The warrior jerked the leash and yanked Jean back into the chariot, and a moment later they were rolling again.
Jean looked back at the old woman. She was clutching the bars of the still swaying cage. She nodded at Jean, and Jean nodded back. Jean knew the woman had little time left to live. And all things considered, maybe that was good.
They came to an archway overlaid with gold, rode through that into a massive courtyard. Here was a palace built of bright red clay, gold, jewels, driftwood, and the skulls of humans and animals. Moorish architectural features blended with a sort of rococo style Jean had never before witnessed. The design was one of twisted genius. It was beautiful, but it made Jean's skin crawl.
In time, the chariot circled the palace, and out back was an empty field, and in the distance Jean could see the rear wall of the city. She reasoned that beyond the wall would be villages that paid homage to this great city, providing warriors, food, and goods. This was an empire.
To the left and the right of the field were long barracks, and the chariots and warriors split left and right and went into these. Jean's driver went right, and when the zebras were brought to a halt in a shotgun-style stall, the driver took the leash from the man and roughly led Jean away.
Jean decided not to make a play. Not now. She would wait for the right moment, when the woman least expected it. Better yet, she would, wait until she could concoct a complete plan of escape.
She looked about to see how the other captives were faring, but as far as she could tell, they were all housed inside the barracks. She alone was being brought across the back courtyard toward the palace.
The back door to the palace was a large gate and it was open, and she was led through it. Once inside, Jean let out her breath.
There was a row of naked natives, not the bearers who had worked for the Hanson safari, but tribesmen she had not seen before. There were eleven of them lined up between a horde of armed warriors. The eleven were crying and wailing, flailing their arms, falling to their knees and pleading.
At the fore of the line was a huge block of wood, and even as Jean watched, a woman was jerked forward by the hair, forced to place her head on the block. Out of the crowd of warriors, a tall muscular man with a large sword appeared. He was ritualistically scarred and wore a thin mask of white paint around his eyes.
The woman caterwauled, and in mid-cry the sword whistled and her head bounced up with a bright spray of blood. The head rolled in the dust, came to rest looking at the burning sky. The captives screamed and the warriors rejoiced with a shout.
The woman leading Jean turned and smiled. Jean felt a snake of ice run up her spine. The woman, still smiling, yanked Jean toward the line of captives. The woman yelled to the executioner, dragged Jean along the line to the forefront. Jean looked down at the bloody block of wood, then at the decapitated head of the woman. Jean thought, or perhaps imagined, she saw the woman's eyelids flicker, then cease movement.
The woman with the leash spoke to the executioner and he smiled. He came forward, took hold of the leash and jerked it hard. Jean went to her knees gagging, her forehead banging against the bloody block of wood. The woman stepped on one of Jean's bent legs and pressed. Jean let out a moan of pain.
Oh, hell, Jean thought. I should have made my move. I should have taken my chance. It's too late now. So much for a brave and noble death.
The executioner spoke to the crowd of warriors, and one of the men leapt forward and took Jean's leash from the executioner's hand. He pulled it tight so that Jean's neck was stretched out over the block, like a Thanksgiving turkey.
Jean rolled her head slightly, saw the smiling executioner lift the sword. She thought of the flickering of the dead woman's eyelids. She had once read that the brain lived shortly after decapitation, that
the eyes and senses were momentarily alive, that in theory, the eyes of a decapitated head could gaze upon its blood-spurting body, could realize what had happened.
Jean hoped this was an old wives' tale.
Jean closed her eyes, heard the whistling of the falling sword, hoped the strike would be quick and clean and true.
WHEN HUNT FELL, the torch fell before him, a bright star speeding into dark infinity. Hunt, seeing the torch go fast and away, knew he was lost. Then he struck something solid and the breath exploded out of him.
As he lay there aching, he could still see the torch falling, and for a moment he was confused, then realized what had happened.
He had stepped into a chasm and had landed on a ledge, his head hanging off of it, and he could see the torch falling. Falling. Falling. And then it vanished. Either it had gone out or struck bottom. Hunt suspected the first.
Hunt lay where he had fallen for a time, trying to regain his breath and decide what to do. He was in total darkness, and he feared any move he might make would send him after his torch, yet he could not remain here.
Carefully, Hunt eased to his knees. His ribs ached, but nothing seemed broken. He backed along the ledge until he came up against a rock wall. In backing, he touched his spear and recovered it.
Hunt put the spear across his knee and applied pressure with his hands until the shaft cracked. With this done, he removed his shut and wrapped it carefully around the broken stick. He used the knife-end of his broken spear to hack at the wadded shirt, fraying it. He recovered the flint from his pocket, set about creating a spark. Since he did all of this in the darkness by feel, it took a long time, but eventually a spark jumped onto the shirt and caught. Hunt blew on the spark and it went out. He tried again, was finally rewarded with a blaze. Hunt realized his torch would not last long, so he lifted it high so he could see how far he had fallen.
Twelve feet!
He had been lucky. It was a miracle the impact had not broken his ribs, though they certainly felt deeply bruised.
Hunt tried to find a way to climb up, but the wall was straight and slick as glass. Checking to his left he saw that his ledge wound into an opening in the rock. He proceeded in that direction. As he did, the flame on the torch rippled. There was a strong current of air coming from the shaft.
Stepping into the tunnel, Hunt paused for a moment, considering. The torch had little life left. He could either go back to the ledge and try and scale that slick wall, or he could see where this led. The latter seemed the only logical decision.
He had gone only a few steps when the torchlight revealed open clay gutters running along the sides of the tunnel wall-man-made gutters. He held the torch over one of the gutters. It was full of some kind of black liquid. Stagnant water perhaps. It was clogged with thousands of insects. Hunt stuck a finger into the blackness, rubbed it between thumb and forefinger, sniffed it.
Oil. The gutters were filled with oil. Suddenly, he understood their purpose. Hunt took a deep breath, plunged his torch into the gutter. Flames vaulted up and the corridor turned the color of a jack- o'-lantern. His shadow writhed against the opposite wall.
Hunt lit the gutter on the other side. His path was now well illuminated. He tossed the torch away, took a solid grip on his short spear, and proceeded forward.
* * *
When Small opened his eyes he was looking into a man's face. It startled him and he rolled violently to his left and fell from the tree.
Or would have, but a strong hand grabbed him and pulled him back.
Tarzan said, "Take it easy. I will not eat you."
"You," Small said. "Thank heaven. I thought you were dead . . . hey, wasn't me did that to you. I wasn't in on that. Me and the other guy, Hunt, we didn't have anything to do with it. We were captives ourselves."
"I know," Tarzan said. "I have much to do, so shut up, and let me tell you all that has happened."
When Tarzan finished, Small said, "W hat about Hunt?"
"I needed to move fast, so I left him."
"What about me?"
"You're a problem," Tarzan said. "I had a good place to leave Hunt. Nkima and Jad-bal-ja can provide him assistance, if he does
not decide to be stupid. And I fear he might."
"Hey," Small said, "I've got to tell you, I'm beginning to think Hunt and I don't do anything that isn't stupid."
"I hope you are not proud of it."
"Hardly. But you were saying about me. That's something that concerns me. Me, I mean."
"I have no place to leave you that I feel is safe. I suppose I will have to take you along. The only advantage is that I believe we are not far from the Hansons. Their sign and spoor is strong."
"How did you find me?"
"I smelled you. You stink."
"Yeah, and you're a rose. I'm out here in the jungle, man. You outrun a panther, hide in a tree, and eat grub worms, you get a little ripe."
"What I mean is your natural body odor is a stench. All men smell strong to me. I was raised with the animals. I do not have their highly developed sense of smell, but there is not more than an ounce of difference between me and them."
"How do you manage to be around humans, then? Uh, other humans? I mean, we're so ripe to you, looks like you'd be overwhelmed all the time."
"If I live in civilization, I become accustomed to it in time. But now, back in the jungle, I find my senses are more acute. And therefore, you stink."
"Might I ask about the aroma of animals? Is their smell like perfume?"
"No," said Tarzan, "but it is not nauseating."
Tarzan helped Small down from the tree. Small tried to brush his underwear free of dirt and bark, but it was an insurmountable task.
Tarzan grinned. "You look very silly."
"This from a man in a G-string."
Tarzan laughed.
"Maybe we could find my pants and shirt?" Small said.
"No time," Tarzan said. "Come. We must cover territory. Not only is the spoor of the Hanson safari strong, there is an overlapping spoor. That of your former captors."
"Hey," Small said, "let me tell you about those two, they're meaner than snakes."
"I have been subject to their hospitality," Tarzan said.
"Oh, yeah, that's right. But trust me, they don't mellow out at all. They stay tense. What they did to you, they could do that hourly. Maybe worse."
"You are afraid?" Tarzan asked.
"Yeah," Small said. "I'm afraid. I won't try to snow you. I'm scared to death. Of the jungle. Of them. Even you make me a little nervous."
"Are you coming?"
"Of course. I didn't say I wouldn't. What am I going to do by myself out here? And I want to stop those guys anyway. They're going after the Hansons, and it isn't to share coffee."
"Yes, I know."
"And this other guy that was with them," Small said. "You say he's dead?"
"He could not be any deader," Tarzan said.
"And our safari is gone?"
"Either dead from the storm or they have run off. Now, come."
With that, the ape-man started off at a trot and Small did his best to follow.
Billy awoke and was surprised by the sun. The great storm had cleared such a path that the sky was easily visible. Growing up in the jungle, it was seldom Billy had seen such a vast expanse of sky. Sometimes on the veldt he would look up at it in awe, but his natural habitat was the jungle, and of course he had seen the sun before, but now, here it was, big as a flaming ostrich egg, and all about it was a radiant blue sky.
At first Billy thought he might be dead. That this was the beauty of the other side. Then he felt pain from his wounds and knew, in fact, he was alive. Billy sat up slowly, looked around, saw the bodies of two bearers, friends of his. Hanson's body lay nearby.
Billy eventually made it to his feet, checked the bearers. Quite dead. Hanson, on the other hand, groaned when he touched him.
"Bwana," Billy said. "I thought you dead."
"Help me, Billy."
Billy rolled Hanson on his back. Hanson was bloody, but breathing well enough. There was no gory spittle on his lips, so Billy concluded that no major internal organs had been punctured.
"Sit me up," Hanson said.
"I don't know, Bwana."
"It's all right. I'll be okay."
'Talking about me. Not sure I am strong enough to sit you up. Doing good to squat here."
"Of course. Sorry."
"All right. Give me time, then maybe I hop around like frog, wrestle crocodile, and sit you up. Right now, though, not feeling all that hoppy. Think I will lie down beside you."
Billy practically collapsed beside Hanson.
"Billy?" Hanson said.
"Yeah, Bwana."
"We going to make it?"
"Not a soothsayer. Can't tell. I think old men in village who read future in smoking animal guts probably not know. Figure all along they just handling hot guts. Me, I can lie without guts. But I prefer not to. Too tired to make anything up. We live maybe. Die maybe."
Hanson was uncertain how his simple question had led to reading the future in smoking animal entrails, but all he could say was: "Jean?"
"They took her away, Bwana. Alive."
"Thank God!"
'Took everyone else away, except for two dead. Udalo. Ydeni. Friends of mine. Good men. Both dead."
"Yes, good men."
"I don't think tree-people meant to kill anyone."
"Nice to know it was all an accident."
"They not mind killing. But Billy think they prefer to take alive,
for whatever reason, and I got feeling we knew reason it would not make us happy much. They would take us, they thought we were alive. Try and kill us only because we give them serious trouble."
"They leave the guns?"
"No."
"At least Jean's alive. I have to go after her, Billy."
"I know that."
"God, I'm so sleepy."
"Loss of blood. Both of us leak like rotten boat."
"I'm not still bleeding, though, am I?"
"No. You have not so good wounds, but not so bad either ... Bwana, got to tell you, don't know when or if I'm gonna feel froggy."
"Got to... they've got Jean and your friends."
"Right now, Bwana ... right now, think maybe I got to nap little bit."
Hanson did not respond.
"Bwana?" Billy said.
Then Billy heard Hanson's deep breathing. Pain and loss of blood had caused him to pass out.
Rest a little, thought Billy. That's all we need. Rest a little, then we'll be okay. Go after Jean and friends. We'll get them back.
But just as Billy was about to close his eyes, he realized things had gone from bad to worse. A man stepped into view and stood over him. Billy recognized the face.
Wilson.
"Dangit," Billy said.
When the great sword fell Jean closed her eyes and hoped there would be no pain.
And there wasn't.
The sword struck with a thunk.
Jean opened her eyes. She could still see. Oh, no, she thought. The head does live for a time after decapitation. But at least she did not feel pain.
Laughter.
Jean tried to move. Her neck turned.
It was connected to her head.
She lifted her chin. The laughter was coming from the warriors, the executioner, and the woman who had led her to the block. They were having a merry time.
The sword that would have taken her head was buried close to her neck in the block. It had all been a joke.
The executioner worked the sword back and forth, managed to remove it from the block. When this was done, the woman jerked the leash, pulling Jean into the dirt. She yanked again and Jean struggled to her feet.
So, thought Jean, all that business before, this woman making the male warrior leave her alone, that had apparently been to expedite matters, and had nothing to do with feelings of humanity.
Jean studied the woman's face carefully. She did not want to forget it. Her time would come, and when it did, this woman would die. And there would be no joke about it.
As Jean was led away, one of the male captives was forc
ed to his knees, his head pushed down on the block.
Jean turned away, heard the sword whistle and thunk soundly into the chopping block. Afterward came the wailing of the condemned and the cheers of the captors.
HUNT MOVED ALONG the tunnel by the light of the flaming gutters and he could feel the draft was growing stronger. It was a long tunnel and many tunnels branched off of it, but they led into darkness. Hunt decided to stay with the light. Could be the other tunnels were also provided with gutters of oil, but he decided to stick with this one, see where it led. Judging by the way the fire was burning-the fact that there was still plenty of air to breathe and the flames seemed to be whipping in a direction that indicated an oxygen feed-Hunt was optimistic.
This optimism was soon tempered. Now and then, Hunt would turn as if expecting something to leap on him from behind. He sensed the presence of someone, or something, following him. He thought perhaps it was his imagination, but he also believed his senses were becoming more sensitive. Perhaps, like Tarzan-though on a much lower level-he was gradually losing some of his civilized veneer and the more primitive aspects of his reptilian brain were at work, allowing him to use his faculties to a greater degree than ever before.
And possibly he was illogically frightened and the only thing following him was his shadow. Still, he could not shake the feeling that something was stalking him. Hunt clutched the short spear tightly, and continued to cast an occasional glance over his shoulder.
Then something happened that made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. There was a sound down one of the long, dark tunnels. It was a kind of rustling sound, a crawling sound, a clacking sound; it reached inside his brain and s harply prodded buried racial memories. It was a nameless dread that rattled and banged and slithered.
Hunt paused, took a deep breath, and listened.
This was a different sensation than the earlier one. Before he had felt he was being followed, and that was nerve-racking, but this ... this was worse. Something was waiting.
The horrid sounds stopped. The feeling of dread lessened, but now Hunt was aware of his original concern- that of being tracked. This was compounded by the fact that he could hear his pursuer's soft tread. In a moment it would come around the bend in the passageway and become visible.
Tarzan: The Lost Adventure Page 12
