PART VI: BATTLE BENEATH THE WORLD

CHAPTER 26

TRACKED BY THE UNKNOWN

By slow and easy stages the tribe of Sothar traversed the great northern plain, reaching at last the rocky coastline of the sea of Sogar-Jad.

It was at this place, I was informed, that the twin tribes had split in twain, with the tribe of Thandar continuing their search for their lost princess, Darya, while Garth and his tribe struck off across the plains, following the few and faint traces which denoted the direction in which Yualla had been borne.

Arriving at this rocky shore, we found no slightest trace of the Thandarians. After this length of time, there was, of course, no way we could guess of the direction in which they had traveled, or the destination which they sought. Our only clue was that we knew Tharn of Thandar was searching for the stronghold of the Barbary Pirates, the fortress isle of El-Cazar. But we had no idea where, in all this expanse of misty sea, strewn with small rocky islets and archipelagoes, El-Cazar might lie.

Garth, the Omad or High Chief of the Sotharians, had regained much of his vigor during the long, slow trek from the “east,” and his mighty frame had largely repaired itself, the injury inflicted upon him by the assassin Raphad being by now very nearly half-healed.

I believe I have noted before the remarkable healing powers of the Cro-Magnons of Zanthodon. Perhaps their extraordinary recuperative powers result from the simple, natural life they lead, close to the manner in which our common and remote ancestors lived; this perhaps accounts for their abilities to recover so swiftly from serious injuries; again, it may be due to some substance in the soil of Zanthodon, in some element in the food they eat, or some mysterious quality in the very air of the Underground World, which enables them to experience such miracles of swift healing.

I do not know. But Garth, now much recovered, wisely advised that we could spend our lives searching these unknown northern shores in quest of our Thandarian friends, while we might better strike south along the coastline, hunting for Thandar itself, in which land we had been promised welcome and refuge.

Besides, to linger in these parts might well be dangerous as well as fruitless. For, surely, the Divine Zarys would not delay very long in launching her pursuit of the tribe—which was, as you have already read, the very case.

So, after a time, we turned “south” and followed the coastline down the curve of the subterranean continent. Somewhere “south” of the jungles which proliferated below the Peaks of Peril and the plain of the trantors, we knew, lay Thandar. We thought that we could probably find it…and that every league we put between ourselves and the pursuing enemy would add to our already slender margin of safety.

* * * *

Thus it was, unfortunately, that Varak and his bride, Ialys, had hardly any time at all for a honeymoon—if, indeed, the Cro-Magnons of Zanthodon or the Minoans of the Scarlet City of Zar know the custom. At any rate, while they sought—and were given—as much privacy as they wished, they did not exactly have a chance to enjoy that blissful idyll that is what honeymoons are all about.

The warriors of my retinue rather missed the companionship of the cheerful, good-humored youth, whose jests and gibes and pranks had enlivened much of the trek for us this far. But all of us, even solemn old Hurok, understood instinctively that the young couple desired nothing so much right now as their own company. Only Professor Potter griped.

“What a priceless opportunity, my boy, to witness the nuptial ceremonies of our remote ancestors, doubtless preserved for countless ages here in the Underground World! Frazier forever, how will the anthropologists of the Upper World ever forgive me, if I do not—”

“Doc,” I said severely, “you are not going to spy on them so long as I can lift a fist to slug you.”

He huffed and swelled like a bantam cock, then wilted, as if deflated by the merciless gleam in my eye.

“Oh, very well!” snapped the old boy pettishly. “But the loss to science be upon your own pointed head, Eric, and not upon my own!” With that he stalked off in a high fury, to sulk alone. I suppressed a rueful grin.

Hurok looked puzzled.

“What does he say, the old one?” he inquired in his slow, deep voice.

I tried to explain—not only the young couple’s need of privacy, but the Doc’s scientific curiosity. Neither attitude made much sense to the simple Neanderthal, but eventually he shrugged and ignored it.

“Hurok shall never understand the ways of the panjani,” he sighed, turning away.

As a panjani born and bred myself, I could have admitted that many of the ways of my own kind were pretty mystifying even to me, but he was gone by then.

We marched “south,” along the coast.

* * * *

Before very long, it became obvious to the more alert and keen-sighted of our host that a large body of men had but recently marched along this same path. It was the scouts and rangers of Sothar who apprised me of this, pointing to the marks of many sandaled feet scarcely visible in the scant patches of bare earth along our way.

Once these things were called to my attention, it was easy to see them and I was puzzled that I had not noticed them before. One of the scouts, a grizzled veteran named Quaron, perhaps explained it best.

“The chieftain did not see the marks-of-many-feet because he was not looking for them,” he remarked.

I quirked an eyebrow.

“And was the scout Quaron looking for them?” I inquired tartly.

The older man smiled briefly.

“It is the duty of a scout to be constantly looking for everything,” he said succinctly.

Surely, the footprints could only have been made by the warriors of Thandar! That was the easiest and most obvious explanation, and the one which came most quickly to mind. Which implied that, were we to stretch our stride a bit, we might, ere long, catch up with our friends. Which we endeavored to do, upon the urgings of Garth.

I was as eager as any of the others to press forward with all speed, for it occurred instantly to me that if the horde of Thandar was already on the route “south” to their homeland, the only explanation for this could be that my beloved Darya had been found by her people, and thus was not very far ahead of me.

We pressed on.

* * * *

Again, before very long, it became obvious to us that we were being followed Scouts set their ears against the ground, and reported a faint drumming in the earth, which could only be the result of the feet of many marching men or beasts.

“Who could it be?” murmured Garth thoughtfully to himself, from his stretcher of tanned bides fastened over parallel poles. “What foe have we in these parts?”

“We are too far ‘north’ to have attracted the attention of the Drugars of Kor,” I pointed out, “and not far enough ‘south’ for any lingering and surviving remnants of the Gorpaks of the cavern city to be on our trail.…”

“It can only be the Dragonmen of Zar,” was the announcement uttered by Hurok in his deep tones. We looked at him nonplussed.

“Surely, there has not yet been enough time for Zarys to mount a counterattack,” I protested. Then I cut my protest off at the expression of bafflement in his small, deep-set eyes, remembering that the men of Zanthodon have only the most rudimentary notion of the very existence of time. Here beneath the eternal noon of their undarkening skies, time remains as yet unguessed by even the wisest of the tribesmen.

“Let us continue on our way,” said Garth heavily. “Whoever our unknown pursuers are, they will be upon us soon enough.”

And that was one prophecy soon proven true.…

CHAPTER 27

KÂIRADINE REAPPEARS

On the fortress island of the Barbary Pirates, the work of clearing away the wreckage, burying the dead, repairing the few ships which were left more or less whole and of removing or sinking those which the savage hordes had burnt was progressing with every speed possible.

Moustapha, the new—and self-styled—Prince of El-Cazar, felt, and that rightly, that his prestige and authority over his fellow corsairs rested, to a considerable degree, with the swiftness and thoroughness with which he pursued and punished the Cro-Magnon savages for their temerity in invading and conquering the island of the Barbary Pirates.

There had been, and was, considerable grumbling and dissatisfaction over his prompt assumption of the princely title among the corsairs. It was not so much that Moustapha was not esteemed as one of the captains, or that he was disliked, for he had always been both popular and respected by his brother buccaneers. It was, simply, that he was not of the race of the great Khair ud-Din of Algiers, the original Barbarossa, and that from the distant time of their flight into the Underground World of Zanthodon, a son of the line of the mighty Barbarossa had always ruled El-Cazar.

In this, if in little else, the Barbary Pirates tended to be strictly traditional. However, as no rival rose to challenge Moustapha with a clearer claim to the throne, his assumption of the regal authority aroused mere grumbling, and no organized opposition.

As soon as his repairs were completed on his flagship and the other vessels of his squadron were refurbished, and those of the less damaged ships in the harbor had been made seaworthy, the new Prince of El-Cazar moved with alacrity to enlist a strong force of fighting men and made preparations for the voyage to the shores of the subterranean continent.

The unexpected intervened, however—as might have been expected.

* * * *

Moustapha was alone in the great hall of the princely citadel, studying the lists of men and weaponry and provisions, when a mocking laugh sounded from behind his back.

Snarling an oath, Moustapha whipped about, ready to lash out at any servitor who might have dared to enter his solitude unannounced and uninvited—

Only to pale to the lips with astonishment as he saw and recognized the man who had laughed.

For, lounging gracefully against a stone pillar, stood none other than Kâiradine Redbeard.

Moustapha’s consternation must have been written clearly upon his swarthy features, for at sight of his face, Kâiradine laughed again. And, in truth, the consternation of the other was more than understandable: the Redbeard had vanished from the knowledge of the buccaneers weeks before, at the time of the Thandarian invasion, and had not been seen or heard from since. He was dead or had disappeared, all men believed, and most accounted him among the very many corpses burned or hacked out of all recognition. Yet here he stood—alive and hale and hearty!

For a long moment, Moustapha stared wide-eyed at this amazing apparition, licking dry lips with a dry tongue.

“M-my prince!” he stammered foolishly.

Kâiradine grinned sardonically.

“Your prince, is it? By the Fiends of Kaf, but I had heard that you yourself, my faithful and loyal Moustapha, had assumed that title, along with my citadel and my very crown!”

Moustapha stammered something inarticulate but apologetic. Suddenly, the playfully mocking manner of the Redbeard changed, as he showed ever his mercurial nature.

“Get off of my throne,” he snapped icily, one dark, strong hand gliding to curl its fingers about the hilt of his sword.

Moustapha stumbled to his feet, parchment sheets sprawling over the dais. Eyes wary, he backed away as the other mounted the stone steps and seated himself in the place thus made vacant.

“That is better, you rogue,” said Kâiradine. “Your place is at the foot of those steps, not on the throne atop them.”

“Yes, O reis,” whispered Moustapha. “I thought…we all thought—?”

“Kâiradine Redbeard knows full well what you thought, you shallow-pated fools,” grinned the Prince of El-Cazar. Negligently, with the point of his blade, the Redbeard punctured one of the parchments, removed it and glanced over it casually.

“I see that you had planned to launch an expedition against the mainland, to attack and wreak vengeance upon the savage host,” he drawled lazily.

“Yes, O reis,” murmured Moustapha.

“The plan is an excellent one, for only by so doing will the mariners of the Brotherhood regain their self-esteem and their faith in their leader,” said Kâiradine. “Your plan will go forward with, of course, the slight alteration of the name of the leader.”

“Naturally, O reis.”

“As the accursed savages burned my Red Witch to the waterline, I will assume the command of your Lion of Islam as my flagship,” purred Kâiradine. “I trust that the Captain Moustapha has no objection to this?”

“None, O reis!”

“I thought not! Very good, then . . you may remove your gear and possessions from my palace, and return to your own house. When all arise from slumber, there will be a council of the senior seamen in this hall, not only to formally reinstate your prince and to revoke your own unlawful assumption of my power, but to select the leaders of the ships which I shall lead against the savages—a question?”

Moustapha spoke hesitantly.

“O my prince…the command of the ships of my squadron has already been vested in tried and trustworthy captains—”

“Yes, captains of your own choosing, loyal to you, at least,” snapped the Redbeard. “I no longer trust you, Moustapha; and I cannot, therefore, place any reliance in men loyal to you and, perchance, somewhat less than loyal to myself.”

“It shall be as you command,” murmured Moustapha tonelessly.

“So it shall,” smiled Kâiradine. “Now you have our leave to withdraw.”

Moustapha bowed with a wooden face, and left quickly. He felt fortunate to have escaped that confrontation with a whole skin.

The men of El-Cazar welcomed the mysterious reappearance of their prince wholeheartedly. They had never been informed of the decision of the Council of the Captains which had deposed the Redbeard, as the abrupt invasion of the host of Thandar had come so swiftly upon the heels of this act that the news of it had never been circulated. And, as well, since all of the participants in that Council, saving only Kâiradine Redbeard alone, were now slain, there remained no one to inform them that it had ever taken place.

The selection of captains pro tem for the few ships which remained seaworthy out of the fleet of the corsairs went forward swiftly, following a simple formula: anyone that Moustapha had chosen to command a vessel was automatically disqualified and was replaced with a man known to be true to Kâiradine Redbeard.

There were no exceptions to this, and, considering the vicious temper of the Prince of Pirates, hardly any muttering about it.

The squadron departed from El-Cazar on the day appointed, and rapidly negotiated the foggy and hazardous waters. The many shallow reefs and rocky islets which rendered these seas dangerous were well known to the Barbary Pirates, and in less time than it would take me to describe they had reached the shores of the northern extremity of the underground continent. Here Kâiradine decided that they should voyage south, following close to shore, until the host of savages or their tracks could be glimpsed by his keen-eyed watchmen stationed high in the rigging.

Erelong, the host was discovered trudging through the plains.

Anchoring offshore, the pirates clambered into longboats and cast off. Beaching their hulls, they organized in ranks and advanced on the trail of the blond savages.

The blades of the Brotherhood were out and ready, keen and thirsty to drink the blood of the Cro-Magnon primitives who had dared incur the wrath of the sons of Islam.

CHAPTER 28

THE BATTLE IS JOINED

The Divine Zarys was consumed by impatience. She sat in the embossed leather saddle, her strong, bare thighs clasping the sides of her giant reptile, a slim, three-pronged trident of the silvery-reddish metal the Professor believed to be the fabled orichalcum of Lost Atlantis tightly gripped in the fingers of one hand, while with the other she held the reins.

Every hour that went by only served to stoke the fires of impatience which blazed within her heart. She drove her legions on mercilessly, begrudging every moment wasted on rest and food. The savages could not be very much farther ahead, and her scouts were closely following the trail they left on the beaten earth, the crushed grasses.

Here they had paused, near the sea; then they had turned to journey south along the coast of the Sogar-Jad. Here they had camped, where the ashes of a fire were still warm.

She lifted her head and stared before her, where the craggy heights of gaunt mountains lifted against the mistily luminous skies of the Underground World. These were the Peaks of Peril, although Zarys could not have known that name, for never yet had her legions come this distance from the Scarlet City. With a hunter’s instinct, however, she realized that whatever passes might wind between these mountains, they would be narrow and difficult to negotiate. Here, then, the horde of yellow-haired barbarians would perforce move forward but slowly; with their backs against the wall of cliffs, they would be unable to avoid her attack, and the tactical advantage thus afforded her troops would be decisive.

Or so, at least, she believed.

The Empress of Zar had given much thought to exactly how best to conduct the assault upon the savages. Never again could she risk having her own thodars turned against her by the power of the gemstudded circlet which, presumably, the savages still held. When she came within view of the Cro-Magnon army, then, she had decided to order her soldiers to dismount and to turn their giant steeds loose to graze upon the long meadow grasses which clothed the plains. Confident that her people could summon to them the wandering thodars with their circlets, she saw no danger in turning the beasts loose, and, after all, there was simply no way to tether reptiles so enormous and so strong, especially here amidst the empty plains where no trees grew.

The air of Zanthodon is humid and misty, and the luminosity of the sky is less intense than is the light of the sun in the Upper World. These factors combined to make it difficult to perceive objects clearly at any great distance, hence her scouts and out-riders ranged far ahead of the mounted legions; in order to detect the army of savages before they approached them.

Now one of these scouts came up to where she rode beside Xask at the head of the formation. He reined his ponderous steed to a halt and saluted crisply.

“What is the word, Gorus?” she demanded.

“Sacred One, the army of savages is directly ahead of us, near the barrier of the mountains,” the scout reported.

Zarys smiled. “That is, indeed, good news!” she exulted. “In your opinion, should we dismount at this point and press on afoot?”

Gorus nodded, but there was a strange reluctance visible in his manner.

“There is something else?” she inquired.

“It is difficult to perceive clearly, Divinity, but—”

“But what? Speak up, man!”

“There are the sounds of fighting ahead, the clamor of a battle…the dust raised by the battling of many warriors makes it impossible to discern the identity of the combatants, but surely the blond savages are one of the adversaries.”

Zarys frowned in puzzlement: who else besides herself could possibly be in pursuit of the barbarian horde? What other foe could they have in these remote and unsettled parts of Zanthodon?

Well, there was only one way to find out!

She directed her commander, Xask, to give the signal, and watched as her legions dismounted and assembled into battle formation.

Then they began their march.

* * * *

Whoever the unknown host might be, they were approaching us with all possible speed, coming (it seemed) from the direction of the seashore, for we were not very far inland from the margins of the Sogar-Jad.

By this time we were massed before the narrow mouth of one of the passes which led through the Peaks of Peril, and if we must stand and fight, at least our backs would be protected by that sheer and clifflike wall of stone.

Garth voiced the command from his litter, and the chieftains of the host hastily assembled their warriors into fighting order. The taller and huskier of the warriors formed the first rank, their long shields locked together like a palisade. I believe that I have mentioned elsewhere in these memoirs that the Cro-Magnon warriors carry strong but light wicker shields over whose kite-shaped frame are stretched the tough, tanned hides of dinosaurs. These shields are approximately the shape and the height of the kite-shields used by the Norman knights when they invaded England, and the pattern or design of such shields goes back to the old Vikings who were the ancestors of the Normans. The Cro-Magnon warriors of Zanthodon locked these shields together much in the same manner as did the Vikings—I believe the old Icelandic sagas call this formation a “shield-berg.”

At any rate, it presents a formidable defense, and behind this barrier of tall shields our warriors grimly waited for the attack of our unknown enemies, long bronze-bladed spears bristling and swords and stone axes held at the ready.

The foe was not long in making their appearance…and their appearance was astonishing.

I don’t quite remember what it was I had expected to see as I stood there at the forefront of my company of warriors, but I guess it must have been the Dragon-riders of Zar, for what other enemy could we have expected, here at the northern extremity of the world?

Instead, they proved to be tall, long-legged, swarthy-skinned men with beards and turbans, clad in curlytoed boots, loose trousers, sashes bristling with daggers. They looked for all the world like buccaneers stepped from the pages of Rafael Sabatini’s The Sea Hawk—and in a very real sense of the word, they were: for they were, of course, the Barbary Pirates.

“Who is the enemy, Eric Carstairs?” inquired Garth of Sothar from his litter behind my position. In terse words I told him.

“But why are these men attacking us? Never have we encountered them before, nor done aught that would earn us their enmity.…”

I was baffled by that one myself, and had no answer to give him. But the why and wherefore of the matter were of trivial importance, for they came howling against us, their bright scimitars flashing, shrilling their old Moslem battle cries, and the fight was begun.…

* * * *

Kâiradine felt satisfied as he watched his corsairs charge the shield-wall of the savages. The answer to Garth’s question and the cause of the attack were easily explained—the Redbeard had made a very simple mistake, one of identification. Pursuing a horde of naked blond Cro-Magnon savages, he had found one, and believed it to be the one for which he had been searching. That we were not the host of Thandar, his foes, who had invaded and sacked the fortress isle of El-Cazar, but the host of Sothar, come hither from the Scarlet City of Zar, was something he could not have guessed.

I guess one host of yellow-haired Cro-Magnons looks about the same as another host of yellow-haired Cro-Magnons, to the eyes of a Barbary Pirate.

The fighting began and soon became hot and furious. The long spears of the Sotharians held the buccaneers at bay for a time, but as the spears broke or were flung at the foe, the men of El-Cazar were able to close with their adversaries, and the battle degenerated into a hand-for-hand melee. The Cro-Magnons were taller and stronger than the corsairs, but they had never before faced men armed with steel swords, and the buccaneers had been practiced in the arts of swordplay since boyhood. The difference soon began to tell as the shield-wall broke, and bands of yowling, wild-eyed pirates penetrated our lines in a dozen places.

We held our ground and fought grimly, since there was nothing else to do: with the sheer cliffs behind us, there was nowhere to retreat to.

So we stood and fought.

Until there came what can only be described as a timely intervention.…

CHAPTER 29

A TIMELY INTERVENTION

We stared in baffled incomprehension as, suddenly, some strange impulse struck the Barbary Pirates. All along the front of their line, as they stood and fought our warriors, a ripple seemed to travel: heads turned, swordhands faltered; they seemed distracted—but by what, or from whence, none of us could say.

“Look, Black Hair!” boomed Hurok the Korian from where he stood at my right hand. I followed the direction in which he pointed with an extended arm, and saw that, inexplicably, the rear ranks of the corsairs were melting away as if by magic. Men turned their attention from their assault of our lines, distracted by something we could not see in all that haze of whirling dust.

“Can you see what it is they turn to greet?” I asked him urgently. “For you are taller than am I, and can see over their heads.”

“But the eyes of Hurok are dimmer than are the eyes of his friend,” he rumbled hesitantly, peering.

We fought on; but to every hand the line of the Barbary Pirates was crumbling, as men fell back as if to engage adversaries attacking from the rear—but what adversaries could they be, we puzzled, for surely the tribesmen of Thandar were somewhere ahead of us beyond the Peaks of Peril, through whose passes we had sent ahead our noncombatants, the women, the children, the aged and injured.

Erelong, however, the nature of the forces which were assaulting the buccaneers from behind became apparent. They were a huge body of men, small and slight of build, with sleek black hair and olive-hued skin, arrayed in glittering metal armor and brandishing gleaming tridents and other oddly shaped hand weapons.

The Dragonmen of Zar! Indeed, it was none other than they—which meant our host was engaged, or would soon be engaged, by twice the enemy forces now pitted against us.

In the meanwhile, however, the surprise attack from the pirates’ rear worked to our advantage, for we pressed forward, breaking our lines, and in less time than it takes to describe, the corsairs of El-Cazar found themselves ground, as it were, between two millstones. Their forces crumbled and began to flee in all directions, as the frightened buccaneers threw down their weapons and fled in haste, severely outnumbered. This was done, incidentally, despite the rage and thundered orders of their tall, hawk-faced leader, whom I surmised (correctly, as it turned out later) to be none other than the notorious Kâiradine Redbeard, whom I had long hungered to meet at sword’s point.

Spotting the man, I pressed forward at the head of my retinue, with huge, hulking Hurok on my right and the blond giant, Gundar, guarding my left. We cut a red path straight toward where Kâiradine stood, attempting to stem the disintegration of his host.

* * * *

As the legions of the Scarlet City hurled themselves against the rear-most ranks of the corsairs, Jorn the Hunter gave Yualla a nudge, which was the signal agreed upon between them earlier.

Without a word, the boy whirled, his hands suddenly free: he turned upon the Zarian warrior guarding him and kicked the surprised fellow in the pit of his stomach. As the Zarian fell to his knees, gagging and clutching at his middle, the young Cro-Magnon snatched up his leaf-bladed shortsword and long-hafted trident.

In the same moments, the lithe young girl had dispatched her own guard with her dagger and had divested him of his weapons. The pair raced for safety behind some rocks, glided from that vantage point into a stand of thick bushes, seeking to circle about the battle and to rejoin the tribe of Sothar from the rear.

In the confusion of the battle, their escape had gone unnoticed by all but, of course, the wily Murg, who had been watching for just such a bold and daring break for freedom on their part. The moment that Jorn and Yualla turned to engage their guards, Murg gave the signal to the Zarian who accompanied him, and a bugle note soared above the tumult of battle.

As the Divine Zarys led her legions against the rear ranks of the Barbary Pirates, Xask unobtrusively fell back to a more prudent position, well out of the way of the glittering scimitars and thrusting tridents. Moments later, when the bugle signaled the attempted escape of the two young Cro-Magnon captives, Xask ordered his personal guards to their pursuit. Along the way, Murg and his guard fell into step with them.

At this point, I must confess that I have no way of knowing—or even guessing—what plans went coiling through the subtle brain of the wily vizier. Perhaps he was seizing upon the pursuit of the escaping captives as a pretext for quitting the scene of battle in order to better preserve his own hide, and Xask had very little liking for battles and a perhaps over-exaggerated fondness for his hide.

Or, possibly, he intended to recapture Jorn and Yualla and hold them as hostages for the Professor for he probablv still banked on gaining the secret of the thunder-weapon, which had almost been in his grasp.

I do not know—and thus you see demonstrated one of the weaknesses of the true and veritable history over the natural advantages of writing purely fictional narratives. For I never had the opportunity to query Xask on this point, and am merely reconstructing his actions from information given me by eye-witnesses.

* * * *

Intent on punishing the blond savages whom she believed—correctly, of course—to be the identical host which had earlier defeated her upon the plains of the north, Zarys led her legions forward, assaulting the rear of the confused and amazed buccaneers with the impetuous daring and contempt of danger which marked her mercurial character. Taken off guard, the corsairs went down before her disciplined and armored legions by the dozen and the score. In no time, the Divine Empress had cloven into the very heart of the force of strange, swarthy men which had attacked the Sotharians.

As she did so, she came within close proximity to Kâiradine Redbeard, who stared at her open-mouthed. She did not know the man, save only that he was an adversary, but he—and very strangely!—seemed instantly to recognize her.

By this time, being attacked from two sides simultaneously, the buccaneer host was beginning to crumble, as the pirates, losing heart, took to their heels. On sight of Zarys, Kâiradine instantly abandoned his attempts to hold his men in check: whirling about, he leaped upon Zarys and bore the astounded young woman prone to the ground, while his personal retinue of well-armed mariners dispatched her own guards.

Zarys was stung into an incredulous fury. Never in all of her young life had the Empress of Zar been so rudely attacked by a mere man. But there was little that she could do about it, although she struggled in the prison of his brawny arms like the proverbial wildcat, snarling imprecations and spitting curses. All the while, enjoying the pressure of her supple, warm body against his own, the Redbeard grinned down exultantly at his furious but beautiful captive.…

The fact of the matter was, of course, that Kâiradine had made another mistake in identity. First, he had attacked the host of Sothar, believing them to be the host of Thandar; now, he had mistaken the Divine Zarys for none other than Darya!

I have elsewhere in these memoirs remarked on the astonishing resemblance which Zarys held to my beloved Darya; indeed, at my first sight of the Empress, I, too, mistook her for Darya, so I cannot exactly blame the Prince of the Barbary Pirates for this error. Expecting to find the woman he so lustily desired among the Cro-Magnon host, he had encountered a young woman who so closely resembled her that it was difficult to tell them apart. It made little difference to Kâiradine that she was curiously arrayed in glittering metal armor, with a crystal-studded coronet or circlet about her brows: Darya was—Darya.

When, exhausted, she had ceased struggling, he quickly bound and gagged the girl. Then, turning abruptly to the bewildered Moustapha, who had watched without comprehending these inexplicable actions, he curtly directed his lieutenant to take what acts he could to hold the men in battle, and, without waiting to hear a word in reply, turned and began cutting his way through the howling Zarians toward the beach where his longboats were hidden.

In the whirling and dusty confusion of the three-way battle, he soon vanished from the knowledge of men.

He—and his helpless captive, the Empress of Zar.

CHAPTER 30

BATTLE’S END, JOURNEY’S BEGINNING

By now, the battle had degenerated into a vast, confused, bewildered mob in which only the men of Sothar kept their heads.

The buccaneers had lost many lives in striving to defend themselves from the front and rear simultaneously. Also, they had lost heart and many of them had fled the battle, leaving Moustapha’s host decimated and in considerable disarray.

As for the legions of Zar, as soon as their fiery Empress had pressed forward into the very midst of the battle, and then vanished from their sight so suddenly and mysteriously, they turned to Xask as second-in-command. He, of course, had prudently left the scene of battle: disheartened and leaderless, they threw down their weapons, surrendering in droves.

Which left the host of Sothar victorious. We quickly rounded up as many of our former adversaries as we could and disarmed them, taking their weapons for our own.

Nowhere among the many captives did we find Zarys, Xask or Kâiradine. The arch-villains, unaccountably, had disappeared. Anyway, the battle was won.…

Garth’s warriors were resting. drinking water from a little stream that meandered across the trampled meadow toward the sea, when suddenly a vast host of warriors appeared at the mouth of the pass through the Peaks of Peril.

And, at its head, stood Tharn of Thandar.

Grinning hugely, the jungle monarch came striding up to where I stood dumbfounded; he clapped me on the shoulder (a numbing blow which would have felled a lesser man than I, and, in fact, made me stagger), then bent to where Garth had half struggled to his feet from his litter, to greet his brother Omad and inquire after his health.

Then he turned to give a friendly salute to Hurok the Neanderthal and Varak and several of the chieftains who stood nearby, and to stare curiously at Gundar and Thon of Numitor and others of our new friends whom he had not yet met.

The mystery of the sudden appearance of the Thandarians was easily explained. When we had been attacked by the Barbary Pirates, we had taken our stand up against the mouth of the pass, through which we sent our women and children, the aged and the injured.

The tribe of Thandar had not been so very far ahead of us, after all, as it turned out. For ere the battle was half over, the forefront of our noncombatants had been spotted by the rearguard scouts of Thandar, and quickly Tharn had turned his host about and retraced their path through the mountains to come to our aid—just as quickly as he heard that the buccaneers of El-Cazar had attacked us, mistaking us for the Thandarians.

That he had arrived too late upon the scene to have taken an active part in the battle was a source of disappointment to Tharn, but as his assistance had not been needed, it was an inconsequential detail.

“There is someone here who has long been waiting to greet you, Eric Carstairs,” said Tharn of Thandar with a quiet smile.

“There is?” I said inanely. “Who?”

“You shall soon see,” he chuckled, and turned on his heel to disappear among the ranks of his warriors—reappearing a few moments later with a slim, tanned golden-haired girl clinging to his mighty arm.

“It is…good to see you again, Eric Carstairs,” said Darya of Thandar tremulously.

“It is…good to see you again,” I said in none too steady a voice. “My princess,” I added.

She flushed crimson, but continued to smile at me through the sudden rush of tears which blurred her magnificent blue eyes.

“Bless you, my children,” chuckled Tharn—or the Cro-Magnon equivalent of the sentiment, anyway.

* * * *

Having disarmed our captives, we simply turned them loose to wander away dispiritedly. There was nothing else to do with them, after all. There was no reason to bring them along with us on the long road south to Thandar, and, without their weapons or their leaders, there was little or nothing which they could do to harm us. So we let them go.

Garth disapproved of this plan, which was my own strongly urged suggestion. And Tharn was none too happy with it, either.

Staring after the last of the Barbary Pirates as they went trudging off to the beaches, Garth sighed and shrugged, saying, “I have a foreboding that this was charitable but unwise, Eric Carstairs. And a feeling that we have not seen the end of the corsairs of El-Cazar.”

“I share your feelings, my brother,” rumbled Tharn, frowning after the last of the buccaneers as they dwindled in the distance.

“You may both be right,” I had to admit.

“What shall we do, if they rearm and pursue us again?” asked Garth.

For a long moment I stood silent, considering.

Then—

“We shall fight them,” I said simply.

My arm tightened protectively about the slim shoulders of my beloved Darya.

“After all, we now have something worth fighting for,” I added.

THE END

But the Adventures of Eric Carstairs in Zanthodon. the Underground World, will continue in “ERIC OF ZANTHODON,” the fifth and final volume in this series.