by Lin Carter
The black warrior grinned. “Zuma has tracked the fleeting uld across the veldt ere this,” he said without boasting, “and he has no doubt that he can find the spoor of the old man, your friend.”
At his side, Niema spoke up.
“Niema will accompany her mate for two pairs of eyes are better than none,” she offered. But the male Aziru shook his head decisively.
“Niema will remain here with the other women, under the protection of the warriors,” he said firmly.
The black girl bridled for a moment, then smiled demurely and said that she would gladly obey her mate. Her tones were meek and I believe the amazon girl rather enjoyed being told what to do by her man. Most women do, although on this point the women’s liberation movement would doubtless disagree with me, and that strongly.
Without further words, Zuma glided into the brush and was gone. He moved as silently as any Algonquin brave ever did, and was all but invisible in the jungle gloom due to the dark coloration of his skin. I felt confident that if any of us could locate the Professor’s trail, it would be the black warrior.
We settled down to wait. The jungle still seemed as silent as the grave, although the earthquake and the volcanic eruption were over for hours; still the dangerous beasts remained cowering in their lair, or so it appeared. What, then, could have frightened the Professor into flight, in such haste to be gone that he stopped leaving his marks upon the trunks of the trees?
Time would tell, as it always does.
And there was nothing for us to do but wait…and wonder.
CHAPTER 24
THE THUNDER-WEAPON
Professor Potter examined the injuries of Colonel. Dostman and found them as serious as Von Kohler had stated. Half delirious, the older officer was running a fever and his wounds were infected.
With the medicinal virtues of certain leaves and jungle herbs known to Darya of Thandar, which were steeped in boiling water, the Professor cleaned and dressed the Colonel’s wounds. Cold, wet cloths were laid upon his brow and Darya prepared a hearty broth from cooked meat which she fed to the German officer. After a time, somewhat eased of his discomfort, the older man fell into a deep sleep, which the Professor and the Cro-Magnon princess felt would do him probably as much good as had their crude doctoring.
They joined Von Kohler at the campfire and shared the meal together, talking in low tones so as not to disturb their patient.
“I fear it would be gravely unwise to attempt to move your Colonel until ‘tomorrow,’” said Professor Potter, chewing thoughtfully. By this, he meant “until after we have slept again,” but Von Kohler understood his meaning without the need for explanations.
The officer nodded, saying nothing. He had already thanked his two guests in quiet tones for their assistance in tending the wounded man, and there was little more to be said. He refrained from asking their opinion as to whether or not Dostman would soon recover-probably because he felt in his heart that there was little or no hope that the Colonel would ever recover, and wished to spare his guests the painful necessity of admitting the uncomfortable fact.
Von Kohler grimly knew that very soon, perhaps within hours, the sole responsibility of command would devolve upon his shoulders. It was a sobering thought, but it had to be faced. Fortunately, during the long and weary years they had wandered through the swamps and jungles and grassy plains and mountains of the Underground World, seeking a way out of Zanthodon by which they might return again to the Upper World, he had come to know and like and trust the soldiers that had survived, and knew himself capable of their leadership.
But he had gone for so long under the command of his Colonel, that he knew he would for a time feel lost without the wisdom and experience of the older man.
The pleasures of a hot meal made them all sleepy, after the excitements and exertions of the day, so they resolved to take their rest now. In Zanthodon there are no clocks, and time is a purely subjective experience: the folk of the subterranean cavern world sleep when they are sleepy, eat when they are hungry, and wake when they have enjoyed sufficient rest, without recourse to arbitrary schedule’s.
“If you, Herr Doktor, and the young fraulein, would care to, why do you not spend this sleep-period as our guests?” Von Kohler suggested. “Private Borg will take the first guard watch, and there is no need for you to make the return journey through the jungles to rejoin your friends until you have slept.”
Darya and Professor Potter agreed that this was only sensible, and were given the loan of blankets by Schmidt, who seemed in charge of the supplies. Without further ado, the elderly savant and the jungle maid curled up to either side of the campfire and fell asleep. Von Kohler strolled the perimeter of the encampment, and looked in briefly on the sleeping Colonel, before seeking his own rest. Borg stood with his rifle slung at the ready, leaning against the boulders, taking his guardpost.
* * * *
Murg awakened Xask when these things eventuated, and the vizier observed the sleeping camp. He had intended to creep through the boulders, but with Borg stationed there, alert and armed and vigilant, this now seemed to the wily Zarian a risky and less than certain course of action.
Circling the encampment on careful and stealthy feet, Xask approached the rear of the small lean-to in which Colonel Dostman slumbered. The little structure was fabricated from branches tied together with thongs, with palm leaves stretched across the upper parts to afford some protection from the sudden torrential jungle rains.
Creeping up behind the rear of the flimsy structure, Xask peered through the interstices between the wooden sticks. He saw the silver-haired officer stretched out on his litter, blankets tucked about him, obviously in a deep sleep.
Propped against the side of the lean-to, stood the Colonel’s rifle, a Mauser like the others. A gleam of pure greed flamed in the cunning, narrowed eyes of Xask as he discovered himself so temptingly close to one of the thunderweapons he had for so long coveted.
This meant he would not have to attempt to steal one from the sleeping soldiers, risking discovery from Borg, but could safely purloin the Colonel’s weapon from the interior of the little hut.
Xask had carried off from the debacle of the three-way battle between the savages, the corsairs and the Dragonmen of Zar, a slim, sharp knife of that peculiar reddish-silvery metal which the Professor has tentatively identified as orichalcum, the mystery metal of the fabled Atlanteans.
Drawing the blade from its sheath, he sawed stealthily at the thongs which bound the tree branches together to form the rear wall of the lean-to. Erelong, he succeeded in creating an opening large enough for his slender form to make entry. Moving with all of the cautious stealthiness of a stalking cat, the Zarian entered the lean-to and reached out to grasp the precious firearm.
The sleeping officer opened sharp blue eyes and looked at the thief!
Without a moment’s thought or hesitation, Xask struck like a cobra. The Minoan dagger was still clenched in one fist; an instant later it was sunk to the hilt in the throat of the injured man, who stared up at Xask with wide, astonished eyes, which soon were closed in the final sleep of death.
* * * *
Murg lurked miserably at the edge of the clearing, just behind the cover of a thick wall of bushes, whispering woefully to himself. He was, in fact, counting in the only way known to a savage race who have yet to progress farther in their mathematical computations than the number of fingers on their hands.
“…Thakdol…thakdol…thakdol…thakdol,” whispered the little man to himself, according to the prearranged plan in which Xask had sternly instructed him. It had been Xask’s opinion that he would need a diversion to draw the attentions of the sentry from the encampment; and he had commanded Murg to count thakdols on his fingers until he had counted the sum of both hands three times over. Then he was to throw a gourd which Xask had found lying
at the base of one of the palmlike trees which grew in this part of the jungle.
This, Xask presumed, would draw Borg away and give him time to enter the camp and steal one of the rifles lying beside the bedrolls of Von Kohler or Schmidt. As we have just seen, the small stratagem proved unneccessary, for at the last moment Xask had switched to a new plan, entering the hut where Colonel Dostman slept. But Murg had no way of knowing this and assumed Xask by this time to be hiding among the huge rocks at the far end of the German camp.
Counting thakdols is dreary, boring work, and it left Murg’s mind free to wander among happier memories and more pleasant vistas of the imagination. The miserable little rogue heartily feared and detested Xask, who used him with casual cruelty, ignoring his feelings. Feverishly did Murg wish that Xask would never return from the German encampment, or that he would be caught, thus affording Murg an excellent opportunity to creep off into the jungle and vanish to some haven of safety which, surely, he could find in this uninhabited wilderness.
But he was afraid not to throw the gourd, fearing that Xask would return and beat him for ignoring his commands. So, when, at length, he had counted the thirtieth thakdol, the little fellow rose, hefted the hollow gourd, and flung it into the depths of the jungle where it thumped and clattered against the trunk of a tree and fell with a muffled thud to the ground.
The clattering noise came from the pebbles which Xask had inserted into the hollow gourd.
Even as Xask had expected, Borg stiffened, swiveling his eyes toward the direction from which this unusual sound had come. He strained his ears, but heard no crackle in the underbrush which would be the sign of a dangerous predator’s furtive advance upon the camp. However, all in all, it would be wiser to investigate the sound, before dismissing it as harmless, reasoned Borg to himself. Charged as he was with the safety of his sleeping officers and fellow-soldier in the camp, the conscientious Borg stepped away from the rocks he had been leaning against, and crossed the clearing to peer through the trees in the direction from which the small sound had come.
The sound had been too small to arouse the sleepers, who still lay wrapped in their blankets.
Now Xask, armed with the stolen Mauser rifle, came from the entrance of the lean-to and crossed the greensward himself, after a quick and careful look at Borg, who had disappeared through the trees, having gone some little ways into the jungle.
On swift feet, Xask crossed to crouch beside one of the blanket-shrouded sleepers. His sharp eyes had, of course, noticed that Professor Potter was among the visitors to the German camp, and, next to the thunder-weapon, he most fervently desired to take captive the one man in all of Zanthodon who knew the secrets of its manufacture.
But, alas, things have a way of turning out wrong, it seems. For Xask himself had been dozing when the Professor and the others took to their rest, and, although Murg had pointed out to his master the blankets under which the Professor slept, Murg had blundered in his identification.
So, when Xask reached out to snatch away the blanket from the sleeper’s face and, with the other hand, thrust the muzzle of the thunder-weapon threateningly into that face, he saw with a start of surprise that it was Darya who blinked amazedly at him from the bedroll.
CHAPTER 25
MURDER!
Prowling like a hunting panther, Zuma glided on silent feet through the thick underbrush of the prehistoric jungles, every sense alert to the presence of danger. The black warrior knew no other life than this, having been born and raised in the kraal of his tribe on the edges of the jungle to the north, where it bordered upon the plain of the thantors. A trained, experienced hunter since boyhood, instructed in the arts of stalking game by the mature men of his dwindling people, Zuma knew the jungle and its ways as well as you and I know our own living rooms.
He knew the thousand small signs which indicate the perils which might lurk to every side—the snapping of a twig beneath the weight of a crouching beast, the rustling in the foliage overhead as leaves gave way to the gliding coils of a monstrous serpent, the sudden deathly silence that falls upon the jungle as the small, timid beasts huddle in trembling terror when the great predators are aprowl.
But when there came to the sensitive ears of Zuma the thump and hollow rattle of the gourd thrown by Murg when it struck the tree, the black warrior froze into instant immobility. Such a sound—slight disturbance though it was—was unfamiliar to the Aziru, and it puzzled him.
Instants later there was borne to his nostrils with the shifting of the breeze the unmistakable scent of burning wood, as from a campfire.
This was followed by a slight rustling in the bushes, as if some large and bulky form were attempting to pass through them.
Without thought, Zuma dropped his assegai and leaped into the air. Catching hold of a low bough he swung himself lightly up into the cover of the leafy branches, flung himself at full length along a broad branch and watched with keen eyes to discover what was about to appear.
The man who stepped through the wall of brush to peer about was strangely clothed to the eyes of Zuma and was a stranger. The black warrior had learned from his experience with Eric Carstairs and the Cro-Magnons that white men, albeit strangers, are not necessarily to be counted as among his enemies; still and all, Zuma had not survived the perils of Zanthodon to this point in time by acting on rash, imprudent impulse. So he held his tongue and watched, and waited.
The man, whoever he was, did not seem to be a Cro-Magnon, for Zuma’s experience with that race had taught him that such have invariably blue or grey eyes and yellow hair, whereas the eyes of this man were brown and his hair the grey of granite boulders. He covered his body with pieces of tan-colored cloth, clumsily and insecurely sewn together, and wore a strange piece of cloth atop his head.
Zuma had never seen a campaign cap such as those once worn by the soldiers of Rommel’s famous Afrika Korps, so he could hardly have identified the item of headgear.
More to the point, the stranger bore in his hands a curious contraption made of blue-black metal, with a thick tube of the stuff at one end and a brace or stock of wood fitted to the other. Zuma knew even less of rifles than he knew of German headgear, but something in the way the apparatus was held gave the black warrior the conviction that the device—whatever it was—was a dangerous weapon.
Invisible in the gloom of the thick foliage, lying without moving a muscle or making the slightest sound, the Aziru warrior observed the stranger, taking no chances.
The stranger looked about this way and that, then went into the trees from which he emerged in a few moments, a rueful grin on his features, sheepishly regarding a dried and hollow gourd for no particular reason that the mystified black could imagine.
Then the stranger turned about and reentered the wall of bushes from which he had come.
Zuma swung lightly to the ground a moment or two later, retrieved his assegai, and stepped into the bushes to investigate.
* * * *
Xask bit his tongue fiercely, to choke back an oath of anger and surprise. Any instant now, the sentry would return to the scene, having investigated the odd sound and finding nothing dangerous—which gave the vizier no time to awaken the Professor. If he tried to do so, the whole camp would be awake and upon him, as two captives are difficult to control and either of them might manage to give the alarm.
Briefly, a vicious thought flashed through Xask’s mind: it would be easier to club Darya into unconsciousness or slip his blade into her, as he had done to the old German officer in the lean-to. Just as swiftly as the idea had occurred to him, the vizier dismissed it. Darya would make as good a hostage as the Professor: holding her, he could force the old scientist to surrender to him on peril of the Cro-Magnon girl’s life.
He urged her to her feet with a brutal gesture. Darya silently obeyed, knowing the power of the weapon which Xask had pointed at h
er face. But her mind was racing with ideas as the resourceful jungle girl tried to figure a way of arousing the others without causing Xask to pull the trigger.
Alas, no idea good enough to risk her life on occurred to her at the moment.
Xask drove her at gunpoint into the trees which fringed the camping place, and urged her about the camp to the place where he had left Murg.
The little man was surprised and disconcerted to see Xask reappear with the Cro-Magnon princess, but sensibly held his tongue, rather than blurt out questions. One apprehensive look at the murderous expression on Xask’s smooth features made the miserable little fellow decide wisely to restrain his curiosity.
Xask bade Murg bind the girl’s wrists behind her back and gag her with a bit of cloth, which Murg hastily did.
“This way—quickly, now!” hissed Murg. And he guided his captive and his hapless accomplice into the further depths of the jungle where they vanished in the gloom.
* * * *
As soon as Borg returned to the camp, he at once noticed that one of the bedrolls was unoccupied. He recalled that the Cro-Magnon woman had been sleeping there, and did not at once realize that anything was wrong. I suppose he merely assumed that the fraulein had sought the privacy of the bushes in order to relieve nature.
But she did not return.
Remembering that he was supposed to look in on Colonel Dostman from time to time, Borg entered the little lean-to and uttered a shocked, horrified cry which was loud enough to rouse Von Kohler from his slumbers.
Snatching up his rifle the German officer burst into the hut and stared with incredulous horror at the sight which met his eves. The old man lay on his side, eyes open, glazed and sightless. His throat had been slit and bright blood bedabbled his bare chest.
