The Zanthodon MEGAPACK ™: The Complete 5-Book Series

by Lin Carter

  While our hypothetical observers would not have found the giant lizards remarkable, in themselves, there was that about them that would have astonished.

  The first thing that was surprising was that the immense bronze-and-copper-colored dinosaurs wore bridles, bits, and reins.

  The second thing was that men were riding on their backs.

  Now, the dinosaurs of Zanthodon come in two distinct varieties. One is the mighty predator, savage, ferocious, hungry—terrible fighter of unkillable vigor.

  The second variety are the more placid and amenable herbivores, slow-witted, ruminative, and no more to be feared than we fear dairy cattle. Even these last, however, have never been broken to saddle—not because of their ferocity for they lack any, but simply because their intelligence is too rudimentary for them to learn to obey commands. As well, they are virtually walking stomachs, and must eat constantly in order to fuel their gigantic carcasses.

  I could not identify the species of dinosaur into which the harnessed monsters may best be classified—if my learned companion, Professor Percival P. Potter, Ph.D., ever named them for me, I am afraid that I have forgotten—but I can assure you that these stalking monstrosities were huge beyond belief.

  As for the men on their backs, there was nothing particularly remarkable about them, except that they represented a species of humankind I had not yet encountered here in the Underground World. There are the hulking and hairy-chested Neanderthal men (the “Drugars,” as the folk of Zanthodon call them), and the tall, lithe, blond and blue-eyed Cro-Magnons (or “panjani”), plus a surviving remnant of Barbary Pirates fled here when the fleets of Europe were scouring the Mediterranean to crush the corsairs and eliminate their depredations on shipping.

  But beyond these, the Dragonmen, as the folk of Zanthodon seemed to call them, were unique. Small, slim, oliveskinned, with silky black hair and flashing black eyes, dressed in high-laced sandals and abbreviated garments of fine linens dyed yellow or scarlet or blue, they obviously were the children of a higher order of civilization than any I had yet encountered in this fantastic subterranean world—with the possible exception of the pirates.

  They lived in a land called Zar, I had been given to understand, which lay inland from the coast, far to the “east.” I call the direction “east” because it is a convenient term; actually[1], here far below the world where the steamy skies are perpetually illuminated by weird phosphorescence there is no way to tell one direction from another. If you will think about this for a moment, you will realize that if you were miraculously to be transported, say, to Mesopotamia, you could orient yourself (at least insofar as the cardinal directions went) as soon as the sun rose or set.

  * * * *

  Since first Professor Potter and I had descended in my helicopter into Zanthodon, we had made both friends and enemies. Our friends were the blond and stalwart fighting men of the Cro-Magnon nations of Sothar and Thandar. They are not only superb physical specimens, mighty warriors, fearless hunters, but also fine human beings—brave, loyal, chivalrous, and honest.

  Together with a small party of these warriors, and my friend Hurok of Kor, one of the Neanderthaloid Drugars, we had entered upon .these plains in pursuit of the Barbary Pirates who had carried off my beloved Princess, Darya of Thandar, when we were surprised by the Dragonmen and quickly captured.

  That is to say, the Professor and I had been captured. I had commanded my warriors to scatter and disperse, and to conceal themselves, in order that the pursuit and rescue of Darya might continue even though I was no longer there to lead it.

  And so we rode, mounted on the back of a gigantic reptile that stalked across the plains, great clawed three-toed feet plowing through the swishing meadow grasses, like a thing out of nightmare. Our wrists had been securely but not uncomfortably tied behind our backs, and we had been relieved of our weapons. However, we were captives, and the free of heart find captivity rankling in the extreme.

  Thus I chafed, jaw set grimly, inwardly cursing my fate. As for my scrawny companion, he was afire with scientific curiosity. This was about the closest he had yet come to one of the monster saurians, and he was enjoying the experience—yes, even the musky, reptilian stench which was thick and rank in our nostrils, and the rasp of its pebbly hide against our bare thighs.

  “Think of it, my boy!” he breathed ecstatically, eyes aglow with fervor behind his slightly askew pincenez, his sun helmet wobbling on his baldish head, his tattered and travelstained khakis mere rags by this time, through which his bony fibs and skinny arms and legs protruded comically. “These marvelous people have actually domesticated the dinosaurs!”

  “I am thinking of it, Doc,” I grunted a bit sourly. “And I’m wondering if we’ve been brought along to serve as fodder when the critters get peckish.”

  “Nonsense!” he snorted. “Reptiles of this size would regard the two of us as a mere morsel, not even a snack, and in no way to be considered luncheon.”

  “That’s a relief,” I commented.

  “And a marvelous people they are, or were,” he amended, studying the slender limbs and naked backs of our captor, who was seated directly in front of us. “The Minoan civilization of ancient Crete was one of the wonders of antiquity! When even the Greeks were still chasing reindeer and hitting each other in the head with rocks, the Cretans had developed their civilization to astonishing heights. Their palaces had flush toilets and hot and cold running water more than fifteen centuries before the Romans—and their cities possessed a sewage system which not even the Romans ever equaled!”

  “Terrific,” I snapped. “But what the hell are they doing down here?”

  “Oh, Galloping Galileo, my boy, stop being so snippy!” he said. “Relax and enjoy the unique experience we are having, about which we can do nothing, anyway. As I—ker-hem! As I was saying…Oh, you asked a question? Yes, well, let me see…their island civilization was virtually destroyed at its height overnight when the volcanic island of Thera blew its top in one of the most gigantic explosions this side of Krakatoa. Knossus was shaken by the impact and partially burned; the tidal wave raised by the explosion demolished the Cretan fleet and drowned the capital. The Minoans never recovered from that devastating cataclysm, and dwindled into legend. But it would seem that a remnant fled the island and found their way here—but whether they had already left Crete before the explosion occurred, or after, remains a moot point.”

  “Our friend Xask seems right at home,” I commented sourly, nodding toward the enigmatic little man mounted on the next dinosaur. Although his wrists, like ours, were bound behind his back, the wily and cunning former Grand Vizier of Kor maintained an unruled demeanor. His aplomb was superb acting, for the Professor and I were well aware that the Empress of Zar had long ago exiled him, banishing him from the kingdom, never to return on pain of instant execution. And here he had been captured as well…for, although Xask had not been one of my party of warriors, he had been stealthily following us across the plains, for mysterious motives of his own.

  Catching my eye, Xask smiled a cool, thin-lipped smile. I scowled and he glanced away serenely.

  From time to time, the Dragonmen conversed among themselves, their leader, whose brows were bound by a filet of odd coppery-red silver metal, giving orders and directions. Whenever this occurred, Professor Potter listened closely.

  “I can almost make out what they are saying,” he murmured to me. “My theories on the nature of Minoan as it was spoken are triumphantly vindicated! Very close to some of the archaic Greek dialects of Ionia, yet with a large percentage of Mesopotamian loan-words with strong Semitic roots.…”

  I grunted; actually, I’ve knocked around that end of the Mediterranean long enough, mingling with Greeks, Turks, Armenians, Arabs, Copts, and the like, to have picked up more than a smattering of all their various lingoes—and, as I still retained quite a surprising amount
of my college Greek, I could make out some of what they were saying myself. But then, I’ve always had a knack for picking up languages easily, which has saved my hide more than once.

  * * * *

  We had been riding due east across the plains for what seemed like two hours. I was hungry, thirsty, tired, and in a dangerous mood. Spoiling for a fight. All I wanted was to get my hands free and tackle a couple of the little brown men. I was heartily sick of being captured, and the weeks or months I had spent in Zanthodon (and it had become damned hard to figure out how much time is passing when time is no longer divided into days and nights, but just consists of one endless and interminable afternoon!) had been nothing but one captivity after another.

  First, the Professor and I had been captured by a band of Drugar slavers, which was bad enough. More recently, we had been taken prisoner by a weird underground race of strange, vile little men who worshiped as living gods a ghastly species of gigantic and vampiric leeches; these had designated us as offerings—walking bloodbanks, you might say, and involuntary ones, to boot. We had only just gotten free of the cavern-folk, when the Dragonmen of Zar had chanced our way.

  You never miss your freedom so dearly, I have found, as when you have briefly enjoyed it, only to have it snatched away again.

  In a word, I was keeping my eyes open, trying to figure out a way to escape with the Professor. As for Xask, let him save his own hide, if possible. I owed the treacherous little Machiavelli nothing—and, come to think of it, he had taken me prisoner once, too!

  If I’d had my .45 automatic in my belt, it would have been a different story. The slugs probably wouldn’t have so much as dented the hides of the dinosaurs, but they would have put the fear of Colt into the Minoans!

  But the gun was long gone, curse the luck, and I’d been having a lot of bad luck recently.

  Just then the leader of the party gave a brief command and the advance halted for lunch. As if in obedience to some unheard order, the monstrous reptiles came to a halt and began hooting and honking—for all the world like a herd of cows mooing to be let out of pasture.

  The captain—his name seemed to be Raphad—snapped brusque commands. The dinosaurs were unharnessed, saddlebags unpacked, and fires lit in portable charcoal braziers. The delicious odors of roasting steaks caressed our nostrils.

  “Look!” breathed the Professor. Far across the plains we spied a herd of huge elk-like quadrupeds. Honking hungrily, the saurians went galloping off in their direction, and about the time we were enjoying our luncheon, they were having their own. Which put my fears at rest concerning the purpose of our having been captured, anyway: whatever it might lead to, we were obviously not designed as dinner for the dinos!

  Raphad saw that we were untied and permitted us to relieve ourselves—two hours of riding a galloping dinosaur can do brutal things to the human kidneys, I assure you!—then ceramic bowls of a sort of spicy vegetable mush were handed to us, complete with wooden spoons, leather jacks of a sweet red wine not unlike Mavrodaphne, and hunks of sizzling steak speared on wooden sticks like shish kebab.

  We fell to hungrily, and before long I felt a lot better.

  Captain Raphad himself came over. Squatting on his heels, he regarded us with not unfriendly curiosity.

  “Can you understand my speech?” he inquired.

  “About one word out of three,” I admitted. “And please speak slowly.”

  He smiled understandingly, then nodded to where Xask sat alone, fastidiously devouring his own lunch.

  “Are you the friends of the Prince?”

  “Not us,” I said emphatically. “As a matter of fact, he’s done us dirty more times than once, and I’d love to take a poke at him.”

  The captain looked blank for a moment, then laughed. “Your colloquialisms are a trifle obscure,” he chuckled, “but I think I take your meaning. You were, however, in his company.…”

  I shook my head. “On the contrary, he was following us—I don’t know why. Listen, can you tell us where you are taking us?”

  He blinked. “But I thought you knew!”

  “We don’t. We are strangers to these parts, and have barely even heard of your people or your land.”

  He regarded me with a strange expression in his bright black eyes.

  “You are being taken as slaves to the greatest city in all the world, there to be offered as living sacrifices to the immortal goddess,” he said.

  This astounding statement was made with a straight face.

  I have to admit, it took my breath away.

  “Well, just so long as we know,” I said weakly.

  CHAPTER 2

  A DIFFICULT DECISION

  As the herd of giant dinosaurs dwindled into the distance, the long grasses which clothed the level plain stirred, and men rose to their feet, staring after the reptiles.

  For the most part, they were tall and stalwart fighting-men, dressed in little more than a scrap of hide twisted about their loins and sandals on their feet. Some were bearded and some clean-shaven; all save one were tanned, lithe, blond, with clear blue eyes and handsome faces.

  One, however, although blond, had scraggly hair, mean little eyes and a skinny frame. This was the wily Murg, a cowardly little Sotharian who had accompanied us, albeit reluctantly, since there was nothing else to do.

  The other man was a hulking monstrosity, compared to the smooth-skinned Cro-Magnon warriors. He stood nearly seven feet tall on his splayed feet, and his huge, sloping shoulders and long, heavily muscled, apelike arms were thatched with dirty russet fur, as was the breadth of his massive chest. He had an underslung prognathous jaw, dim little eyes buried under thick shelf-like brows of protruding bone, a painful inch of brow under the tangle of his matted hair. His body was wrapped in dirty hides; he clenched a long, stone-bladed spear, and a stone axe, heavy as a sledgehammer, dangled from thongs at his waist.

  His name was Hurok.

  The youngest of the Cro-Magnon warriors was a handsome boy named Jorn the Hunter, one of the tribesmen of Thandar. The youth stared after the herd of reptiles as they vanished in the distance, and his strong young jaw was grimly set as if to belie the unmanly tears that blurred his eyes.

  “That we, his warriors, should stand idly by—nay, should hide in the grasses like cowardly uld!—while our chieftain, Eric Carstairs, is borne away by the Dragonmen of Zar is a disgrace to our manhood!” the boy cried, his voice shaking a little with the intensity of his emotion.

  Varak of Sothar clapped the youth on the shoulder, companionably.

  “I know, boy,” he said. “We all feel miserable about it, not just you. But, remember, the last order which Eric Carstairs gave us before his capture was that we do just as we did.”

  “Aye,” said another warrior, one Parthon. “And had we not, we should all have been taken prisoner—or been slain.”

  “Better to die defending our chieftain and our honor than to live like cowards!” spat Jorn the Hunter fiercely.

  “We live,” said a deep voice from behind him in somber tones. “And thus we may follow and rescue our chieftain and his friend.”

  Jorn turned to look Hurok of the Kor up and down. If he had not been so upset, I strongly doubt that the boy would have uttered the phrase he uttered then.

  “What does a Drugar know of honor?” the youth snarled.

  Hurok blinked as if he had been struck; then his face darkened and his mighty hand curled about the haft of the heavy axe which hung at his side.

  “As much as any panjani,” he growled. “And perhaps more—”

  Varak stepped between the two, his hands raised to mollify.

  “Let us not quarrel! Are we not comrades—Drugar or panjani? There is much in the words Hurok has spoken: we have saved our lives, and our freedom, by behaving like cowards, even as Jorn has sai
d. It now remains for us to employ our lives and our freedom in a cause which will redeem our lost honor.”

  “It was the wish of Eric Carstairs that we pursue the men-that-ride-on-water, and rescue the Princess from their hands,” murmured Ragor of Thandar. His comrade, Erdon, nodded in agreement.

  Jorn’s eyes faltered and fell. “That is true, I had forgotten,” he whispered in a low voice, ashamed of his outburst. Ragor clapped him on the back.

  “We are all distressed that our chieftain is gone, boy,” he said. “It now remains for us to decide which course of action to follow. What say you all, friends—shall we follow the track of the Dragonmen and seek an opportunity to rescue our chieftain and the old man, his companion—or shall we continue on in the path along which Eric Carstairs was leading us, to the rescue of Darya of Thandar?”

  Each of the warriors eyed the other, no one wishing to speak up first. Either course of action was equally dangerous, and neither was certain of success.

  Jorn spoke up at last.

  “As for myself, I will devote my honor to the Princess,” the boy said stoutly. For much of her recent adventures, Darya had gone championed by Jorn, who was a youth of her own tribe, and the lad regarded her with unselfish devotion.

  Varak studied the Apeman of Kor with inquisitive eyes. The Sotharian warrior, one of those I had rescued from hideous captivity in the cavern-city, knew that Hurok was among the panjani only by sufferance and because of his close friendship with Eric Carstairs.