by Lin Carter
Murg voiced a strangled yelp. His face turned the unwholesome hue of dirty milk. Gagging and retching, he fell aside, clutching himself and moaning in sick pain. For a time he was unable to do aught else but roll about the grassy ground, grasping at his injured parts and groaning at the well-nigh intolerable pain.
Erelong, when he was sufficiently recovered from the girl’s blows to become cognizant of his surroundings once again, he peered up to see Yualla standing alertly near, her clear eyes fierce with cold fury, her lovely features hard and grim. And in her tanned, capable hands she held her hunting bow, a long arrow nocked and pointed unwaveringly at his heart.
“M-mercy, my Princess!” he babbled, thoroughly frightened and fearing his death was impending. “Forgive poor, crazed Murg, whom your beauty has driven mad—but only for a moment!” he added hastily, as the thought struck him that the jungle girl might well decide to put him out of his misery if she truly believed him crazed.
“Murg knew very well what he was attempting to do,” said the girl in level tones, eyes hard and unforgiving. “And Murg knows very well what Yualla’s sire, the mighty Garth, would do to him in punishment for his daring to put his dirty paws upon the person of the gomad of Sothar—”
Murg thought about that for a moment, remembering the burly shoulders and deep chest and massive thews of the High Chief. And he licked dry lips uneasily, shuddering at the thought of the terrible vengeance Garth would extract from his hide.
“Do not kill poor Murg,” he babbled fearfully. “Make him your slave, merciful lady, to fetch and carry for you, to toil and labor, and to fight valiantly in your behalf.…”
At that, Yualla had trouble repressing a smile. The very thought of Murg, that whining and treacherous little coward, doing anything in a fight besides trying to run away from it, brought the element of humor into the situation.
“Very well, perhaps, after all, Yualla will permit the miserable Murg to live a little longer,” the girl said, beginning to relent a little. “Turn over on your face and put your hands together behind your back.”
“The beautiful Princess would not slay poor old Murg from behind, surely?” whimpered the little man cautiously.
She shook her head, blond mane tousling about bare, tanned shoulders. “Not I; but Yualla can hardly trust Murg unless his hands are bound. Now, do as I say, or we shall end this matter here and now, and the grass of the plains will drink the thin, weak blood of the cowardly Murg!”
Hastily, Murg rolled over and pressed his face into the meadow grass, while Yualla knelt and bound his wrists together in the small of his back, using a spare bowstring in lieu of a rope of woven grass. Then she kicked him to his feet.
“Now we shall continue on our way, as Yualla no longer feels the need of sleep, and the quicker we traverse the distance between this place and the mountains, the sooner we shall join the warriors of Sothar and Thandar who search for Eric Carstairs,” she said.
And without further speech, she set off over the plain, in rapid, long-legged stride, without looking back. The unhappy Murg must perforce scramble to his feet and trot along after her; nor did he dare whine or complain about the pace which she had set. For were she to abandon him here like this, bound and helpless and without any weapon, he would fall prey to the first monstrous predator who came his way.
* * * *
Speaking of Murg reminds me of that other wily and cunning traitor, Xask, former vizier of Kor and exile of the Scarlet City. The differences between the two men are only a matter of degree, save that Xask was far more clever than Murg, and less tempted by lust, and certainly no coward.
Both Xask and Murg were driven by self-interest, but Xask was willing to take great risks to attain the power he sought, while Murg simply hungered for a safe, snug life without danger. To have placed himself once again within the power of Zar was a hazardous and dangerous risk, but it was one which Xask had gladly taken, for the stakes were high. No sooner had he been brought within the palacecitadel which crowned the heights of the island-city, than Xask sought a private audience with the Empress who had condemned him to outlawry and exile. Curious as to what had impelled him to return to the kingdom which he was forbidden to enter upon pain of execution, Zarys permitted the interview.
She listened dubiously to his fantastic account of the powers of the thunder-weapon, and, with great skepticism, to his protestations of loyalty. Women such as Zarys are not likely to be taken in by men such as Xask, and the two thoroughly understood one another. It did not seem to Zarys that Xask could possibly be lying about the titanic power of the weapon, for his claim could swiftly be exposed as a lie by a simple demonstration. Therefore, his claims as to its effectiveness must, after all, be true, no matter how fantastic they might sound.
Zarys knew exactly what Xask hoped to gain by delivering the secret of the thunder-weapon into her hands: he hoped to regain in full the power and authority which he had lost when his plots against her throne had been exposed. Having enjoyed the ultimate in power since she was a child, Zarys knew very well what a heady intoxicant it was, and she was more than willing to restore Xask to his former position of influence if he could, indeed, render up the secret of the weapon.
Power and authority and influence with the throne—these are the payments whereby queens purchase the service of intelligent and gifted men. But this time, Zarys determined to keep a careful watch on Xask. There would be no more plots against her, not a second time.
The two understood each other perfectly. Xask, given the freedom of the palace, wasted no time in seeking out the sumptuous apartments where Professor Potter and Eric Carstairs had been lodged. He found only the Professor in residence, for I was then awaiting my own private audience with Her Nibs.
The scrawny scientist was reclining blissfully on a couch strewn with silken stuffs, nibbling on grapes, while giggling slave girls trimmed and perfumed his stiff little spike of snowy beard and the wisps which fringed his balding dome, buffed his fingernails, and shaved his lean, bestubbled cheeks. Professor Potter seemed to be enjoying himself hugely; but, then, after weeks and months spent tramping through the jungles, crawling through noisome caverns, sloshing about in swamps, and otherwise enduring the discomforts of the wilderness life, why shouldn’t a few of the amenities of civilization have pleased him?
Xask wasted no time in getting directly to the point. The wily Zarian knew almost by instinct when to be threatening, when to be conciliatory, and when to appeal to reason. On this occasion, he assumed the outward trappings of complete honesty, somewhat leavened with urgency and directness.
“I know that you and your friend dislike me and distrust me,” he began, for he could read the older man’s suspicions in the distrustful gaze with which the Professor examined him. “And, in all truth, my friend, we have been at odds in the past. Now, however, our interests coincide, and I must admit to a certain guiltiness. It is not impossible that, had I not interfered with you and Eric Carstairs, neither of you would presently find yourselves immured in this silken dungeon.”
“I am glad to hear you have the honesty to admit to your treacheries,” sniffed the Professor. “But I have no reason to presume that the leopard has changed his spots—oh, you know what I mean!—and I warn you, my friend, that you will not find Percival P. Potter, Ph.D., as easy to befool as you found Fumio and One-Eye—!”
“I am certain of that,” said Xask, his beautiful orator’s voice ringing with sincerity. “For I well know that, in your native land, wherever that may be, you are recognized as a great savant, revered for his wisdom and his scholarly attainments.”
I suppose the Professor would not have been completely human had he not relaxed a little at this point, basking in praise which, to be frank, he believed honestly earned. Xask pressed on, sensing his momentary advantage.
“It was, as you know, my intention to obtain from yourself a
nd your fine young friend the secrets of the thunder-weapon so as to present them before the throne of the Divine Zarys,” he said. “What you do not, however, realize, is my reason for wishing to obtain those secrets. You will have assumed, I am afraid, that it was simple greed and the cold ambition which leads to the lust for power.”
“Well, ah, to be honest.…”
“Nothing could be further from the truth!” declared Xask. “I am a patriot, sir! My one desire is to serve my Empress, and my fellow countrymen, and to preserve them from danger and destruction, inasmuch as it is within my power to do so. Here you see a dying people of dwindling power who have attained to the superior heights of urban civilization, although ringed about with savages and terrible beasts. The warlike spirit of our conquering ancestors has long ago deserted us; our legions weaken, not only in numbers but in morale and fighting skills. It is the thunder-weapon and the thunder-weapon alone which may sustain us, in a hostile and savage world.”
“Um,” said the Professor.
“I assume that the level of your civilization is superior to our own,” said Xask cunningly. “For to invent such a device as the thunder-weapon presupposes an advanced culture of great artisans and scholars and philosophers. But I somehow feel inwardly convinced that your people are only more advanced in degree above my own, and that we are not all that terribly far behind you: tell me, sir, am I not close to the truth?”
Professor Potter licked his lips, thinking of New Crete which, with its flush toilets and hot and cold running water, was a considerably higher civilization than certain rural towns in Mississippi and Alabama which he had visited, and which lacked these same amenities to a noticeable degree.
“Well, ah, to tell the truth,” he muttered lamely.
Xask smiled. The elderly outlander might be more learned than he in strange skills and curious lore, but he was as easily coerced as any other human mortal whom Xask had yet encountered.
Then he told the Professor what he wanted him to do.
CHAPTER 19
THE HUNTER AND THE HUNTED
Garth watched grimly as the half-circle of Zarian guards approached the place where his host had taken its stand. He did not fear the olive-hued, strangely clothed little men, for they were few in numbers, slim and short of build, lightly armed. What he did fear was the tremendous beasts they rode, which he knew as thodars; Professor Potter might have identified them as a subspecies of brontosaurus, smaller and lighter than a true brontosaurus, and adapted to life on the plains rather than in the swamps and marshes, but still formidable and mighty beasts, with their long, snaky necks, barrel bodies, and long tapering tails.
They were coated in a slick, leathery hide a dark greenish-gray in coloration, paling to yellowish-white on the underside and belly. They moved along on huge, bowed legs as thick around as tree trunks, ending in splayed feet whose ponderous tread shook the earth. They must have weighed tons, and brave indeed would be the warrior willing to face them in battle.
The psychological advantage of taming and riding the great thodars was an obvious one. Professor Potter, had he been present to watch the effect these ponderous, lumbering reptiles had on the brave and stalwart Cro-Magnon fighting men, might well have been reminded of the devastating psychological impact which the ancient Greeks and Romans suffered every time they faced in battle Eastern armies mounted on Indian elephants. The only difference here was that the thodars were at least five times the size and weight of the largest Indian elephant ever seen.
The small Zarian with the gilded cuirass who rode the lead thodar and who was probably Captain Raphad, as his brows were crowned with the orichalcum band which bore the telephathic crystal which controlled the giant brutes, uttered a shrill command in a language hitherto unheard by the men of Sothar. At once, and in perfect order, the riders urged their beasts into something which resembled a charge in slow motion.
The ground literally trembled under the mighty feet of the advancing circle of thodars. Warrior of Sothar glanced at warrior of Sothar; men paled, licked lips suddenly dry, but no one broke and ran.
“We do not stand a chance, my Omad,” said one of Garth’s chieftains who stood near. No fear was audible in his quiet tones, only a somber hopelessness.
Garth considered, frowning. Behind his majestic brows, his alert and agile mind raced. For what the chieftain had said was perfectly true: there was no hope of slaying beasts so mighty as these. Bristling with a score of spears, they would still remain on their feet and moving forward.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, inspiration struck. Garth, although a primitive Cro-Magnon savage, was a great leader of men in peace and in war; and great leaders have at least one thing in common, that being the ability to devise bold new methods of warfare. Alexander, Napoleon, Caesar, Hannibal, all have possessed this uncanny knack, and triumphed over incredible numbers. Which is why we remember them as great leaders, rather than the foes, like Vercingetorix and Darius, whom they soundly defeated!
“Bowmen! Pick off the riders! Do not attempt to slay the thodars, nor even to injure them!” he cried in a great voice like a roll of thunder.
The wisdom of Garth’s words instantly struck new courage and fortitude into the hearts of his wavering men. All knew the thodars to be placid and docile grass-eaters rather than dangerous carnivores. With their riders slain, the beasts might very well wander off to crop the meadow grasses, indifferent to the presence of the Sotharians.
Bows were strung and lifted, feathered bows were bent until featured tips touched the earlobes of the archers. With a taut, humming song, long straight shafts were loosed and barbed death struck the advancing reptiles.
And the first arrow caught Captain Raphad straight between the eyes.…
* * * *
Yualla and Murg continued on across the plains, drawing ever nearer to the range of mountains known as the Walls of Zar. The girl maintained a rapid, limber, space-eating stride, for she was impatient to join forces with Hurok and the other warriors, and reluctant to miss any of the excitement of this adventure which she had impulsively determined to share.
Murg, his bony wrists lashed together behind his back, a noose about his throat, must perforce trot along behind the cave-girl. This was because she bore one end of the tether about his neck in her small, capable fist. If he failed to keep up with her, he might well be strangled.
Or so Murg feared. Actually, the girl was too tenderhearted (at least as concerned enemies she viewed with contempt, like Murg) to have let the miserable little man strangle.
Fortunately for Yualla and Murg few beasts more dangerous than the plump, timid, and edible little uld roamed the plains this close to the Walls of Zar, for the larger and more ferocious predators were held at bay for fear of the mighty thodars. Although they are not vegetarians and not carnivores, the brontosaurs are so large and heavy that they can break the backs of lesser reptiles or even of the mighty mastodons and woolly mammoths by simply stepping on them—which reminds me of the time a triceratops had the Professor and me treed, during our first day or so in Zanthodon, and got into a fight with a woolly mammoth, which promptly broke the back of the triceratops in the very manner I have just described.[2]
Of all the beasts of Zanthodon the Underground World, one of the most fearless, as it is one of the most ferocious, is the mighty vandar or sabertooth tiger. Twice the size of the Bengal tigers of the Upper World is this sleek, tawny, vicious brute, whose powerful jaws, armed with the formidable footlong fangs which give the monster its name, make it a deadly adversary even for the great saurians who share the jungle world with it.
One particular vandar, fully grown and weighing more than a percheron, was roaming the grasslands hungrily this day. The jungles which bordered the northern plains to the south were empty of game, and hunger gnawed at the vitals of the giant cat. For many wakes it had not made its kill and now, goaded alm
ost to the point of madness by the pangs of starvation, it had ventured out onto the broad plains in search of game. Doubtless, its small but cunning brain was teeming with images of the plump, inoffensive, and succulent uld which it knew were to be found aplenty amid the grassy plains beyond the jungle’s verge.
That these plains were ruled by the little olive-hued men who rode upon the feared and mighty thodars was well known to the sabertooth. This knowledge suggested caution to the predator; but hunger has a logic which can supercede even knowledge. And, were the vandar to have been capable of human reason, it might well have reasoned thus: better to die swiftly and cleanly beneath the tread of the thodar, than to die meanly by inches from starvation.
Mad with hunger though it was, the vandar crept furtively upon the plains into the region of low hills and ravines which bordered upon the mountains. Here the ponderous, slow-moving thodars could not move about, save in certain pathways. By avoiding those paths, which, of course, savored pungently of the spoor and droppings of the huge reptiles, the vandar hoped to avoid a confrontation.
Keeping well to the shadows, clambering lithely over the boulders and broken rocks, the great cat glided through the hills, seeking the borders of the open plain. It paused atop a rounded knoll to taste the humid breeze with twitching, sensitive nostrils. The oily smell of thodars was upon the wind, for they were abroad today, tracking the Sotharian tribes. But the mouth-watering odors of tender uld also rode upon the brisk winds, and the sabertooth slavered as it caught the scent.
Abandoning cover, the great cat sprang down and slunk into the thickly grown meadow grass. As it prowled, snuffling the ground for uld spoor, another odor even more inviting came to its nostrils.
The scent of human flesh.…
The sabertooth had made human kills before, and in one corner of its bestial brain it warily knew that two-legged prey most often went armed with sharp and heavy rocks fastened in some mysterious fashion to the end of short sticks, or with throwing-sticks which were long and sharply pointed and could somehow kill from a distance.
