Zanthodon Read online

  Zanthodon

  by

  Lin Carter

  Zanthodon #2

  Contents

  Part One THE LOST PRINCESS

  Chapter 1. WARRIORS OF THE STONE AGE

  Chapter 2. THE PARTING OF THE WAYS

  Chapter 3. BEYOND THE PEAKS OF PERIL

  Chapter 4. CAPTIVE OF THE CORSAIRS

  Chapter 5. THE VAMPIRE LEECH

  Part Two THE PEAKS OF PERIL

  Chapter 6. ANY PORT IN A STORM

  Chapter 7. THE DOOR IN THE CLIFF

  Chapter 8. AN UNKNOWN ENEMY

  Chapter 9. WITHIN THE MOUNTAIN

  Chapter 10. THE PEOPLE OF THE CAVERNS

  Part Three THE HOLLOW MOUNTAINS

  Chapter 11. THE THINGS IN THE PIT

  Chapter 12. THE UNDERGROUND CITY

  Chapter 13. WARRIORS OF SOTHAR

  Chapter 14. THEY SEARCH FOR DARYA

  Chapter 15. STOLEN MOMENTS

  Part Four THE FLIGHT FROM THE CAVERNS

  Chapter 16. WHEN ROGUES FLEE

  Chapter 17. THE OPENING OF THE DOOR

  Chapter 18. BURNING BRIGHT

  Chapter 19. PURSUED

  Chapter 20. HIDDEN EYES

  Part Five VICTORY IN ZANTHODON

  Chapter 21. THE BOND OF FRIENDSHIP

  Chapter 22. INTO THE CAVERNS

  Chapter 23. FUMIO REAPPEARS

  Chapter 24. A TIMELY INTERRUPTION

  Chapter 25. THE DRAGONMEN OF ZAR

  Part One

  THE LOST PRINCESS

  Chapter 1. WARRIORS OF THE STONE AGE

  As somebody once said, without the power of sheer coincidence life would be duller than dishwater. Or if nobody ever said it, somebody should have.

  It had been pure coincidence that I had met Professor Percival P. Potter, Ph.D., in the native bazaar of Port Said. If I had come along a moment or two earlier-or a moment or two later-we would never have encountered each other. And he would never have hired me and my Sikorsky helicopter, Babe, for his expedition into the Ahaggar region of North Africa.

  Which would have meant that neither of us would have found our way into the Underground World of Zanthodon.

  For beneath the hollow mountain, far below the earth's crust, we discovered a vast cavernous region presumably created by the impact of an enormous meteor of antimatter in prehistoric times. Whispered of in old Sumerian myths, Babylonian legends, Hebrew writings, the Underground World, we found, was a realm of marvels and perils beyond belief.

  For into that gigantic subterranean land had filtered, over the ages, remnants of the extinct dinosaurs of the Jurassic -and sabertooths and cave bears and mastodons from the Ice Age. And men, too-both the hulking, apelike and primitive Neanderthals and their tall, stalwart, handsome near-contemporaries, the Cro-Magnons, our own direct ancestors.

  Locked together in a life-or-death struggle for survival were these twin branches of primordial humankind . . . and both were at war with hostile nature, the savage wilderness and the mighty beasts that roamed and ruled this fantastic world.

  Into the very midst of that endless war for survival and supremacy the Professor and I had been thrust.

  Captured by slave raiders from the Neanderthal country of Kor, we had met and befriended the beautiful Stone Age girl, Darya, who had won us to the cause of her people.

  She was about seventeen and absolutely the most gorgeous girl I have ever seen. Which may perhaps explain how she recruited so easily a tough, hard-bitten soldier of fortune like myself, and a wooly-headed, absentminded old scientist like Doc.

  Not only was the Cro-Magnon girl the most beautiful thing I've ever laid eyes on, but she was also totally different from the women I had previously known. Nearly naked, save for a skimpy, apron-like garment of soft, elegantly tanned furs, which extended over one breast and shoulder but left bare the other perfect young breast and creamy, rounded shoulder, she was lithe and supple, her slim, tanned body graceful as an acrobat's. She had a long, flowing mane of silky hair the color of ripe corn and wide, dark-lashed eyes as blue as rainwashed April skies and a full, luscious mouth the tint of wild strawberries.

  Darya had been a revelation to me: imagine a girl who had never heard of perfume, cosmetics, mascara or underwired bras . . . a young female ignorant of the latest fads and fashions . . . a lithe, teen-aged Amazon who could swim, hunt, fight like a man but was as soft and sweet and demure as any princess in a fairy tale.

  Such was Darya, gomad or princess of the Stone Age kingdom of Thandar. Is it any wonder I had fallen helplessly in love with her?

  Together we had managed to escape from our captivity by the Apemen of Kor, but not without making some enemies. Among these foes were Fumio, the handsome but villainous Cro-Magnon chieftain who had been an unsuccessful suitor for Darya's hand; and One-Eye the Neanderthal, who had seized the kingship of Kor when I had slain Uruk the former High Chief with my revolver; and Xask, wily and cunning vizier of Kor, who was of neither race, but an exile fled from the wrath of his own mysterious people, who dwelt somewhere in the interior, far from the shores of the sea of Sogar-Jad.

  But we had made good friends, as well. There was Hurok, the brawny Neanderthal to whom I had taught the meaning of friendship; and Jorn the Hunter, a brave youth from Darya's tribe; and her mighty sire himself, Tharn, stalwart Omad or king of distant Thandar.

  Just when it seemed that all of our difficulties were at an end, the mysterious force of coincidence intervened once again.

  Pursued by a great war party of Korians, Tharn's small host of warriors (searching for the lost Darya) had seemed outmatched. But a fortuitously timed stampede of huge pachyderms had crushed the Apemen of Kor, while the men of Thandar had fled to safety behind the dense wall of the jungles. We did not at that point in our adventures realize that Xask, One-Eye and Fumio had eluded the destruction which had consumed the warriors of Kor.

  However, coincidence had separated us. Jorn the Hunter and Professor Potter had sought to penetrate a narrow pass through the Peaks of Peril, believing they were closely behind the long-lost Darya. What they in fact discovered beyond those sinister mountains we, far behind them, did not at that time know.

  Neither did we know that Jorn, that gallant and faithful youth, had seemingly perished not long thereafterleaving the helpless old scientist alone and friendless in the most hostile wilderness on (or under) the earth.

  I had been separated from my friends, remaining with Darya's mighty sire and his small force of fighting men, and with me was my giant friend, Hurok. At this time, I was ignorant of the fates which had befallen Jorn, Darya and the Professor, as were they of mine.

  All I knew was that my friends were lost somewhere in the fetid jungles or grassy plains or unexplored mountains of . And in this weird and magnificent and terrible lost world ten thousand perils lie in wait for the unarmed or unwary traveler.

  Even at this moment my beloved Darya might be suffering the cruelest of dooms.

  Even now my friends might be staring into the fanged maw of one of the enormous predators that ruled this savage world.

  And I-would I ever know of their end?

  In the first section of these journals I have narrated the tale of our adventures up to this point in far more explicit detail than the brief, cursory account given above. Since I cannot be fully certain that the first part of my journal* has survived intact the rigors of travel, I have briefly encapsulated a description of how my friends and foes and I arrived at this point in our travels.

  Now let me take up my tale where I left it off . . . for, if anything, the second-part of my adventures in the Underground World is even more incredible and fantastic than that which I have previously narrated.

  If any eye but mine will ever peruse these words, th
at is ....

  Under the eternal noontide skies of we rested and broke our fast. Huntsmen easily found the woods teeming with game, for the stampede of the mammoths had driven smaller and more defenseless creatures from the plain to take refuge in the jungle's edge, even as we had done.

  In no time, cook-fires flared along the margin of the jungle and the air was redolent with the aroma of roast uld turning slowly on the spit.

  Squatting on our heels, our backs to the bole of a mighty Jurassic conifer, we consulted as to the course of action we should choose, the leaders of the Thandarian host and I.

  Dominating the council, as he would naturally dominate any gathering into which he entered, was Tharn, Omad or King of the Stone Age realm of Thandar, which lay distantly somewhere to the south.

  A very impressive figure of a man was this jungle monarch. Taller and heavier than I, his magnificent frame was superbly equipped with massive thews, and the innate majesty of his mien and manner would have marked him as royal in any age or society. His features were stern, with a strong jaw and fierce blue eyes under a lofty brow, framed in thick yellow mane and short curly beard. Heavy mustaches swept back to either side of his mouth and his head was crowned with a peculiar headdress whose main ornaments were two curved ivory fangs of prodigious length-the fangs of the vandar, or giant sabertooth.

  A triple necklace of the fangs of smaller beasts circled his strong throat. His tanned, muscular torso was bare, but there were heavy rings of bronze clasped about his brawny arms. An abbreviated garment of dappled fur clothed his loins, laced buskins of tanned leather clad his feet, a bronze dagger slept in its sheath of reptile hide at his waist, secured by a thong. Beside him, never far from his right hand, a long spear with leaf-shaped blade of hammered bronze rested against the tree trunk, and at his left a long wickerwork shield lay, covered with thick, tough hide.

  Such a man was Tharn of Thandar, King of the Stone Age.

  Just then he was speaking. The crude, primitive language spoken universally across the breadth of assumed dignity and resonance as it fell slowly from his lips.

  "Against all hope, our enemies have been dispersed and trodden into the dust," he said solemnly. "This victory, while not entirely of our own devising, yet stands to be acted upon. Shall we next pursue what remnants of the Drugars survived the stampede of the herd of trantors, follow them to their distant country of Kor upon the island of Ganadol and thus exterminate their repellent kind from the world forever . . . or shall we search yet farther for the gomad Darya, my daughter, who may yet live? What say you?"

  Komad pursed his thin lips judiciously. The grizzled old chief scout, who sat across from his lord, was lean and wiry as the shaft of a spear. He said little, leaving the talk to others more voluble than himself; but when such a man as Komad speaks, men tend to listen.

  "We came into this country to find the Princess, my Chief," said Komad shortly. "It would be less than manly to give over that quest until we have proof that she no longer lives. As for the Drugars, they are few and scattered and can do us little harm, now or later. Let them slink back to Kor with their tails between their legs, unmolested."

  The others grunted in agreement. Beside me, Hurok shifted his enormous bulk uncomfortably. The Drugars do not like to be called Drugars, any more than the panjani enjoy being called panjani. This seems to be the way of the world, as I have observed the same reaction among the peoples of the earth's surface as well.

  I turned to Hurok, questioningly.

  "What is your opinion?" I asked him bluntly. "Do the Korians pose any further danger to us, or did the trantor stampede virtually wipe them out?" The question was not as rude as it may sound: outlawed by Uruk and hated by the present Chief, One-Eye, Hurok must from now on consider his own people to be his enemies.

  He regarded me solemnly, shrewd, melancholy eyes blinking from beneath his overhanging brow.

  "Few are the warriors of Kor left to give battle against Black Hair and his people," he grunted, Black Hair being Hurok's name for me. "No fewer than five tens of dugouts it must have taken to bring the warriors of Uruk the Chief hither, with no fewer than ten of the men of Kor in each. All, or almost all, must have been slain by the arrows of the Thandarians or beneath the feet of the trantors"

  His heavy voice was somber as he recited the numbers of his tribe who had perished upon this very plain less than an hour ago. As well it might be, for five hundred warriors had died here . . . and, although cruel savages, the Apemen are brave and mighty warriors.

  "And what say you, Eric Carstairs?" the jungle monarch inquired gravely. I shrugged.

  "As for myself, I shall continue the search for Darya, your daughter, and for my friend Professor Potter, wherever you and your men choose to march," I said quietly.

  A proud gleam shone approvingly in the eagle eyes of Tharn. He nodded with dignity.

  "So be it, then," the High Chief said. "The search goes on."

  Chapter 2. THE PARTING OF THE WAYS

  Tharn and his warriors-and Hurok and myself, as well-were at that time suffering under a serious misapprehension. For the evidence we had discovered in the glade seemed to suggest that the Princess had been carried off and probably devoured by one of the numerous gigantic predators who roam this strange subterranean world.

  This we believed for the simple reason that Tharn's scouts had found the girl's tracks in a forest clearing, together with certain articles which were thought to have belonged to Darya of Thandar.

  The footprints terminated in torn and blood-bespattered turf, and while there were footprints leading to the spot, there were none which led therefrom . . . .

  But Tharn of Thandar was not completely convinced. To such great-hearted men as the jungle monarch, death remains unproven until the last doubt has been dissolved.

  And as for myself, I could not believe that the gallant, golden-haired girl was dead, that her bright, mercurial spirit was forever quenched, and her slim, vibrant loveliness mangled between the fearsome jaws of some mighty reptile from Time's Dawn.

  And, in actual fact, events had turned to other, happier conclusions. For the fate of Darya was more mysterious and far stranger than any of us could possibly have dreamed!

  As you who have read the first part of these journals may remember, the cave girl had actually been carried off by a giant pterodactyl, but this occurred shortly after she had been attacked and almost raped by Fumio, from whom Jorn rescued her. The marks of trampled turf found by the Thandarian scouts and huntsmen were the scene of her attack by the villainous Fumio. We were at this time still ignorant of the fact that the flying reptile had borne her far from this place to its nest amid the Peaks of Peril to the north, beyond the plains of the trantors.

  Therefore-whether alive or dead-we all believed Darya to be somewhere near at hand.

  We feasted upon the roast uld and other game slain by the huntsmen. Then we rested briefly from our battle against the Apemen of Kor, while the warriors gathered up those of their arrows which had not been broken beneath the trampling feet of the stampeding mammoths, and their flung spears which had likewise survived intact.

  Soon we went forward along the edge of the jungle, with search parties combing the depths of the woods while keeneyed scouts searched the plains for some sign of Darya, Jorn and the Professor.

  I strode along behind the others, feeling restless and ill at ease. Everything within me instinctively hungered to strike forth on my own to search for my lost friends. I have always been a loner, never much of one for teamwork. And it seemed to me, with half a hundred warriors, scouts and hunters along, the weight of our numbers would somehow slow me down in my personal quest.

  I don't know quite how to explain this to you; it was just a feeling in my bones that I would accomplish more, and more swiftly, if I were on my own.

  We were moving steadily west, toward the shores of the Sogar-Jad, with the jungle at our left and the plains to our right.

  Beyond t
hose plains loomed the peaks of mountains unknown to me. Glancing curiously at them, I thought to ask Hurok what he knew concerning them.

  "Men call them the Peaks of Peril," he said in his solemn, deep voice. "Black Hair would be wise to avoid them, for they have an unwholesome reputation. And Black Hair's she could not possibly have gone so far."

  "How do you know?" I demanded testily. "She could be anywhere, by this time."

  Hurok regarded me, a look of baffled uncomprehension in his dim eyes. I have remarked before on the remarkable fact that the warriors of are completely ignorant of the existence of time, and have no word for the concept in their language. I had, unthinkingly, employed the English word in lieu of a ian equivalent. Hence, I had puzzled him.

  We plodded along in the wake of the more swiftly moving Thandarians, who advanced along the margin of the jungle at a steady, space-devouring trot. I found myself lagging behind.

  "Black Hair does not wish to accompany his people?" inquired Hurok after a time. I had explained to him that these were not my people, of course, and that my own homeland lay a vast distance away, but to the limited intelligence of the Apeman there were only two races of men-Drugars and panjani. And I was a panjani; hence Darya's people were my own.

  I shook my head wordlessly, not bothering to answer, knowing I could not successfully put into words the vague feelings that oppressed my spirits. But I kept looking across the plains at the row of sharp-toothed mountains my companion had called the Peaks of Peril. Something about them attracted my restless, wandering attention . . . .

  When Xask and Fumio had observed, from the safety of the great trees which stood like a palisade along the jungle's edge, the carnage which had destroyed all but a few of the Drugars when they were caught and trampled under the thundering feet of the stampeding pachyderms, they rightfully concluded that their continued presence in these parts could easily constitute a disaster; for, if Tharn and his warriors caught them lurking in the underbrush, both would have a heavy price to pay.