breast the feeble spark of humanity struggled with the savage brute that was his heritage, and that within his mind a dim but vital change was taking place.
To such as Hurok and his kind life is a mere matter of survival, and such feelings and sentiments as friendship, loyalty, chivalry and self-sacrifice are alien and unprized.
However, in even the short while that he and I had traversed the savage wilderness as comrades, he had learned that the softer emotions are not without value or worth, even in Zanthodon. For I had taught him the meaning of compassion and of friendship…and as for the feelings he bore for myself, which even now struggled within his mighty heart against the resentment and bitterness of what he deemed my betrayal, his awareness of these feelings also made him realize that never again could he return to the cruel and savage ways of his beast-like kind.
Once the sentiments of civilization have been experienced, even such as Hurok the Drugar are forever changed. And, as I firmly believe, changed for the better.
As there was really nowhere else for Hurok to go, he soon turned about and retraced his steps to that place near the edge of the jungle where we had not long since parted company.
Perhaps the Apeman could have returned to his own country on the island of Ganadol to challenge and conquer whatever rival males had survived the stampede and the battle, but of what avail would it have been to such as Hurok had now become to rule a savage kingdom like Kor, for can a man who has once tasted the friendship and the company of civilized men ever again be satisfied with lording it over a grunting tribe of shaggy brutes?
No. There was no place in all of Zanthodon for Hurok of Kor but at the side of the friend he knew as Black Hair. And when once the sluggish mind of my Neanderthal friend had reached a decision, he acted upon it without pause for further thought.
Reaching the jungle’s edge, Hurok examined the breadth of the plain of the trantors without discovering any sign of my presence. Nevertheless, since it had been my avowed intention to traverse the plain and to search for my Princess among the Peaks of Peril, he proceeded in that direction. Trotting with an easy, jogging stride that one with his bull-like strength and stamina could maintain without fatigue for many miles, Hurok crossed the plain in the direction of the distant peaks.
&n
bsp; Erelong, Hurok discovered my spoor. He at once flung himself prone in the long grasses and sniffed at the marks made in the earth by my sandaled feet. While the eyes of such as Hurok of the Drugars might be relatively dim and feeble compared to our own, his sense of smell was as acute as that of the beasthood from which his people had scarcely emerged. The hairy nostrils of Hurok of Kor could recognize the body odor of every man or woman he had ever met, even as we can remember the faces of all our acquaintances. Thus, satisfied that he had found my trail, Hurok climbed to his feet again and proceeded in the direction I had taken only a little while before him.
Before very long, Hurok espied the marks of other feet than mine, bent in the same direction. An experienced tracker such as Hurok could read much in the small signs of their spoor, in the bent stem of a piece of grass, a disturbed patch of sandy soil, a recently dislodged pebble. And, using that same incredibly keen sense of smell which had enabled him to identify my tracks, Hurok soon came to know that the three men pursuing me were none other than Fumio, Xask and One-Eye.
Hurok picked up the pace and began to sprint. He could discern no reason why these three should be on my trail, but he was sufficiently familiar with all three to know Fumio for a sneering coward and a braggart, who had good cause to hate me, and Xask for a cunning schemer, while One-Eye he knew from of old for a brutal and cruel villain.
And Hurok feared for my safety at the hands of such men as these.
Before long, the mountains heaved up their gray and rocky heights athwart his path. The Korian didn’t waste time in searching for a pass through the mountains, for time was of the essence and I might even then be in peril of my life. So without further ado, Hurok reached up, grabbed a handhold, and heaved himself up to a level where his huge splayed feet could find purchase.
