The Zanthodon MEGAPACK ™: The Complete 5-Book Series

by Lin Carter

  But this knowledge lurked in one corner of the vandar’s brain only, and all the rest of that organ was possessed to the point of madness by hunger. And so overwhelming had that hunger become by now that it drowned out all caution in the mind of the famished supertiger.

  It tested the breeze, and found that it did not have to track this new game, for the game was advancing upon it with swift and eager strides.

  The striped cat easily concealed itself in the cover of the long grasses, and crouched, belly to the earth, tail-tip twitching, ready to launch upon its terrible and irresistible charge.

  The earth trembled slightly beneath its body, beating like a drum from the impact of striding human feet.

  The vibration was so slight that only a canny predator might have caught and interpreted it, but the vandar was full-grown, a veteran fighter, an experienced hunter, and could read that faint, far drumming with ease.

  It crouched, tension gathering in the coiled and steely muscles of its lean hindquarters.

  The game was only instants away now, and the vandar was crouched in the concealing grasses directly in its path.…

  * * * *

  Yualla came across the grasses toward the first of the hills with a light, rapid pace, poor Murg wheezing and puffing as he trotted along in her wake.

  The girl did not even have time to scream as the thick grasses parted to reveal a hideous face distorted in a snarl of fury.

  In the next instant a tawny form hurtled upon her like a furry thunderbolt.

  CHAPTER 20

  THEY REACH ZAR

  Hurok stood, heavy arms folded upon his hairy breast, and stared down thoughtfully into the valley of the inland sea. There before him stretched the immensity of Zar, the Scarlet City of the Minoans. And what a spectacle it was!

  Never in all of his days had the mighty Neanderthal of Kor seen a city. Never had he even imagined one. All he knew was Kor, land of the Apemen, with its caves burrowed into the cliffs, and the jungle country of Thandar and the other Cro-Magnon nations, and the cavern-city of the Gorpaks and the ghastly Sluaggh.

  He was impressed in spite of himself, was Hurok the Apeman. The massive structures were obviously man-made, looming two or three stories into the air, spired with squat, four-sided towers and slim obelisks. Toward the central parts of the Scarlet City loomed the palace citadel atop its high place, perhaps the most stupendous mass of masonry ever erected within Zanthodon the Underground World.

  Dim, small eyes peering and blinking beneath the heavy shelf of his bony brows, the apelike Neanderthal slowly looked over the city…the streets and boulevards and avenues and narrow, dark alleys between the looming piles of masonry…the squares and forums and bazaars, like open glades or clearings amid the forest of buildings…the palaces and temples, mansions and warehouses, fortresses and barracks…and, beyond, the vast, walled, seatringed oval that was the mighty arena.…

  Fantastic and bizarre were the decorations which ornamented the city: friezes and mosaics, tapestries and banners, statues and idols and stone monsters, carven masks and leering dragons, the glitter of glazed tile, the rich mingling of brazen colors flaunting their brilliance back in the face of daylight…the throng which surged to and fro in the streets, ragged beggars whining for alms, fat-bellied merchants squatting on bits of carpet under striped awnings, guardsmen alert and vigilant atop the towers, daylight flashing from gilt helm and spear-blade and trident…veiled women glimpsed in swinging palanquins borne on the brawny shoulders of blond slaves…fountains playing, rooftop gardens.…

  And upon the breast of the inland sea itself, the watery moat which guarded Zar from its enemies no less staunchly than did the sheltering wall of mountains, ships bobbed at anchor: pleasure craft glided to and fro, laden with blossoms and girls…stern, brass-beaked war triremes lashed to the end of stone piers…merchant ships, as fatbellied as their owners, plied the bright waters, hulls crammed with casks of red wine and wild honey, chests of gems and worked brass and carven ivory hewn from the curlicue tusks of mammoths, bales of cotton, rolled-up carpets, tin pots, ripe fruits, bales of golden grain—

  Hurok blinked, and rubbed his eyes, dazed and bedazzled at the complexity, the colors, the sheer, inconceivable newness of so much in the busy, bustling, gaudy, magnificent scene which stretched far beneath where he stood on the farther slopes of the mountain range.

  Behind and about him, his warriors crouched and stared, with much the same awe and amazement that filled his mighty breast. For the Cro-Magnon warriors of Sothar and distant Thandar dwelt, for the better part, in bamboo huts or long, rambling, low-roofed structures which resembled log cabins. Only the High House of the Omad was taller, a two-storied building which had heretofore seemed to their simple imaginations the most impressive structures of which human hands were capable.

  And now they looked for the first time upon one of the last cities in the world wherein the grandeur and might of the ancient world could still be seen. Only, perhaps, in the ruins of Pompeii or Knossos could the magnificence of the mighty past be glimpsed, and only in part, the gaps in those ruins pieced together by the magic of imagination. But here was one of the oldest cities of the world, surviving in all its fantastic richness and color!

  “O Hurok,” muttered Varak from his side in dazed, low tones, “how can we ever hope to find Eric Carstairs and the old man in all of…that?”

  The Neanderthal shook his heavy, low-browed head ponderously, choosing silence over speech. He could not have said what he had expected to find—a valley whose cliff walls were pocked by caves, perhaps, or a palisade-walled cluster of wood huts, such as he had seen on slave-raiding expeditions into Thandar and Gorad and Numitor and other Cro-Magnon lands.

  But he could never have imagined anything like this.

  “What shall we do, my chieftain?” muttered Erdon helplessly, from where he stood beside his brother-in-arms, Ragor. “We are six warriors against many, many times that number. How can we do battle against so many, or find our way to the side of Eric Carstairs amid that—that wilderness of colored stone?”

  The Apeman of Kor spoke up then, but with his customary brevity.

  “We can but try,” he said dully. “For at least to try is what Black Hair would expect of us. Not—miracles.…”

  “There are sentinels atop the taller structures,” observed Warza, pointing. “They will have been chosen for their posts by alertness and vigilance, to say nothing of possessing the sharp eyes of hunting hawks. And they will see us as we descend the slope.”

  “Then we shall conceal ourselves as best we may,” grunted Hurok, “and descend the slope with care, taking advantage of such cover as we may find.”

  “And then?” demanded Parthon the Sotharian. “How can we enter the city? True, it is not guarded by a palisade, but see how the buildings crowd together, with but narrow ways between. Surely, these are guarded!”

  “And how shall we be able to swim the moat, for in truth it is more than a lake, this place, almost a sea!” cried Varak impatiently. “The stone bridges are guarded—see? And there? Can mere men swim so far unseen?”

  “They will slay us with arrows before we have swum even half the distance to the island,” muttered Ragor gloomily.

  Hurok shrugged his burly, anthropoid shoulders irritably. Idle talk always depressed and annoyed him, for he preferred the more direct and simple course—taking bold action, rather than endlessly talking about which action to take.

  “We shall swim beneath the wider of the stone bridges,” he rumbled. “Men cannot see through the solid floor beneath their feet. The bridge is supported upon pilings sunk into the floor of the sea, and there are struts of heavy logs built between the pilings to brace and strengthen them: upon these shall we rest when we become weary from so long a swim.…”

  “But—I have heard that Hurok of Kor knows not
how to swim!” cried Erdon, remembering my account of how I had once saved the Korian from death by drowning when a great yith (or plesiosaurus) overturned a dugout canoe.[3]

  “That is true,” admitted Hurok somberly.

  “How then will Hurok swim the waters of the sea?” inquired the other. The Apeman of Kor shook his head dumbly.

  “Perhaps Hurok will learn by doing,” he said.

  The others looked at one another, questioningly. They had learned to swim as boys in jungle rivers and in the many lakes which dotted the countryside. And they remembered that the skill was not all that swiftly or easily acquired.…

  “We shall have to have Hurok sit upon a log large and light enough not to sink beneath his weight, and steer him along by swimming beside the log, guiding it with one hand,” suggested Varak to his companions.

  “Hurok will not do it,” said that worthy in firm tones. The very notion of squatting gingerly atop a fallen tree, being towed along by his warriors, while they twisted through the water, lithe and supple as so many eels, would tend to make anyone feel ridiculous. And Hurok had a very well-developed sense of personal dignity.

  “Hurok must do it, or something very like it, if he is to cross the moat with us,” Parthon pointed out.

  Grumbling and growling to himself, the Neanderthal subsided into a lame silence.

  They waited for his acknowledgment that they were right. But none came, as the Apeman maintained a stubborn, truculent mien.

  “What does Hurok say?” Warza asked at last.

  “Hurok says: let us climb down the slope, and leave crossing the moat to the moment when we are face-to-face with that problem,” growled Hurok shortly. “Perhaps, with any luck, Hurok will trip and fall down the mountainside, and break his neck!”

  Grinning, but avoiding his angry eye, they began with great care and caution to descend the mountainside, taking every advantage of cover and concealment which presented itself. From time to time a diversion occurred: two galleys collided in the midst of the lake-like sea, starting a loud argument between the two merchant skippers, which attracted the amused attention of everyone within earshot and eye-reach.

  The warriors took advantage of this noisy incident to sprint a good way down the slope, flinging themselves into the bushes as the argument began to subside.

  A bit later, three thakdols soared over the inland sea at an unusually low height, providing another diversion. The warriors got down into the lake up to their necks and waded along the offshore area until the width of the bridge concealed them beneath it.

  “That was close,” muttered Parthon grimly.

  “Yes, but I would enjoy thanking those thakdols personally,” quipped the irrepressible Varak.

  “There’s a good log, O Hurok,” said Ragor, pointing to the trunk of a fallen tree which had become lodged among the pilings which supported the end of the bridge. Hurok looked gloomy.

  * * * *

  But not so gloomy as he looked when, a bit later, he sat hunched atop that very log, clinging for dear life to the stubs of brokers-off branches, as six grinning warriors steered him across the lake with many a humorous remark at his expense.

  [1] Xask actually did shoot a drunth and kill it with a single bullet. See chapter 20 of Zanthodon, the second volume of the memoirs of Eric Carstairs.

  [2] The incident to which Eric Carstairs alludes may be found in Chapter 5 and 6 of Journey to the Underground World, the first volume of these adventures.

  [3] A description of this scene will be found in Chapter 12 of Journey to the Underground World. I am unable to explain why the Neanderthals, who dwell on the island of Granadol,which, like all islands, is completely surrounded by water, are not able to swim. Perhaps it is due to their great weight, or extreme clumsiness, or a simple, primitive fear of drowning. Perhaps a combination of all three.

  PART V: THE THUNDER WEAPON

  CHAPTER 21

  I BREAK OUT OF JAIL

  Following the unsatisfactory conclusion of my private interview with the Empress, I found myself being escorted to a new suite in another part of the palace. I was left alone there, kept under strict guard, although every courtesy was shown me and my prison cell was luxurious.

  It bothered me that I could not see the Professor. The old geezer and I had been through some interesting times together, and had shared some remarkable experiences and adventures. No one would answer me when I asked why I could not see my friend, and I was not again summoned into the presence of Zarys.

  I was more than a little thankful for that.

  And I was more than a little anxious about the meaning of all of this. When I discovered that Zarys had my automatic, many things fell into place like the pieces of a puzzle. Obviously, that wily rascal, Xask, had been busily at work behind the scenes, and the attempted seduction—or whatever it was—had been a try at winning my cooperation in the manufacture of the thunder-weapon.

  Zarys was no fool: she must have known from my words and my manner that there was no real hope of coercing or coaxing me into revealing the secret. But why was I being kept apart from Professor Potter?

  I fretted the long days of my captivity away. Perhaps “captivity” is the wrong word to use for a sumptuous and airy apartment crammed with gorgeous tapestries and wallpaintings, adorned with perfumed lamps and silken cushions, where I dined splendidly on the rarest and most succulent foods and wines.

  If this was what being in jail was like in Zar, thought I to myself, I’ll take it to being in jail anywhere else in the world.

  Since my repeated requests for an interview with Zarys or Hassib the Grand Panjandrum fell on deaf ears, after a week or so of this sort of kid-gloves treatment, I resolved to take things into my own hands. One “night” I climbed out on the narrow ornamental balcony of the window in my room and secured one end of a long line to the railing of carven stone.

  I had manufactured this line by knotting together strips of strong cloth torn from my surplus bedding. Not having been able to give my handiwork a genuine test, I prayed to whatever gods watch over crazy adventurers like myself, and clambered down the line. About thirteen feet beneath my windowsill a stone ledge ran along the outer wall, parallel to the parks and grounds below. It was there purely for decoration, but I thought it looked strong enough to bear my weight.…

  It was.

  But it was only about fourteen inches wide. I crept along it, inching my way with my shoulders pressed fiat against the outer wall and feeling my way along with bare toes.

  I tried not to look down. I’ve always had an average head for heights, which is to say I would have made a mediocre-to-crummy mountain climber. But vertigo is an affliction to which the human animal is universally subject, and I tried to keep cool. Which makes me laugh, thinking back on that dreadful trip, for all the while I was sweating like a bull.

  In the perpetual noontime of Zanthodon anyone who cared to glance up could have discovered me inching my way along the wall, and probably would have roused the gendarmes to pry me off it. Gardeners toiled beneath my feet, trimming hedges, spading moist earth, and doing the other grubby little things that keep gardeners busy. But not one of them turned to look at me.

  After what seemed like about half an eternity, I found the ledge had brought me within arm’s length of another balcony and another window. Risking much, I peered in and discovered the room to be empty. Not only that, but it seemed untenanted as well, for the couch was stripped of bedding and the carpets were rolled up and stacked against the farther wall. I climbed in through the window and tested the door. It was locked from the outside—naturally, I suppose.

  I set my shoulder against it and heaved. Nothing happened. Another heave, and a bit more muscle behind it this time. Something within the lock mechanism went KRAK!. and I opened the door ever so slightly and pee
red both ways. The corridor was empty.

  Moving on quick, light feet, I went down the hall, choosing a direction at random. I was by now completely disoriented and had no idea where I was. I also began to curse myself for taking such a chance, as the first person to come along would spot me as an escaping prisoner and would sound the alarm.

  Well, what the hay! So long as your captors want something out of you, they’re not very likely to feed you to the cobras for a minor transgression. And—aren’t prisoners supposed to try to escape, anyway?

  The slap of leathern sandals up ahead, around the curve of the hallway, alerted me. I just barely had time to conceal myself behind a heavy tapestry before a squadron of palace guards went clanking by. I felt mighty grateful that the Minoans seemed unusually fond of wall-hangings, because over the next two hours of my prowl through the palace, I was able to avoid discovery and capture by taking similar refuge about six times.

  * * * *

  I had timed my expedition to a fine degree: it would be four hours before the next meal was brought to me, which gave me a comfortable margin of time to cover as much ground as possible before beating (hopefully) a retreat and regaining my rooms before the maids came in.

  What I hadn’t figured on was that the palace was as large and as complicated as it turned out to be. I had thought that, with a little diligent prowling, I would soon encounter familiar territory and find the apartments in which the Professor and I had first been situated, and in which the old fellow was presumably still staying.

  After two solid hours of searching, I had to abandon my plan. I simply didn’t find anything that looked familiar.