PART V: BLADES OF THE BROTHERHOOD

CHAPTER 21

THE VENGEANCE OF ZAR

It will be recalled, by those who have perused the previous volumes of these memoirs, that while Hurok and the other warriors of my retinue were seeking an entry into the Scarlet City of Zar, where they presumed me to be held captive, my young friend, Jorn the Hunter, fell from the cliffs during an avalanche.

Hurok and Varak and the others believed him to have perished on the rocks below, for who could have guessed that the boy had been lucky enough to have fallen into a mountain lake, which broke his fall?

Indeed, Jorn yet lived, as did Yualla, the daughter of Garth of the Sotharians, who had been carried off by a pterodactyl and whom Jorn at length encountered, leading miserable, whimpering little Murg at the end of a leash, who had attempted to ravish her as she slept.

The boy and girl decided to scale the cliffs, hoping to join the forces with Hurok and the others. Murg perforce must accompany them.

The tide of events has carried us far from the story of Jorn and Yualla and their adventures. Let us rejoin them now, and take up again the thread of their tale.…

* * * *

The Divine Zarys returned to Zar in a magnificent temper. Just as the world had turned upside down for our friend Achmed the Moor, even more unprecedented had been the changes wrought upon the Empress of this last, surviving colony of Minoan Crete.

For the beautiful queen was very accustomed to having her own way in everything. And then into her island city came Eric Carstairs and the Professor, and things began to go haywire. First, I declined to share her loyal bed—not because I am a celibate, I hasten to assure you, but because I was deeply and forever in love with my adorable Princess, Darya of Thandar, to whom, by the way, the Divine Zarys bore a remarkable resemblance. For this refusal she had me imprisoned.

Then she discovered me conspiring—it seemed to her, although she was mistaken in this assumption—with the lovely, dark-eyed Zarian girl, Ialys, her own handmaiden. For this she had me sent to the arena, to face Zorgazon the Great God in the sanguinary and gladiatorial Games of Zar.

Then my old pal, Professor Potter, blew her palace citadel sky high by detonating his gunpowder factory—her wily vizier, Xask, having somehow talked the old boy into reinventing firearms. The explosion (which was a doozy, by the way) drove Zorgazon crazy. He broke through the walls of the arena and trampled half of the Scarlet City into wreckage on his way back to the wild.

Zorgazon turned out to be a titanic tyrannosaurus rex, the most fearsome and mighty of the monstrous reptiles of the dim Jurassic. He was built on the order of King Kong, and weighed about as much as a railroad train laden with anvils…and when something drove Zorgazon crazy, he went crazy like you can hardly imagine. He plowed through the solid stone tiers which lined the wall of the arena like an Italian baker punching through a thin sheet of pizza dough.…

But here I seem to be telling of my own adventures, when I had promised to pick up the thread of Jorn and Yualla’s. Sorry!

After her defeat by Garth and his Sotharians beyond the pass, Zarys returned to Zar in a fury. One thought and one thought alone possessed the proud and cruel heart of that imperious young woman, and that was to be revenged upon the Professor and me, and upon the Sotharians. So she wasted no time in ordering out the Marines. What mattered it to her that her city was in ruins, her palace a smoldering heap of ash, and the Great God Zorgazon fled from the city of his worshippers into the unknown—8Zarys would have her revenge upon Eric Carstairs, and upon all those who were his friends and allies!

Toward this end, the Empress summoned her legions of warriors mounted upon their domesticated saurian steeds, and launched a second pursuit of the fugitives. This time with thrice the number of troops, a host surely sufficient to break the horde of Sotharian tribesmen.…

* * * *

Jorn the Hunter and Yualla of Sothar took many wakes to cross the mighty range of mountains which served, like some titanic wall, to shield the Scarlet City of the Minoans from the remainder of the Underground World. Cautiously, carefully, the Cro-Magnon boy and girl descended the precipitous slopes of the farther side of the range, and took their first astonished look at the impressive vista of the island city that was the last surviving colony of ancient Crete.

With them perforce went their whining, miserable little captive, poor Murg. He feared the heights, did Murg, and the giddy depths below his insecure footing, but he had little if any say in the matter, as Yualla held one end of the tether which was looped about his scrawny throat.

The two cave children had never before seen or even imagined anything like the great metropolis of Zar, and found the view breathtaking. Jorn and Yualla were accustomed to settlements which consisted of little more than a score of huts and a rude palisade; Zar, however, was built upon a scale which seemed titanic to them, and they stared with awed bewilderment upon its streets and squares, its hundreds of houses, its very forest of towers and spires. They had never imagined that the hands of men could construct anything so huge and so complex.

Now for the first time, the two began to entertain doubts about their quest and its chances of success. How, in all that stone wilderness of walls and ramparts, could they ever hope to find Eric Carstairs? How could they possibly fight such an enormous host of foes?

Finding a snug cave on the far slope of the mountains, the two decided to plan and reconnoiter before descending into the great valley of Zar. And thus it was that the caveboy and the cavegirl became eyewitnesses to the swift succession of events which I have already alluded to—the Games in the arena, the explosion which demolished the imperial palace citadel and set fire to much of the city, and the escape of the monster god, Zorgazon. From their coign of vantage, they also observed our flight from the city and Zarys’s pursuit at the head of her mounted legions.

As swiftly as they could with safety descend the crumbling slopes to the floor of the valley, the boy and girl hastened to rejoin their friends. Surely, thought Jorn to himself, in all of this confusion, it should be possible for the two to elude discovery and pursue Eric Carstairs and his companions, among whom the young hunter had seen and recognized Professor Potter, Hurok of Kor, and several others.

Skirting the entrance to the island city, the two Cro-Magnon youngsters hurried through the pass which cleft the wall of mountains, and emerged upon the grassy plains beyond just in time to observe, from a considerable distance, the battle between the tribe of Sothar and the vengeful Minoans, which surprisingly resulted in a victory for the savage warriors of Yualla’s tribe and yet another defeat for the Divine Zarys.

They watched as Garth, employing the telepathic crystal, seized control of the huge thodars upon which Zarys and her warriors were mounted, forcing them into flight. And thereby, all unknowingly, the mighty Omad of Sothar brought about the capture of his daughter. For, fleeing back into the relative safety of their valley realm, the Zarian warriors discovered and took captive Jorn the Hunter and the girl Yualla.

It was Xask, the clever and cunning vizier of Zar, who found the boy and girl hidden among the thick grasses, and directed his warriors to disarm and bind them. Xask did not recognize Jorn, and had never met Yualla, but realized that the two must be members of the barbarian horde which had just defeated the forces of the Empress, and had somehow become separated from their people.

Thus it was that when Zarys returned to her half-demolished capital in a fine fury, Xask had at least a morsel of good news wherewith to temper her rage.

The fact of the matter was, quite simply, that Xask felt insecure in the affections of his Empress. For it had been more or less his fault that Professor Potter had found free and easy access to the gunpowder factory which he had touched off. And Xask very much enjoyed his recent return to the favor of the Empress, and did not wish to incur her wrath a second time.

“Of what use are these two savage children to my purposes?” demanded Zarys hotly. “It is Eric Carstairs and Eric Carstairs alone whom I desire to hold within my power, to extract from him the full measure of vengeance—”

“Your servant fully understands, Goddess,” replied Xask soothingly, “but permit your servant to suggest, however humbly, that the two savages may very well be close to the heart of Eric Carstairs or to the leaders of the savage host. By holding them prisoners and hostages, we may yet be able to enforce our will upon Eric Carstairs…”

The Empress considered it thoughtfully, a slight frown creasing her flawless brow. She was impatient to reorganize her legions and again hasten in pursuit of the escaping savages, and even the slightest delay rankled within her breast. Finally, seeing some logic in Xask’s argument, she shrugged.

“Very well, bring them along,” she murmured. “They will afford us only the slightest encumbrance, and may, as you suggest, come in useful for the purposes of bargaining. It may well be that Eric Carstairs will willingly surrender himself into our hands for judgment, rather than see these children suffer indignity or torment…but, surely, we have no use for their cringing little companion?”

Xask thought otherwise, although he was hard put to think of a good reason for sparing Murg. The clever vizier had many times found his way to a desired goal by spying out and playing upon the weaknesses in others, and the weaknesses in the heart of Murg were clearly visible to him. It seemed wise to Xask to spare even Murg, for in this life men such as Xask never quite know when even the miserable Murgs of this world may come in handy. Therefore, he urged Murg upon his Empress. Impatient to be gone, she carelessly agreed.

“After all,” she murmured, “even if this cringing cur or the two savages are of no importance to Eric Carstairs and prove to be an inconvenience, well, we can always cut their throats and leave them for the scavengers of the plain.”

And with these callous words, the Divine Empress hurried about her preparations for departure, leaving Xask well satisfied.

* * * *

Despite the urgency of her desire to be gone from Zar and to hasten in pursuit of the fugitives, it was impossible for the Immortal Zarys to leave her city until many wakes and sleeps had passed.

The destruction caused by the explosion of the gunpowder factory, and by the escape of Zorgazon, had left her capital in smoldering ruins for the larger part, her people scattered and demoralized. In this Byzantine tangle of plot and counter-plot, intrigue and anti-intrigue, which was the Zarian court, even the divine descendent of Minos could have been dislodged from her throne had not Zarys, however grudgingly, taken the time to set things aright again.

This took weeks, actually. But in time, and now triple in strength, the legions of Zar, mounted upon their ponderous thodars, went thundering down the stone causeway and through the pass, to re-enter the great plains of the north, in pursuit of the host of Sothar and the former slaves and captives.

At the forefront of the legions rode Zarys herself, and also Xask, as her second-in-command, to which post the Empress had appointed her wily vizier upon the demise of my old rival, General Cromus, who had lost his life when Garth had seized telepathic control of the thodars.

And in the rear of these troops, their wrists securely tethered and under close and vigilant guard, rode young Jorn the Hunter and the girl Yualla.

And, of course, the unhappy Murg. Not that anyone ever paid much attention to Murg.…

CHAPTER 22

SEARCH’S ENDING

When Grond brought Darya of Thandar before her mighty father, there in the palace of Kâiradine Redbeard, there ensued a reunion which was touching. With a gruff cry of joy, Tharn of Thandar caught up his daughter and crushed her to his powerful breast. For long moments, the Omad of Thandar and his long-lost daughter had eyes only for each other.

“Is all well with you?” demanded Tharn searchingly. “Have any of these men harmed or abused you? If so, point them out and they will harm no other woman, ever again!”

“All is well with me, father,” murmured Darya, nestling within the circle of his arms. “Only Kâiradine Redbeard—as the leader of these people is known—would have harmed me, but found no opportunity to do so.”

“Him alone we have not found, as yet,” growled the jungle monarch. “Although we have searched the palace and the town. Thus far the scoundrel has eluded us.”

“And what of Eric Carstairs?” inquired Darya. “For I see him not among your chieftains.…”

Tharn scratched the roots of his beard and looked uncomfortable, for of course he was aware of the affections that had grown between his daughter and the stranger from the upper world.

“Eric Carstairs parted company from us some time ago,” Tharn admitted gruffly. “After we came out of the cavern city of the Gorpaks and the Sluaggh, and you were stolen away by that villain Fumio and the other men. He and some of the warriors in his company went their own ways in pursuit of you, and have not been seen since.”

Darya sighed. “I hope that he yet lives, and is unharmed,” she murmured.

Tharn tightened his brawny embrace about her slim shoulders, protectively.

“Eric Carstairs has survived many perils before this,” the jungle monarch pointed out. “We surely have not heard the last of our brave friend.…”

Darya said nothing, but the expression of sorrow in her splendid eyes spoke volumes.

* * * *

With his long-lost daughter at last safe, Tharn next busied himself about preparations for departure, for the island fortress of El-Cazar depressed him with its frowning ramparts and narrow, stony ways, and with all his heart the Cro-Magnon king yearned for the open plains and lofty mountains of the mainland, and for his distant home.

All search of Kâiradine Redbeard had proved fruitless, for beyond question the Pirate Prince had sought refuge in some secret hiding place only known to himself. Although Tharn was hungry to visit a grim punishment upon the Barbary corsair for the theft and persecution of Darya, he resolved at length to give over the search and return with his host to the mainland of Zanthodon. Among the other reasons which urged this course of action upon him there was the imminent return to El-Cazar of the pirate squadron commanded by Moustapha, the last surviving member of the Council of Captains, who had departed from the island fortress of the corsairs just before the invasion by the Thandarians, as the reader will remember.

For Tharn wisely foresaw that it would be distinctly dangerous for him to linger here and then find himself and his warriors besieged by Moustapha’s squadron of ships, with no means to defend themselves, outnumbered and relatively helpless. With this decision all of the leaders of the tribe concurred, and that heartily, being wearied of this strange town and its winding streets and towering houses.

All, that is, but Grond. For still the whereabouts of his jungle sweetheart, Jaira, had not been discovered. Disconsolately, the young warrior prowled the labyrinthine ways of El-Cazar, searching for the lost girl.

It did not occur to Grond in his distraction that one other was also missing. But Achmed the Moor, who had been Kâiradine’s first lieutenant, also had not been found, although at the time his absence from the rosters of the captured and the slain seemed to the mind of Grond a thing of no particular significance.

Grond had accepted the offer of Tharn to join with the host of the Thandarians—an offer made to all of the former slaves and captives of the Barbary Pirates-and he well knew that he must depart from El-Cazar when the tribe quitted its shores, as to remain behind was to return to captivity as soon as Moustapha returned to restore the authority of the Brotherhood. But how could he leave, with Jaira’s fate unknown?

That he eventually decided he must do so is not to impugn either the loyalty or the love of Grond, but to make a comment upon the peculiar, but very understandable, fatalism shared by the Cro-Magnon peoples of Zanthodon.

From the very cradle, as it were, these innocent children of nature are engaged in an unremitting struggle for survival in a savage world inimical to their existence. Surrounded on every hand by perils beyond number, they fight from the womb to the grave against hostile nature, cruel jungles, hideous monsters and savage foes, and in that struggle more than a few of them succumb earlier than the rest. Not a warrior but has seen parent, brother, uncle, sister or comrade slain before his or her time, and thus the warriors of Zanthodon have developed, almost as an unconscious instinct of self-protection, a curious indifference to death which is difficult for “civilized” persons such as you or I to comprehend.

Grond was among the nearly two hundred Cro-Magnons who had been slaves or captives of the Barbary Pirates, and who elected to join with the tribe of Thandar rather than to search the mainland for their own half-forgotten homes. At one stroke, then, the fighting force of the Thandarians was nearly tripled. Even so, Tharn took every precaution to render the subjugated Berbers helpless of pursuit and revenge.

Those of the corsair ships which remained anchored in the harbor of El-Cazar he ordered burned and sunk. In time, of course, the survivors of the Thandarian invasion would rebuild their fleet, but Tharn guessed that when that time came around he and his people would be deep within the jungles of the mainland and far beyond the reach of the Brotherhood.

Tharn did not take into consideration the imminent return to El-Cazar of Moustapha and his corsair squadron. This was partly because no one could guess or predict just how long it would be before the missing captain would terminate his venture into the nothern isles and turn about to sail home to the island fortress of the buccaneers.

The time to leave El-Cazar came at length, and the Cro-Magnons made ready to depart from the isle with their new recruits. And among these, as I have explained, was Grond, although his heart ached at the thought.…

* * * *

It seemed to Achmed the Moor that he had crouched here in cowardly concealment for days, seeking to elude capture by the yellow-haired savages who had so swiftly overrun the pirate kingdom. Ever since he had found a hiding place in the little gazebo-like structure which adorned the gardens of the palace of Kâiradine Redbeard, the burly Moor had sweated in a fever of impatience to find a more secure place of refuge, and in an agony of apprehension lest he be discovered by the primitives.

Bound and gagged, the girl Jaira helplessly lay by his side. Achmed could not have explained to you exactly why he had spared the life of the slave-girl, any more than he was able to explain it to himself. But it surely was not from any tenderness or feelings of compassion, for such did not exist in the hardened and calloused heart of the Moorish corsair. Perhaps he let Jaira live as a possible hostage to his own freedom and security—a potential bargaining point in the event that his hiding place was discovered; and then again, perhaps not.

But for what seemed an interminable length of time, the burly Moor had squatted behind the little wooden structure, peering fearfully about as the savages came and went on mysterious errands and unknown missions, dreading at any moment that the halloo would be raised and he would have to fight for his life.

That this did not, in fact, occur is probably to be explained by the simple answer that few of the warriors or chieftains of Thandar had much notion of Achmed’s very existence. With the captains of the corsair kingdom slain or missing, their junior officers seemed of no consequence, whether they were alive and fled or captive, or themselves slain.

It would greatly have disgruntled the Moor had he known that his very existence was of no consequence to the conquerors, of course. We have, all of us, an understandably inflated notion of our own importance in the great Scheme of Things—an opinion most likely not shared by very many of those around us.

* * * *

For an equally interminable period of time, Jaira had suffered her captivity in a terror of impending death at the hands of her grim captor. The shy, frightened girl was somewhat more delicate and very much less brave than were her savage sisters, but after many hours of being a bound and helpless captive at the cruel mercies of the Moor, it eventually dawned on Jaira that perhaps after all, she was not going to be murdered in the next instant. And with this realization her fears calmed somewhat; recovering from the paralysis of her panic, the girl began to puzzle a way out of her horrible dilemma.

Achmed had bound her hastily and clumsily, and as time passed Jaira noticed that certain of her bonds had slipped from their original position and that her limbs were less cramped and confined than they had been. This inspired the blonde girl to attempt to free her wrists: twisting and turning, striving with every small strength at her command—and virtually ignored by the huge Moor, who crouched fearfully sweating, peering in every direction as the savage warriors came and went—she eventually managed to slip one slim hand free. From that point it was not difficult for her to unobtrusively writhe loose of her bonds.

When at length she had succeeded in freeing herself, the girl fearfully glanced at her captor, expecting momentary discovery. But Achmed had his broad back turned upon his captive, and was paying not the slightest attention to her. With her heart in her mouth, the girl began stealthily to creep from the gazebo.

Although it seemed to take an agonizing eternity, she managed to reach the relative safety of the bushes which grew close about the little ornamental structure. Then she rose furtively to her feet, hopeful of gaining the security of the nearest group of trees—but at that which met her eyes in the very next instant, she stood transfixed; all thoughts of stealth fleeing from her mind, Jaira uttered a shrill and piercing cry of astonishment which jerked Achmed, cursing vilely, to his feet, one huge hand seizing up his scimitar.

* * * *

Grond was halfway down the garden path, on his way to accomplish a final errand for Tharn of Thandar, when a well-remembered voice raised in a sharp cry of alarm arrested his steps.

The Cro-Magnon whirled about to see a sight at once delightful and dreadful—

For there, not far away, stood his beloved staring at him with incredulous delight. At her back, rising into view, was a gigantic black figure armed with a glittering scimitar.…

CHAPTER 23

JAIRA STRIKES BACK

Kâiradine well knew that his life was forfeit were his whereabouts to be discovered. If the leader of the blond barbarians was, indeed, the father of Darya, the girl he had stolen away and would have ravished, then her father—like all fathers—would be satisfied with nothing less than his blood.

Although wary and cautious in the extreme, the Redbeard was not fearful of discovery. No one knew as thoroughly as did he the thousand hiding places open to a fugitive in the immense and ancient warren of El-Cazar.

So, drawing the hood of his cloak over his face in order to conceal his features, and affecting a limp which should serve to disguise his swaggering, arrogant stride, the former Prince of the Barbary Pirates slunk furtively down the alley and into a main thoroughfare.

The savage conquerors were everywhere, but as none of them save only for the girl Darya could possibly have recognized him, Kâiradine put a bold face on it, and mingled with the crowd which wandered to and fro. No trade was being conducted in the grand bazaar on this day, for those merchants who would otherwise have been boastfully declaiming the virtues of their wares hid behind bolted doors and closed shutters, fearful lest the conquerors should come seeking loot and plunder.

It is natural for men to judge others by themselves, thought Kâiradine wryly to himself as he slunk through the square. Since the Barbary Pirates lived on loot and plunder, they expected no less from others—least of all, from their savage conquerors. The truth of the matter was, of course, that the “simple” Cro-Magnons had no conceivable use for gold or silver or gems, and were uninterested in accumulating such bright but essentially worthless trash.

What they were interested in, were the excellent steel swords and daggers used by the corsairs. Thus, when Kâiradine crept past a swordsmith’s booth, he noticed the savages emerging therefrom, their bare and brawny arms laden with glittering weapons. He did not, of course, know that Tharn of Thandar, instantly recognizing the superiority of the Berber weaponry, had commanded his men to arms themselves with such.

Keeping out of sight as much as was possible, and choosing the shadows rather the bright and revealing light of day, the Pirate Prince traversed the broad plaza of the bazaar without incident, and vanished into the narrow doorway of a disreputable dive.

A few dispirited Berbers huddled on the long benches or sprawled in the booths to the rear, heavily gone in drink and obviously trying to forget the ignominy of their defeat at the hands of oafish primitives armed with stone axes and crude bronze spears. None of these so much as glanced up as Kâiradine, muffled to the eyes, limped past them and sank into a curtained booth near the kitchens.

Hastily drawing the curtains, Kâiradine sank back with a sigh of relief into the welcome gloom. Then, rousing himself, he searched with nimble fingers beneath the edge of the table, finding a cleverly concealed switch. At his touch, a panel creaked open in the rear wall, through which he glided. A moment later, the panel closed again, and the booth was empty of any occupant.

* * * *

Down a narrow wooden stair Kâiradine descended, gaining at length a small apartment sumptuously hung with woven stuffs and furnished with luxurious furniture of rare woods and even a rarer craftsmanship. Pouring himself a goblet of wine from a stoppered bottle on a tabouret, the corsair captain kicked off his boots and sank into the soft embrace of velvet cushions with a sigh of relief.

None in El-Cazar knew of this hiding place which Kâiradine had long ago prepared for himself in the eventuality of revolt or treason. Under the name of his lieutenant, Achmed, he owned the tavern and workmen at his direction had prepared the secret panel, the hidden stair and the unknown hiding place—before mysteriously vanishing from the sight of men, with slit gullets.

Here he had squirreled away his chiefest treasures—objects of gold and silver worth a satrap’s ransom, and bags and sacks and chests stuffed with gems of inestimable worth, together with rare and exotic curiosities such as few of the pirates had ever seen.

Here too he kept several changes of clothing and a supply of weapons, together with stores of food and drink sufficient to last him for many days before hunger or thirst drove him forth into the light of day.

Here he could hide, biding his time, planning his escape from the clutches of his enemies.…

And his vengeance!

* * * *

Without a moment’s thought or hesitation, Grond launched himself upon the burly black giant who menaced his sweetheart, Jaira. He flung himself across the intervening space which separated himself from the girl he had sought like a charging leopard, and such was the swiftness of his action that Achmed the Moor was quite taken by surprise.

The Moor growled a savage curse to his African gods as he spun about, lifting his heavy scimitar to meet this unexpected adversary. Ducking under the blade, Grond clamped one iron hand about the massive throat of the burly Moor, digging his thumb into the corsair’s windpipe. His other hand locked about the wrist of the Moor’s swordarm.

While Jaira stood frozen, one hand to her parted lips, eyes wide with fear, heart pounding against her ribs, the two men struggled breast to breast and thigh to thigh, grunting like beasts, faces black and distorted with effort.

Slowly but surely, the superior weight and strength of the great Moor began to tell, as his younger, lighter adversary weakened and his grip relaxed.

The moment his throat was free of the grim pressure, Achmed stole a precious moment from the conflict in order to suck air into his starved and laboring lungs. But Grond did not pause: balling his hard fist, he sank it into the pit of the Moor’s stomach with all the steely strength packed into his powerful arm, shoulder and back.

The Moor’s paunch collapsed like a pricked balloon; breath whistled from his open mouth and his eyes popped comically. Grond spun about, clamped his other hand about the pirate’s arm—and heaved!

Achmed whirled head over heels at this primitive jujitsu and landed with a paralyzing thump on his back, while his sword went spinning across the garden to splash into a pool, startling the lazing fish.

In the next instant, Grond again flung himself upon his foe, and now, locked in each other’s iron grip, they rolled over and over, grunting and panting, crashing through the underbrush, the flowerbeds, the pebble-strewn walks. Weakened by the sledgehammer blow in the pit of his stomach, partially stunned by his fall, Achmed found himself temporarily helpless in the savage grip of the Cro-Magnon warrior.

Within moments, however, the giant Moor had recovered himself and, once again, his greater weight and strength began to tell in the balance of the struggle.

Suddenly, he felled the blond youth with a lucky blow to the jaw, and, standing with spread legs straddling the half-conscious Grond, his swarthy features convulsed in a grin of cruel delight, he tore a long poniard from his sash and raised it high—to plunge it into the heart of his helpless foe.

In the next second, the silence of the gardens was broken by a dull, resounding thud.

His evil grin relaxed into a stupid expression of bewilderment.

The brandished blade fell from suddenly nerveless fingers, to clank against the tiles which lined the edge of the flowerbed.

For a moment, Achmed swayed on his feet like a tree torn from the earth in a gale.

Then, knees buckling, he fell sideways and crashed to earth to move no more.

When Grond awoke from his daze, he found his head cradled upon the soft thighs of a weeping, fearful Jaira. For a long moment the bewildered caveboy did not comprehend what had occurred. When he did, he grinned and almost laughed aloud.

Jaira, as I have remarked previously, was more shy and timid than most of her sisters of the Cro-Magnon tribes, who for the most part can hunt and fight almost as well as can their men. But even a shy creature like Jaira responds with alacrity when her lover is threatened.…

Climbing stiffly to his feet on bruised and aching limbs, Grond hobbled over to examine the sprawled figure of the fallen Moor. The fresh blood which pooled behind his turbaned head was sufficient to satisfy the curiosity of Grond, who did not even need to see the fist-sized dent in the back of Achmed’s broken skull.

Again, the young Cro-Magnon grinned, hugging the happy girl to him and kissing her with pride.

For Jaira—timid little Jaira!—had brained Achmed with a heavy flowerpot.

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 Kâiradine 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 battle against the savages. While this was being accomplished, he moved his personal belongings into the now empty residence of Kâiradine 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 Kâiradine 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.”

“I hope that you are right,” he said grimly.

“I hope I am, too,” the girl sighed.

They rode on in silence, as he cut her bonds with the bronze knife he had slipped from beneath her garment.

* * * *

As for poor, miserable Murg, he rode behind the two young people, sharing his saddle with a Dragonman called Ophar. The two did not at all get on well together, for Ophar did not care to share the saddle of his thodar with a savage, and resented having been ordered to do so, and seized upon every opportunity to take his resentment out on the hapless Murg.

It seemed to Murg’s way of thinking, and probably there was quite a bit of truth behind his opinion, that recently life had not played exactly fair with Murg. He had gone from one calamity to the next, from the horrible slavery of the Gorpaks in their ghastly cavern city to the cruel hands of the Neanderthal bully, One-Eye; from the dangerous adventurings with Hurok and my band of warriors, to being tethered by Yualla (whom, he had conveniently forgotten, he had tried to ravish while she slept); and from that condition to his present unhappy bondage by the Dragonmen of Zar, whom he feared mightily.

In short, Murg heartily wished that he had never left home. Of course, home to Murg was the tribal village of Sothar, which had been riven apart by earthquakes and then buried beneath seething rivers of liquid fire (which was how Murg named molten lava to himself), so to have remained back in Sothar would have been distinctly uncomfortable, at best, and doubtless seriously injurious to his health. But people like Murg can only feel sorry for themselves.

At any rate, Murg was thoroughly weary of a life which seemed to consist of one dangerous captivity after another. He wished only to be back with his tribe, surrounded (and, of course, protected) by the stalwart warriors of Sothar.

Alas, that wish seemed extremely unlikely of ever finding fulfillment: once the Dragonmen caught up with the warriors of Sothar, there would quickly ensue a frightful battle, and Murg didn’t like battles any more than he liked being someone’s slave.

But Murg had not survived to his present age in the hostile wilderness of Zanthodon without having long since learned to keep his eyes and ears open, and to remain alert to every slightest advantage that might come his way. Thus, while the Dragonmen remained oblivious to the fact, the keen eyes of Murg were not long in discerning that the hands of Jorn and Yualla were somehow freed. True, the boy and the girl had cunningly wrapped their thongs about their hands to simulate bondage, but it became obvious to Murg that the two had managed to free themselves, and were undoubtedly waiting for some sort of a diversion before making their break.

Murg saw everything in the light of what possible advantage it might afford the well-being of Murg. So he long and thoughtfully pondered this present discovery, without finding the advantage. Mounted on another thodar, the Cro-Magnon youngsters could hardly free Murg, even if they wished. Separated as they were, he could not threaten them with disclosure of their secret unless they took him along, because there was no chance for them to converse privately. Of what use to Murg, then, was this knowledge?

Then Murg thought of Xask.

The cunning tricksters of this life seem to recognize their brethren at a glance, and therefore Murg had long been aware that Xask was not unlike himself. At the first rest stop, therefore, Murg dared address the surly Dragonman whose saddle he was forced to share.

“If the lord pleases,” whined Murg in servile tones, cringing in anticipation of a blow, “I have important information for the lord Xask—”

“The Lord Commander Xask is not to be conversed with by the likes of you,” snarled the Dragonman, cuffing Murg aside.

“That,” declared Murg with unexpected and atypical daring, “is a matter which only the Lord Commander Xask may properly decide. And if the Lord Ophar refuses to permit this lowly one to pass along the important information of which I speak, then the wrath of the Lord Commander may perchance fall upon the Lord Ophar’s head.…”

Ophar was about to knock Murg to the ground for this impertinence, but stayed his hand. The whining cur might well speak the truth, and Ophar had great and good reason to fear the disapproval of Xask, who was a ruthless and unforgiving man.

“If the Lord Xask is unimpressed by the information whereof this scrawny savage boasts, then at least he will not fail to approve of the alert vigilance of Ophar, who did not scruple to bring to his attention anything that might be of interest to the Lord Xask. At any rate, how can I suffer for so doing?”

Thus reasoned the clever Ophar to himself. Then, aloud, to Murg, he said:

“Oh, very well, come along—but the information you claim to possess had better be of interest to the Lord Commander, or your miserable hide will bear the brunt of his—and my—disapproval!”

Murg nodded obsequiously, and trotted along at the heels of Ophar.

In his weaselly little heart, Murg hoped desperately that his news would indeed be of interest.…

But only time would tell.

8 Actually, I never learned the eventual fate of the monster tyrannosaur. I assume that he escaped from the island city, swam or waded the moat-like lake which surrounds Zar, and vanished into the wilder­ness of Zanthodon. And good riddance!