The Zanthodon MEGAPACK ™: The Complete 5-Book Series

by Lin Carter

  Hurok, however, cautioned against such rashness. What, after all, could a mere handful of men however bold and brave, hope to accomplish in a city filled with thousands of their enemies?

  The gloom of the alley bothered the Neanderthal warrior little. Accustomed as he was to the dark caves of his rocky homeland of Kor on the island of Ganadol, his small and dim eyes rather enjoyed their brief respite from the all-pervading daylight of the surface of Zanthodon.

  “How can we hope to do battle against so many?” he rumbled in his deep bass tones. “Only by stealth and with great care could we dream of finding where Black Hair and the old man, his companion, are held.…”

  “But where, O Hurok, in all this wilderness of stone caves would they imprison our chieftain?” asked Varak pointedly. “What use to linger here amid the blackness and the stench, when we have not the slightest idea of where Eric Carstairs lies imprisoned?”

  There was good sense in Varak’s words, as Hurok well knew. But the burly and hulking Apeman of Kor had a shrewd notion of where his black-haired friend could be found. From the cliffs he had studied the layout of the Scarlet City, and had noticed that toward the center of the metropolis a lofty palace or citadel reared its spires atop a rise of ground. Of course, Hurok had no acquaintance with cities, ancient or modern; he had no way of guessing that the highest part of ground within the circuit of most of the great cities of the ancient world had been chosen to house the most important structures. This was true of the Acropolis of Athens as it was true of the Capitoline of Rome and the Brysa of age-lost Carthage.

  And it was also true of Zar, the Scarlet City of the Minoans.…

  To Hurok’s way of thinking, so important a prisoner as Black Hair would be held in the residence of the ruler of Zar. And that residence could only be the huge and imposing pile of masonry which rose on the hilly heights at the center of the city, with the great arena behind it. The problem was-how could he lead his warriors all that distance without their being seen and the alarm sounded?

  And that was a problem indeed.…

  Squatting on his heels, Hurok pondered his dilemma. And as he did so there came to his ears a gurgling as of running water. This sound seemed to come from a rust-eaten grill set into the cobbled surface of the narrow little alleyway. For what reason the barred opening had been built Hurok could not imagine; he had not, after all, ever heard of sewers and neither could he have known that ancient Knossos, capital of Crete, had been famous in antiquity for its running water and flush toilets.

  And running water must run somewhere.…

  Examining the grill, the Neanderthal warrior discovered that it could be lifted free of its iron frame. When he strove to accomplish this, he made the further discovery that ages of neglect had effectively welded the grill to its frame with layers of encrusted rust.

  While his baffled men looked on in total lack of comprehension, Hurok bent all of his mighty strength to the task of wrenching free the grill of the sewer. Great thews swelled to rock hardness along his sloping and apelike shoulders; ropes and cables of muscle sprang into sharp relief along his broad back and deep, furred chest.

  With a sharp crack! the layers of rust shattered and the grill came loose in his hands. Peering down into the opening he had made, the Apeman of Kor blinked as his eyes adjusted to the virtually impenetrable gloom of the sewer. Soon he discovered the opening to be a long, narrow tunnel one end of which obviously emptied into the inland sea, as it went in that direction.

  Peering the other way, he glimpsed the continuation of the underground passage, as it rose ever so slightly, extending in the same direction as they wished to travel, toward the center of the great city.

  The roof and walls of the tunnel were of dressed and fitted stone, and seemed secure enough as no fallen or crumbling blocks could be seen. Down the middle of the floor trickled a slimy stream of black water which reeked of human offal. If one could endure the darkness (he thought slowly to himself) and ignore the horrendous stench—and if the sewer tunnel truly extended as far as the palace citadel on the height, one could with luck and fortitude traverse the city unseen, by the remarkably simple expedient of traveling beneath it.

  Slow-witted and unimaginative primitive Neanderthal though he certainly was, Hurok of Kor possessed a native shrewdness that sometimes serves one better in adversity than a dozen college degrees.

  “What is it that Hurok has found?” inquired Parthon as his leader slowly straightened and turned to confront the little band.

  A rare grin slowly stretched the thick lips of the Apeman. Humor and relief gleamed in his little sunken eyes.

  “The pathway to the place where our chieftain lies in prison,” he grunted.

  The Cro-Magnon warriors blinked and stared at each other, then bent to regard the black opening in the alley’s floor and the even blacker tunnel thus revealed.

  They were troubled and dismayed; if the darkness of the narrow-walled alley had discomforted them, how could they endure the stench and the unbroken gloom of the underground road Hurok had found?

  In low tones, rather ashamed of their complaining, they put this question to the great Neanderthal who had become their leader. He grinned again, and gave voice to a throaty chuckle.

  “Are the warriors of Thandar and of Sothar children that they fear the darkness of a cave?” he inquired sarcastically. “If this is so, then let them employ the flints they carry to ignite a torch by whose illumination the darkness may be driven hence and they may see their way!”

  “Flints we have, as Hurok knows,” grumbled Warza sourly. “But torches we have not, as Hurok also knows.…”

  The Apeman of Kor gestured with one mighty arm at the mounds of rotting garbage which blocked the mouth of the dark alley.

  “There before Warza lie broken boxes and discarded rags,” he said significantly. “Surely, one so clever as Warza can fashion therefrom a torch or two?”

  Flushing a little at the implied rebuke, Warza bent to the task. Wrenching apart the slats of a broken crate, he wound one end with filthy rags. Flint struck fiery sparks when dashed against flint; with a little encouragement, the makeshift torch was set burning.

  It burned smokily, true, sending a coil of sooty black smoke into the air. And the light it cast was fitful and even feeble. Still and all, it was light and would certainly serve to alleviate somewhat the gloom of the sewer tunnel.

  One by one the warriors lowered themselves gingerly into the black mouth of the opening, finding themselves up to their ankles in dirty water and not quite able to stand erect. The torches Warza had fashioned shed a dim, wavering orange glow which disclosed to their eyes the gradually ascending tunnel that extended in the direction of the central parts of the Scarlet City.

  Holding their breath against the fetid stench, they began to inch along. The stone trough which ran down the middle of the sewer tunnel was slimed with layers of ancient grease and mold and nameless ooze. It was uncomfortable not being able to stand erect, and the air was of vile quality.

  Nevertheless, they went up the tunnel and began their unpleasant trip to the citadel of the Witch Queen of Zar, the Scarlet City.

  What they should find when they reached the end of the underground road none of them knew or could even guess. Perhaps, another grilled opening such as the one whereby they had entered into the sewer. Or perhaps a sheer pipe leading upwards into the structure of the palace, a vertical ascent which not even the nimblest or most agile of their number could hope to climb.

  But, at every step of their quest to rescue Eric Carstairs and Professor Potter, they had faced up to and overcome obstacles which had, at the time, seemed unconquerable. By courage and strength, patience and ingenuity, they had come this far in their search for their captive chieftain.

  And this was merely one more obstacle to be met and overcome.…

  Th
ese thoughts passed slowly through the mind of Hurok of Kor as the mighty Apeman plodded through the underground tunnel. Like the true leader he was, like the actual leader he had become, the burly Neanderthal tried to foresee the hazards that might lie ahead, the dangers they might soon face, and the problems which the future might soon reveal, so as to plan a means of surmounting them.

  Of course, not a man of them—not even Hurok—could possibly have guessed what they would face when they reached the end of the underground road.…

  PART VI: GODS OF ZAR

  CHAPTER 26

  MY BLUFF FAILS

  Cromus regarded me with blank astonishment. Obviously, the little commander had thought me safely mewed up in my silken, sumptuous cell. To find me here, in the secret factory where the Professor was busily reinventing firearms was about the last thing the pompous, strutting little bantam could have expected.

  There was no hope of fighting my way through half-a-dozen armed men, so I resolved to try to bluff my way out of this predicament. Permitting no trace of my shock or consternation to show, I folded my arms across my breast and regarded the gaudy little officer with a casual smile.

  “What do you here, prisoner?” demanded Cromus in harsh tones. I shrugged and turned upon him a serene and guileless gaze.

  “The chosen lover of the Divine Zarys,” I said blandly, “is free to come and go as he wishes in the palace of his beloved.”

  The features of Cromus darkened, flushing with anger and jealousy. His thin lips parted, then closed to stifle an angry retort. As he eyed me truculently and suspiciously, chewing his lower lip in obvious indecision, I realized my advantage.

  Cromus knew very well that I had been granted private audience with the woman he desired. Palace scuttlebutt probably had it that I had been offered the love of Zarys. The frustrated and madly jealous heart of Cromus quite likely pictured the scenes which his tormented imagination painted—scenes of myself in the cool arms of Zarys, of myself pressing fiery kisses upon the moist and panting mouth of Zarys—scenes certainly calculated to do nothing to assuage or lessen his hatred of the man who had knocked him down before all of the assembled nobles.

  Palace scandal doubtless also reported that I had scorned the love of Zarys, and had been locked up for weeks in order to meditate upon my refusal of her favors, and, perhaps, repent.

  However, to refuse the arms and lips of the Goddess was something so incredible and unprecedented as to seem utterly impossible to a rejected suitor such as Cromus. And now my cool-words confirming his darkest fancies, so that his acceptance of the rumor was deeply shaken.

  “And now if the commander would kindly step aside, I shall be on my way,” I suggested. It couldn’t do any harm to try bluffing my way out of this, for I was already in enough hot water to scald the toughest hide.

  He eyed me dubiously, trying to make up his mind what to do. Of course, it would hardly be wise for him to offer violence to the chosen lover of Zarys…on the other hand, supposing that I lied, it would hardly be wise to let me go scot-free.

  It was a pretty problem!

  Cromus solved it in such a way as to earn my admiration, although I disliked the strutting popinjay almost as much as he disliked me.

  “Come, then,” he grunted. “I and my soldiers will escort the Lord Eric to the apartments of the Divine Empress as a, ah, guard of honor. Surely, the Goddess will appreciate the esteem and honor we will thus bestow upon her chosen.…”

  Then he shot me a sly and cunning glance.

  “And surely the Lord Eric will not offend those who would do honor unto him by refusing to accept that honor!”

  Well, he had me there, all right! There was nothing that I could think to do but nod with cool politeness and let the guardsmen lead me through the corridors beyond the Professor’s laboratory.

  Ialys, looking pale and frightened, had perforce to accompany us. Two soldiers closed in on either side of the handmaiden so that she must walk between them.

  My mind racing furiously as I strove to figure out some way of getting out of this spot, I barely noticed the suites and halls and stairways by which we traversed the bewildering maze that was the palace citadel.

  I didn’t notice much of anything, in fact, until with a sudden shock I found myself standing before the veiled aperture which led to the private apartments of the Empress.

  Here we halted while Cromus strutted forward to exchange a few words with the guard captain stationed before the door. These words were breathed in tones too low for my ears to catch their meaning. Saluting, the captain entered the suite and within a moment or two he returned.

  “The Divine One will see you now,” he said to Cromus. “All of you.”

  * * * *

  Within the boudoir of the Goddess, another shock awaited me. It certainly was turning out to be a day full of surprises.…

  For the Empress, it seemed, was in her bath.

  It was a sunken tub, tiled with pale jade and rich lapis Lazuli, wherein she reclined in sudsy, perfumed water, reposing languidly while handmaidens as naked as was she gently laved her slender limbs.

  She regarded us lazily, with a little smile. How beautiful she was I give my reader leave to imagine for himself. Her slim, bare limbs gleamed lustrously through the soapy water; foamy bubbles clung to her perfect, pointed breasts like pearls.

  I hastily averted my eyes while Cromus, coming stiffly to attention, began making his report.

  “Goddess, I found the Lord Eric in the workshop where the wise one toils at the fashioning of the thunder-weapon,” he said. “Understanding that he had been made a prisoner by the command of Your Divinity, I inquired into his presence and learned from his lips that, as the chosen companion of the Divine Zarys, he might come and go as freely as he wished. Not daring to contradict one who might, indeed, be speaking the truth and be thus intimate with the Divine Presence, and therefore sacrosanct, I merely escorted the Lord hither to make this report.”

  He darted a snaky glance at Ialys who stood, white-faced and trembling, between two strong guards.

  “And his accomplice, as well,” he added.

  The Empress studied me and the hapless girl for a long moment, the brilliance of her gaze veiled by silken lashes. Her expression was inscrutable.

  “So, Eric Carstairs,” she drawled at last in a lazy, purring voice, “you claim to be my lover? You boast to others of that relationship which was offered unto you, and which you so rashly declined? And, to make matters even worse, you have subverted—if not even seduced—my faithful handmaiden?”

  I tried a bit of bluff again. Shrugging and grinning with a touch of bravado, I said: “Well, I went for a little walk, I must admit! Gets awfully tiresome, locked up with nothing to do. As for Ialys, she had nothing to do with it. I just sort of ran into her along the way—”

  Those magnificent eyes flashed dangerously.

  “Do not dream that you can make a fool of the Divine Zarys with your flimsy lies!” she snapped. “Guiltiness is written upon the girl’s face for every eye to read. If she had naught to do with your escape, why, then, has she turned as pale as fresh milk? Why do her limbs tremble, and why do her eyes mirror forth the fear that is within her heart? What is there to fear, if one has done nothing for which to deserve punishment?”

  “I was just looking for my friend, the Professor—” I began, hoping against hope that simple honesty would convince her that I had no sinister intent. “If I had been intending to escape, I wouldn’t have been prowling around the palace, but off and over the walls—”

  “Enough, barbarian!” She lifted one slender hand, her voice imperious. “I have only contempt for your lies, and they will avail you naught—nay, nor will they interpose between my wrath and the guilt of the girl, Ialys, whom I loved and trusted!”

  At this the little handmaiden chok
ed a sob and fell to her knees beside the tiled pool, burying her face between shaking hands.

  “Mercy, O Divine One—” she implored in a quavering voice.

  The face of the Goddess softened as she stared at the weeping girl. One hand emerged from the water to touch gently the girl’s head, to smooth back the locks of her complicated hairstyle, which had become disarranged.

  In the very next instant—with that quicksilver, catlike change of mood I found so disconcerting—her face hardened and her superb breasts heaved with emotion.

  “One whom I trusted and have given favor to has betrayed that trust,” she hissed coldly. “And one to whom I offered the ultimate favor has deceived and lied to me. For crimes of such affront to the Sacred Throne, there can be but one punishment great enough!”

  “And that is…?” inquired Cromus with a leer, licking his lips gloatingly.

  “These two shall be immurred within the Pits of Zar, to await death in the great arena on the comingforth of the God,” she commanded.

  And I must confess my heart sank into my boots. Except that I wasn’t wearing any, of course.…

  * * * *

  While it had proved a pretty crummy day for me, Cromus obviously found it something to write up in his diary, if the Zarians keep diaries, that is, and if he could write.

  As he led us to the cells beneath the arena, he was strutting and preening himself like a peacock, shooting me smirking and malevolent little glances all the while, and in general really enjoying himself.

  As for myself, I tried to keep a calm composure and an unruffled mien. It wouldn’t do me any good to show my feelings, or the depths of despair in my heart. and to do so would only have pleased Cromus all the more. So I hung onto my cool and didn’t even respond to his jibes.