by Lin Carter
Moustapha also commanded that a full accounting be made for every man and woman in El-Cazar, so as to ascertain who lived and who had perished in battle against the savages. While this was being accomplished, he moved his personal belongings into the now empty residence of Kâiradine Redbeard, and had himself proclaimed de facto Prince of El-Cazar by the leaders of the Brotherhood.
He then ordered that every able-bodied man not otherwise employed be set to work attempting to clear the harbor. Some of the hulks were still only half-submerged, and by dint of much toil could be hauled out of the way, their unburnt timber and cordage and canvas salvaged and stored away toward the construction of future galleys.
When he received the accounting of the dead and missing, the totals were indeed disheartening. All of the captains, and most of their veteran officers, were dead. Quite a large number of the ordinary seamen had fallen in battle against the savage horde which had invaded the pirate isle, and many others had suffered injuries serious enough to incapacitate them for many weeks to come.
Moreover, almost to a man, the Cro-Magnon slaves and captives had fled the island—apparently in company with the blond invaders. All of which left the fighting strength and work force of El-Cazar very seriously depleted, indeed. And this would prolong the time required to put the pirate city to rights again.…
Moustapha growled an oath, then shrugged philosophically. There was no point in weeping over spilled blood, and the dead could not return to life to assist the living. So, in the meanwhile, he directed that repairs go forward on his crippled flag-ship, the Lion of Islam and on two of the smaller galleys which had escaped the serious demolition at the hands of the Cro-Magnon conquerors.
For Moustapha fully intended to follow the savages to the mainland and extract a bloody vengeance from them.
Also, he needed slaves.…
So, just as soon as enough ships could be made seaworthy again, he determined to descend upon the subterranean continent of Zanthodon and put the warriors of Thandar to the sword, carrying off their women and children to replenish the harems and bordellos of El-Cazar.
* * * *
But where, during all of these events, was Kâiradine Redbeard? This unanswered question plagued Moustapha sorely, for the former Prince of the Barbary Pirates was not to be found either among the rosters of the slain or the listings of the living.
Moustapha knew his prince from of old to be a cunning and a cautious man. Perhaps he had taken refuge in some secret hiding place known only to himself.…
But if so, why did he persist in remaining in hiding?
There was no answer to that ominous question, and it made Moustapha distinctly uneasy.
CHAPTER 25
MURG HAS A SECRET
The mighty thodars of Zar traversed the great plains of the north with ponderous but unwearied stride. The Divine Empress had mustered an imposing host from the decimated legions of the Scarlet City, for she meant to fall upon the blond barbarians and wreak a fearful slaughter in vengeance for the destruction of the Scarlet City of Zar.
Only grudgingly did she permit her men and beasts brief respite from the march. They barely had time to relieve nature and munch a hasty meal before the trumpets summoned them back into the saddles again. As for the huge saurians they rode, the poor reptiles scarcely had time to gulp down a few mouthfuls of meadowgrass before mentally commanded to continue the journey.
Zarys knew, or shrewdly guessed, that the savages were not very far ahead of her pursuing legions. She could not, of course, have known that Garth of Sothar had taken a dreadful wound and was near death, which greatly slowed the flight of the Cro-Magnons across the plain to the edge of the sea, where they hoped to rejoin their brethren, the warriors of Thandar. But she sensed the savage horde was not very far ahead, and for this urgent reason the Empress begrudged every moment “wasted” on food or rest, as it delayed interminably the sweet hour of her sanguinary revenge.
At the forefront of the legions, mounted upon one of the monstrous reptiles which the Zarians employed in lieu of horses, rode Xask, resplendent in his glittering gold-washed armor as commander of the host.
The wiley vizier vastly enjoyed the power and prerogatives of his new office. Every advance in the favor of the Divine Zarys added to his authority and prestige; every new honor which he could wrest from his adversaries or rivals enhanced his own importance to the Empress, and put him one step nearer to the ultimate goal upon which he had decided long ago to direct his every energy.
To tell the truth, Xask was not exactly dissatisfied with this expedition, although privately he disapproved of revenge as essentially childish and nonproductive. But on an adventure such as this, who could foretell what accidents might befall?
Even an Empress might succumb to a stray arrow or a mishap.
Which would, of course, leave the Throne of Zar empty and untenanted…and not very far out of the reach of one as clever and cunning as, say, Xask.…
It would seem that the Machiavellian little vizier and Moustapha of El-Cazar had more in common than either of them could have guessed.
None of this would have come as any particular surprise to the Divine Zarys, could she have read the plots and counterplots that seethed through the busy brain of her vizier, behind the bland, obsequious mask of his features—although she would not have believed him capable of aiming at the throne itself, in all likelihood, since he was not even remotely descended from the sacred line of the immortal Minos.
But Zarys was herself a shrewd and capable judge of men, and knew their ambitiousness. Indeed, she played the ambitions of one courtier against those of another, to achieve excellent service and to maintain something of a balance of power between the rivals, each jealous of the other’s post or birth or position of favor.
Zarys had once before banished Xask from the Scarlet City, exiling him to a harsh life in the hostile wilderness beyond the mountains which encircled Zar, for a slip which had disclosed somewhat of his schemes against her throne. She had accepted him back into her service because he had promised her the secret of the thunder-weapon (as the folk of Zanthodon call my .45 automatic), which he believed he could extract from either Professor Potter or myself, and could then duplicate to arm her legions, rendering them invincible.
That this plan had fallen through—“blown up” would be the more apt phrase!—was not really the fault of Xask, who had been very close to achieving success. Still, he had betrayed her once, and now, for a second time, he had let her down.
The Empress resolved to keep a close eye on Xask. It was for this very reason that she had appointed him to the command of her legions, a post left vacant by the demise of Cromus. That meant he would remain at her side where she could keep an eye on him.
The only other alternative would have been to leave Xask behind in Zar, while she left her kingdom to pursue the fleeing savages.
And Zarys of Zar was certainly not fool enough to take that risk!
* * * *
In the rear of the Zarian force, Jorn the Hunter and Yualla of Sothar rode in the saddle of one of the thodars.
The saddle was capacious enough to accommodate both of the young Cro-Magnons, whose wrists were bound with stout thongs of leather. Yualla was seated in front of Jorn, whose hands were fastened around the girl, resting in her lap. Despite the dismal fact of their captivity, the caveboy and the cavegirl were very conscious of each other’s body. Jorn’s hands were upon the firm warm thighs of the scantily clad Cro-Magnon princess, and she was leaning back in the circle of his arms, very aware of his bare and muscular chest.
For a time, neither of them spoke. Then they began to converse in whispers, and the subject on which they conversed was, of course, their possible chances for escape. At the moment, these seemed few and frail, but one could never tell what lay in the womb of time.
Yualla wore only a soft, tanned hide which shielded her loins and extended up her slim body to cover one breast, leaving the other bare, while a strap of fur continued over her shoulder and was fastened to the rear portion of her brief garment. Her slender waist was cinched in by a girdle of leather.
“If only we had a sharp instrument, we could perhaps sever our bonds,” murmured Jorn in her ear. She nodded.
“I have such an instrument,” she confided to the boy in low tones. “A bronze knife, given to me by my father, Garth.”
Hope leaped up in Jorn’s heart.
“Where do you keep it?” he inquired.
“Beneath my garment,” she replied, “scabbarded below my right breast. I cannot reach it with my wrists tethered to the saddlehorn.…”
“My wrists are tethered to the saddlehorn, too,” said Jorn glumly. “Otherwise, perhaps I could reach it.”
“Your bonds are within reach of my fingers,” the girl whispered. “Perhaps I can untie them—”
“You can try, anyway.”
And try she did. It was difficult work, and she strove not to look down to her lap to see what she was doing, lest she catch the attention of the Dragonmen who rode to either side of them, directing the beast on which they were mounted with beams of telepathic thought.
It was slow and agonizing work, fumbling with the tightly knotted leathern thongs, but at length it seemed to Yualla that she had found the key to loosening the bonds of the boy. In time, one strap fell away, then another was loosened sufficiently for the young hunter to work one hand free of the rest. He kept his hand pressed against the warm thigh of the girl so as not to attract attention, while assisting her to free his other hand.
“At the next rest stop,” he said, once his hands were free, “we can make a break for freedom!”
“No,” said the girl decidedly. “It would not work—we cannot run fast enough to elude the Dragonmen of Zar, neither could we find any place to hide amid these flat and featureless plains.”
“Then what shall we do?” demanded Jorn restively. Yualla urged him to be patient.
“When the Dragonmen have reached the host of Sothar,” she said, “and are attacking, in the confusion of the battle surely we can slip away to rejoin my people.”
“I hope that you are right,” he said grimly.
“I hope I am, too,” the girl sighed.
They rode on in silence, as he cut her bonds with the bronze knife he had slipped from beneath her garment.
* * * *
As for poor, miserable Murg, he rode behind the two young people, sharing his saddle with a Dragonman called Ophar. The two did not at all get on well together, for Ophar did not care to share the saddle of his thodar with a savage, and resented having been ordered to do so, and seized upon every opportunity to take his resentment out on the hapless Murg.
It seemed to Murg’s way of thinking, and probably there was quite a bit of truth behind his opinion, that recently life had not played exactly fair with Murg. He had gone from one calamity to the next, from the horrible slavery of the Gorpaks in their ghastly cavern city to the cruel hands of the Neanderthal bully, One-Eye; from the dangerous adventurings with Hurok and my band of warriors, to being tethered by Yualla (whom, he had conveniently forgotten, he had tried to ravish while she slept); and from that condition to his present unhappy bondage by the Dragonmen of Zar, whom he feared mightily.
In short, Murg heartily wished that he had never left home. Of course, home to Murg was the tribal village of Sothar, which had been riven apart by earthquakes and then buried beneath seething rivers of liquid fire (which was how Murg named molten lava to himself), so to have remained back in Sothar would have been distinctly uncomfortable, at best, and doubtless seriously injurious to his health. But people like Murg can only feel sorry for themselves.
At any rate, Murg was thoroughly weary of a life which seemed to consist of one dangerous captivity after another. He wished only to be back with his tribe, surrounded (and, of course, protected) by the stalwart warriors of Sothar.
Alas, that wish seemed extremely unlikely of ever finding fulfillment: once the Dragonmen caught up with the warriors of Sothar, there would quickly ensue a frightful battle, and Murg didn’t like battles any more than he liked being someone’s slave.
But Murg had not survived to his present age in the hostile wilderness of Zanthodon without having long since learned to keep his eyes and ears open, and to remain alert to every slightest advantage that might come his way. Thus, while the Dragonmen remained oblivious to the fact, the keen eyes of Murg were not long in discerning that the hands of Jorn and Yualla were somehow freed. True, the boy and the girl had cunningly wrapped their thongs about their hands to simulate bondage, but it became obvious to Murg that the two had managed to free themselves, and were undoubtedly waiting for some sort of a diversion before making their break.
Murg saw everything in the light of what possible advantage it might afford the well-being of Murg. So he long and thoughtfully pondered this present discovery, without finding the advantage. Mounted on another thodar, the Cro-Magnon youngsters could hardly free Murg, even if they wished. Separated as they were, he could not threaten them with disclosure of their secret unless they took him along, because there was no chance for them to converse privately. Of what use to Murg, then, was this knowledge?
Then Murg thought of Xask.
The cunning tricksters of this life seem to recognize their brethren at a glance, and therefore Murg had long been aware that Xask was not unlike himself. At the first rest stop, therefore, Murg dared address the surly Dragonman whose saddle he was forced to share.
“If the lord pleases,” whined Murg in servile tones, cringing in anticipation of a blow, “I have important information for the lord Xask—”
“The Lord Commander Xask is not to be conversed with by the likes of you,” snarled the Dragonman, cuffing Murg aside.
“That,” declared Murg with unexpected and atypical daring, “is a matter which only the Lord Commander Xask may properly decide. And if the Lord Ophar refuses to permit this lowly one to pass along the important information of which I speak, then the wrath of the Lord Commander may perchance fall upon the Lord Ophar’s head.…”
Ophar was about to knock Murg to the ground for this impertinence, but stayed his hand. The whining cur might well speak the truth, and Ophar had great and good reason to fear the disapproval of Xask, who was a ruthless and unforgiving man.
“If the Lord Xask is unimpressed by the information whereof this scrawny savage boasts, then at least he will not fail to approve of the alert vigilance of Ophar, who did not scruple to bring to his attention anything that might be of interest to the Lord Xask. At any rate, how can I suffer for so doing?”
Thus reasoned the clever Ophar to himself. Then, aloud, to Murg, he said:
“Oh, very well, come along—but the information you claim to possess had better be of interest to the Lord Commander, or your miserable hide will bear the brunt of his—and my—disapproval!”
Murg nodded obsequiously, and trotted along at the heels of Ophar.
In his weaselly little heart, Murg hoped desperately that his news would indeed be of interest.…
But only time would tell.
[1] Actually, I never learned the eventual fate of the monster tyrannosaur. I assume that he escaped from the island city, swam or waded the moat-like lake which surrounds Zar, and vanished into the wilderness of Zanthodon. And good riddance!
PART VI: BATTLE BENEATH THE WORLD
CHAPTER 26
TRACKED BY THE UNKNOWN
By slow and easy stages the tribe of Sothar traversed the great northern plain, reaching at last the rocky coastline of the sea of Sogar-Jad.
It was at this place, I was informed, that the twin tribes had split in
twain, with the tribe of Thandar continuing their search for their lost princess, Darya, while Garth and his tribe struck off across the plains, following the few and faint traces which denoted the direction in which Yualla had been borne.
Arriving at this rocky shore, we found no slightest trace of the Thandarians. After this length of time, there was, of course, no way we could guess of the direction in which they had traveled, or the destination which they sought. Our only clue was that we knew Tharn of Thandar was searching for the stronghold of the Barbary Pirates, the fortress isle of El-Cazar. But we had no idea where, in all this expanse of misty sea, strewn with small rocky islets and archipelagoes, El-Cazar might lie.
Garth, the Omad or High Chief of the Sotharians, had regained much of his vigor during the long, slow trek from the “east,” and his mighty frame had largely repaired itself, the injury inflicted upon him by the assassin Raphad being by now very nearly half-healed.
I believe I have noted before the remarkable healing powers of the Cro-Magnons of Zanthodon. Perhaps their extraordinary recuperative powers result from the simple, natural life they lead, close to the manner in which our common and remote ancestors lived; this perhaps accounts for their abilities to recover so swiftly from serious injuries; again, it may be due to some substance in the soil of Zanthodon, in some element in the food they eat, or some mysterious quality in the very air of the Underground World, which enables them to experience such miracles of swift healing.
I do not know. But Garth, now much recovered, wisely advised that we could spend our lives searching these unknown northern shores in quest of our Thandarian friends, while we might better strike south along the coastline, hunting for Thandar itself, in which land we had been promised welcome and refuge.
