by Lin Carter
Touching the Professor’s arm to get his attention, she pointed to a great tree. Then she sprang up, seized one of the lower boughs, and swung herself into the foliage with the nimble agility of a young acrobat. Eyeing the tree limbs distrustfully, Professor Potter groaned to himself. He ached in every limb and muscle, and even in his hardy youth he had never been very good at climbing trees.
Darya swung down to the sward again to give the old man a boost up. She just boosted him into the tree when three things happened at the same moment.
There burst through the trees almost in front of her a band of swarthy, grinning men brandishing scimitars. Her heart sank, for she recognized them—the Barbary pirates, who had not, after all, given up their search for her. And Achmed ran gloating eyes over her; how pleased would be the reis Kâiradine! For Achmed the Moor had watched as Xask and Fumio had carried her and the Professor off, and had followed with all dispatch, eager to seize the jungle girl his captain coveted.
At the identical instant, One-Eye, with Murg cowering in his wake, lurched into the small clearing, saw Darya and lunged for her. Doubtless, it was his intent to seize and silence the two before they had time to utter any outcry which might apprise the pursuing panjani of their presence.
The small, dim eyes of the hulking Neanderthal did not at once notice the Barbary pirates, for his gaze was fixed intently upon the girl alone. But they certainly noticed him.
Uttering a startled oath, Achmed sprang forward and lunged with his blade. The point of the scimitar is not a good thrusting weapon; generally, you cut or slice with the edge. But, in a pinch, it can serve.
The steel blade sank into the shaggy breast of One-Eye. Giving voice to a deep-chested, bestial roar, the Neanderthal swung with one huge hand, slapping the Moor aside. Then he lurched back, fumbling with numbed fingers for his stone axe. The blade of the scimitar was still sticking out of his burly chest. Gaze dimming, One-Eye blinked puzzledly down at the glittering thing. He tried to pull it out, but the strength was draining out of his massive arms, and his hands felt cold and lifeless.
His thick, blubbery lips parted, revealing blunt and yellowed tusks. One-Eye tried to say something, but the power of speech had left him. Blood gushed from his open mouth and his one eye glazed, rolling up in his head, revealing the bloodshot white.
Then he toppled over and lay without moving. For a time his huge breast rose and fell as he fought for breath. Then even that motion ceased and he lay still.
Thus perished One-Eye of the Drugars, High Chief of the Apemen of Kor.
And it was upon this astounding scene that Fumio came blundering. He stopped short, turning pale, and did not even try to resist as the corsairs sprang upon him and lashed his wrists behind his back. They bound Darya, too; and then the Barbary pirates led their captives off through the jungle in the direction of the coast and the lagoon, where their longboats still were moored.
As for Murg, no one bothered to notice as he furtively slunk out of sight, concealing himself in the jungle.
And as for the Professor, he clung for dear life to the branch of the tree. Darya had thrust him up just as the Barbary pirates appeared; concealed behind the thick foliage, clinging to the branch with all the strength in his skinny arms and legs, he perforce must watch as the young woman was led off by the corsairs. He was unable to interfere because he was unable to get down.
How could he ever explain his inability to act in Darya’s defense to Eric Carstairs—the dear boy—he thought miserably as he hung upside down, waiting for the first monster to come along and have professor for lunch.
CHAPTER 25
THE DRAGONMEN OF ZAR
We began to emerge from the cavern city, our tasks there more or less accomplished. As things chanced, Hurok and I were among the first to return out of the hollow mountains. And when we came to the encampment, of course, we discovered everything in a turmoil. Nian and Yualla hastened to apprise us that Xask and Fumio had stolen away Darya and Professor Potter. They did not know either of the two men by name, but I recognized the villains from their descriptions. And my heart sank into my breast.
I felt a little more optimistic as they told me how Ragor, Erdon and seven of the other warriors of Thandar and Sothar had pursued our stolen friends into the jungle. And from that venture they had not as yet returned.
Garth and Tharn and the rest of the tribal warriors had not yet emerged from the cavern city. But I resolved not to waste precious time in delay, and to press on after Darya and her captors myself, with only my small war party. Instructing the folk of the encampment to apprise the two High Chiefs of what had transpired as soon as they reappeared, we caught up our weapons and vanished into the jungles.
With Hurok and Jorn and Varak at my side, I knew that we had little to fear from the likes of Xask and Fumio.
We spread out to comb the jungles, correctly guessing that Xask would have traveled in a straight line, making for the open country. It was Jorn who led the way; the keen eyes of the young huntsman easily followed the trail of the captives and their captors, spotting the imprint of Darya’s foot in the loam and even the mark of Fumio’s buskins.
“How do you know they belong to Fumio?” I inquired. The blond boy grinned.
“The stitching on the sole is after the fashion of the men of Thandar,” he pointed out. “The feet of the men of Sothar bear stitching after another mode.”
We traversed the jungle with all possible speed. Entering a large glade, we stopped short at the sight of One-Eye’s huge, hairy carcass. I stooped to examine the corpse. He had not been dead for very long, for the blood upon his breast and beard was still wet.
“Well, you old rogue,” I muttered, half affectionately, “you finally paid the price for your villainies, didn’t you?”
I did not exactly mourn the passing of One-Eye; but somehow life would be a little less livelier here in Zanthodon without him.
Just then a quavering voice came from the treetops.
“I say, my boy, is that you?”
“Doc!” I gasped. “What the hell are you doing up there?”
With dignity he explained shortly that he was simply too old for these shenanigans. “Your young lady assisted me to ascend,” he said testily. “Once aloft, I found it impossible to descend again. Then the Barbary pirates appeared, slew that hulking brute over there, and carried off the young woman and that rascal Fumio.”
I frowned, my face grim. I had a score or two to settle with Fumio; someday soon, please heaven, we would meet face to face.
My warriors assisted the Professor out of his tree, and we continued our search in the direction which he informed us the pirates had taken. Before very long we came out of the jungle onto the shore of that little promontory, and there we found Ragor, Erdon, Warza, Parthon and the other warriors. They hailed us and we joined them.
“Ragor, have you discovered any sign of the gomad Darya?” I demanded as we came up to them.
“Alas, Eric Carstairs, they moved too swiftly for us to overtake them,” the warrior said grimly.
I stifled a groan. Then I paused to look around me at the scene. There, of course, lay the lagoon and the glade and the river, with the Peaks of Peril beyond. It seemed to me that this small parcel of real estate had seen a lot more action than it deserved. In that stream Darya had bathed when first Redbeard had carried her off; from that copse of trees the aurochs had charged, scattered Xask, Fumio, One-Eye and me; there on that stretch of beach Jorn and the Professor had seen Darya carried aboard the corsair galley; farther up that curve of sand, Jorn and Darya had waded ashore after escaping from the pirates.
An awful lot had happened in this particular piece of scenery.
Well, the longboats were gone, but we found the place where they had been concealed. Jorn climbed a tall tree and reported that he could see the crimson sails of
the Red Witch as she sailed farther up along the coast; undoubtedly, my beloved Princess and the villainous Fumio were captives aboard her.
I resolved in my heart to follow that coast until I discovered the pirate stronghold, and to tear it apart stone by stone, if necessary, until I rescued my beloved.
For I knew now that it was Darya whom I loved.
I have known many women; I have loved only one.
* * * *
There came a slight disturbance from our rear. The bushes crackled, making my warriors spring about, javelins lifted. But it was only Murg. He was splashed with mud and filthy from crawling through the bushes, but he seemed unharmed. Whimpering, he related how he had followed One-Eye and been captured by him. Then he related an account of Darya’s capture by the corsairs that matched everything Professor Potter had told us.
I was not particularly pleased to see Murg again, but what the hell. I had a lot more important things on my mind than one whining little Sotharian.
“It will take us too long to retrace our way through the jungle and scale the line of cliffs to the other side,” I said to my warriors. “I mean to pursue the pirate ship to its home port, wherever in the vastness of Zanthodon that may be.”
“And the warriors of Black Hair will accompany him, be it to the end of life itself,” grunted Hurok solemnly. I clapped him on one huge, ape-like shoulder, not trusting myself to speak.
“The only thing to do is to circle the promontory, keeping to the beach,” I said. “It’s the long way ‘round, I suppose, but it seems the best way to me.”
“Eric Carstairs will lead and we, his warriors, will follow,” vowed Varak of Sothar. I nodded.
“Let’s get going,” I said shortly.
We trotted up the beach of the lagoon and, to make a long story short, followed the strand the length of the promontory, then back along its farther side, which none of us had yet seen. There was nothing else for Murg to do but trot along unhappily at our rear. I suppose he was reluctant to join in any enterprise so daring and perilous. On the other hand, he didn’t care to be left behind all alone. The last time he’d done that sort of thing he had been jumped by One-Eye. One-Eye was dead now, but, for people like Murg, the world is full of One-Eyes.
On the far side of the promontory, the coast stretched away in a long curve. An immense grassy plain met our eyes, larger in its extent than the plain of the trantors on the other side of the Peaks of Peril. Far off beyond the plain, on the misty horizon, we saw dim islands in the sea of Sogar-Jad, and a line of mountains marching down the world. A green mass at the foot of those mountains could only be another sector of jungle country.
“My chieftain, we can make better time by traversing these plains in a straight line than by following the coast of the sea,” suggested Jorn diffidently. “See how it curves upon itself.”
I agreed instantly. If we crossed the plain in a straight line, we would reach the farther edge of the sea more swiftly than if we followed the meandering curve of the seacoast.
After a very brief rest, we proceeded to do so.
* * * *
That Xask had survived the attack of the giant spider was due to his own cool nerves. When the shaggy horror had come picking its eight-legged way down the strands of the web, Fumio had turned pale as milk and bolted in pure fear.
I suppose his cowardly reaction was, after all, only natural. Gone was his respect for his divinity: if God cannot get himself out of a spiderweb, what could a mere mortal like Fumio do?
Xask had marshaled his strength and calmed his leaping pulse. Since it did no good to kick and struggle (that only enmeshed him the more tightly in the sticky strands), he would be wiser to apply common sense. Xask lifted his legs off the ground and folded them under him. His weight was slight, for he was a man of slender build, but he still weighed a lot more than the timid little uld for whom the web had been spun.
In a word, the web sagged under the dead weight of the Zarian. The strands stretched; one or two of them snapped. Xask found himself lying on his back upon the sward with only his forearms still caught in the web. Using his feet, he kicked himself backwards until the web stretched even farther. Another strand snapped, then another. Eventually he was free.
During these unexpected actions, the bloated albino spider had prudently ceased its descent. It hung there cautiously watching the strange actions of its prey. When that prey managed to disentangle itself from the web, the spider waited until the man-thing had vanished out of sight, then began patiently and philosophically to repair the damage done to its web.
There will always be another uld, it probably thought to itself.
Xask reached a jungle stream and washed himself, scraping his arms and legs free of the stickiness with handful: of gritty sand scooped from the bottom. Then he continued on through the jungle with extreme caution.
When he emerged onto the beach, the first thing he saw was Eric Carstairs and his warriors circumambulating the promontory. It was still the desire of the Zarian to capture Eric Carstairs again, so that he could coax or threaten or pry from him the secrets of the thunder-weapon which he still wore at his waist.
So Xask, keeping well out of sight, simply followed our tracks.
When he reached the plain beyond the promontory, our tracks abruptly ceased. It did not take Xask very long to figure out that we were traversing the plain in a straight line in order to save time. It puzzled the clever little Zarian, though. What did we think we were doing? Of course, Xask had no way of knowing about the Princess Darya or the Barbary pirates; but even if he had known, our actions would have remained incomprehensible to him.
For what does a man like Xask know about the love between a man and a woman? All he is capable of feeling is the love of power.
As there was nothing else for him to do, Xask followed us across the plain.
* * * *
We did not get very far. Intent on running and trying to conserve our strength, we were trotting along, not paying enough attention to the things in our immediate vicinity. This is usually a mistake anywhere; it is a real big mistake to make in Zanthodon. For the Underground World has more surprises than you can imagine.
We ran into a herd of dinosaurs.
They were very big dinosaurs, with long, curving necks and pebbled bronze-and-copper hides.
There were a few things very strange about them. The first thing was that they wore bridles, bits and reins. Another thing that was odd was that they were hunting us.
The third thing was that men were riding on their backs.
“The Dragonmen of Zar!” cried Varak, eyes bulging. “Barely did the warriors of Sothar elude their clutches as we journeyed hither from our lost land! We are doomed, my chieftain!”
By this time the men in the saddles had seen us and were coming about.
“Scatter!” I yelled. “Lose yourselves—hide in the grass!”
Obediently, my men spread out in different directions and hid themselves, even Murg.
It didn’t do us much good, though. Leaping from the backs of their gigantic mounts, the Dragonmen pursued. The only ones they caught were the Professor and myself. They prodded us to our feet with slender spears crafted of some light, glittering metal. Then they looked us over, talking among themselves in a tongue I did not recognize but the Professor did. His eyes lit up with that spooky excitement that is the fervor of the scholar.
“By Ventris and Evans!” he breathed, voice quavering. “They are speaking the language of ancient Crete—Minoan Crete, by all that’s unholy!”
“Yeah?” I said skeptically, while the little men bound my wrists behind me, and others stood guard with leveled spears. “I knew the writings haft been deciphered, but I didn’t know anybody had figgered out what their lingo sounds like—”
“Well, I have a Theory of my
own,” he began, eyes glittering. I groaned, having heard that one far too many times before.
They dragged us up to share the capacious saddles, tugged the heads of their dragonish steeds around and we went riding off across the plains toward the edge of the distant mountains. My men were widely scattered and had not dared to try to rescue us lest we be slain, I knew.
Suddenly, a small, slim figure that I recognized stepped into our path with lifted arms. The Dragonmen reined their reptiles to a ponderous halt.
“It is Prince Xask!” one of them cried in amazement. “The exile—the outlaw!”
“The Empress has placed him under sentence of death if ever he shows his face among us again,” said another. “Let us ride him down—”
“Hold!” cried Xask. “The Sacred Empress will revoke the sentence of death that lies upon my head when she sees the gift I bring to lay at her feet!”
“What gift may that be, Xask the Liar?” demanded the leader, disbelief visible in his countenance.
“The key to the throne of all the world!” cried Xask, taking something from his waist and brandishing it. And my heart sank within me to the chill of a ghastly premonition.
For it was my .45 automatic—the thunder-weapon.
* * * *
The decision was beyond the authority of the captain of this squad of Dragonmen. Binding Xask as we ourselves were bound, he was mounted behind one of the riders, and we continued off lumbering across the plains. Catching my eye, Xask smiled. It wasn’t a smile so much as an oily, gloating smirk. I kept my face stony.
We rode away.
But behind us, Hurok the Apeman rose to his feet from the thick grasses where he had concealed himself, and his great hands clenched and unclenched hungrily.
