The Zanthodon MEGAPACK ™: The Complete 5-Book Series

by Lin Carter

  This he placed upon his brows, and turned to face the advancing Dragonmen with a kingly frown upon his majestic features.

  The Cro-Magnon doubtless believed the circlet to be a magic charm. The technology of the uncanny telepathic receptor was naturally beyond his primitive experience. But he had nothing to lose and everything in the world to gain by testing its strange powers.…

  In the forefront, the Divine Zarys saw and recognized the circlet, and frowned, her furious expression changing to one of slight uneasiness.…

  She almost raised her hand to halt the advance, to call a parley. But then she saw the Professor and me among the others and her face hardened again into an expression of vicious hatred.

  With a wave, she signaled the charge—

  * * * *

  At that precise moment, Garth hurled the full power of his iron will against the advancing reptiles.

  With every atom of strength his disciplined mind and strong body possessed, he willed the beasts to halt in their tracks. And the will and mind of such as Garth, monarch of Sothar, was much more powerful than was the will of the Dragonmen, their inner strengths vitiated by the decadence of their enervating pleasures and by the soft pamperings of urban life.

  The monster saurians came to a halt.

  Wild-eyed, Zarys tugged at the reins, pummeling the sides of her gigantic steed with her heels. But she might as well have kicked a stalled locomotive, for all the reaction she got. Consternation and surprise flickered in the features of Cromus and the other Dragon-riders when they discovered that they had unaccountably lost control over their mounts.

  Never before, in their experience, had such a thing happened. Frowning in concentration, they hurled their wills against that of Garth, commanding their steeds forward to trample and crush the blond barbarians.

  But the beasts did not move, although they stirred restively, giving voice to bewildered and plaintive honkings.

  A huge grin split the somber visage of Garth of Sothar. Merriment twinkled in his hawklike eyes.

  He hurled another mental command at the giant reptiles. The stream of his thought waves, augmented and tightened into focus by the strange power of the circlet, broadcast his mental command into the tiny brains of the placid saurians.

  The beast which Zarys rode turned, its long neck curving, small, snake-like head questing.

  Jaws opening, it reached down and plucked the fear-frozen form of Cromus out of the saddle of the next beast. The head rose high into the air, the tiny figure of Cromus kicking and fighting in panic between its jaws.

  The brontosaurus was a herbivore, not a meat-eater. Its jaws were huge and powerful, but they were not lined with fangs as are the jaws of a predator. Thus it did not eat or swallow the hapless Minoan; it didn’t have to.

  It tossed him.

  Like a flimsy doll, the tiny form of Cromus whirled up into the air and came down to thump against the plain. And that was that, as far as Cromus was concerned.

  Garth turned his attentions to the next thodar. Its long, serpentine neck curved down, but this time the Dragon-rider managed to leap out of the saddle in time to avoid meeting the same doom as Cromus. He fell, sprawling on all fours in the long grass. Picking himself up, throwing aside trident and helm, he went sprinting off in the direction of the pass. Better to face a burning city and a God amok, than stay here and be tossed about like a child’s doll, were his obvious thoughts.

  Freed one by one of their riders, the huge reptiles were lumbering off amid the plains in search of fresh water or succulent grasses. Zarys, too, slid off her mount and vanished in the direction of Zar before Garth could turn his attention to her. I was glad to see her escape death, and hoped that I had seen the last of her.

  * * * *

  Raphad paused only long enough to realize that Garth had seized control of the thodars before making his move. The wily little Minoan officer had planned his next action. He had found a smooth, heavy stone amid the grasses, which he had hidden in the folds of his cloak. Now he drew it forth and, turning swiftly, struck one of his guards in the head with the rock. The man fell and even as he toppled, Raphad whirled and struck down the other guard.

  Then he threw himself upon Garth before anyone could stop him, and the unexpected impact of his weight bore the surprised High Chief to the ground.

  I yelled and made a grab at the Minoan, but Hurok was there before me. His huge balled fist rose and fell; with a sickening thud he broke the neck of Raphad with a single blow. The corpse kicked, then slid face-down into the grass.

  We bent to help Garth to his feet, but then we drew back in consternation.

  For in the split-second before Hurok slew him, the wily little captain had whipped a bronze dagger from Garth’s scabbard. And had plunged the blade into his heart.

  WHAT HAPPENED AFTER

  We met there in council on that knoll amid the plains, the chieftains of the host of Sothar and my friends and myself, to decide what must next be done.

  It was a strange, sad ending to an amazing day full of surprises. I’ve seen victory plucked out of the very jaws of defeat before, as the saying goes, but this was one of the first times I ever saw triumph followed so swiftly by stark tragedy.

  The one redeeming factor was that, somehow, miraculously, Garth had survived the assassin’s blade. The sharp knife had missed the mighty heart of the jungle monarch by a hair’s-breadth, but it had missed it and the great artery, too.

  But Garth lay on the very threshold of death, and he could not be moved. With hands as steady as those of a surgeon, Professor Potter gently withdrew the blade of the dagger from Garth’s chest. Nian, the monarch’s mate, stanched the flow of blood with tender care. The wound was packed with healing herbs, and bound tight.

  There remained a chance that Garth would live, but only a chance. In time, perhaps, his body would heal itself. He was a magnificent physical specimen, with the vigor and stamina of two men packed into his powerful frame, and, although a man of middle age by the standards of the cavemen, a strong man in the full noontide of his prime.

  For the moment, the tribe of Sothar must be led by the will of the chieftains. For Garth had left no son to succeed him to the Omadship, only a daughter, the lost Yualla, whom we all believed to be dead somewhere in the mountains.

  “We cannot remain here,” argued Parthon. “There is no source of water, and no trees from which to fashion huts to protect us from the elements.”

  “We could withdraw to the south, where the jungle stands at the end of the plains,” suggested Varak. “There we would no longer be at the mercy of wind and rain.”

  “And be at the mercy of the first prowling grymp or drunth or vandar that comes along,” sniffed the Professor, who always liked to put in his two cents.

  “We could move into the foothills and perhaps find caves there,” suggested one of the chieftains, a warrior named Thorg.

  “And be all the closer to Zar,” I pointed out. “And closer to its vengeful queen.”

  My friend Gundar of Gorad nodded grimly. “The Divine Zarys in her unappeased wrath will mount another expedition against those who defeated and disgraced her,” he promised. “I have been longer in the Scarlet City than have you, Eric Carstairs, and I understand the folk thereof more completely. The Witch Queen will never rest until she has dealt out fitting punishment to us all.…”

  “Pooh!” scoffed the Professor, brandishing the circlet which he had retrieved from the brows of Garth. “If she sends thodars against us, we shall fend them off as before, with this!”

  “And if she sends an army?” inquired Hurok in his heavy, deep tones. The Professor flinched and wilted.

  “The legions of Zar are not to be despised,” said Thon of Numitor, for once without his cheerfulness.

  “I think the wisest thing to do would be to go back across
the plains again and try to get together with the tribe of Thandar,” I said. “That way, we can put as much distance as possible between ourselves and the Dragonmen and double our fighting strength, if it comes to fighting.…”

  “How soon can the Omad safely be moved?” inquired Gundar of Numitor of the Professor. The elderly scientist shrugged, then pursed his lips thoughtfully.

  “Our friend Garth is a very strong man, brimming with superb health,” he mused. “Holy Hippocrates, but I should say—if he continues to rest and mend—within six or seven sleeps. Then we might bear him, very slowly and carefully, in a litter. With frequent stops, of course.”

  And so it was eventually decided.

  * * * *

  One week later, the host of Sothar decamped from the vicinity of the knoll and moved off slowly toward the northwest. There, across the width of the great plain, somewhere the tribe of Tharn of Thandar wandered, searching.

  There, somewhere beyond, on an unknown island amid the steamy waters of the Sogar-Jad, my lost Princess, Darya of Thandar, remained in captivity with the cruel Barbary Pirates.

  Would Garth survive the assassin’s cowardly blow, and would we ever find Yualla or Jorn or my beloved Darya again?

  Only time would tell.

  I marched at the head of the host, my thoughts dark and my heart heavy. At my side went my new friends, laughing, lighthearted Thon of Numitor and huge, powerful Gundar of Gorad. At my back marched the faithful warriors who had come through so many perils to rescue me—Varak of Sothar, and Ragor and Erdon of the Thandarians, Warza and Parthon.

  And the best and chiefest friend I had yet made during all of my adventures in Zanthodon the Underground World—Hurok of Kor. He had become a leader of men during his search for me, and a chieftain of Cro-Magnon warriors. He had found within his loyal and faithful heart the courage and wisdom and leadership that one might not expect of a Neanderthal, perhaps.

  Sometimes, in dire adversity, men break. Other men, however, pass through the fire and emerge strong and tempered, like steel passing through a smith’s forge.

  And thus had been the fate of my old friend and comrade-in-perils, Hurok of the Stone Age.

  THE END

  But the Adventures of Eric Carstairs in the Underground World will continue in “DARYA OF THE BRONZE AGE,” the fourth volume in this series.

  ERIC OF ZANTHODON

  PART I: THE FUGITIVES

  CHAPTER 1

  THE HIDING PLACE

  When the legions of Zar hurled themselves against the rearmost ranks of the corsairs, Jorn the Hunter found the moment he had been waiting for.

  The Cro-Magnon boy gave Yualla the signal. Then he whirled, turning on the Zarian legionnaire assigned to guarding him, and kicked the astounded man in the stomach. As he sagged to his knees, gagging, the warrior could not have told which surprised him the most—the unexpected blow, or the fact that the hands of the youth were now free of their bonds.

  In the same instant, Yualla had dispatched her own guard with her dagger. In the noise and tumult of battle, with the full attention of the Zarian warriors riveted on their foes, the Barbary Pirates, none but Murg noticed this burst of action.

  Hastily stripping their guards of weapons, the boy and girl fled for safety behind tall boulders. From that vantage, they glided into thick bushes, seeking to circle the scene of battle and rejoin the tribe of Sothar from their rear.

  As the two young people made their escape, Murg, who had been watching for just such an act, signaled to Xask, who was happy enough to have a reason to fall back into the rear. War was not one of Xask’s favorite recreations. After all, people can get themselves killed when swords are flashing and spears are flying!

  As Zarys led her legions into the fray, Xask prudently retired to a safer position, well out of the way of the flashing scimitars, the thrusting tridents. Accompanied by his entourage of personal guards, he initiated pursuit of the escaping hostages. Along the way, Murg and his guard fell into step with them, although Murg was no happier in battles than was Xask, and heartily wished himself far away from all these brave, bloody events.

  Having no way of reading Xask’s mind, then or now, I cannot say with certainty what motives urged the sly little vizier to race in pursuit of the youth and maiden. Perhaps he intended recapturing them, in order to trade their persons for my old friend, the Professor, whose brain held the secret of the thunder-weapon (as the folk of Zanthodon name my .45 automatic). Or perhaps he merely wished an excuse to put as much distance between his tender hide and the furious battle as could be done.

  * * * *

  Jorn and Yualla, once safely out of the sight of their former captors, took to their heels with alacrity. The handsome youth and his attractive blonde companion were young, their lithe bodies toughened by the adventures through which they had recently passed, and the Cro-Magnons are a hardy, healthy people. Hence it was not long before they outdistanced the men of Zar, who were smaller and less athletic and who were, of course, burdened by their bronze armor and heavy weapons.

  The three-way battle between the Cro-Magnons, the Barbary Pirates, and the Zarians, had begun in an open, meadowy space at the mouth of the pass which wound its way through that soaring range of mountains known as the Peaks of Peril. It is perhaps ironic that so many of our adventures had taken place in the vicinity of this ominously and prophetically named range of mountains. The boy and girl had intended to circle through the underbrush until they reached the sheer and cliff-like wall of the mountains, then double back so as to rejoin their friends in the rear, where they stood embattled with their backs set against the cliff.

  Once Jorn’s keen senses discovered that they were being pursued by armed men, of course, his plans required swift alteration. The two struck out into the midst of the grassy plain, hoping to evade their pursuers and probably, as well, hoping that the Zarians would give over the pursuit when it became impractical to continue it, and return to join their comrades in the fighting.

  The plains north of the mountains were level and featureless, and afforded the fugitives scant opportunities for concealment. Once they had put a considerable distance between themselves and those that followed, it occurred to Jorn the Hunter that they might manage to hide themselves in the tall grasses. An act so obvious as that would not for long have managed to confuse the warriors or huntsmen of his own Cro-Magnon tribe, for of course they were seasoned veterans, accustomed to the rough and hardy life of the wilderness and the jungle, who spent much of their lives tracking beasts through the woods in order to hunt and kill. Such as they could swiftly and easily have followed the trail left by the fugitives in the disturbed leaves. and trampled grasses—as easily as you or I can peruse this printed page. But the Zarians were sophisticated city dwellers, no huntsmen, and to their dulled senses the trail left by the passage of Jorn and Yualla was all but invisible.

  They had come to a shallow depression, where tall grass grew thick. It was here that the two sought to conceal themselves from their adversaries. It would have been but the action of mere moments for the two to crawl into the grasses, arranging the vegetation over them, and to lie still as rabbits seeking to evade the scrutiny of hawks.

  Save for the unforeseen.…

  Others had sought refuge in the shallow depression and had been hiding among the tall grasses, sensing the approach of tramping feet. These now exploded from their places of concealment, panicked by the two young people.

  They were uld, small, edible, timid mammals resembling plump, diminutive deer. But deer they were not, for Professor Potter has identified them as eohippus, “dawn-horse,” the remote ancestors of the modern animal.

  Jorn snarled an oath, for the scattering uld would draw attention to their hiding place; and attention was the last thing he wished at the moment, with half a dozen armed Zarian legionnaires on their tracks.


  Even as Jorn had feared, the flight of the uld had caught the eye of one of the Zarians. He started, pointing. Xask snapped a command and the guards fell into arrowhead formation, plowing through the high grass in the direction from which the herd of uld had fled in all directions.

  And Xask smiled thinly: it was only a matter of moments now before the fugitives were found and became his captives once again.

  Things have a way of falling out differently from what you may hope or expect, in Zanthodon as in the world above. But only in Zanthodon could the next twist of fate have occurred.

  For other eyes had sighted the flight of the panic-stricken miniature horses. Those eyes belonged to an omodon, and a hungry brute of an omodon. Generally, such as the mighty cave-bear of the Ice Age lurk among the rocky crags of the Peaks of Peril, but the lust to gorge its empty belly on raw red meat had driven this particular omodon down from the heights, to prowl and hunt upon the plain.

  The great bear had small, weak eyes, for which reason it generally avoided the light of day, preferring the comfortable gloom of the mountainside cave it had seized for its lair. But its keen and sensitive nostrils more than made up for the inadequacy of its vision, and it had sniffed the tasty uld upon the wind.

  The monster had been stealthily creeping through the tall grass to where it had smelled out the hiding place of the herd of uld. Now, as they exploded affrightedly in all directions, it came roaring to its feet, mad with fury and frustration.

  And when the mighty cave-bear of the Ice Age rises to its full height, it is a fearsome thing to behold. Heavier and higher than two grizzlies was the omodon, and its huge paws, heavy as hammers, were armed with dreadful claws like scythes.

  And this was the adversary that came bellowing and lumbering down on the place where Jorn the Hunter and Yualla of Sothar had sought to conceal themselves from danger and discovery among the tall grasses!