by Lin Carter
Hurok followed the direction in which his warrior was gesturing, and saw a portion of the cliff wall somewhat farther along the same ledge on which they crouched. At that point a massive outcropping of heavier, more weather-resistant ore thrust from the side of the cliff like a great sheltering hand. Were they to take refuge under that shelf of rock they might, just possibly, manage to avoid the rain of boulders which now they expectdd momentarily.
“Come—follow me!” boomed Hurok. Rising, and clinging to the quivering wall, he moved with slow and careful steps down the declination of the ledge and toward the spot where it seemed they might crouch in safety under the protection of the protruding shelf of stone. One by one, in single file, his warriors followed his example. They perforce ignored the pebbles and bits of stone which fell upon their heads and shoulders like hail; they squinted their eyes against the stinging clouds of rock dust which hissed and swirled about them.
And, far above their heads, they heard a mighty grinding, cracking, crunching sound, as of massive amounts of stone breaking loose from the upper peaks.…
* * * *
Now that Yualla had found Murg, or vice versa, the two fell into argument concerning which route to take from this point on. Murg, as we already know, heartily craved the protection which would be afforded by his rejoining the host of the two tribes. But, as soon as he whiningly revealed that Hurok and Jorn and the others had launched an expedition to free Eric Carstairs and the Professor from the hands of Zar, the adventure-loving heart of the blonde girl desired to join in the excitement.
You must try to understand Yualla. Very seldom did the young spitfire manage to elude the stern and watchful gaze of her parents in order to enjoy an adventure of her own. Most of the time she was forced to submit patiently to being protected by those in whose care nature had placed her. Which did not mean that she submitted willingly, of course.…
But now that, through no fault of her own, she had perhaps only temporarily escaped from the vigilance of her father and his mate, the girl impulsively foresaw no consequence more desirable than to seize the opportunity and join the small band of warriors on their adventure.
She knew that her parents and friends would worry about her. And she also knew that they probably feared her slain and eaten by the pterodactyl. It was not that she intended to inflict suffering upon those who loved her…it was just that the temptation to play hooky for a little while was well nigh irresistible.
Later, she would rejoin the tribe of Sothar, which would rejoice at her return. And she, somewhat guiltily, was counting on that thankfulness which would well up within the hearts of her family to forgive the small transgression which she now considered.
“Yualla will journey to the mountains, to join with Hurok and the other warriors,” the girl said determinedly. “Murg, however, may traverse the plain to rejoin the tribe of Sothar, if such be the wish of Murg.”
“Alone…” faltered the valiant Murg, lips dry, heart pounding.
The cave-girl shrugged carelessly.
“If Murg wishes to rejoin the Sotharians, then he must make his way back across the plains alone, for Yualla is determined to go forward toward the mountains,” she said firmly. “The decision is up to Murg.”
Now, Murg all too clearly remembered the terrible encounter with the gigantic xunth, which had occurred on this very plain and at no particular distance, too. And he also understood that the dreaded Dragonmen patrolled this grassland—they who had seized and carried off Eric Carstairs and Professor Potter. And, while Murg certainly did not want to go back to face the scorn and contempt of the comrades he had deserted and from whom he had thieved, the only alternative seemed even grimmer.
Having found companionship, Murg was exceedingly reluctant to abandon it.
So Murg at length yielded to Yualla’s determination, and began retracing his steps. Whining and whimpering every foot of the way, he trudged gloomily along behind the briskly striding girl toward the mountains.
It seemed to Murg, poor Murg, that the Fates were conspiring against him. Everytime he managed to escape from one perilous situation, he was compelled to enter an even more terrible one. It certainly wasn’t fair, not fair at all!
* * * *
All that long, interminable day, Murg slunk at the heels of Yualla, until after many hours, weariness and hunger overcame the eager zestfulness of the high-spirited girl. Her bow brought down game; a fire was built; they rested and fed, lacking only a source of fresh water to appease their physical needs.
The meal consumed, Yualla stretched out under the humid skies of perpetual noon, closed her blue eyes, and promptly fell asleep. Hers was the deep and undisturbed slumber of a healthy young animal.
Murg, however, tossed and turned, unable to compose his mind sufficiently to woo the slumbers which his weary and aching muscles clamored.
From time to time, rolling over to seek a more comfortable place amid the soft grasses, the little man glanced accusingly over to where the girl lay sound asleep. Nor did the rise and fall of her firm pointed breasts elude the lingering gaze of Murg, nor the sleek length of her bare thighs and slender legs.
It was then that an alternative to following Yualla’s path occurred to Murg. If the girl could be bound, made subject to his will, helpless to oppose his slightest whim, he could go where he pleased without giving up the pleasures of companionship in peril.
His eyes lingering on the slim body of the half-naked girl, it came into the mind of Murg that those companionable pleasures, in the present instance, might well prove headier and more exciting than had heretofore entered into his imagination.…
Eyes gloating on the nude flesh of the girl, a cunning smile creasing his thin lips, Murg chuckled throatily, and began to creep toward the sleeping girl across the grasses.…
CHAPTER 15
THE LIPS OF ZARYS
When Ialys, the Empress’s handmaiden, led me from the banqueting hall for what she had euphemistically described as “a private audience,” I felt a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. I had a nasty hunch the audience was going to be a lot more than just “private”—intimate, would be more like it.
The only thing that pleased me about the prospect was the venomous glance of purest hate Cromus shot after me as he watched me leave. I had the feeling that splendid fellow had designs in that direction, himself…and why not? What better way for an unscrupulous, ambitious officer to gain the coveted crown than by wooing and winning the beautiful young woman who currently wore the royal bauble?
Not that the Divine Zarys was not worthy of being coveted completely for herself, with or without a crown. She was, truly, one of the most exquisite women I have ever had the good luck to set eyes upon.…
This being the case, my reader may legitimately wonder why I felt so squeamish about the amorous tussle which I anticipated in the immediate offing. I spent a few moments rather pondering the same question, myself. After all, I have spent a lot of years knocking around some of the seamier corners of the world, and more than a few lovely ladies have succumbed to my raffish charm. I have never exactly taken vows of chastity, either. Why, then, did I more or less dread the coming “interview”?
I guess it’s because, being an old-fashioned man in some ways, I like to be the one that makes the passes. To be summoned into the royal bedchamber gets my back up; not that it has ever happened before, of course. It’s rather like being sent for as one sends for a pet dog.
And I don’t intend to be anyone’s lapdog.
Ialys led me into a high, vaulted chamber whose walls were of fretted alabaster through which a lustrous, dim light shone softly, transforming the interior of the circular room into something which I imagine is very like the heart of a hollow pearl.
Glowing fruits in bowls of hammered silver rested on low tabourets of rare woods. Wine breathed from an ope
n amphora which sat in a bed of crushed ice. The floor, tiled entirely in three kinds of jade, was covered—not by carpeting, but by silken furs. Ornaments and fixtures glittered with cut jewels. The room breathed luxury from every pore: only unlimited power and unimaginable wealth could have fashioned such a nest.
In the center of the chamber lay a sort of chaise longue draped with gleaming fabrics, and heaped with many small, plump cushions colored magenta, orange, canary, lavender, and pink.
Thereon reposed the Empress. Her long-sleeved feasting gown had been discarded in favor of a voluminous and very transparent peignoir of fragile lace. Beneath this flimsy robe her tender flesh was bare: warm, naked womanflesh gleamed through the interstices of the woven lace.
At the foot of this couch Ialys left me, with a single, demure smiling glance. I felt very foolish and awkward just standing there, but there was nowhere for me to sit, unless I wished to share the Empress’s couch. And that was coming soon enough, I thought uncomfortably.
She selected a ripe grape from a bowl near the chaise longue and popped the morsel of fruit between soft, rosy lips. All the while she looked me over with a slow, appraising glance that was thoughtful, even admiring, but somehow not degrading.
“It is customary, Eric Carstairs,” she said after a moment, “for lesser mortals to prostrate themselves in my presence.”
I opened my mouth to say something inane, or stubborn, or possibly both; but she stilled me with a lazy gesture.
“However, I sense that you are not the sort of man who willingly prostrates himself, even before goddesses,” she observed with a slight smile.
I grinned back.
“As a matter of fact, Majesty, I’m not.”
“Your candor is refreshing to ears soothed by flattery and lies,” she said. “However, I could always have you beaten to your knees, as Cromus attempted earlier.…”
“Yes, you could,” I acknowledged.
We studied each other for a time. Then:
“I do not intend to do so,” she remarked, “for men such as you I suspect to be rare. Let us speak frankly together, Eric Carstairs, setting aside for the time the contest of wills. I have need of men such as you—”
“Frankly, I speak a lot better when I’m sitting down,” I said, interrupting. For a long instant I thought I had gone too far, for her magnificent eyes flashed with imperious fury and her superb bosom heaved tumultuously. Then she calmed: her self-control was extraordinary for a personage who seldom if ever is required to use self-control.
“You dare—!”
I shrugged. In for a penny, in for a pound.
“If you want a man to grovel and whine at your feet,” I pointed out, “you have a banquet hall full of them back there. I thought you were looking for another sort of man.”
She threw back her head and uttered a peal of silvery laughter. Then, with a sinuous movement, she curled up like a kitten at one end of the chaise longue and patted the other with the tips of her fingers.
“Sit, then, Eric Carstairs, if it will serve the better to loosen your tongue.”
I sat down. I accepted a goblet of wine. I drank thirstily. And all the while she studied me, darting oblique little glances at me from under the shadowings of her sooty lashes.
“You interest me, Eric Carstairs…you are very unlike the other men that I have known hitherto. They are either cringing and cowardly, or greedy and self-serving, or direct and brutal.”
“Like Cromus,” I said.
“Like Cromus,” she agreed with a smile. “How you pleased me when you felled him with your bare hands! It is a remarkable art; some time you must demonstrate it for me again.”
“The next time somebody tries to push me around, I’ll do just that,” I promised.
“You are direct, but honest,” she observed. “Self-serving, I suspect, but uncompromising. Capable of brutal actions, but able to be gentle, as I also suspect.”
I said nothing, flushing just a little, which, in the dim nacreous light, probably wasn’t visible. It made me less than comfortable to be praised to my face; but, then, I’m not exactly sure I was being praised, come to think of it.
“You are a barbarian, for all men of Zanthodon that are not the men of Zar are barbarians. But your culture and breeding are as obvious as are your physical attributes. Tell me, Eric Carstairs: the country from which you come, is it very distant from my kingdom?”
“It’s quite a ways away,” I admitted. Which was only the honest truth, as the good old U.S.A. was a couple of hundred miles straight up and on the other side of the globe from this subterranean world under the Sahara.
“And are all of the men in your country very much like yourself?”
“Well, some are and some aren’t. But there’s an awful lot of them that are.”
“It must be an interesting country, then. And…are the women of your homeland as beautiful as am I?”
“Very, very few of them,” I answered with complete and utter honesty.
That pleased her! She smiled a lazy, languorous smile.
“And is there a woman of your country who awaits your return…a mate, perhaps?”
“There is not.”
“But when you first saw me, there enthroned in the Pasiphaeum, you seemed to know me at one look. And I read many emotions in your face.…”
I colored a little.
“There is a young woman of the tribes,” I explained, “to whom Your Majesty bears a strange resemblance.…”
“Indeed?” She wrinkled up her pert little nose fastidiously. “How odd! And you—love this young woman of the tribes?”
Something cautioned me to tread carefully here. So I temporized just a little.
“Well…she and I barely know each other…and we have been very long apart from each other,” I said at last.
It seemed to have been the sort of answer that Zarys wanted to hear, for a flash of satisfaction gleamed and was gone in her lustrous eyes. She relaxed with another of those lazy, catlike movements, and laid her hand upon my arm almost caressingly.
“You are strong,” she murmured softly, “so strong…and I have been so long among fools and weaklings…with a man such as yourself at my side, what an empire I could carve from this savage world!”
Here it comes, I thought grimly to myself.
Quite suddenly she was in my arms, her own slim arms twined about my neck, her panting breasts bare against my chest, and the sweetness of her perfume heady and intoxicating in my nostrils.
But her lips were even sweeter.…
* * * *
She broke off the kiss, gasping for breath. I felt dizzy and half-drunk, torn between arousal and disgust.
As she uncoiled from my embrace, she struck something from the tabouret at her side. It had been covered by a silken scarf. It fell to the tiled floor with a clang.
I looked down and saw my .45 automatic.
PART IV: THE DIVINE ZARYS
CHAPTER 16
LEAP FOR LIFE
As Hurok and his warriors sought safety beneath the sheltering crag above the ledge, the mountain shook and huge fragments of stone were torn loose and began to thunder down the mountainside in an avalanche.
It was indescribably horrible to look up and see great, jagged boulders hurtling directly toward you. What made the experience all the more terrible was that there was hardly anything you could do to protect yourself from the spinning rocks as they bounced and slid and fell toward the narrow little ledge in a massive and deadly rain.
As the ledge was too narrow to afford passage to men except in single file, one of the warriors had, of necessity, to be the last in line. And, as it happened, this was Jorn the Hunter. Already the landslide had very nearly reached the ledge, and Jorn knew that he could not reach the shelter of that roc
ky shelf which jutted out above the ledge in time to take refuge beneath it.
There was truly nothing to do—but jump.
The urge for self-preservation is strong within the hearts of all men. But it is perhaps strongest within the breast of a savage warrior such as young Jorn. Even though to leap from the ledge was suicidal, it was the only action which the young Cro-Magnon could conceivably take. For the alternative was simply to stand there and dumbly wait for the landslide to sweep him to a gory death. And any action, however hopeless, was preferable to that.
Jorn sprang from the ledge and fell as fell the heavy stones above him. He vanished from the sight of his comrades in an instant.
As Jorn vanished, Hurok uttered an inarticulate cry: it was a roar of bestial rage and loss, quickly stifled. The other warriors who clung together under the sheltering slab said nothing, their faces drawn and grim. The loss of a comrade was a common enough occurrence in their primitive existence. But Jorn had made good friends, and all in their number liked the youth.
The avalanche swept down about them in deafening thunder. Whirling clouds of bitter rock dust enveloped them. Fragments and splinters of stone pelted them. The ledge shuddered beneath where they crouched. Darkness closed upon them. The shelf of stone above their heads groaned to the impact of the landslide—which parted to either side of the projecting slab as a spur of rock parts asunder a waterfall.
The air cleared; the thunder died in the distance below.
No longer did the mountain shiver to the impulse of hidden volcanic forces.
One by one they emerged from the shelter of the slab, coated with gray dust, shaken and bruised, but otherwise unharmed..
No word was spoken regarding the loss of Jorn the Hunter, for there was nothing to say.
Looking above him, Hurok of Kor saw that the landslide had cracked and scored and pitted the surface of the cliff overhead. The climb, from this point on, would be swifter and easier than it had been before.
