Darya of The Bronze Age

by Lin Carter

  Chapter 24 THE TRIBE DEPARTS

  It was not very long after these events that Tharn began to ready his warriors for their departure from the fortress isle.

  The last of the corsair galleys had burnt to the waterline. Floating, half-submerged, flame-blackened hulks, they would encumber the harbor of El-Cazar and make perilous that formerly safe haven for years to come.

  This, of course, made it virtually impossible for the Barbary Pirates to rearm and sail in pursuit of their conquerors . . . at least, for a considerable length of time, until they could build new ships from whatever stores of timber might lie in the warehouses of El-Cazar.

  Armed with their bright new weapons of edged steel, the Cro-Magnons regained their dugout canoes and paddled across the waters of the bay to the island on whose far side there still lay hidden the women and children, the older people and the wounded of the nation of Thandar.

  Once all were reunited, and the freed slaves of El-Cazar were distributed amongst the boats, the flotilla set out to sea again, bound for the mainland of Zanthodon. Across the steamy seas of the waters of the Sogar-Jad they sailed, brawny arms plying crude oars. In the forefront of the lead vessel, Tharn stood, his magnificent form leading the way like some majestic figurehead.

  One powerful arm was wrapped protectively about the slim shoulders of his beloved daughter; having at last and in the fullness of time found and rescued the gomad Darya from the midst of a thousand perils, the jungle monarch had vowed deep within his heart never to let her stray far from his sight again.

  In another dugout canoe, Jaira sat close to her sweetheart Grond, as he plied his oar with lusty arms. She was very happy, was the Cro-Magnon girl: whatever the future might hold for the two of them, at least they would face it boldly-and together.

  In each of the dugout canoes of the Thandarians, vigilant bowmen sat with their arrows hocked and at the ready, keen eyes warily searching the misty surface of the Sogar-Jad for any sign of the fearsome yith. Fortunately, it seemed that the ghosts of their ancestors favored the men and women of Thandar on that day, for none of the dreaded plesiosaurs made their appearance.

  Many rocky islands broke the dim expanse of the steamy sea, and vision was difficult, making navigation something of a problem. But the Cro-Magnons, in lieu of the compass, possessed an innate instinct for direction, and knew that they were sailing in the proper direction.

  Before very much longer, a line of jagged rocks; about whose black bases swirled foaming white water, signaled their approach to the northernmost shores of the subterranean continent. And before it was time to rest and share a meal and sleep, the last of the Cro-Magnons had disembarked.

  Tharn had considered that much time might have been saved had they continued to sail on down the coast of the continent, but had at length dismissed the notion.

  In the first place, he felt that he had very little to fear from the vengeance of the Barbary Pirates, for he had rendered them incapable of pursuit and it would take them many wakes and sleeps to rebuild their fleet, by which time he and those that followed him would long since have returned to their distant homeland far to the south.

  In the second place, he thought it distinctly unwise to venture so near to the island of Ganadol, where there yet lurked those of the Drugars, or Neanderthals, who had survived the stampede of the great woolly mammoths on the plain of the trantors. Their wounds licked to health by now, and their cruel lust for revenge surely whetted, the Drugars would have found sufficient time to rebuild their own fleet of dugout canoes, and might well attempt to assault the Thandarian flotilla, had it ventured into those waters.

  But his third reason was the best of all: Tharn was heartily sick of boats and islands, and hungered for the solidity of the good earth beneath the heels of his sandals, and for the comfortable gloom of the jungle aisles about him once again.

  Pausing to rest and eat, they began the trek "south." It would be a long road home to Thandar, down the rocky coast and across the Peaks of Peril, then "south" through plains and jungles and mountains. But at the journey's end lay . . . home.

  Moustapha had not sailed very far into the islands and archipelagoes of the northern seas before a sudden storm drove the flagship of his squadron upon hidden reefs, gouging a hole in the hull of his galley just beneath the waterline.

  Cursing sulphurously, the corsair ordered his ship about, and bade his first mate to set a course directly for El-Cazar. Hasty patchwork had crudely repaired the pierced hull, and the pumps would keep the vessel from foundering, but Moustapha knew that only in El-Cazar could his crippled ship receive the skillful craftsmanship she required.

  And so he limped back to his home port, in a villainous temper, having raided not a single village or captured so much as a single Cro-Magnon slave.

  When he arrived in the vicinity of the pirate isle, he was amazed and alarmed to see the pall of dense black smoke which hung over the city. Sailing nearer, he saw that the source of the pall of smoke was in the burning ships which had foundered, blocking the harbor.

  Consternation seized the corsair-what in the name of the Beard of the Prophet had chanced to occur on El-Cazar during his brief absence? Had some unknown enemy launched an invasion of the pirate kingdom? Had riot and insurrection broken out among the quarrelsome Captains of the Brotherhood?

  Had the Cro-Magnon slaves, long docile and believed fully cowed into submission, revolted against their masters?

  Anchoring his crippled galley near an offshore island-by a quirk of whimsical Fate, the very same island on which Tharn had concealed his wounded and the women and children-Moustapha launched a longboat with a full complement of well-armed seamen, led by his own first mate. He instructed them to ascertain what had happened in El-Cazar, and to return to the galley with word. Before he knew exactly what he was sailing into, it behooved the corsair chieftain to remain wary and to practice caution. It would never do to risk his flagship from mere curiosity.

  Before very long, the boat returned with the astounding news that El-Cazar had been taken unawares by a great host of savages in dugout canoes, who had stormed the town and had succeeded in seizing the palace citadel of Kliradine Redbeard, and that they had taken, as well, the heads of Moustapha's fellow captains.

  All save the head of Kairadine Redbeard himself, of course, whose whereabouts remained unknown.

  Now Moustapha would not have been human had it not occurred to him that, in the absence of the other captains and of the Prince of El-Cazar himself, the leadership of the pirate kingdom was easily within his grasp. Although Moustapha had always been a staunch supporter of the Redbeard, and would never have taken any part in a rebellion against his prince, the domain of the Barbary Pirates was now leaderless, and the throne of El-Cazar was, so to speak, up for grabs.

  Moustapha of El-Cazar was no more and no less ambitious than any other man. And, although no single drop of the blood of Khair ud-Din the mighty Barbarossa of the Mediterranean was mingled in the veins of Moustapha, he cunningly knew that every line, no matter how ancient or illustrious, must end at last and that every dynasty must terminate eventually, giving way to a new sequence of monarchs.

  So . . . El-Cazar was his!

  Wasting no time, Moustapha ordered his squadron to anchor beyond the mouth of the harbor, which they could not enter due to the smoldering hulks which blocked the entrance. Then he and a full company of his mariners, armed to the teeth, descended upon the town and began putting things to rights.

  Demoralized by the sudden conquest, shaken by the loss of their captains, the men and women of El-Cazar were easily brought to heel. Under Moustapha's stern directives, they began to clear the streets of rubble, to extinguish those fires which still smoldered in some of the wrecked houses, and to cart away the dead for rapid burial against the menace of the pestilence.

  Moustapha also commanded that a full accounting be made for every man and woman in El-Cazar, so as to ascertain who lived and who had perished in b
attle against the savages. While this was being accomplished, he moved his personal belongings into the now empty residence of Kairadine Redbeard, and had himself proclaimed de facto Prince of El-Cazar by the leaders of the Brotherhood.

  He then ordered that every able-bodied man not otherwise employed be set to work attempting to clear the harbor. Some of the hulks were still only half-submerged, and by dint of much toil could be hauled out of the way, their unburnt timber and cordage and canvas salvaged and stored away toward the construction of future galleys.

  When he received the accounting of the dead and missing, the totals were indeed disheartening. All of the captains, and most of their veteran officers, were dead. Quite a large number of the ordinary seamen had fallen in battle against the savage horde which had invaded the pirate isle, and many others had suffered injuries serious enough to incapacitate them for many weeks to come.

  Moreover, almost to a man, the Cro-Magnon slaves and captives had fled the island-apparently in company with the blond invaders. All of which left the fighting strength and work force of El-Cazar very seriously depleted, indeed. And this would prolong the time required to put the pirate city to rights again ....

  Moustapha growled an oath, then shrugged philosophically. There was no point in weeping over spilled blood, and the dead could not return to life to assist the living. So, in the meanwhile, he directed that repairs go forward on his crippled flag-ship, the Lion of Islam and on two of the smaller galleys which had escaped the serious demolition at the hands of the Cro-Magnon conquerors.

  For Moustapha fully intended to follow the savages to the mainland and extract a bloody vengeance from them.

  Also, he needed slaves . . . .

  So, just as soon as enough ships could be made seaworthy again, he determined to descend upon the subterranean continent of Zanthodon and put the warriors of Thandar to the sword, carrying off their women and children to replenish the harems and bordellos of El-Cazar.

  But where, during all of these events, was Kairadine Redbeard? This unanswered question plagued Moustapha sorely, for the former Prince of the Barbary Pirates was not to be found either among the rosters of the slain or the listings of the living.

  Moustapha knew his prince from of old to be a cunning and a cautious man. Perhaps he had taken refuge in some secret hiding place known only to himself . . . .

  But if so, why did he persist in remaining in hiding?

  There was no answer to that ominous question, and it made Moustapha distinctly uneasy.

  Chapter 25 MURG HAS A SECRET

  The mighty thodars of Zar traversed the great plains of the north with ponderous but unwearied stride.

  The Divine Empress had mustered an imposing host from the decimated legions of the Scarlet City, for she meant to fall upon the blond barbarians and wreak a fearful slaughter in vengeance for the destruction of the Scarlet City of Zar.

  Only grudgingly did she permit her men and beasts brief respite from the march. They barely had time to relieve nature and munch a hasty meal before the trumpets summoned them back into the saddles again.

  As for the huge saurians they rode, the poor reptiles scarcely had time to gulp down a few mouthfuls of meadowgrass before mentally commanded to continue the journey.

  Zarys knew, or shrewdly guessed, that the savages were not very far ahead of her pursuing legions. She could not, of course, have known that Garth of Sothar had taken a dreadful wound and was near death, which greatly slowed the flight of the Cro-Magnons across the plain to the edge of the sea, where they hoped to rejoin their brethren, the warriors of Thandar. But she sensed the savage horde was not very far

  ahead, and for this urgent reason the Empress begrudged every moment "wasted" on food or rest, as it delayed interminably the sweet hour of her sanguinary revenge.

  At the forefront of the legions, mounted upon one of the monstrous reptiles which the Zarians employed in lieu of horses, rode Xask, resplendent in his glittering gold-washed armor as commander of the host.

  The wiley vizier vastly enjoyed the power and prerogatives of his new office. Every advance in the favor of the Divine Zarys added to his authority and prestige; every new honor which he could wrest from his adversaries or rivals enhanced his own importance to the Empress, and put him one step nearer to the ultimate goal upon which he had decided long ago to direct his every energy.

  To tell the truth, Xask was not exactly dissatisfied with this expedition, although privately he disapproved of revenge as essentially childish and nonproductive. But on an adventure such as this, who could foretell what accidents might befall?

  Even an Empress might succumb to a stray arrow or a mishap.

  Which would, of course, leave the Throne of Zar empty and untenanted . . . and not very far out of the reach of one as clever and cunning as, say, Xask ....

  It would seem that the Machiavellian little vizier and Moustapha of El-Cazar had more in common than either of them could have guessed.

  None of this would have come as any particular surprise to the Divine Zarys, could she have read the plots and counterplots that seethed through the busy brain of her vizier, behind the bland, obsequious mask of his features-although she would not have believed him capable of aiming at the throne itself, in all likelihood, since he was not even remotely descended from the sacred line of the immortal Minos.

  But Zarys was herself a shrewd and capable judge of men, and knew their ambitiousness. Indeed, she played the ambitions of one courtier against those of another, to achieve excellent service and to maintain something of a balance of power between the rivals, each jealous of the other's post or birth or position of favor.

  Zarys had once before banished Xask from the Scarlet City, exiling him to a harsh life in the hostile wilderness beyond the mountains which encircled Zar, for a slip which had disclosed somewhat of his schemes against her throne. She had accepted him back into her service because he had promised her the secret of the thunder-weapon (as the folk of Zanthodon call my .45 automatic), which he believed he could extract from either Professor Potter or myself, and could then duplicate to arm her legions, rendering them invincible.

  That this plan had fallen through-"blown up" would be the more apt phrase!-was not really the fault of Xask, who had been very close to achieving success. Still, he had betrayed her once, and now, for a

  second time, he had let her down.

  The Empress resolved to keep a close eye on Xask. It was for this very reason that she had appointed him to the command of her legions, a post left vacant by the demise of Cromus. That meant he would remain at her side where she could keep an eye on him.

  The only other alternative would have been to leave Xask behind in Zar, while she left her kingdom to pursue the fleeing savages.

  And Zarys of Zar was certainly not fool enough to take that risk!

  In the rear of the Zarian force, Jorn the Hunter and Yualla of Sothar rode in the saddle of one of the thodars.

  The saddle was capacious enough to accommodate both of the young Cro-Magnons, whose wrists were bound with stout thongs of leather. Yualla was seated in front of Jorn, whose hands were fastened around the girl, resting in her lap. Despite the dismal fact of their captivity, the caveboy and the cavegirl were very conscious of each other's body. Jorn's hands were upon the firm warm thighs of the scantily clad Cro-Magnon princess, and she was leaning back in the circle of his arms, very aware of his bare and muscular chest.

  For a time, neither of them spoke. Then they began to converse in whispers, and the subject on which they conversed was, of course, their possible chances for escape. At the moment, these seemed few and frail, but one could never tell what lay in the womb of time.

  Yualla wore only a soft, tanned hide which shielded her loins and extended up her slim body to cover one breast, leaving the other bare, while a strap of fur continued over her shoulder and was fastened to the rear portion of her brief garment. Her slender waist was cinched in by a girdle of leather.


  "If only we had a sharp instrument, we could perhaps sever our bonds," murmured Jorn in her ear. She nodded.

  "I have such an instrument," she confided to the boy in low tones. "A bronze knife, given to me by my father, Garth."

  Hope leaped up in Jorn's heart.

  "Where do you keep it?" he inquired.

  "Beneath my garment," she replied, "scabbarded below my right breast. I cannot reach it with my wrists tethered to the saddlehorn . . . ."

  "My wrists are tethered to the saddlehorn, too," said Jorn glumly. "Otherwise, perhaps I could reach it."

  "Your bonds are within reach of my fingers," the girl whispered. "Perhaps I can untie them-"

  "You can try, anyway."

  And try she did. It was difficult work, and she strove not to look down to her lap to see what she was doing, lest she catch the attention of the Dragonmen who rode to either side of them, directing the beast on which they were mounted with beams of telepathic thought.

  It was slow and agonizing work, fumbling with the tightly knotted leathern thongs, but at length it seemed to Yualla that she had found the key to loosening the bonds of the boy. In time, one strap fell away, then another was loosened sufficiently for the young hunter to work one hand free of the rest. He kept his hand pressed against the warm thigh of the girl so as not to attract attention, while assisting her to free his other hand.

  "At the next rest stop," he said, once his hands were free, "we can make a break for freedom!"

  "No," said the girl decidedly. "It would not work-we cannot run fast enough to elude the Dragonmen of Zar, neither could we find any place to hide amid these flat and featureless plains."

  "Then what shall we do?" demanded Jorn restively. Yualla urged him to be patient.

  "When the Dragonmen have reached the host of Sothar," she said, "and are attacking, in the confusion of the battle surely we can slip away to rejoin my people."