by Lin Carter
“It is the Men-That-Ride-Upon-The-Water,” he said wonderingly. All about him, the warriors and scouts and huntsmen stood and stared as the magnificent vessel sailed by, dwindling into the misty distance.
“Let us continue along the way,” he said after the ship had vanished from sight.
Had he but known that the mysterious vessel was none other than the pirate galley commanded by Kâiradine Barbarossa, called Redbeard, bound for the island fortress of the corsairs, El-Cazar, with his daughter and Fumio aboard as helpless captives, I have no doubt that Tharn of Thandar would have given very different orders.…
[1] Zanthodon has no sun, and its luminance never wavers or dims. Hence “east” is a handy term, nothing more.
PART II: THE SCARLET CITY
CHAPTER 6
THE GATES OF ZAR
More waking and sleeping periods passed than I can recall before the Dragonmen reached the distant range of mountains. They were tall and rugged, these mountains, and their upper reaches were used by the fearsome thakdols, or pterodactyls, for nesting purposes. This we could tell from the fact that our approach disturbed the flying lizards.
Raphad assured us, however, that we were in no danger from the winged monstrosities. The captain seemed not unfriendly, and, in fact, entertained a lively curiosity concerning us. And I think he was anticipating some sort of a dramatic confrontation between the exiled Xask and this mysterious Goddess-Empress of which we had heard so much. Raphad doubtless looked forward to a good show when the Queen of Zar came face-to-face with the man she had driven into outlawry.
Despite Raphad’s assurances, I kept a wary eye aloft. The monster pterodactyls of Zanthodon are more to be feared than many of the lumbering dinosaurs, most of whom, after all, are harmless vegetarians. The thakdols, on the contrary, are mindless engines of mad ferocity, and will attack a grown man on whim.
The Professor, noticing my apprehensive glances aloft, spoke up reassuringly.
“What the good captain probably alludes to, Eric my boy, is the crystal-studded circlet he wears. After all, if the power of the orichalcum filet can control these enormous monsters we are riding, it can doubtless fend off the pterodactyls.”
I saw his point, but I still felt uneasy. However, we were not attacked, so perhaps the Professor was right.
The Minoans led us into a narrow pass the mouth of which wound through the range of mountains. From both sides of the mouth of this pass, gigantic stone masks glared down upon us. They had been cunningly hewn out of the stone cliffs and represented horrible reptilian monsters with fanged jaws agape, as if grinning in anticipation of a coming meal.
The appearance of those ominous stone heads did nothing to calm my trepidations, either.
Xask nodded at them. “These are the Gates of Zar, Eric Carstairs,” he explained. “Beyond this point, no man of Zanthodon may venture uninvited, on peril of his life. Zar needs no other barrier than the fear its name excites among the savages.…”
“Terrific,” I said sarcastically. “What kind of creature do the stone heads represent, anyway?”
He shot me a glance of chill amusement, with just a touch of malice in it.
“They are likenesses of the God.” He smiled. “And rather true to life, I fancy.”
We rode on into the pass between the mountains.
* * * *
I was cudgeling my wits, striving to recall what bits and pieces of information I could remember about ancient Crete. I had been on the island once, but not long enough for any sight-seeing. I remembered some odds and ends of the old Greek myths about Theseus and the Minotaur and King Minos and boys and girls dancing naked with bulls, but that was about it. I have no doubt but that the Professor could have talked for a couple of hours straight on the subject, but felt disinclined to invite a lecture. Besides, Captain Raphad, who had been treating us decently thus far, didn’t much like our talking together. I suppose he feared we were plotting an escape, and if we got away from him, for all I knew, it might cost the little fellow his head.
When at length we emerged from the farther end of the pass, an astonishing vista greeted our eyes.
The mountains formed an immense ring. Cupped within their embrace lay a deep, bowl-shaped depression, like a great valley. But the valley was filled with water!
“Pnom-Jad,” said Xask as we stared down at the expanse of waters. “The Little Sea.”
I have no idea how wide it was, for the air was misty and distances can be tricky in the steady, unwavering light of the luminous skies of Zanthodon, but it looked big enough to measure up to the one of the Great Lakes. And that’s quite a lot of water.
The inland sea was dotted with boats of every size and description. There were tiny fishing smacks and huge galleys with rows of oars and ornately curling prows. The Professor identified these last as warships and declared that they resembled in every particular the warships of ancient Crete.
Their sails were of saffron yellow or crimson, with huge emblems painted on them, mostly nautical motifs like stylized octopi. Huge staring eyes were painted on the prows of the ships, small and large as well, which was a Phoenician custom, I remembered. But then, for all I know, the Phoenicians were second cousins to the Minoans.
In the exact center of the inland sea was a great island. It was nothing but one vast metropolis, that island, right down to the shores. Huge squarish monolithic buildings of stone crowned the isle, and most of them were covered with smooth stucco or something like stucco, painted pink and yellow, orange and maroon, but more often than not—scarlet. In the haze of distance, the colors blended and merged into one malestrom of differing shades of red.
It was quite a sight.…
“The Scarlet City of Zar!” breathed Professor Potter, his watery blue eyes agleam with scientific curiosity. “What a magnificent spectacle—and how fortunate we are to be here to observe it! My boy, mighty Knossus must have looked very much like that, in the days before its destruction…and look at the Acropolis or Bursa!”
He indicated a group of buildings toward the center of the huge city, where the land rose to a height. A superb palace-complex crowned the height, blooming with green gardens, towering above the rest of the city.
“The residence of the Sacred Empress,” Xask informed us coolly. “And also of the God.…”
We descended into the vast, bowl-shaped depression by means of a stone-paved road which extended from the base of the cliff to the edge of the water. We rode past farms and cultivated acreage. Harvesters were at work in the fields of golden grain and others were toiling in the fragrant groves of fruit trees and in the green vineyards. Without exception, they were Cro-Magnon slaves. The only Zarians I saw were a few slender, overseers, who generally reclined beneath striped awnings sipping from silver goblets.
“I gather that Zar’s economy is based upon slave labor,” the Professor mused, glancing alertly around him. “That may suggest that the ruling class or aristocracy is dwindling in numbers.…”
“That is so,” said Xask agreeably. Due to the narrowness of the road, we were riding side by side with him at this point, with Captain Raphad up ahead, unable to overhear our conversation. “The number of our births is far less than the number of deaths.”
As we approached the edges of the sea, we observed a magnificent stone bridge which arched the expanse of the waters, its length supported on massive stone piers sunk in the lake bottom.
“A remarkable feat of engineering,” Professor Potter breathed. “Even the ancient Minoans, I doubt, could have erected such a span. Only the Romans, a dozen centuries later.…”
At the entrance to the bridge we were made to dismount and the lizards we had been riding were led away to pens or corrals built along the side of the sea. I can understand that reptiles of their size might have had trouble negotiating the crowded s
treets of the island-city.
We crossed the bridge on foot, guards going before and behind us. With every step we took the cityscape expanded ahead of us, coming into greater clarity. It was truly immense, and incredibly old, and resembled no other city I have ever seen, except in pictures. Ornamental friezes in low relief ran around the upper stories, and here too a marine influence could be seen in the decorations, rows of identical seashells or leaping dolphins and that sort of thing. Ancient Crete had been a maritime civilization, I remembered, which probably accounted for the choice of decoration.
The streets were narrow and cobbled, filled with bustling throngs. We saw surprisingly few of the olives-kinned folk, but very many brawny, blond, blue-eyed Cro-Magnon slaves. They bore veiled women in tasseled palanquins and silkrobed men in something like sedan chairs, or worked at construction jobs, or were trotting about with bags and bales and amphorae.
We passed a market square redolent of fresh fish, olive oil, honey cakes, garlic, raw onions, cooking meat. Fat men with elaborately curled and perfumed hair, wearing altogether too many rings on their fingers, loudly hawked their wares or reclined at their ease sipping beverages and nibbling sweetmeats. Booths and stalls offered a glittering assortment of brass and copper rings, bracelets, brooches, uncut gemstones, tools, scrolls, weapons, piles of brightcolored bales of cloth rolled carpets, odd-looking wooden furniture.
“Fascinating!” breathed the Professor, his sharp eyes missing absolutely nothing. I could well imagine how his fingers itched to be scribbling notes in the little blank-paged book he still carried with him in the rags of his khakis.
I was pretty impressed myself. Who would ever have dreamed this primitive and savage world had anything like this to surprise us with!
But Zanthodon was full of surprises, as I had already discovered, and not all of them are pleasant.
* * * *
Raphad checked us in to some sort of depot for recently captured prisoners, waved one hand in a friendly good-bye, and stalked off about his business, herding his men before him. A bald and grouchy-looking clerk snapped questions at us which Xask had to answer, as we found it difficult understanding all he asked.
Then we were, all three, locked into low-roofed wicker cages and left to our own devices. At least, they untied our hands and removed the hobbles from our legs. There wasn’t much room in the cramped little pens to move about, but we made ourselves as comfortable as was possible under the circumstances, chafing our limbs to get the circulation back and stretching out as best we could.
It occurred to me that here was my opportunity to grab my automatic away from Xask. But bright-eyed guards stood about watching us alertly, and this did not seem to be quite the right time for that.
His eyes on me as if he could read my every passing thought, Xask smiled a bit mockingly.
They gave us food and water.
I dozed off for a while. When I awoke, an elaborately gowned and coiffured individual stood before the cages, rapping on them with an ivory baton to wake us up.
He turned to address the guards.
“The Goddess will see the animals now,” he said loftily. And I felt a qualm in the pit of my stomach.
CHAPTER 7
HUROK ASSUMES COMMAND
The long trek across the northern plains seemed interminable, for my friends were horribly aware that with each passing moment I might be maimed or slaughtered by the mystery men who had captured me and the Professor. But, at least, the warriors encountered no further peril on the same order of magnitude as the monstrous xunth.
They maintained the best pace of which their bodies were capable, but even men as lithe and athletic as they must pause to rest, to eat, to slumber.
When they were hungry, they broke and scattered to hunt the many small edible beasts of the plain, which they sometimes cooked and ate, and other times devoured raw, reluctant to loiter when I might be in imminent danger.
And when they were weary beyond even the limits of their endurance, they slept. With the passing of each period of wake and sleep, the unity between the Cro-Magnons and the Drugar of Kor, begun so tentatively, for a time so fragile, grew and strengthened. It was not an easy thing for simple primitives such as they to overcome the barriers of prejudice and hatred that had existed between their two kinds from time immemorial. But they tried.
Already, many factors were at work building the bonds of comradeship between them. From the very beginning, they could not but admire the enormous stamina of Hurok, his iron strength, his utter fearlessness, his indomitable battle skill, and his enduring and faithful loyalty to his friend, Black Hair. These were qualities which the men of Thandar and Sothar knew and valued, because they possessed them themselves.
It was sheer chance that had, however, provided them with a higher motive for something resembling friendship toward the Apeman of Kor. And that was, of course, his unhesitating, and unthinking heroism in springing to the defense of one of their number with whom he had already been in enmity. His coming to the aid of Jorn the Hunter seemed to them remarkable in the extreme, for the savage tribes of Zanthodon know only the ethics of the Bronze Age, which deem loyalty deserved only by a brother tribesman, and which consider all other strangers potential, if not actual, foes.
As well, there was yet another factor which helped to knit these diverse individuals together into a band of comrades, and that one, alas, is a trifle more difficult for me to describe, for we are speaking of the simpler children of remoter ages who have never tasted the enervating luxuries and conveniences of modern urban civilization, which saps the moral vigor of a race.
I refer to their need for a leader.
While each Cro-Magnon warrior, scout, huntsman, or artisan considers himself the natural equal of every other, and remains independent to a certain degree, the structure of their society is more rigidly authoritarian even than our own. Each man of the tribe belongs to a war party, an allegiance generally inactive save in time of open conflict. And each party has its chieftain. A higher general allegiance is owed to the Omad himself, of course.
Now these men regarded me as their chieftain, and now that I was not with them, they lacked the comforting reassurance of knowing exactly who was in charge. In other words, they needed a clear and unquestioned source of authority: the common purpose alone which they served, that is, to rescue the Professor and myself, was simply not enough. Seldom before in all their lives, save under rare and extraordinary circumstances, had they been utterly alone as now they were. It disheartened them and gnawed away at their morale, and it began to show in certain ways.
Arguments broke out between them over fancied slights. Small, inconsequential arguments, it is true, like the brief exchange of emotionally charged words between Jorn the Hunter and Hurok, but in time, unless corrected, these slights might open fissures between them which would disintegrate their ability to function as a unit.
No clear choice for a leader presented itself: Jorn was too young and hotheaded, Warza too unassuming, and Murg, of course, was hopeless. There remained Parthon and Varak, who were warriors of Sothar, and Ragor and Erdon of the Thandarians.
All, save for the whimpering, conniving little Murg, were brave, strong men. There was little to chose from among them. Nor had I delegated part of my authority to a subchieftain, as is sometimes done.
Tacitly, they had yielded to the leadership of Hurok. That is, he had been adamant in his determination to follow after the Dragonmen, and they had, one by one, fallen in with him. But Hurok not only seemed to lack the charisma of leadership, but to the Cro-Magnons it was utterly unthinkable that under any circumstance they would consider one of the feared and despised Drugars their chieftain.
More and more, however, as time passed, they found themselves following Hurok’s lead. When he wearied, they rested; when he was hungry, they paused to hunt and eat. It was n
ot that he gave orders or even suggestions. It was simply that, as the strongest and most enduring of them all, when Hurok finally wearied, they, too, were weary. And none of them—saving always for Murg—dared humiliate himself by speaking up and complaining of his hunger or weariness before Hurok admitted the same.
It was a point of honor, you might say.
As for Hurok, he kept his silence, speaking little, as was ever his way. It may have been that the Neanderthal was aware that he had assumed the role of chieftain over the others, without the matter ever being openly spoken of. Or he may simply have done what was natural to him, ignoring the consequences and implications.
* * * *
As they came nearer to the range of tall mountains which blocked the far end of the plains, the warriors became less open in their movements, proceeding with ever-increasing wariness. There was no telling what lay concealed behind that mighty rampart of living stone, but it seemed to the warriors that the mountains were a natural wall behind which any foe might lie concealed. And the heights and clefts and crevices in that wall afforded excellent natural vantages for whatever sentries might be posted there to guard the approaches to the land of the Dragonmen.
Squatting on their hunkers, hidden in the high grasses, they discussed this question in low tones.
“The spoor of the dragons leads directly thither,” Erdon pointed out. “That cleft ahead may well be a pass through the mountains, leading to their country. If so, it will be guarded, for only fools or madmen leave an entryway unwatched.”
“Doubtless, Erdon speaks the truth,” said Warza briefly. “What then?”
Erdon shrugged, with a grunt of bafflement. His tribe were newcomers to these parts of Zanthodon, having journeyed far up the coast from distant Thandar in search of the lost Princess.
“The men of Sothar are more familiar with this country than are we,” said Ragor. “Parthon, Varak—know you aught of what may lie ahead beyond the mountains?”
