Hurok of the Stone Age 
by Lin Carter 
Part One 
DRAGONMEN OF ZAR 
Chapter 1 THE DRAGON-RIDERS 
Beyond the Peaks of Peril there stretches from the shores of the great sea of Sogar-Jad a mighty plain. 
Under the eternal noon of Zanthodon observers might have perceived a strange and unusual party 
traversing this grassy immensity. 
In the first place, the party consisted of a herd of dinosaurs. Now, on the surface world this would indeed 
have been remarkable, as the last of the great saurians of the Dawn perished into extinction long before 
the first true men evolved from their marsupial ancestors. Here in the Underground World, of course, the 
sight of the monster reptiles was commonplace, for it is here in the vast cavern-world beneath the Sahara 
that survivors from forgotten ages have lingered on hundreds of millennia since the last of their kind 
vanished from the Upper World. 
While our hypothetical observers would not have found the giant lizards remarkable, in themselves, 
there was that about them that would have astonished. 
The first thing that was surprising was that the immense bronze-and-copper-colored dinosaurs wore 
bridles, bits, and reins. 
The second thing was that men were riding on their backs. 
Now, the dinosaurs of Zanthodon come in two distinct varieties. One is the mighty predator, savage, 
ferocious, hungry-terrible fighter of unkillable vigor. 
The second variety are the more placid and amenable herbivores, slow-witted, ruminative, and no more 
to be feared than we fear dairy cattle. Even these last, however, have never been broken to saddle-not 
because of their ferocity for they lack any, but simply because their intelligence is too rudimentary for 
them to learn to obey commands. As well, they are virtually walking stomachs, and must eat constantly 

in order to fuel their gigantic carcasses. 
I could not identify the species of dinosaur into which the harnessed monsters may best be classified-if 
my learned companion, Professor Percival P. Potter, Ph.D., ever named them for me, I am afraid that I 
have forgotten-but I can assure you that these stalking monstrosities were huge beyond belief. 
As for the men on their backs, there was nothing particularly remarkable about them, except that they 
represented a species of humankind I had not yet encountered here in the Underground World. There are 
the hulking and hairychested Neanderthal men (the "Drugars," as the folk of Zanthodon call them), and 
the tall, lithe, blond and blue-eyed Cro-Magnons (or "panjani"), plus a surviving remnant of Barbary 
Pirates fled here when the fleets of Europe were scouring the Mediterranean to crush the corsairs and 
eliminate their depredations on shipping. 
But beyond these, the Dragonmen, as the folk of Zanthodon seemed to call them, were unique. Small, 
slim, oliveskinned, with silky black hair and flashing black eyes, dressed in high-laced sandals and 
abbreviated garments of fine linens dyed yellow or scarlet or blue, they obviously were the children of a 
higher order of civilization than any I had yet encountered in this fantastic subterranean world-with the 
possible exception of the pirates. 
They lived in a land called Zar, I had been given to understand, which lay inland from the coast, far to 
the "east." I call the direction "east" because it is a convenient term; actually, here far below the world 
where the steamy skies are perpetually illuminated by weird phosphorescence there is no way to tell one 
direction from another. If you will think about this for a moment, you will realize that if you were 
miraculously to be transported, say, to Mesopotamia, you could orient yourself (at least insofar as the 
cardinal directions went) as soon as the sun rose or set 
Zanthodon has no sun, and its luminance never wavers or dims. Hence "east" is a handy term, nothing 
more. 
Since first Professor Potter and I had descended in my helicopter into Zanthodon, we had made both 
friends and enemies. Our friends were the blond and stalwart fighting men of the Cro-Magnon nations of 
Sothar and Thandar. They are not only superb physical specimens, mighty warriors, fearless hunters, but 
also fine human beings-brave, loyal, chivalrous, and honest 
Together with a small party of these warriors, and my friend Hurok of Kor, one of the Neanderthaloid 
Drugars, we had entered upon .these plains in pursuit of the Barbary Pirates who had carried off my 
beloved Princess, Darya of Thandar, when we were surprised by the Dragonmen and quickly captured. 
That is to say, the Professor and I had been captured. I had commanded my warriors to scatter and 
disperse, and to conceal themselves, in order that the pursuit and rescue of Darya might continue even 
though I was no longer there to lead it. 

And so we rode, mounted on the back of a gigantic reptile that stalked across the plains, great clawed 
three-toed feet plowing through the swishing meadow grasses, like a thing out of nightmare. Our wrists 
had been securely but not uncomfortably tied behind our backs, and we had been relieved of our 
weapons. However, we were captives, and the free of heart find captivity rankling in the extreme. 
Thus I chafed, jaw set grimly, inwardly cursing my fate. As for my scrawny companion, he was afire 
with scientific curiosity. This was about the closest he had yet come to one of the monster saurians, and 
he was enjoying the experience-yes, even the musky, reptilian stench which was thick and rank in our 
nostrils, and the rasp of its pebbly hide against our bare thighs. 
"Think of it, my boy!" he breathed ecstatically, eyes aglow with fervor behind his slightly askew pincenez, 
his sun helmet wobbling on his baldish head, his tattered and travelstained khakis mere rags by this 
time, through which his bony fibs and skinny arms and legs protruded comically. "These marvelous 
people have actually domesticated the dinosaurs!" 
"I am thinking of it, Doc," I grunted a bit sourly. "And I'm wondering if we've been brought along to 
serve as fodder when the critters get peckish." 
"Nonsense!" he snorted. "Reptiles of this size would regard the two of us as a mere morsel, not even a 
snack, and in no way to be considered luncheon." 
"That's a relief," I commented. 
"And a marvelous people they are, or were," he amended, studying the slender limbs and naked backs of 
our captor, who was seated directly in front of us. "The Minoan civilization of ancient Crete was one of 
the wonders of antiquity! When even the Greeks were still chasing reindeer and hitting each other in the 
head with rocks, the Cretans had developed their civilization to astonishing heights. Their palaces had 
flush toilets and hot and cold running water more than fifteen centuries before the Romans-and their 
cities possessed a sewage system which not even the Romans ever equaled!" 
"Terrific," I snapped. "But what the hell are they doing down here?" 
"Oh, Galloping Galileo, my boy, stop being so snippy!" he said. "Relax and enjoy the unique experience 
we are having, about which we can do nothing, anyway. As I-ker-hem! As I was saying . . . Oh, you 
asked a question? Yes, well, let me see . . . their island civilization was virtually destroyed at its height 
overnight when the volcanic island of Thera blew its top in one of the most gigantic explosions this side 
of Krakatoa. Knossus was shaken by the impact and partially burned; the tidal wave raised by the 
explosion demolished the Cretan fleet and drowned the capital. The Minoans never recovered from that 
devastating cataclysm, and dwindled into legend. But it would seem that a remnant fled the island and 
found their way here-but whether they had already left Crete before the explosion occurred, or after, 
remains a moot point." 

"Our friend Xask seems right at home," I commented sourly, nodding toward the enigmatic little man 
mounted on the next dinosaur. Although his wrists, like ours, were bound behind his back, the wily and 
cunning former Grand Vizier of Kor maintained an unruled demeanor. His aplomb was superb acting, 
for the Professor and I were well aware that the Empress of Zar had long ago exiled him, banishing him 
from the kingdom, never to return on pain of instant execution. And here he had been captured as 
well . . . for, although Xask had not been one of my party of warriors, he had been stealthily following 
us across the plains, for mysterious motives of his own. 
Catching my eye, Xask smiled a cool, thin-lipped smile. I scowled and he glanced away serenely. 
From time to time, the Dragonmen conversed among themselves, their leader, whose brows were bound 
by a filet of odd coppery-red silver metal, giving orders and directions. Whenever this occurred, 
Professor Potter listened closely. 
"I can almost make out what they are saying," he murmured to me. "My theories on the nature of 
Minoan as it was spoken are triumphantly vindicated! Very close to some of the archaic Greek dialects 
of Ionia, yet with a large percentage of Mesopotamian loan-words with strong Semitic roots . . . ." 
I grunted; actually, I've knocked around that end of the Mediterranean long enough, mingling with 
Greeks, Turks, Armenians, Arabs, Copts, and the like, to have picked up more than a smattering of all 
their various lingoes-and, as I still retained quite a surprising amount of my college Greek, I could make 
out some of what they were saying myself. But then, I've always had a knack for picking up languages 
easily, which has saved my hide more than once. 
We had been riding due east across the plains for what seemed like two hours. I was hungry, thirsty, 
tired, and in a dangerous mood. Spoiling for a fight. All I wanted was to get my hands free and tackle a 
couple of the little brown men. I was heartily sick of being captured, and the weeks or months I had 
spent in Zanthodon (and it had become damned hard to figure out how much time is passing when time 
is no longer divided into days and nights, but just consists of one endless and interminable afternoon!) 
had been nothing but one captivity after another. 
First, the Professor and I had been captured by a band of Drugar slavers, which was bad enough. More 
recently, we had been taken prisoner by a weird underground race of strange, vile little men who 
worshiped as living gods a ghastly species of gigantic and vampiric leeches; these had designated us as 
offerings-walking bloodbanks, you might say, and involuntary ones, to boot. We had only just gotten 
free of the cavern-folk, when the Dragonmen of Zar had chanced our way. 
You never miss your freedom so dearly, I have found, as when you have briefly enjoyed it, only to have 
it snatched away again. 
In a word, I was keeping my eyes open, trying to figure out a way to escape with the Professor. As for 
Xask, let him save his own hide, if possible. I owed the treacherous little Machiavelli nothing-and, come 

to think of it, he had taken me prisoner once, too! 
If I'd had my .45 automatic in my belt, it would have been a different story. The slugs probably wouldn't 
have so much as dented the hides of the dinosaurs, but they would have put the fear of Colt into the 
Minoans! 
But the gun was long gone, curse the luck, and I'd been having a lot of bad luck recently. 
Just then the leader of the party gave a brief command and the advance halted for lunch. As if in 
obedience to some unheard order, the monstrous reptiles came to a halt and began hooting and honkingfor 
all the world like a herd of cows mooing to be let out of pasture. 
The captain-his name seemed to be Raphad-snapped brusque commands. The dinosaurs were 
unharnessed, saddlebags unpacked, and fires lit in portable charcoal braziers. The delicious odors of 
roasting steaks caressed our nostrils. 
"Look!" breathed the Professor. Far across the plains we spied a herd of huge elk-like quadrupeds. 
Honking hungrily, the saurians went galloping off in their direction, and about the time we were 
enjoying our luncheon, they were having their own. Which put my fears at rest concerning the purpose 
of our having been captured, anyway: whatever it might lead to, we were obviously not designed as 
dinner for the dinos! 
Raphad saw that we were untied and permitted us to relieve ourselves-two hours of riding a galloping 
dinosaur can do brutal things to the human kidneys, I assure you!-then ceramic bowls of a sort of spicy 
vegetable mush were handed to us, complete with wooden spoons, leather jacks of a sweet red wine not 
unlike Mavrodaphne, and hunks of sizzling steak speared on wooden sticks like shish kebab. 
We fell to hungrily, and before long I felt a lot better. 
Captain Raphad himself came over. Squatting on his heels, he regarded us with not unfriendly curiosity. 
"Can you understand my speech?" he inquired. 
"About one word out of three," I admitted. "And please speak slowly." 
He smiled understandingly, then nodded to where Xask sat alone, fastidiously devouring his own lunch. 
"Are you the friends of the Prince?" 
"Not us," I said emphatically. "As a matter of fact, he's done us dirty more times than once, and I'd love 
to take a poke at him." 

The captain looked blank for a moment, then laughed. "Your colloquialisms are a trifle obscure," he 
chuckled, "but I think I take your meaning. You were, however, in his company . . . ." 
I shook my head. "On the contrary, he was following us-I don't know why. Listen, can you tell us where 
you are taking us?" 
He blinked. "But I thought you knew!" 
"We don't. We are strangers to these parts, and have barely even heard of your people or your land." 
He regarded me with a strange expression in his bright black eyes. 
"You are being taken as slaves to the greatest city in all the world, there to be offered as living sacrifices 
to the immortal goddess," he said. 
This astounding statement was made with a straight face. 
I have to admit, it took my breath away. 
"Well, just so long as we know," I said weakly. 
Chapter 2 A DIFFICULT DECISION 
As the herd of giant dinosaurs dwindled into the distance, the long grasses which clothed the level plain 
stirred, and men rose to their feet, staring after the reptiles. 
For the most part, they were tall and stalwart fighting-men, dressed in little more than a scrap of hide 
twisted about their loins and sandals on their feet. Some were bearded and some clean-shaven; all save 
one were tanned, lithe, blond, with clear blue eyes and handsome faces. 
One, however, although blond, had scraggly hair, mean little eyes and a skinny frame. This was the wily 
Murg, a cowardly little Sotharian who had accompanied us, albeit reluctantly, since there was nothing 
else to do. 
The other man was a hulking monstrosity, compared to the smooth-skinned Cro-Magnon warriors. He 
stood nearly seven feet tall on his splayed feet, and his huge, sloping shoulders and long, heavily 
muscled, apelike arms were thatched with dirty russet fur, as was the breadth of his massive chest. He 
had an underslung prognathous jaw, dim little eyes buried under thick shelf-like brows of protruding 
bone, a painful inch of brow under the tangle of his matted hair. His body was wrapped in dirty hides; he 
clenched a long, stone-bladed spear, and a stone axe, heavy as a sledgehammer, dangled from thongs at 
his waist. 

His name was Hurok. 
The youngest of the Cro-Magnon warriors was a handsome boy named Jorn the Hunter, one of the 
tribesmen of Thandar. The youth stared after the herd of reptiles as they vanished in the distance, and his 
strong young jaw was grimly set as if to belie the unmanly tears that blurred his eyes. 
"That we, his warriors, should stand idly by-nay, should hide in the grasses like cowardly uld!-while our 
chieftain, Eric Carstairs, is borne away by the Dragonmen of Zar is a disgrace to our manhood!" the boy 
cried, his voice shaking a little with the intensity of his emotion. 
Varak of Sothar clapped the youth on the shoulder, companionably. 
"I know, boy," he said. "We all feel miserable about it, not just you. But, remember, the last order which 
Eric Carstairs gave us before his capture was that we do just as we did." 
"Aye," said another warrior, one Parthon. "And had we not, we should all have been taken prisoner-or 
been slain." 
"Better to die defending our chieftain and our honor than to live like cowards!" spat Jorn the Hunter 
fiercely. 
"We live," said a deep voice from behind him in somber tones. "And thus we may follow and rescue our 
chieftain and his friend." 
Jorn turned to look Hurok of the Kor up and down. If he had not been so upset, I strongly doubt that the 
boy would have uttered the phrase he uttered then. 
"What does a Drugar know of honor?" the youth snarled. 
Hurok blinked as if he had been struck; then his face darkened and his mighty hand curled about the haft 
of the heavy axe which hung at his side. 
"As much as any panjani," he growled. "And perhaps more-" 
Varak stepped between the two, his hands raised to mollify. 
"Let us not quarrel! Are we not comrades-Drugar or panjani? There is much in the words Hurok has 
spoken: we have saved our lives, and our freedom, by behaving like cowards, even as Jorn has said. It 
now remains for us to employ our lives and our freedom in a cause which will redeem our lost honor." 
"It was the wish of Eric Carstairs that we pursue the men-that-ride-on-water, and rescue the Princess 

from their hands," murmured Ragor of Thandar. His comrade, Erdon, nodded in agreement. 
Jorn's eyes faltered and fell. "That is true, I had forgotten," he whispered in a low voice, ashamed of his 
outburst. Ragor clapped him on the back. 
"We are all distressed that our chieftain is gone, boy," he said. "It now remains for us to decide which 
course of action to follow. What say you all, friends-shall we follow the track of the Dragonmen and 
seek an opportunity to rescue our chieftain and the old man, his companion-or shall we continue on in 
the path along which Eric Carstairs was leading us, to the rescue of Darya of Thandar?" 
Each of the warriors eyed the other, no one wishing to speak up first. Either course of action was equally 
dangerous, and neither was certain of success. 
Jorn spoke up at last. 
"As for myself, I will devote my honor to the Princess," the boy said stoutly. For much of her recent 
adventures, Darya had gone championed by Jorn, who was a youth of her own tribe, and the lad 
regarded her with unselfish devotion. 
Varak studied the Apeman of Kor with inquisitive eyes. The Sotharian warrior, one of those I had 
rescued from hideous captivity in the cavern-city, knew that Hurok was among the panjani only by 
sufferance and because of his close friendship with Eric Carstairs. 
"What is the decision of Hurok?" inquired the Sotharian. 
The mighty Drugar regarded him in silence. Then he spoke. 
"Hurok will pursue the Dragonmen and give his life, if needs he must, to help his friend," he said 
stolidly. 
"Well spoken," nodded Varak approvingly. "But-what if the rest of us choose to follow the Princess?" 
"Then Hurok will go alone to save Black Hair from the men of Zar." 
Cringing little Murg now had gathered enough courage to speak his mind. "Would it not be wiser for us 
to return to the main body of the host, and to apprise the High Chiefs of Sothar and of Thandar of what 
had chanced to occur?" he whined. "Then a mighty band of warriors could split, half to pursue the stolen 
Princess and the other half to rescue Eric Carstairs!" 
"To do so would lose the advantage," said Hurok. "Even now, the Dragonmen recede from us rapidly, 
for their beasts can stride more swiftly than a man may run. Ere we could return to the host, they would 

be very far away. The warriors must decide now what they will do." 
"Then let each man speak in turn," suggested Varak. "As for myself, Varak of Sothar will follow the 
spoor of the great beasts and attempt to rescue Eric Carstairs." 
One by one, the little band spoke its mind. Murg wished to return to the safety of the host, while Warza 
and Parthon wished to aid the Princess. Ragor and Erdon were mightily inclined to that mode of action, 
as well, feeling that the cave-girl needed their help more urgently than did Eric Carstairs or the 
Professor, who were, after all, men, and therefore presumably-according to the manly code of this harsh, 
prehistoric world-able to fend for themselves. Jorn stoutly determined to seek the Princess. 
"Very well," said Hurok. "Hurok of Kor will go his way, then." And without further words, the hulking 
Neanderthal began to truss his weapons securely to him, binding the spear across his broad shoulders 
with thongs and strapping the stone axe against his hairy thigh. It was obvious that the Apeman intended 
to run after the Zarian party, so as not to permit them the advantage of drawing even farther ahead. 
The Cro-Magnons watched him with uncertainty in their hearts. It was true that they yearned to rescue 
their chieftain; also, it was tantamount to desertion to permit the lone Drugar to go off into the 
wilderness, somehow to stage a one-man war against the feared Dragonmen. They rather felt as if they 
were deserting him-and Eric Carstairs, as well. 
As Hurok prepared to depart, Jorn laid one hand tentatively upon his massive arm. The Apeman peered 
down at the handsome youth inquiringly. 
"If Hurok permits," breathed Jorn fiercely, "Jorn of Thandar will accompany him. Two fighting men 
may succeed, whereas one man, however mighty a warrior, would certainly fail." 
"It will please Hurok to have Jorn the Hunter at his side," said the Apeman with simple dignity. 
Varak sighed. "And, surely, three will have a better chance of success, than two," he said resignedly, 
stepping to join them. 
Hurok grunted and his lips twitched. The moody Neanderthal almost smiled, but not quite. 
The others looked at each other with indecision. Finally, Ragor, Erdon, Warza, and Parthon stepped 
forward to join the party. 
"When we are so very few already, it seems foolish to divide our numbers," said Parthon 
philosophically. 
Only Murg wavered, fear visible in his dry, twitching lips and bulging eyes. With every fibre of his 
miserable little being, the scrawny Sotharian yearned for the safety of numbers. And yet he feared to 

traverse the plains, the savage jungles, the mysterious promontory, and the hills alone. 
Finally, snuffling hopelessly, he shuffled after the others. 
It was Hurok who set the pace. It mattered little to him whether he went after Eric Carstairs alone or in 
the company of the other warriors. For he had intended all along to pursue the Dragonmen and to do 
whatever could be done to rescue the first panjani who had ever treated him like a friend and an equal. 
The splay-footed Neanderthal was not exactly built for running. Hurok must have tipped the scales at 
three hundred pounds, and the best runners are lightly and trimly built-Jorn, for instance. But Hurok had 
strength and iron endurance and enough grim, single-minded determination to make three other men. 
And the pace he set, while a grueling one, was not beyond the powers of any of his comrades, save 
possibly Murg, who very soon fell behind, whining and snuffling and complaining. 
"Varak could wish that Murg had chosen not to accompany us," admitted Varak to Hurok who trotted 
along at his side. 
The Neanderthal grunted noncommittally. 
"Surely, he will only slow us down, and when it comes to fighting, and it will certainly come to that in 
the end, you know," chatted Varak, who was a bit loquacious and of a humorous, mischievous bent of 
mind, "when it comes to fighting, he will be even more of a hindrance than a help. What is the opinion 
of Hurok?" 
The huge Drugar grunted sourly and spat. 
"It is the opinion of Hurok," he said, "that Varak would be wise to save his breath for running, not waste 
it in talk." 
And with that, he drew ahead of the Sotharian warrior and forged on in the front. 
"Um," said Varak lamely, wincing. Then he stopped talking and saved his breath for running, as he had 
been advised. 
Chapter 3 THE MYSTERY OF THE CIRCLET 
As we ate, I pondered gloomily our chances of making an escape. If we were to attempt it, now would 
seem to be the time, for we were both untied, although our ankles were tethered, and the Dragonmen 
would be hampered in their attempts to pursue us as it would take them some time to round up their 
reptiles again. 

I said as much to the Professor. Chewing on his steak, he gave me a dubious look. 
"But they are all around us, my boy, and are a dozen or more to our two," he observed. 
"Yeah, but I bet-with a bit of a head start we could outrun them," I said. This was probably true, 
certainly of myself, and of the Professor as well. I had seen the old scientist in a sprint before, and, while 
he is not exactly Olympic material, those skinny legs were capable of a very decent pace, given strong 
enough motives for flight. 
"And if we do not outrun them, what next?" he inquired. "We have nothing but our bare hands with 
which to fight, while they are armed. . . " 
Of course, that was so. The little olive-skinned Minoans bore short bronze blades which rather 
resembled the ancient Roman gladius, and other weapons as well: poniard-like long daggers, slender 
spears of some glittering, unfamiliar metal, lassos, and three weighted balls on a cord. This last 
implement bore a strong similarity to the bolo of the Argentine gauchos, and was probably used in the 
same way. 
I balled one fist and let him look at it. 
"Bare hands can be decent weapons, you know," I said suggestively. 
"Um," he remarked doubtfully. "It does seem to me unlikely that we could elude recapture for very 
long . . . out on this interminable plain, there is simply nowhere to go and, quite certainly, nowhere to 
hide. Once they have remounted, they have only to ride us down and seize us again." 
I knew that he was right, of course, but it irked me to be taken captive again, after winning my freedom 
so very recently. I said as much to the older man, with a surly tone. 
"I feel much the same way, Eric," he agreed. "But would it not be wiser to wait until an even better 
opportunity presents itself? To try to escape now, and to fail in the attempt, would only put the Zarians 
on their guard. They would watch us from that point on with redoubled vigilance, and our chances for 
another try at getting away would be few and frail. . ." 
"Watch it, here comes Xask," I growled. The Minoan renegade, finishing his lunch and wiping his lips 
fastidiously on a bit of fabric, now rose to his feet and sauntered over to where we sat, with a pleasant 
smile on his smooth face. 
"Well, Eric Carstairs," he said mildly, "the fortunes of war seem to have turned the tables once again. 
Formerly, you were my captive-my deeply honored guest, rather-and here we are, both the, ah, 'guests' 
of my fellow countrymen." 

He didn't exactly use the above colloquialisms, but you get the idea. I said nothing, giving him a 
contemptuous glance, then ignoring him. The Professor, however, had the gall to engage the fellow in 
conversation. 
"Tell me, Xask, why did you-as it were-volunteer for capture by the soldiers?" he demanded. The other 
smiled. 
"Since I was unfortunate enough to lose the friendship of the Sacred Empress and to earn sufficient 
enmity as to be driven into outlawry, I have not exactly enjoyed my exile. For a while, as you know, I 
found a safe haven of refuge among the Apemen of Kor, and rose to a position of influence with the late 
Uruk, the then High Chief. But life, among the bestial Drugars, for a man of my sophistication, was far 
from pleasant. I have yearned for a method whereby I might regain the favor of the Empress . . . and 
thanks to you, Eric Carstairs, I believe that I have found it." 
"Oh, yeah?" I said skeptically. "And what's the trick you have up your sleeve this time?" 
With a bland smile, he opened a flap in his tunic. To my amazement I glimpsed the blue steel barrel of 
my long-lost automatic! He had taken it from me when One-Eye jumped me earlier, but I had assumed 
he would have thrown it aside in his panicky flight when he ran from the charging aurochs. 
I did not at this time know that Xask had already used the gun at least once, and had a canny notion of 
its powers. Now a dreadful foreboding entered my heart, however, curiously combined with a lifting of 
my hopes. For if I could get the automatic from Xask, the Professor and I would have a mighty good 
chance of getting free of the Minoans. 
He was watching the expression in my eyes, and easily withdrew a bit from close proximity to me, 
concealing the pistol beneath his garments once again. 
"I have observed your marvelous thunder-weapon in action, Eric Carstairs," he drawled lazily. And by 
that I guessed that he had been watching from the underbrush at the edge of the jungle when I had put a 
bullet through Uruk's brain during the battle between the warriors of Thandar and the Apemen of Kor. 
"So?" 
"So . . . if you will only teach me the secrets of its manufacture, I'll have a potent weapon to present to 
the Empress upon my return to the Scarlet City," he said smoothly. "Armed with a number of thunderweapons 
of similar design and composition, the legions of Zar can easily conquer all of Zanthodon. For 
no comparable force exists to delay their march to victory, as they will be opposed by mere bands of 
savages armed with spears and stone axes!" 
The audacity of his plan was stunning. Also, it turned my stomach: I could visualize the brave and 
gallant warriors of Sothar or Thandar charging the legions of Zar and being cut to ribbons by bullets 

from guns patterned after mine. The picture was sickening. 
"I will not cooperate, surely you know that," I told him levelly. 
He shrugged good-humoredly. 
"We none of us can know what we are capable of doing if the proper inducements are employed," he 
pointed out with a twinkle of cold menace in his eye. 
I didn't care for the sound of that, for he was right, of course. Once, he had threatened to have One-Eye 
work me over unless I told him the secrets of the .45, and the only thing that saved me that time had 
been the aurochs charging us. 
I tried to look grimly determined, but just then, Raphad came over to rebind our wrists, as it was time to 
mount up and ride on, and we had no more time to pursue this conversation. 
In obedience to some unheard signal, the herd of dinosaurs left their feasting and came stalking back 
across the plain to be resaddled by their masters. The sight fascinated Professor Potter and piqued his 
curiosity. 
"Tell me, Captain, by what means do you control the great beasts?" he inquired. "I certainly heard no 
whistle or other call summoning them, and from what I know of their kind, the dragons are simply too 
stupid to be easily domesticated and too unruly to be kept for very long in a state of docility." 
Raphad touched the circlet which adorned his brows. I have mentioned it before, but as he was the only 
man in the troop who wore one, I had assumed it to be a mark of his military rank. Now, looking more 
closely at it, I noticed that the band of peculiar ruddy silver was set with a large faceted stone like a clear 
crystal. 
"By means of this," he replied enigmatically. Then he turned away to oversee the remounting of his 
troops. And shortly we rode on across the plain in the direction of tall mountains which loomed mistily 
in the distance. 
Later we again dismounted and were told to rest. Our hands and ankles were freed, but leather collars 
were affixed about our throats, fastened by long tethers to a peg driven into the ground near where the 
sentries squatted keeping guard. Warm woolen blankets were taken from the dinosaurs' saddlebags and a 
couple were tossed over to us. 
I have previously remarked in these memoirs that in a world where the daylight never dims and darkness 
never falls, the people become accustomed to sleeping whenever the need overtakes them. The men of 
Zanthodon have invented no way of measuring the passage of time-indeed, they have hardly any concept 
of time at all, for to them there is nothing but an eternal Now. This being so, they do not divide time into 

equal intervals of waking or sleeping, but simply sack out any time they feel like it. 
The only exception I have ever found to this custom is the way the people of the caverns separated time 
into "wakes" and "sleeps." But their life was heavily regimented by the late, unlamented Gorpaks, who 
presumably liked things neat and orderly. 
Like myself, the Professor had a hard time getting to sleep. For although we were weary from hours in 
the saddle, captivity among a mysterious new race had us too tense and keyed up to find repose in 
slumber. For one thing, the Professor was still puzzling his wits over the enigma of the circlet Raphad 
wore. 
"Did you notice the odd hue of the metal?" he inquired. "Reddish, yet silvery . . . an alloy of copper with 
silver? But for what reason? Both substances, of course, are excellent conductors of electrical 
impulses . . . but what purpose does the crystal serve, do you suppose?" 
"Beats me," I muttered. "Let's get some shut-eye." 
"Some forms of crystal are capable of storing electrical charges, of course," he said ruminatively, 
oblivious to my remark. "The galena crystals, for example, used in the oldtime crystal radio sets. . ." 
"Let's solve the secrets of nature later on, okay, Doc? I'm getting sleepy just listening to you." 
"Something about the faceting of the crystal, though, reminds me of a lens or a prism," he rambled on. "I 
say, Eric, do you suppose the metal band conducts the electrical impulses of thought in the mind of the 
wearer, which is then focused into a beam of narrow intensity by the lens-like crystal, permitting the 
Zarians to dominate the giant reptiles by telepathy?" 
"Could be," I mumbled, drifting off. 
"Remarkable!" he breathed. "Eternal Einstein, what a feat! The Minoans have ascended the scale of 
civilization during the millennia they have dwelt here in Zanthodon, achieving sounding heights. To 
discover the conductive properties of the two metals silver and copper-to create the alloy alone--" 
Suddenly he stopped, thunder-struck. 
He reached over and shook my shoulder, rousing me from my doze. 
"Mmph?" I inquired drowsily. 
"The reddish silver, my boy! The very hue Plato ascribed fey the mystery-metal orichalcum in his 
dialogues, Critias and Timaeus! Do you realize what this means?" 

"Mmph?" 
"Orichalcum was the metal of Atlantis!" he cried, marveling. "The theories of certain authorities must be 
accurate, after all. Eric, my boy . . we have been captured by the lest surviving descendants of the 
ancient Atlanteans!" 
"Tell me all about it in the mornin'," I suggested, rolling over. 
Chapter 4 HUROK MAKES A FRIEND 
Even though they didn't want to, Hurok and his companions had to pause to rest and eat something. Jorn 
surprised a nesting uld in the long grasses, and brought the plump beast down with an arrow from his 
bow. Varak made fire in the time-honored way of the Stone Age, by striking two flints together. In time 
the sparks ignited in a heap of dry grass, and more quickly than it would take me to describe, uld cutlets 
were roasting over a merry blaze. 
There was no source of fresh water to be discovered in their immediate vicinity, but some of the warriors 
had leather bottles like army canteens suspended from their waists by thongs, and these were passed 
around so that the weary Cro-Magnons could refresh their thirst. 
Hurok squatted on his heels a little distance from the others. The Drugar felt distinctly out of place and 
rather uncomfortable in the company of the panjani. Of all the smooth-skinned kind, it was only Eric 
Carstairs (whom he thought of as "Black Hair") with whom he had found acceptance and true 
comradeship. He said, therefore, as little as possible to the others, responding only to direct questions, 
and otherwise maintained a taciturn silence. 
As for the warriors, it was true that they felt as uncomfortable with him as he with them. They did not 
even feel all that easy among themselves, for they were men from two different tribes, Thandar and 
Sothar. And life in the primitive world of Zanthodon is hard and cruel: since any chance-met stranger is 
a rival, a competitor, he was thought also to be an enemy. 
Now the men of Sothar and Thandar had met while in captivity to the cavern-people, the Gorpaks. They 
had perforce slept together, ate together, toiled together under the lash of their evil little bandy-legged 
masters. Tolerance of strangers they had learned because they must, but from their shared experiences 
the men of the two Cro-Magnon tribes had learned to trust, to rely upon, and to get along with men from 
the other tribe. 
This did not mean they were all that easy together, it must be admitted. Xenophobia is a disease sadly 
common to the human animal in general, and so is prejudice. The feelings of dislike, distrust, and 
suspicion can be eradicated with time and patience and education. But it does not come quickly or 
easily. 

But, while certain bonds of mutual respect had grown between the warriors of the two tribes, the 
situation with Hurok was quite different. From the cradle, the Cro-Magnons had learned to fear and 
despise the brutal, beastlike Neanderthals. Warfare had blazed continuously between Cro-Magnon and 
Neanderthal, and each side had very good reasons for hating the other-the memory of Cro-Magnon 
brothers, sisters, and friends carried off by Neanderthal slave raiders, or slaughtered in open battle, or 
felled from ambush by the hairy Drugars. 
While Eric Carstairs had been among them, they had tolerated the presence of Hurok and grudgingly 
come to respect his strength and valor, his battle skills, and his devotion to their chieftain. 
But now, lacking my presence to keep them in line and to smooth the difference between them, they halfguiltily 
resented their forced comradeship with the hulking Drugar, as he resented it for his part. There 
was nothing overtly hostile about these feelings, for the warriors were savages, it is true, but gentlemen 
of a sort. And Hurok, after all, was the friend and companion of Eric Carstairs. 
But it was there, nonetheless. 
After a brief respite, the warriors again took up their pursuit of the Dragon-riders, resuming their long 
marathon run across the plains. While they could no longer track the Dragonmen by visual means alone, 
since the more swiftly moving Zarian party had long since gone out of sight, the enormous clawed feet 
of the monster lizards they rode left marks easy to discern in the grasses which clothed the plain. 
Following this spoor was but as child's play to men trained from the cradle to hunt and track. 
They began to weary again in time, and it irked them that Hurok's powers of endurance were distinctly 
superior to their own, and that the Apeman paused to rest only when his companions insisted. Were it 
left up to Hurok, he would have run until he became completely exhausted; then, and only then, would 
he have paused to rest. 
While his physical prowess annoyed them, it was also cause for new respect. The warriors of the Cro- 
Magnon prize and admire many qualities-loyalty, wisdom, judgment, courage, and skill. But the highest 
degree of admiration they reserve for physical strength and endurance alone. 
Life in this savage, untamed wilderness is one unending battle against the ferocity of beasts and the 
cunning and enmity of other men. And the secret of survival against such odds is often brute strength. 
And that Hurok of Kor certainly possessed. 
They knew it, and it irked them. On the other hand, they could not help admiring him for it, however 
reluctantly. 
Quite suddenly, the Cro-Magnons saw that prowess demonstrated in the most dramatic of terms. 

The ground cracked open beneath their feet unexpectedly, and a head the size of a small barrel burst into 
view. One glimpse of that scaly snout, that fanged and gaping jaw, those cold and soulless eyes, and the 
warriors identified this adversary. 
"A xunth!" cried Varak. "Scatter quickly!" 
The warriors instantly veered off in all directions from the common center, so as to present as confusing 
a variety of victims as was possible. Now, the xunth, which apparently hollows out its lair beneath the 
earth of the plains, is a monstrously huge prehistoric serpent. At the time, I had never seen one, but I 
understood they could reach the astounding length of thirty feet. And thirty feet of snake is a whole lot 
of snake, let me assure you! 
Jorn the Hunter, agile though he was, did not quite move as quickly as he should have. And when the toe 
of his sandal lodged in a knot of grasses, the boy took a tumble and lay prone, momentarily stunned by 
the fall, which had knocked the breath out of him. So when the xunth came gliding up out of his hideyhole, 
there was as tempting a morsel as a xunth could ask for, virtually laid out and waiting. 
Voicing a thunderous hiss, the enormous serpent lunged at the dazed youth, fanged jaws gaping wide. 
From a safe distance, Ragor and Erdon and Warza, who were Jorn's fellow tribesmen, cried out in alarm 
and came sprinting to the rescue of their young friend. 
But Hurok was there first. 
The Apeman of Kor had not been able to run as far as the others, for his lumbering strides were heavier 
and more clumsy than were theirs. Hence, when he turned and realized Jorn's deadly peril, Hurok 
reacted with instinctive alacrity. Whipping out his stone-bladed javelin, he cast it with all the strength of 
his mighty arms at the xunth. 
Tough indeed was the scaly hide of the giant serpent, but strong were the arms of Hurok and unerring 
his aim. The keen point of the spear bit deep, sinking into the muscle of the serpent's neck, lodging 
directly behind the base of the skull. 
Screaming in a frenzy of rage and pain, the xunth forgot all about the dazed boy sprawled helpless at its 
feet, and turned, attempting to snap at the thing stuck in its neck, which hurt abominably. Of course, as 
the snake turned its head, so also did its neck turn, and the spear shaft swung out of reach. 
This gave Hurok time to unlimber his stone axe. 
Springing forward, the Drugar planted both feet to either side of the fallen boy, sheltering the youth with 
his body. Then, as the xunth espied him and struck at this new adversary, Hurok swung the heavy axe 
with every ounce of the strength in his mighty arms. 

He literally smashed the xunth's skull like an eggshell. Blood and brains squirmed in all directions. The 
serpent fell to the earth, writhing in slow death spasms. Hurok seized up Jorn and tossed him across one 
burly shoulder and hastily beat a retreat. 
Having reached a safe distance, he let the boy down and squatted on his hunkers with the others as they 
watched the slow spasms which contorted the fantastic length of the dying serpent monster. 
The Cro-Magnons regarded Hurok with an emotion which verged upon awe. The strength of that blow 
had been prodigious, was almost beyond their imagining. And the selfless courage of the Drugar, at 
springing to the instant defense of one who was not, after all, of his own tribe nor even of his own kind, 
aroused within their breasts a degree of respect they had not previously entertained toward the Apeman. 
Recovering his breath, Jorn thanked Hurok for his life with simple but heartfelt words. The Apeman 
merely nodded, saying nothing. To such as Hurok it had been an instinct to come to the defense of a 
comrade, nothing more. And certainly nothing which required elaborate thanks. 
Shortly thereafter, he went forward and retrieved his spear from the body of the reptile. 
Having rested, however briefly, and refreshed themselves thereby, the party continued on across the 
plains in the direction of the distant mountains. 
This time, however, a change might have been discerned in the manner in which the Cro-Magnons 
regarded their hulking and ugly companion. They no longer avoided meeting his eyes or excluded him 
from the general conversation, although Hurok was, as always, glum and taciturn, despising casual 
speech. 
But he was no longer quite as much an outsider among them as he had been. 
Later, when the need for sleep overcame them and they were forced to make camp, they sat together 
around the fire, sharing their small stores of food and drink equally; no longer did Hurok of Kor sit apart 
from them. 
And when they sought sleeping places amid the meadow grasses, Jorn deliberately chose a nest very 
near to the place which Hurok had taken for himself. 
If the Apeman noticed, he made no comment. At length, Jorn spoke up a shade timidly. 
"Good sleeping, O Hurok," the boy said. 
"Good sleeping to you, Jorn," grunted Hurok emotionlessly. 

You never know exactly how or when you are going to make a good friend. But friends come in handy, 
especially in a world like Zanthodon. 
And Hurok had made a friend. 
Chapter 5 THE MARCH OF THE WARRIORS 
While these events were taking place on the plains to the north of the jungle-clad promontory, yet other 
things were happening at the scene of our earlier adventures. 
Tharn of Thandar, the magnificent jungle monarch, had by now returned from the cavern-city with all of 
his warriors, scouts, and huntsmen. The scouring of the cavern-city was complete, and the last of the 
Gorpaks had been slain; as well, the victorious Cro-Magnons had thoroughly eradicated the hideous, 
vampiric Sluagghs. 
The pale, languid cavern-folk, now released from their long slavery, tasted freedom for the first time in 
their lives. One assumes they heartily enjoyed the flavor of it, although the taste was a new one for them. 
Returning from the caverns, with Garth and his Sotharians at his side, Tharn learned from those of the 
women and the wounded who had remained in the clearing that his daughter, Darya, had been stolen 
away with the Professor. When he heard that it was the villainous traitor, Fumio, together with Xask, 
who had done this deed, the brows of Tharn darkened thunderously. 
"We shall enter the jungles at once to pursue the traitor," he said, his deep voice stern and hard. "They 
cannot have gone very far." 
"Eric Carstairs is already on their trail, my Omad," said one of the wounded. "With him were the 
Sotharian warriors of his squad, including Varak, and some of our guards, Ragor and Erdon." 
"Perhaps Eric Carstairs has already caught up with the men who have thieved away the Princess Darya," 
said Garth, High Chief of the warriors of Sothar. "In which case, my friend, your vengeance has already 
been consummated." 
"We shall see," said Tharn briefly. Then, after commanding his warriors to make ready for the pursuit in 
full force, bringing with them the wounded as well, he turned to his brother chief. 
"Will Garth, my friend, accompany us or remain here?" 
"Henceforward," said Garth simply, "the warriors of Sothar will fight at the side of the warriors of 
Thandar. We, too, shall march to recover our friends. For, during our captivity to the vile little Gorpaks, 
I came to admire the courage and patience of the gomad Darya. Had I another daughter, I could wish her 

to be like your daughter in all ways." 
The stern visage of the jungle monarch relaxed slightly, and he permitted a smile to lighten the grim set 
of his lips. 
Without further ado the two tribes began preparations for a full-scale departure. Before Zanthodon was 
an hour older, they had vanished into the jungles. 
The scouts and huntsmen of the two tribes were arranged in a wide semicircle, so as to comb the brush 
in advance of the main body of the warriors. Their keen eyes missed little as they glided noiselessly 
through the trees and bushes, searching for the slightest clue as to the whereabouts of the missing 
Princess and her abductors. 
Erelong they found the dead body of One-Eye in a small clearing. The ungainly corpse was sprawled in 
a pool of congealing blood, mouth open, glazed eyes staring sightlessly. Tharn regarded the cadaver 
with puzzlement: he could not recall having ever seen this Drugar, and as the war party from Kor was 
believed to have perished to the last warrior in the stampede of the thantors, it baffled him that a Drugar 
should be in these parts, far from the place where the rest of his kind had been trampled by the 
lumbering pachyderms. 
One of the Thandarian scouts knelt to examine the corpse. He rose, his expression puzzled. 
"My Omad, the Drugar has been slain in a most peculiar manner, by an edged weapon of strong metal, 
such as I can scarcely imagine," the scout reported. 
This only increased the mystery. Perhaps I should explain at this point, that the Cro-Magnons employ 
knives, axes, spears, and bows; they have never invented the sword and neither have their old 
adversaries, the Apemen of Kor. If I had been on the scene, I could, of course, have told Tharn that it 
had been the Barbary Pirates-the Men-That-Ride-Upon-The-Water-who had struck One-Eye down. But 
Tharn knew nothing of the Barbary Pirates, or very little, having never seen them in action or observed 
their weapons. 
"We have naught else to learn here," he said, "so let us continue on." 
Beyond the jungles, which they traversed without any further discoveries, the Stone Age warriors came 
eventually to the beach. And there they found and recognized the tracks in the sand which had been 
made by my comrades and myself when we had gone around the peninsula, hoping to pursue the Pirates. 
As the sandals of the Thandarians and the men of Sothar used different stitching, it was not difficult for 
the scouts to guess that these were the tracks of myself and my party. It was equally obvious that we had 
been pursuing those who had carried off Darya. 

The two tribes followed our trail around the promontory and at length discovered the great northern 
plain. By this time, of course, Hurok and the others were far off across the immensity of the plain, and 
not even the eagle-like gaze of the Cro-Magnon scouts could have glimpsed them in the distance. But 
here, of course, the trail ended, for the long grasses wherewith the plain was thickly grown do not hold 
the footprints of men, and to have found some sign or token of our passage would have been extremely 
difficult. 
Arms folded upon his mighty chest, Tharn stared broodingly out into the distance. He knew that Eric 
Carstairs and a party of Thandarian and Sotharian warriors were in close pursuit of his daughter, but 
nowhere on the plain could he see aught of our whereabouts. In which direction, therefore, should he 
continue the march? Tharn conferred briefly with his chieftains and with his fellow Omad, Garth, 
eliciting their suggestions. 
"It would seem wisest to Garth," said that personage, "that we continue along the shores of the Sogar- 
Jad. Somewhere farther in that direction, we may yet catch up with the abductors or with their pursuers, 
or discover some further sign to guide us." 
This seemed advisable to the mind of Tharn, as well; there was, of course, no reason for him to think of 
striking out into the center of the plain, which was actually the direction in which we had gone, hoping 
to find a shortcut. At this region the shoreline bulged outwards, curving back upon itself farther to the 
north. We had taken the most direct route, straight across the plain, to save time. But this did not occur 
to the Cro-Magnons. 
They marched north along the coast of the prehistoric ocean, with no idea of where they were going or 
of what they might find when they got there. 
For some reason, a large number of men do not seem to be able to advance with the speed a single man, 
or a small party, can attain. And, in the case of the Cro-Magnon tribesmen, they were slowed in their 
progress by the necessity of favoring those of their number who had been wounded in the battle which 
freed the cavern-folk from the Gorpaks. As well, a number of the women of Sothar were with them, 
including Nian, the mate of Garth, and her daughter, Yualla, a lithe, handsome girl who was about the 
same age as Jorn the Hunter. 
I say this with some reservations, for, in a world without day or night, a world without seasons, whose 
inhabitants have not the least conception of the passage of time, it is uniquely difficult to judge the age 
of anyone. 
As they marched along the coast, the hunters of the two tribes, ranging far, found and slew a number of 
plump uld, and their skillful archers brought down several zomak, an ancestor of the birds of the Upper 
World-which Professor Potter considers to be the archaeopteryx. They are odd-looking and ungainly 
fowl-imagine a bird with teeth, who has as many scales as he has feathers-but not at all bad tasting. 
Especially if you happen to be hungry. 

And by this time, the tribes had developed quite an appetite. Finding themselves on the edge of a small 
stream of fresh water which meandered across the plain to mingle with the waves of the Sogar-Jad, they 
made camp. While the women built fires and prepared to cook the game taken by the huntsmen, the men 
drank, bathed, and rested. While speed was uppermost in the mind of Tharn, a wise chief knows that 
men must rest from time to time, in order that they may maintain a steady pace. So, while it gnawed at 
him that they must loiter here, wasting time and yielding yet further advantage to the abductors of his 
daughter, loiter they must and did, but briefly. 
It is not my intention to narrate the march of the tribesmen in any great detail, not only because nothing 
in particular happened of interest along the trail, but also because I have more significant events to 
relate. Suffice it to say that after several wakes and sleeps, the Thandarians and Sotharians reached the 
point at which the shoreline curves back upon itself, and found the northernmost extremity of the 
continent. 
Here a broad arm of the underground sea extended like a natural barrier, making further progress 
impossible. Along this arm of the Sogar-Jad were many small and rocky islands-a veritable archipelago, 
in fact. They were the roosting places of sea fowl, as could be ascertained by the white droppings with 
which they were littered. 
But beyond these small islands along the shore, and in the very midst of the sea, was a large island of 
naked rock. And it was there that Tharn of Thandar and his men saw a sight such as few of them had 
ever seen or even imagined. 
It was a ship of the Barbary Pirates. 
With its high, pointed prow and immense spread of canvas, the green banner of Islam fluttering from its 
height, the vessel was a sight which astounded the cavemen. It would, in fact, have astounded you or me, 
for such a ship has not sailed the seas of the Upper World within the memory of any living man; only in 
historical paintings could you have seen such a vessel as now met the gaze of Tharn of Thandar and his 
companions. 
"It is the Men-That-Ride-Upon-The-Water," he said wonderingly. All about him, the warriors and scouts 
and huntsmen stood and stared as the magnificent vessel sailed by, dwindling into the misty distance. 
"Let us continue along the way," he said after the ship had vanished from sight. 
Had he but known that the mysterious vessel was none other than the pirate galley commanded by 
Kairadine Barbarossa, called Redbeard, bound for the island fortress of the corsairs, EI-Cazar, with his 
daughter and Fumio aboard as helpless captives, I have no doubt that Tharn of Thandar would have 
given very different orders . . . . 

Part Two 
THE SCARLET CITY 
Chapter 6 THE GATES OF ZAR 
More waking and sleeping periods passed than I can recall before the Dragonmen reached the distant 
range of mountains. They were tall and rugged, these mountains, and their upper reaches were used by 
the fearsome thakdols, or pterodactyls, for nesting purposes. This we could tell from the fact that our 
approach disturbed the flying lizards. 
Raphad assured us, however, that we were in no danger from the winged monstrosities. The captain 
seemed not unfriendly, and, in fact, entertained a lively curiosity concerning us. And I think he was 
anticipating some sort of a dramatic confrontation between the exiled Xask and this mysterious Goddess- 
Empress of which we had heard so much. Raphad doubtless looked forward to a good show when the 
Queen of Zar came face-to-face with the man she had driven into outlawry. 
Despite Raphad's assurances, I kept a wary eye aloft. The monster pterodactyls of Zanthodon are more 
to be feared than many of the lumbering dinosaurs, most of whom, after all, are harmless vegetarians. 
The thakdols, on the contrary, are mindless engines of mad ferocity, and will attack a grown man on 
whim. 
The Professor, noticing my apprehensive glances aloft, spoke up reassuringly. 
"What the good captain probably alludes to, Eric my boy, is the crystal-studded circlet he wears. After 
all, if the power of the orichalcum filet can control these enormous monsters we are riding, it can 
doubtless fend off the pterodactyls." 
I saw his point, but I still felt uneasy. However, we were not attacked, so perhaps the Professor was 
right. 
The Minoans led us into a narrow pass the mouth of which wound through the range of mountains. From 
both sides of the mouth of this pass, gigantic stone masks glared down upon us. They had been 
cunningly hewn out of the stone cliffs and represented horrible reptilian monsters with fanged jaws 
agape, as if grinning in anticipation of a coming meal. 
The appearance of those ominous stone heads did nothing to calm my trepidations, either. 
Xask nodded at them. "These are the Gates of Zar, Eric Carstairs," he explained. "Beyond this point, no 
man of Zanthodon may venture uninvited, on peril of his life. Zar needs no other barrier than the fear its 
name excites among the savages . . . ." 

"Terrific," I said sarcastically. "What kind of creature do the stone heads represent, anyway?" 
He shot me a glance of chill amusement, with just a touch of malice in it. 
"They are likenesses of the God." He smiled. "And rather true to life, I fancy." 
We rode on into the pass between the mountains. 
I was cudgeling my wits, striving to recall what bits and pieces of information I could remember about 
ancient Crete. I had been on the island once, but not long enough for any sight-seeing. I remembered 
some odds and ends of the old Greek myths about Theseus and the Minotaur and King Minos and boys 
and girls dancing naked with bulls, but that was about it. I have no doubt but that the Professor could 
have talked for a couple of hours straight on the subject, but felt disinclined to invite a lecture. Besides, 
Captain Raphad, who had been treating us decently thus far, didn't much like our talking together. I 
suppose he feared we were plotting an escape, and if we got away from him, for all I knew, it might cost 
the little fellow his head. 
When at length we emerged from the farther end of the pass, an astonishing vista greeted our eyes. 
The mountains formed an immense ring. Cupped within their embrace lay a deep, bowl-shaped 
depression, like a great valley. But the valley was filled with water! 
"Pnom-Jad," said Xask as we stared down at the expanse of waters. "The Little Sea." 
I have no idea how wide it was, for the air was misty and distances can be tricky in the steady, 
unwavering light of the luminous skies of Zanthodon, but it looked big enough to measure up to the one 
of the Great Lakes. And that's quite a lot of water. 
The inland sea was dotted with boats of every size and description. There were tiny fishing smacks and 
huge galleys with rows of oars and ornately curling prows. The Professor identified these last as 
warships and declared that they resembled in every particular the warships of ancient Crete. 
Their sails were of saffron yellow or crimson, with huge emblems painted on them, mostly nautical 
motifs like stylized octopi. Huge staring eyes were painted on the prows of the ships, small and large as 
well, which was a Phoenician custom, I remembered. But then, for all I know, the Phoenicians were 
second cousins to the Minoans. 
In the exact center of the inland sea was a great island. It was nothing but one vast metropolis, that 
island, right down to the shores. Huge squarish monolithic buildings of stone crowned the isle, and most 
of them were covered with smooth stucco or something like stucco, painted pink and yellow, orange and 
maroon, but more often than not-scarlet. In the haze of distance, the colors blended and merged into one 

malestrom of differing shades of red. 
It was quite a sight ... . 
"The Scarlet City of Zar!" breathed Professor Potter, his watery blue eyes agleam with scientific 
curiosity. "What a magnificent spectacle-and how fortunate we are to be here to observe it! My boy, 
mighty Knossus must have looked very much like that, in the days before its destruction . . . and look at 
the Acropolis or Bursa!" 
He indicated a group of buildings toward the center of the huge city, where the land rose to a height. A 
superb palace-complex crowned the height, blooming with green gardens, towering above the rest of the 
city. 
"The residence of the Sacred Empress," Xask informed us coolly. "And also of the God . . ." 
We descended into the vast, bowl-shaped depression by means of a stone-paved road which extended 
from the base of the cliff to the edge of the water. We rode past farms and cultivated acreage. Harvesters 
were at work in the fields of golden grain and others were toiling in the fragrant groves of fruit trees and 
in the green vineyards. Without exception, they were Cro-Magnon slaves. The only Zarians I saw were a 
few slender, overseers, who generally reclined beneath striped awnings sipping from silver goblets. 
"I gather that Zar's economy is based upon slave labor," the Professor mused, glancing alertly around 
him. "That may suggest that the ruling class or aristocracy is dwindling in numbers . . . ." 
"That is so," said Xask agreeably. Due to the narrowness of the road, we were riding side by side with 
him at this point, with Captain Raphad up ahead, unable to overhear our conversation. "The number of 
our births is far less than the number of deaths." 
As we approached the edges of the sea, we observed a magnificent stone bridge which arched the 
expanse of the waters, its length supported on massive stone piers sunk in the lake bottom. 
"A remarkable feat of engineering," Professor Potter breathed. "Even the ancient Minoans, I doubt, 
could have erected such a span. Only the Romans, a dozen centuries later." 
At the entrance to the bridge we were made to dismount and the lizards we had been riding were led 
away to pens or corrals built along the side of the sea. I can understand that reptiles of their size might 
have had trouble negotiating the crowded streets of the island-city. 
We crossed the bridge on foot, guards going before and behind us. With every step we took the 
cityscape expanded ahead of us, coming into greater clarity. It was truly immense, and incredibly old, 
and resembled no other city I have ever seen, except in pictures. Ornamental friezes in low relief ran 
around the upper stories, and here too a marine influence could be seen in the decorations, rows of 

identical seashells or leaping dolphins and that sort of thing. Ancient Crete had been a maritime 
civilization, I remembered, which probably accounted for the choice of decoration. 
The streets were narrow and cobbled, filled with bustling throngs. We saw surprisingly few of the oliveskinned 
folk, but very many brawny, blond, blue-eyed Cro-Magnon slaves. They bore veiled women in 
tasseled palanquins and silkrobed men in something like sedan chairs, or worked at construction jobs, or 
were trotting about with bags and bales and amphorae. 
We passed a market square redolent of fresh fish, olive oil, honey cakes, garlic, raw onions, cooking 
meat. Fat men with elaborately curled and perfumed hair, wearing altogether too many rings on their 
fingers, loudly hawked their wares or reclined at their ease sipping beverages and nibbling sweetmeats. 
Booths and stalls offered a glittering assortment of brass and copper rings, bracelets, brooches, uncut 
gemstones, tools, scrolls, weapons, piles of brightcolored bales of cloth rolled carpets, odd-looking 
wooden furniture. 
"Fascinating!" breathed the Professor, his sharp eyes missing absolutely nothing. I could well imagine 
how his fingers itched to be scribbling notes in the little blank-paged book he still carried with him in the 
rags of his khakis. 
I was pretty impressed myself. Who would ever have dreamed this primitive and savage world had 
anything like this to surprise us with! 
But Zanthodon was full of surprises, as I had already discovered, and not all of them are pleasant. 
Raphad checked us in to some sort of depot for recently captured prisoners, waved one hand in a 
friendly good-bye, and stalked off about his business, herding his men before him. A bald and grouchylooking 
clerk snapped questions at us which Xask had to answer, as we found it difficult understanding 
all he asked. 
Then we were, all three, locked into low-roofed wicker cages and left to our own devices. At least, they 
untied our hands and removed the hobbles from our legs. There wasn't much room in the cramped little 
pens to move about, but we made ourselves as comfortable as was possible under the circumstances, 
chafing our limbs to get the circulation back and stretching out as best we could. 
It occurred to me that here was my opportunity to grab my automatic away from Xask. But bright-eyed 
guards stood about watching us alertly, and this did not seem to be quite the right time for that. 
His eyes on me as if he could read my every passing thought, Xask smiled a bit mockingly. 
They gave us food and water. 
I dozed off for a while. When I awoke, an elaborately gowned and coiffured individual stood before the 

cages, rapping on them with an ivory baton to wake us up. 
He turned to address the guards. 
"The Goddess will see the animals now," he said loftily. And I felt a qualm in the pit of my stomach. 
Chapter 7 HUROK ASSUMES COMMAND 
The long trek across the northern plains seemed interminable, for my friends were horribly aware that 
with each passing moment I might be maimed or slaughtered by the mystery men who had captured me 
and the Professor. But, at least, the warriors encountered no further peril on the same order of magnitude 
as the monstrous xunth. 
They maintained the best pace of which their bodies were capable, but even men as lithe and athletic as 
they must pause to rest, to eat, to slumber. 
When they were hungry, they broke and scattered to hunt the many small edible beasts of the plain, 
which they sometimes cooked and ate, and other times devoured raw, reluctant to loiter when I might be 
in imminent danger. 
And when they were weary beyond even the limits of their endurance, they slept. With the passing of 
each period of wake and sleep, the unity between the Cro-Magnons and the Drugar of Kor, begun so 
tentatively, for a time so fragile, grew and strengthened. It was not an easy thing for simple primitives 
such as they to overcome the barriers of prejudice and hatred that had existed between their two kinds 
from time immemorial. But they tried. 
Already, many factors were at work building the bonds of comradeship between them. From the very 
beginning, they could not but admire the enormous stamina of Hurok, his iron strength, his utter 
fearlessness, his indomitable battle skill, and his enduring and faithful loyalty to his friend, Black Hair. 
These were qualities which the men of Thandar and Sothar knew and valued, because they possessed 
them themselves. 
It was sheer chance that had, however, provided them with a higher motive for something resembling 
friendship toward the Apeman of Kor. And that was, of course, his unhesitating, and unthinking heroism 
in springing to the defense of one of their number with whom he had already been in enmity. His 
coming to the aid of Jorn the Hunter seemed to them remarkable in the extreme, for the savage tribes of 
Zanthodon know only the ethics of the Bronze Age, which deem loyalty deserved only by a brother 
tribesman, and which consider all other strangers potential, if not actual, foes. 
As well, there was yet another factor which helped to knit these diverse individuals together into a band 
of comrades, and that one, alas, is a trifle more difficult for me to describe, for we are speaking of the 
simpler children of remoter ages who have never tasted the enervating luxuries and conveniences of 

modern urban civilization, which saps the moral vigor of a race. 
I refer to their need for a leader. 
While each Cro-Magnon warrior, scout, huntsman, or artisan considers himself the natural equal of 
every other, and remains independent to a certain degree, the structure of their society is more rigidly 
authoritarian even than our own. Each man of the tribe belongs to a war party, an allegiance generally 
inactive save in time of open conflict. And each party has its chieftain. A higher general allegiance is 
owed to the Omad himself, of course. 
Now these men regarded me as their chieftain, and now that I was not with them, they lacked the 
comforting reassurance of knowing exactly who was in charge. In other words, they needed a clear and 
unquestioned source of authority: the common purpose alone which they served, that is, to rescue the 
Professor and myself, was simply not enough. Seldom before in all their lives, save under rare and 
extraordinary circumstances, had they been utterly alone as now they were. It disheartened them and 
gnawed away at their morale, and it began to show in certain ways. 
Arguments broke out between them over fancied slights. Small, inconsequential arguments, it is true, 
like the brief exchange of emotionally charged words between Jorn the Hunter and Hurok, but in time, 
unless corrected, these slights might open fissures between them which would disintegrate their ability 
to function as a unit. 
No clear choice for a leader presented itself: Jorn was too young and hotheaded, Warza too unassuming, 
and Murg, of course, was hopeless. There remained Parthon and Varak, who were warriors of Sothar, 
and Ragor and Erdon of the Thandarians. 
All, save for the whimpering, conniving little Murg, were brave, strong men. There was little to chose 
from among them. Nor had I delegated part of my authority to a subchieftain, as is sometimes done. 
Tacitly, they had yielded to the leadership of Hurok. That is, he had been adamant in his determination 
to follow after the Dragonmen, and they had, one by one, fallen in with him. But Hurok not only seemed 
to lack the charisma of leadership, but to the Cro-Magnons it was utterly unthinkable that under any 
circumstance they would consider one of the feared and despised Drugars their chieftain. 
More and more, however, as time passed, they found themselves following Hurok's lead. When he 
wearied, they rested; when he was hungry, they paused to hunt and eat. It was not that he gave orders or 
even suggestions. It was simply that, as the strongest and most enduring of them all, when Hurok finally 
wearied, they, too, were weary. And none of them-saving always for Murg---dared humiliate himself by 
speaking up and complaining of his hunger or weariness before Hurok admitted the same. 
It was a point of honor, you might say. 

As for Hurok, he kept his silence, speaking little, as was ever his way. It may have been that the 
Neanderthal was aware that he had assumed the role of chieftain over the others, without the matter ever 
being openly spoken of. Or he may simply have done what was natural to him, ignoring the 
consequences and implications. 
As they came nearer to the range of tall mountains which blocked the far end of the plains, the warriors 
became less open in their movements, proceeding with ever-increasing wariness. There was no telling 
what lay concealed behind that mighty rampart of living stone, but it seemed to the warriors that the 
mountains were a natural wall behind which any foe might lie concealed. And the heights and clefts and 
crevices in that wall afforded excellent natural vantages for whatever sentries might be posted there to 
guard the approaches to the land of the Dragonmen. 
Squatting on their hunkers, hidden in the high grasses, they discussed this question in low tones. 
"The spoor of the dragons leads directly thither," Erdon pointed out. "That cleft ahead may well be a 
pass through the mountains, leading to their country. If so, it will be guarded, for only fools or madmen 
leave an entryway unwatched." 
"Doubtless, Erdon speaks the truth," said Warza briefly. "What then?" 
Erdon shrugged, with a grunt of bafflement. His tribe were newcomers to these parts of Zanthodon, 
having journeyed far up the coast from distant Thandar in search of the lost Princess. 
"The men of Sothar are more familiar with this country than are we," said Ragor. "Parthon, Varak-know 
you aught of what may lie ahead beyond the mountains?" 
The two shook their heads. 
"When our homeland was destroyed by the earthquakes and the rivers of fire," said Parthon soberly, "we 
fled toward the sea of Sogar-Jad by another route, falling victim, as you know, to the Gorpaks of the 
cavern-city. Never has Parthon seen this part of the world before. But we must approach the wall of 
mountains with great care, keeping ourselves concealed . . . or such, at least, is the advice of Parthon." 
"Perhaps we should turn back," whined Murg eagerly. "To rejoin the main body of the tribes and seek 
the counsels of the Omads, who have wiser heads than any of us." 
The others smiled briefly, but made no reply. 
Varak whispered to Jorn, who squatted at his side: "Isn't it remarkable how some birds always sing the 
same tune?" Jorn grinned mischievously, but lowered his eyes when Murg cast an offended glare in their 
direction. 

"Perhaps there is another pass through the mountains," suggested Jorn tentatively. The others shrugged: 
the question the youth had posed was unanswerable. 
Unable to reach a common plan among themselves, the Cro-Magnons turned to Hurok, who squatted in 
silence a little distance apart from them. 
"And what says Hurok of Kor to this?" inquired Varak in tones of affability. He was a likable and goodhumored 
fellow, was Varak, and less subject to the hereditary dislikes and suspicions of his tribesmen. 
Hurok said nothing for a time, squinting against the glare of day as he studied the slopes and peaks of 
the mountain range before them. 
"We will not be at the foot of the mountains for at least another wake and sleep," murmured Warza. 
"And we need not come to a decision until then . . . ?" 
"It is best to know what you will do before you do it," grunted Hurok stolidly, measuring the mountains 
with his eye. 
"Then what does Hurok suggest we should do?" demanded Jorn the Hunter. 
"Find another way across the mountains than the one before us which was taken by the Dragonmen," 
said the mighty Neanderthal. 
"And . . . if there is no other way?" invited Varak. 
Hurok gave him an indifferent glance, grunted and spat, as if disgusted by all of this endless talk. 
"Climb," he growled. 
"Climb?" screeched Murg in alarm, his face twitching. 
"Climb," repeated Hurok without change of expression. 
Murg clutched his bony knees, chewing agitatedly on his lower lip. All too well did he remember the 
time he had been seized by One-Eye during their flight from the caverns of the Gorpaks, and the 
breathless and unending horror of the climb down the sheer cliffs which the brutal Drugar had forced 
upon him. The experience was seared deep in the recollection of Murg, and haunted his dreams even 
now. He wished mightily that he need never repeat that hair-raising descent . . . and, surely, climbing up 
the wall of a cliff would be every bit as ghastly as climbing down one! 
The skinny little man groaned and hid his face in his hands. The others grinned slightly but looked away 

with the simple politeness of their kind, so as not to embarrass Murg. There was ever about the Cro- 
Magnon a simple rude, unspoken chivalry and decency, even toward those lesser than themselves, who 
were otherwise viewed as contemptible. 
During the next sleep period, Murg lay awake until all the others had dozed off, having rather 
surprisingly volunteered to take the first watch. As soon as he was positive they all slept deeply, he 
crawled out of his nest of grasses and purloined the better weapons from the sides of his slumbering 
comrades. 
Gathering up the major part of their supplies of food and water, Murg stole out into the plain and began 
trotting rapidly in the opposite direction-away from the cliffs. 
He could not have known it, but he was traveling with all haste out of the frying pan and right into the 
middle of the fire. 
Chapter 8 A ROYAL INTERVIEW 
Before the majordomo (or whatever he was) dared to admit us into the sacrosanct presence of his 
Empress, he saw to it that we were cleaned up. Female Cro-Magnon slaves bathed and shaved us-or 
shaved me, that is! For the Professor, whose straggly little tuft of chin-whiskers they would have sheared 
away, raised such a yowl of anguished outrage at the very prospect, that, at a hasty wave of one 
bejewelled hand of the Grand Panjandrum, (or whatever he was), they demurred and permitted him the 
old fellow to remain in possession of his beloved goatee. 
I have had many strange and unusual experiences in my time, some good, plenty bad, most of them 
inconsequential, but this was the first time since I was a small child that I had to submit to another 
person's giving me a bath. I felt distinctly foolish during the whole ordeal, although God knows the hot, 
scented, soapy water looked indescribably delicious and it was bliss to have the dried-on dirt scraped 
clean from my hide. 
The slave women giggled at the expression of grim, mute suffering on my face as they undressed me, 
plunked me down in the huge marble tub, and began the clean-him-up process. It was not so much that I 
am prudish about stripping to the buff in the presence of others, even of young women, but there is 
something damned uncomfortable about just lying there like a hopeless vegetable while other hands than 
yours scrub your back, douse your hair, and wash even more personal parts-giggling all the while as you 
flush scarlet with mortification. 
I would have made a lousy Roman emperor, I guess. 
All cleaned up, clean-shaven, my hair combed, smelling sweet and fixed up with new duds (a scarlet silk 
loincloth, high-laced buskins of supple, gilt leather, and a hip-length tunic of fine linen), I have to admit 
I felt like a new man. A rather silly-looking new man, I'm afraid, but a new man nonetheless. 

My only comfort came from the fact that Professor Potter looked a lot sillier than I did. The slaves had 
tied a lilac ribbon in what was left of his wispy white hair, and, with his bony arms and skinny legs 
sticking out of the tunic, he looked like someone gotten up for a fancy-dress ball. 
Once we were all spiffied-up and met the approval of a personal inspection by the Lord High Booleyway 
(or whatever he was), this important individual led us on neck-tethers through the palace to our 
impending interview with Royalty. I assumed some notion of the importance of this fat geezer with the 
perfumed hair from the manner in which everyone we passed while going through the halls and 
corridors fell hastily on his knees and kowtowed as he went waddling past, ignoring them in his lordly 
way. 
The suites and apartments through which we were led grew ever more sumptuous, as we progressed 
from the areas given over to mundane pursuits and labors toward those reserved for the aristocracy of 
the court and the monarch herself. My companion burbled ecstatically over virtually everything in sight. 
"Holy Homer! Look at those frescoes, my boy!" he exclaimed, eyes aglow behind his wobbling pincenez. 
I looked; they were very handsome, indeed, odd-looking panthers gamboling through a formal 
garden with droopy trees like willows and lots of amphora-shaped vases standing around on pedestals. 
"Ah-the mosaics!" he squealed-we were then crossing a rotunda floored with thousands of tiny bits of 
tile arranged to depict varieties of marine life, including lobsters, sharks, dolphins, squid, seashells, 
seaweed, starfish, and so on. 
"Very pretty," I commented. 
" 'Pretty'!" he snorted, freezing me with a glare. "The mentality that finds this magnificent mosaic floor 
merely 'pretty' would doubtless consider the Parthenon a 'nice building.' Really, my boy, you have no 
soul . . . ." 
I suppressed a grin, but said nothing. 
The Exalted Grand Vizier (or whatever he was) peered loftily at us as the Professor burbled on over the 
vases, the wall hangings, the silver lamps, and everything else in sight. I suspect that this individual was 
a trifle mystified to hear us talking in an unknown language (we were speaking English), since everyone 
else in the Underground World speaks a single common language. Except for the Zarians, as I've already 
explained, who have retained something like their original Cretan tongue. But the Panjandrum was too 
exalted to ask a question of a barbarian, obviously. Although he was dying to ask us what the hell was 
the peculiar lingo we were talking . . . . 
We spent what seemed like the better part of an hour cooling our heels in an antechamber to the throne 
room. The reason for this was that there were an awful lot of people ahead of us in line waiting for an 

audience with the Sacred Empress. Most of them were courtiers and aristocrats; you could tell this from 
their garments, which were woven of lustrous silk, with tasseled fringes dyed gold or crimson or purple, 
and from the amount of jewelry they wore, which was mostly of beaten gold. 
The men, that is: as for the women, they wore long ruffled dresses like Victorian women, with many 
petticoats. Their silken black tresses were teased into frizzy waves or braided into innumerable thin 
plaits. Some wore little silver bells woven into their hair, which chimed pleasantly as they moved; others 
wore gems threaded on silver wire. 
Rather disconcertingly, they were naked above the waists of these dresses, although a narrow strap went 
up from the waist to the shoulders, from which fell flounced sleeves of transparent gauzy stuff. I hadn't 
seen so many nude breasts since my one and only tour of the secret, outlawed slave market in 
Marrakesh, and I have to admit it was hard not to stare. 
The Zarian women, like their Cretan ancestresses, are remarkably handsome, with lustrous black hair, 
coral lips, superb breasts (the nipples either painted with rouge or brushed with powdered gold), and 
flashing dark eyes made mysteriously seductive with some cosmetic similar to kohl. 
They wear an awful lot of jewelry, as did the men. 
As for the Professor, he hastily averted his eyes from this generous display of mammaries-but not before 
soaking up one long hard look, I assure you!-and twisted his mouth into a sour expression, after giving 
voice to one disapproving sniff. As for the women, they chattered excitedly, looking us up and down and 
whispering behind their fans and giggling. One elderly grande dame seemingly took a fancy to the Prof 
and kept shooting languorous glances at him beneath fluttering, purple-painted lids. When he stiffly 
declined to notice, she began pelting him with large unfamiliar blossoms which stood near to hand in a 
huge vase of gleaming malachite. 
Reddening visibly, the Professor refused to acknowledge the flirtation. The old lady did not give up, 
however, to the delighted amusement of the younger women. 
Besides these, there were various merchants or artisans waiting for judgment on their lawsuits, or 
something. The merchants belonged to a lower class, obviously, and were inclined to corpulence. They 
had double chins, and sometimes three, and noses more pronouncedly hooked than the aristocrats', and 
very often their chins were bluestubbled and unshaven, although it was apparent they had donned their 
fanciest garments for the interview with Royalty. 
Everybody wore entirely too much perfume. 
Little pages kept running in and out of the throne room, bearing messages on small plates of silver. They 
were Minoans, not Cro-Magnon youngsters, and they were stark naked except for sandals. Very often 
they were painted with cosmetics, including lipstick, and were elaborately coiffed. With all the nude 

little boys around, it began to look like the antechamber to the throne room of Tiberius or Heliogabalus. 
My experiences with Royalty have been few and far between. I didn't like what I was seeing: these 
people seemed bored, frivolous, perverse, and decadent. The sort that go in for orgies and gladiatorial 
games and ambiguous erotic pleasures. 
Give me some honest barbarians, any day of the week. Even the Gorpaks, for all their cruelties, looked 
better to me than these painted, lisping creatures. 
The Professor, on the other hand, was making no moral judgments (not counting his prudery regarding 
the barebreasted ladies). He was taking everything in with a minute scrutiny, as if trying to memorize 
every detail-which is probably exactly what he was doing. The antechamber was, I have to admit, a 
splendidly furnished room. The walls were faced with alabaster and painted with exquisite friezes of 
mythological scenes-dancing nymphs, handsome shepherds, quaint monsters, pagan rites. The furniture 
was carved from wood and gilded, luxurious with plump cushions and soft furs. Perfumed vapors fell 
from lamps of pierced silver suspended from the beams overhead, and the carpeting-the first I had seen 
in Zar-was of thick, lush weave. On small taborets which were scattered about stood ripe fruits in bowls 
of electrum, flagons of wine, piles of honeyed cakes, bunches of grapes, shelled nuts-a veritable free 
lunch. 
Guards stood everywhere, stationed motionlessly about the walls, with two huge Cro-Magnon 
mercenaries, or whatever, to either side of the door which led into the throne room. The doorway was of 
fretted ivory, hung with a purple length of cloth. 
The guards were so immobile that after a while you took them for statues and forgot they were there. 
But they watched everything, eyes keen and alert beneath the peculiar visors of their gold-washed 
helmets, which sported scarlet-dyed crests of stiff feathers like the Trojans wear in historical movies. 
I gathered the Empress might be a Goddess, but was mortal enough to fear assassination . . . . 
One by one the people who had gotten there ahead of us were summoned into the Presence. I kept 
looking around, wondering what had become of Xask-with a cunning, unscrupulous sneak like him 
around, you like to have him where you can keep your eyes upon him but he had been separated from us 
in the bathing chamber and we hadn't seen him since. 
Eventually it was our turn, and we were led into the throne room by the Panjandrum, who strutted 
importantly to the foot of the dais, very suddenly and quite completely lost all of his importance and fell 
down on his belly, ground his face into the tiled floor and kissed it humbly, while groveling. 
I gathered that much the same performance was expected of the Professor and myself. I'm afraid I had 
something else to occupy my mind. In fact, I was staring up at the slim figure on the throne with utter 
amazement written all over my features. 

I have never been so absolutely and completely astonished in all of my life- 
For there, seated demurely upon the high throne of Zar, sat my beloved Princess-Darya of Thandar. 
Chapter 9 YUALLA OF SOTHAR 
The two tribes continued their long march across the northernmost extremity of the continent, following 
the coastline for many sleeps and wakes. The Cro-Magnon warriors had no clear, precise idea of where 
they were headed, but they knew that they would recognize it when they found it. 
They did not, however, find the spoor of the lost Darya nor of my party of warriors. This puzzled them 
more than a little, but to retrace their steps seemed futile-almost as futile as trying to find our tracks 
amidst the grassy plains. 
Like the true woodsmen they were, the men of Sothar and Thandar lived off the land. Daily-if I may use 
the term in this world where there is neither night nor day but only a perpetual noon-their scouts and 
huntsmen spread out, flushing game from the grasses and making their kills with spear or bow. 
One of these huntsmen, not surprisingly, was Yualla, the teenaged daughter of Garth, Omad of the 
Sotharians. I say "not surprisingly," because the women of the Cro-Magnon tribes were not the 
pampered playthings of their men, nor was the range of their activities limited to such domestic tasks as 
cooking and child-rearing. Life is hard in this primitive world, filled with hostile tribes and monstrous 
beasts, and the women learn to hunt and fight and track game as do the men. Frequently, they prove to 
be better at one or another of these supposedly masculine occupations. 
This was the case with Yualla. The girl had demonstrated a keen eye, a steady hand, and a cool nerve 
when tracking and bringing down game, and she was a dead shot with her bow. Thus, neither the male 
hunters nor her royal father felt there was anything inappropriate when she volunteered to join the 
hunting parties. 
The truth was, Yualla was bored and restless. She was about Jorn's age, and stunningly attractive, with 
clear blue eyes and a long, unruly mane of blond hair. Her young body was slim and lithe and supple, 
the body of a dancer or a gymnast, without a superfluous ounce of flesh. She could run like a deer, climb 
like a monkey, and fight as well as any boy of her own age. 
The only trouble with Yualla was, that, being the Omad's daughter, she was more than a trifle spoiled 
and accustomed to having her own way. This made her reckless and adventurous, which more than once 
had gotten her into trouble. 
As on the occasion of which I speak . . . . 

Under the command of one of the senior huntsmen, a grizzled and veteran warrior named Sarga, Yualla 
had departed from the camp early that morning with a band of other hunters in search of game. Of which 
there was certainly a plenitude in these parts, for zomaks nested along the rocky coastline and herds of 
uld roamed the prairie-like plains. 
The uld, by the way, are small, harmless, and quite edible little mammals which resemble fat, shortlegged 
deer. Professor Potter identified them as eohippus, the ancestor (or an ancestor) of the modern 
horse; anyway, they are quite tasty when roasted or broiled. 
Quite early during this expedition, the limber, adventure-loving cave-girl had outdistanced her 
comrades, preferring as always to hunt alone rather than in company. There was hardly a chance of her 
getting lost, for the plains were wide and flat and the smoke of cookfires from the tribal encampments 
could be seen a very long distance off. Nor were there any dangerous predators which employed the 
plains for their own hunting grounds, insofar as the Cro-Magnons knew. 
She struck deep toward the center of the plain, following the tracks of a small herd of uld which were 
scarcely discernible in the thick grasses. Slung over her back, she carried a narrow quiver containing 
some sixteen flint-bladed arrows; her unstrung bow she carried in her left hand. The only other weapon 
the cave-girl had with her was a fine bronze knife, a present from her royal father, which had a deerskin 
scabbard. This she wore tied by thongs to her right thigh. 
In the humid and tropical climate which seems to pervade all of this Underground World of Zanthodon, 
nobody wears much clothing. Hence all the girl wore was a beautifully tanned fawnskin garment 
resembling a brief apron which covered her slim loins and extended over one shoulder, concealing one 
pointed young breast and leaving the other bare. A necklace of colored seashells hung about her slender 
throat, and her feet were shod in supple buskins, laced up to mid-calf. 
All the rest of her was naked, clear, golden-tanned, vibrantly beautiful-girl. 
Unknown to Yualla of Sothar, another hunter was abroad that day, also on the track of the tasty and 
defenseless little herd of uld. This second hunter was one of the most fearsome of all of the predators of 
Zanthodon, the dreaded thakdol-the mighty pterodactyl of the dim Jurassic. 
Aloft on its batlike, membranous wings, the flying lizard floated against the golden glow which 
permeated the misty skies of this primitive world like some monster out of nightmare. With its fanged, 
elongated jaws (which were not unlike those of the alligator or crocodile), its horrible bird-clawed feet, 
its long and snaky tail, the thakdol was hideous to behold-and every bit as dangerous and deadly as it 
was hideous. 
It was not long before the minuscule brain of the thakdol saw and recognized the tiny figure far below as 
something edible. Not as tasty or as defenseless as the uld, of course, but the aerial monster had eaten of 
human flesh many times ere this, and found the dish to its liking. 

The intelligence of the dragon of the skies was dim and rudimentary, for the pterodactyl was virtually 
nothing more than a murder machine, a flying stomach. And its minute brain could only contain one 
thought at a time. Up until this moment that peanut-sized organ had entertained naught but the idea of 
uld . . . tempting, juicy, squealing, fat uld. Thus at first, and for some little time thereafter, the thakdol 
ignored the running figure beneath it as irrelevant to its fixation on uld-hunting. 
But in time the notion filtered into the dim brain of the flying reptile that the cave-girl would easily 
provide it with the luncheon it hungered for, and the idea of girl began to take dominance over that of 
uld. 
It was perhaps too much to ask of the thakdol's rudimentary brain to expect it to weigh its chances. The 
pterodactyl well knew from former encounters that, as often as not, the two-legged prey bore sharply 
pointed sticks with which they were accustomed to thrust and jab at the tender bellies of such as it. And, 
on other occasions, they had been known to wield heavy stone axes, or to loose from stringed sticks 
flying slivers of wood that could be an annoyance, even a bother. 
No, the thakdol was hunting, and it was hungry. And when this happened, it simply took wing from its 
mountaintop aerie and hunted until it found something to kill. Then it feasted. 
However, some instinctive element of caution may have awakened within the brain of the flying reptile. 
For, although itcould not have known this, the running girl as yet remained ignorant of the thakdol's 
existence. 
Thus when it folded those broad, batlike wings and fell out of the skies like a plummet, the girl did not 
realize her danger until it was too late for her to defend herself. 
A hideous black shadow fell over her. Throwing back her head, Yualla stared with a thrill of incredulous 
horror at the fanged monstrosity which hurtled toward her out of the heavens. There was no time to 
string the bow she held, no time to loose so much as a single arrow at that mailed breast. The winged 
monster would pounce upon her in another breath: already its clawed feet were spread, ready to rip and 
rend her tender flesh- 
Yualla did the only thing possible-she threw herself flat and rolled into the thick grasses. It was a vain 
hope, that of hiding herself among the grasses-, but it was all that she had. And, as it happened, it was 
probably the wisest thing she could have done, under such circumstances. 
For the thakdol hunts as the eagle hunts, swooping out of the sky to snatch its prey into the air. And, 
lying close against the flat earth as she was, the cave-girl presented the hardest possible target for those 
terrible claws. Thus, when the bird descended, it was forced to hang on beating vans while scrabbling 
about for her slender form, which it could not see because she was underneath it and its own body 
blocked its view. 

Breathless, with furiously beating heart, the girl rolled this way and that upon the meadow, striving to 
elude the clutches of those horrible, hooked claws, and narrowly succeeding. 
But then one claw closed by accident about her lower leg. It caught her above the ankle of one foot, and, 
as it chanced, when the claw snapped shut like a curved trap, it closed and curled about the limb but did 
not bite into it. 
Sensing that it had seized its prey, the thakdol instantly rose, raising a dust storm from the beating of its 
mighty wings. 
As it rose into the air, it dragged the helpless girl with it. 
By a miracle, the girl was as yet uninjured. Had the reptile ascended with the swooping flight that had 
been its original intention, the shock would doubtless have broken Yualla's leg. But now it rose from an 
almost stationary posture, slowly and laboriously due to the girl's weight, and thus the ascent was slower 
than it might have been. And Yualla had the presence of mind-which was remarkable, under such 
circumstances-to dangle loosely and limply, rather than to kick or struggle. 
Through it all, she had somehow managed to hang onto her bow. So the blond cave-girl was not 
unarmed, although there was little she could do to fight in her present awkward position. She was, after 
all, hanging head down. 
For an instant, she entertained the wild notion of trying to put an arrow through the belly of the brute, 
which was directly above her and exposed and vulnerable. But already the plain was swaying and 
dwindling beneath her as the monster gained the upper air, and long before she could have strung the 
bow and nocked an arrow, she was too high. To have fallen from such a height as this would have killed 
her instantly. 
Flapping on slow and laboring wings, burdened by the weight of its captive, the thakdol flew off across 
the plain in the direction of that range of mountains which led to Zar, in whose peaks its nest was 
concealed. 
Chapter 10 ZARYS OF ZAR 
Identical in every respect with my lost Princess, the beautiful woman on the throne stared down at me 
with surprise-and with some other emotion I could not at once identify-in her wide and innocent blue 
eyes. 
There was no question about it-the Empress of Zar was none other than Darya of Thandar! Although 
how this impossible thing could ever be was a mystery defying my solution at that time. 

The long slim legs, the superb, pointed breasts, the magnificent mane of curling golden hair, framing the 
clear oval of that lovely, flower-like face-all, all were Darya's. 
But, whereas my Princess had gone clad in abbreviated furs, her small feet buskin-shod, crude jewelry 
clasped at throat and wrist, this magnificent woman was one blaze of jewels. 
Clasped about the base of her throat, a yoke of gems threaded on crimson silk clad her upper torso, 
rising and falling with her lovely, half-naked breasts. Suspended from the terminals of this pectoral 
yoke, long silken threads, strung with gems, fell to veil but not conceal the exquisite lines of her belly 
and hips and slim thighs. It was with a distinct shock that I saw, beneath this incredible garment of 
jewels, she was utterly nude. 
"Who is this barbarian," she demanded imperiously, "who seems to recognize us, but upon whom our 
eyes have never laid-and why does he insolently stand erect, when all men kneel in our presence?" 
The moment she spoke, I knew that she could not be the Darya I had known. My beloved Princess spoke 
with clear, soft, bell-like tones and silvery chiming laughter; this woman's voice was throaty, husky, 
deep, with a seductive purr behind its music. 
"Divine Zarys, I shall bend those stubborn knees," rumbled a bass voice. A burly, dwarfish man clad in 
golden greaves and glittering breastplate strode from his station at the foot of the dais, glaring at me. 
I was too dazed with shock to think straight or to move. As the gorgeously caparisoned officer came 
strutting up to me and made as if to club me over the head with his black enamel baton, I merely balled 
one fist and sank it into his solar plexus with all my strength. 
There was, you see, a gap between the bottom of the cuirass and the ornate buckle of the heavy girdle 
which clasped his waist. It was about the size of my fist, I calculated. 
It was, too. 
He staggered as if he had walked into an invisible wall, purpled, then turned pale as curdled milk, and 
sagged to his knees, metal greaves clanking on the tiles. Then he lost his lunch rather noisily. 
I filed away for future reference the interesting fact that the Minoan Cretans, despite their urban 
sophistication and remarkable advances, remained ignorant of the fine art of pugilism. 
The Empress made a sound of disgust and rose from her throne, striding down the steps of the dais like a 
glittering waterfall of gems, fastidiously avoiding her sprawled and vomiting officer, and strode through 
a curtained doorway into an inner chamber. 
I gathered that the audience was over. 

And, from the murderous glare I received from the officer I had knocked down, I gathered my life was 
to be reckoned in minutes, or however long it would take him to get through with being sick. 
One of his lieutenants helped him stagger to his feet. Another wiped his lips and chin with a corner of 
his cloak. I guessed the man was a personage of some considerable prominence, from the way toadies 
and underlings hurried to fawn about him, shoot me frosty glares, and tut-tut over his "accident." 
"Ialos, lend me your sword," he said thickly. 
With a gloating smile in my direction, his lieutenant made haste to put the weapon into his hand. 
Stiff-legged as a barnyard rooster whose private henhouse has been invaded by another rooster, the man 
I had hit came toward me. I balled my two fists and prepared to give him a second lesson in the fine art 
of fisticuffs. As it turned out, the opportunity did not come. 
A slim dark girl in diaphanous silks, who had come silently up behind him, laid one hand on his brawny 
forearm. 
"General Cromus, your revenge must wait upon another time, for the Goddess will see this barbarian 
privately," she said in a soft, lisping voice. 
Cromus froze, licked his lips, stared at me with hot, hating eyes, and reluctantly returned the weapon to 
his underling. 
All this time, the pudgy Grand Panjandrum (I soon discovered him to be the Royal Chamberlain, and his 
name turned out to be Hissab) and the Professor remained facedown on the tiled floor, neither daring to 
move. Hissab now inched his head about and stared at me with blank astonishment. I judged that private 
audiences were seldom awarded, and never to unruly barbarians. I tipped the fat man a wink which 
seemed to scandalize him. 
The girl came up to me, eyeing me from head to foot admiringly. 
"This way," she said demurely, leading me off. 
Beyond the portal lay a small, dainty, rosy-lit room which seemed to serve as the retiring room of the 
Empress. When I came in, following the girl sent to fetch me, her maids were in the process of assisting 
their monarch to disrobe. The jeweled collar had been unclasped, baring to my view her beautiful 
breasts, and the fabulous garment slid away showing me rather more naked girlflesh than I was 
comfortable at seeing. 

The Empress, after one indifferent glance in my direction, continued to submit to being undressed by the 
maids, who stored the robe of jewels carefully away in a chest of carven wood painted with octopi and 
seashells. The naked woman ignored my presence as if I were a pet dog. 
I was intrigued; also, I was a little affronted. Women, especially when naked, tend not to ignore me. 
One of the maids gently adjusted a gauzy robe about the shoulders of her mistress. This clasped only at 
the throat, opening all the way down whenever she moved, so the view continued to be a distraction. 
Also, the robe was about as transparent as a veil of smoke, so none of the attractions were all that 
concealed from my eyes. But I felt a little more comfortable, somehow. 
Then she glided across the fur rugs to curl up on a sofa which was piled with many small, plump, brightcolored 
cushions. She then calmly regarded me with faint curiosity in her eyes, as well as that emotion I 
had glimpsed before. Was it-admiration? Or was I flattering myself? 
"Does the animal speak a civilized tongue?" the Empress asked. 
The girl who had come to fetch me said: "According to the Lord Chamberlain, Divine Mistress, the 
creature is not unproficient in our tongue." 
"Remarkable," drawled the woman on the sofa. Then she patted the cushions at her side and ordered (or 
invited? It was hard to tell) me to sit at her side. 
I did so, a bit gingerly. We looked each other over with frank curiosity. 
Up close like this, I noticed subtle differences between Zarys and Darya which had been invisible at first 
look. The Empress used cosmetics. Something like kohl darkened her long lashes, discreet use of paints 
made her eyelids mysterious and shadowy blue, accenting her superb eyes, and a scarlet cream reddened 
her full, seductive lips. 
Since she was virtually naked, I could not help noticing other differences, as well. Darya was slim and 
lean, deliciously curved where nature designed women to be deliciously curved, and firmly muscled as a 
boy, without an ounce of fat. 
The Empress of Zar, on the other hand, was softer and rounder, and just the slightest bit more svelt than 
Darya. She was also, I think, three or four years older, and there was a trace of petulance around her 
mouth and a hardness in her gaze, an arrogance, which Darya did not have. Still and all, the 
resemblances between them were astonishing: twin sisters could not have been more alike than the two 
women. 
"Palaika," murmured the Empress, tossing her head. One of the maids came gliding over and, with a 
distinct shock, I watched her take off the wig. 

Yes, that glorious curling mane of golden hair was a-wig! I was appalled: beneath the wig (which was of 
gold wire, spun finer than silk thread), the Empress's head was shaven bald. 
Somehow, it did not make her any the less gorgeous . . . . Later, I came to understand that the palace 
aristocrats of Zar were all alike, slim, olive-skinned, black haired. They prized and hungered after 
novelty, and the current fashion was to emulate the beauty of the Cro-Magnon slave women, who were, 
of course, blonde. I have never understood where Zarys got her big blue eyes from-perhaps from some 
antique Mycenaean Greek ancestor in the remote past-but her golden hair was nothing but a golden wig. 
"Is it true you are acquainted with our language?" she asked me curiously. I stammeringly said 
something to the effect that I was beginning to pick it up a little. My barbaric accent made her wrinkle 
up her nose, but my uncomfortable expression made her smile mischievously-and she looked more like 
Darya than ever. They had the same smile! 
"In the Pasiphaeum you seemed to recognize me, yet you are not of our race, and a stranger to our realm. 
How is this?" 
" 'Pasiphaeum'?" I repeated. 
She shrugged impatiently. "As a direct descendant of the Goddess Pasiphae, wife of the Divine Minos, 
I . . . but here I am answering a slave's questions, and him a barbarian as well! Answer me: you seemed 
to recognize me. How?" 
"Well, uh," I began: and falteringly I tried to explain about Darya and how much they resembled each 
other. She seemed intrigued at being the mirror image of a Cro-Magnon girl, rather than being offended 
by the comparison. 
"I see," she murmured. "You were, when captured by the Outriders who guard the approaches to my 
realm, in the company of the despicable Xask, exiled former prince of the city; how is this?" 
"Accident, more than anything else. He is my enemy as well as yours, your majesty." 
A pouting smile touched those full red lips. 
"'My majesty' . . . how quaint! But my subjects generally give me the title Divinity or Goddess . . . my 
name, however, is Zarys. Do barbarians of your tribe have given names?" 
I was getting just a little tired of being called a barbarian. However, I held my temper and told her my 
name. 

"Eric Carstairs," she repeated. "How uncouth a name . . . nonetheless, it seems to suit you." 
She caressed me slowly with her eyes, her expression demure, a tantalizing smile playing about her 
mouth. I blushed a little as she looked me over, feeling like a prize bull on display at a cattle auction. At 
the same time, I felt her nearness powerfully: she was so very much like my lost beloved that I ached to 
seize her in my arms, to crash her against my chest, to cover her flower-like face with my hot, panting 
kisses. 
And something of what I was feeling must have shown in my eyes, for she smiled a slow languorous 
smile and touched me gently on the thigh. 
"We shall speak again, Eric Carstairs, at dinner . . ." 
I was led out, feeling absurdly as if I had narrowly escaped what the authors of Victorian melodrama 
would have called A Fate Worse Than Death. 
Part Three 
ACROSS THE PLAINS 
Chapter 11 MURG IS MISSING 
They were eating their breakfast, camped on the plain, when Ragor noticed that Murg was missing from 
their number. The Thandarian mentioned the fact to his brother-warrior, Erdon. 
"Sometime as we slept, it seems, our friend Murg decided to seek the greater safety that lies in 
numbers," said Ragor, nodding. "There, see? His few possessions are gone, and he himself is nowhere to 
be seen." 
Erdon grunted, unimpressed by the urgency of the news. "So that is what has become of my water 
bottle," he muttered. "And of my spare sandals?" 
The two Cro-Magnons grinned at each other briefly. 
"If we speak of this to the others, Hurok may decide to turn back and seek the little man," Ragor pointed 
out. 
"That is so. Let us say nothing, then. After all, Murg was no good in a fight, and of no use in the hunt, so 
he will hardly be missed, even by his fellow tribesmen." 
They decided to say nothing of their discovery. A bit later, Varak of Sothar came up to where they sat. 

"I have lost my best dagger," he complained. "The one with the obsidian blade and the handle made of 
thantor ivory. Has either of you seen it lying about?" 
By thantor, he referred to the woolly mammoth. 
"Ragor has seen naught of the dagger belonging to Varak," said that worthy. 
"Neither has Erdon," grunted Erdon. 
Varak looked nonplussed. "It was my best dagger," he said in grieved tones. "The blade withstood nicks 
better even than the bronze knife which Hurok carries tucked in his furs-the one he took from the 
Gorpak captain back in the cavern city." 
"That is too bad," said Erdon. "I, too, have lost something-my water bottle of greased leather." 
Varak scratched his jaw with his thumbnail. "I don't understand it! Surely, we have no thief amongst 
us. . . ." 
"Not any longer, anyway," grinned Ragor. 
Varak, puzzled, asked, "What do you mean by that?" 
Ragor chuckled. "Look around you. As we slept, your friend Murg stole off, presumably hoping to 
rejoin our two tribes. And that's not all he stole; doubtless, his disappearance serves to explain the 
vanishing of your dagger." 
"Murg, is it?" growled Varak angrily. "No friend of mine-my best dagger!" Then he paused to reflect. 
"Well . . . at least we shall be able to make better time from here on. I never saw a man who got more 
thorns in his foot and needed to pause to remove the offending object from his sensitive flesh. But why 
have you said nothing to the others of this?" 
Erdon shrugged. "Hurok may wish to turn back and find him. Our Drugar friend is excessively-tender 
hearted-for a Drugar. And I would much rather rescue Eric Carstairs and Professor Potter, than rescue 
Murg. Let the little whimpering weakling fend for himself. Perhaps he will be eaten by a xunth," he 
added, smiling. 
"Or a thakdol," suggested Varak. 
"Even an uld could do the trick," laughed Ragor. 
Breaking camp, the small war party continued the journey. They had reached the foothills before the 

range of mountains, and were skirting their flanks, seeking for a way over the immense barrier. They 
saw nothing of the guards and sentinels of Zar, but; then, guards and sentinels are stationed to see and 
not to be seen. Neither did they see aught of any dangerous predators, save for a number of thakdols 
which nested amid the peaks above and who could be seen flapping and circling about the sky. 
If Hurok noticed that Murg was missing from their number, he said nothing about it to anyone. It is, of 
course, the duty of a leader (even a de facto leader like Hurok) to assume the responsibility for his men, 
even those who are unpopular, or, as in the case of Murg, heartily detested. One presumes, from his 
actions, or, rather, from his lack of actions, that Hurok was more concerned with the safety of Black 
Hair and his elderly friend than he was with the safety of Murg. 
After several hours, during which the war party continued north along the mountain-guarded borders of 
the land of Zar, the sharp eyes of Varak the Sotharian succeeded in spying a cleft between two 
mountains which turned out on closer inspection to be a pass across the mountains. It was somewhat 
narrower than the well-guarded pass of the stone dragonhead, and it would be much more difficult to 
traverse, but it was better than trying to scale one of the mountain peaks. 
After a brief pause to rest, and with Hurok in the lead, the warriors entered the foothills and began to 
ascend the flanks of the mountain toward the mouth of the little pass. The ground was covered with 
broken, loose rocks, the detritus of centuries of erosion and landslides, and the going was slow and 
difficult. But none of the men made complaint about this. 
"If Murg were here, he would be complaining of a pebble in his sandal by now," remarked Ragor to 
Varak. 
"If Murg were here he would have done so long before this," grinned Varak. 
Hurok, whose eyesight might be dim but whose huge ears missed nothing, grunted a retort to the two 
warriors. 
"Since Murg is not here, Hurok suggests that Varak and Ragor save their breath for climbing," advised 
the massive Neanderthal. 
The two nodded guiltily and climbed with redoubled vigor. 
As for the object of their humor, poor little Murg had spent a miserable "night." The dwarfish Sotharian 
had seldom felt so completely alone in his life, and did not enjoy the experience in the slightest. 
Burdened as he was with the supplies and extra weapons he had purloined from his erstwhile comrades, 
the homely little man made very poor time in crossing the plain. Moreover, weariness assailed him; a 
succession of jaw-cracking yawns drew to his attention that he was intolerably sleepy. But to curl up 
alone amidst the waste was to fall prey to the very first hungry predator that came roaming by in search 
of a midnight snack. 

Unhappily, Murg decided to go on. He wanted to put as much distance between himself and the others 
as possible before they awoke. He had a well-developed imagination for a caveman, and could envision 
all too well the punishment that would be sternly meted out to him should he again encounter the 
warriors from whom he had thieved. 
Too sleepy to go on and too frightened to fall asleep, Murg faced quite a troublesome dilemma. Whining 
and sniffling and grumbling to himself, the little fellow staggered on through the thick grasses, burdened 
down by all the extra rations of food, the sleeping hides, the weapons and water bottles he had stolen 
before making his hasty escape from the camp. 
To risk sleep, thus risking being eaten alive? To continue has journey, weary though he was? Which 
course should he follow? The question, to his exhausted mind, seemed insoluble. 
Fortunately-for him, if not for another-Fate quickly solved Murg's problem for him. 
And in so doing, presented him with yet another problem! But, then, that is one of Fate's little tricks. 
A black shadow fell across Murg as he trudged along, whimpering miserably to himself. He looked up 
and saw a monstrous thakdol descending toward him on ragged, batlike wings. 
With a squeal of terror, Murg flung down the load he was carrying and picked up his heels to run for 
safety. Almost at once he tripped over a root and fell face down in the thick grasses. 
Dust blew about him as the pterodactyl descended to earth. Cowering in the grasses with both hands 
firmly clamped over his eyes, Murg shuddered, awaiting his doom. 
The thakdol rose after a moment and flapped away. Eyes squeezed shut, Murg dared neither move nor 
breathe, momentarily expecting to be eaten up. 
But nothing happened. 
Then-and very unexpectedly the toe of a sandal prodded him in his bony ribs. 
Squawking in fear, Murg rolled over on his back, knees doubled up to protect his fat little belly. 
Although what possible protection those skinny knees could have afforded against the hook-like claws 
of a thakdol, even Murg could not have explained. 
"Don't eat me, don't eat me!" begged Murg in a tremulous voice, eyes still squeezed shut. 
"I won't," said a girl's voice in somewhat impatient and shaky tones, "but I may have to kick your ribs in 
before you give me your attention." 

Astounded, Murg opened his eyes and stared up into the face of a lovely blonde girl who was about the 
last person he would have expected to see here in the northern parts of the plain. It was, of course, 
Yualla. 
"Wh-what is Yualla the gomad doing here?" he quavered in utter amazement. 
The girl shrugged, ill-humoredly. "For that matter," she countered, "what is Murg doing here?" 
The thakdol which had carried the cave-girl off had not been fully grown, it seems. One of the flying 
lizards in the full prime of its strength could have borne her away to its mountaintop nest with relative 
ease. But the half-grown brute wearied erelong of its burden and descended to the surface of the plain to 
rest. 
Probably, it had planned to devour its captive there on the plain, and to regurgitate the meal later into the 
clacking beaks of its hungry offspring-if offspring it had. 
At any rate, Yualla, who had kept her wits about her, made use of the first opportunity that came along. 
As the claws opened to drop her, the limber girl whirled in midair, landing on her feet as lightly as a cat. 
Disconcerted, the pterodactyl peered at her with first one eye and then the other. It was not used to prey 
which remained unaccountably alive. Making a tentative pass at the blonde girl with one cruel claw, the 
reptile received an arrow through its upper leg in result. For Yualla had not dropped her bow during her 
inadvertent voyage through the upper air. 
This was too much for the tired, hungry, and more than a little confused young thakdol. Rising hastily on 
flapping wings, it circled off in search of more amenable prey, leaving Yualla alone on the plain. 
Or so she first assumed. Until, of course, she spotted Murg cowering amid the grasses, trembling like a 
leaf and moaning with fear. 
Shrugging exasperatedly, the girl strolled over and kicked him in his scrawny ribs, with the resultant 
brief conversation quoted above. Lost amidst the plains though she was, at least she was not alone or 
defenseless. 
Not that Murg would have been the companion of her choice, had she been given a choice. 
Chapter 12 A BANQUET IN NEW-CRETE 
Following my brief interview with the Empress, one of her hand-maidens led me back into the throne 
room where I rejoined the Professor and Hissab, the Grand Panjandrum. General Cromus was still there, 

being tended by his sycophants. All of the other courtiers and guards were there, too, since the Empress 
had neither dismissed them nor officially terminated the audience. 
I discovered how quickly one can rise in popularity here in Zar. When, that is, one has just spent thirty 
minutes alone with the Divine Zarys. 
The guards and courtiers fawned upon me. An ivory chair was fetched for me. Wine and a tray of 
goodies were handed to me by sleek, smiling, clean-shaven men. Beautiful women with naked breasts 
fluttered their long eyelashes in my direction and bathed me from head to foot with admiring, flirtatious 
glances. 
Even Cromus, who purpled with fury at the sight of me, forced a feeble welcoming smile-although the 
cold venom in his eyes belied it. 
"Well, Eric, my boy!" said the Professor, breathing a sigh of relief. "I see you have survived your 
ordeal . . . I was uncertain whether you were being led away for instant execution or to some sort of, 
ahem!, a 'male harem.' But here you are, alive and well, and most obviously the hero of the hour. . ." 
"I wouldn't rule out either the execution, or the harem bit yet, Doc," I grinned, downing a gulp of the 
purple wine and biting into a seed-crusted honey cake. The wine was overly sweet to my taste, and had 
rose leaves floating in it, or petals anyway. But the little cakes tasted fine. 
The Grand Panjandrum came ambling over to where I sat, his plump face wreathed with oily smiles. His 
little slitted eyes, I noticed, however, were shrewd and calculating. 
"The Lord Hissab rejoices that the distinguished barbarian has found favor in the eyes of the Immortal 
Zarys," he said smoothly, ducking his head in the tiniest possible bow. "All the while it was the most 
earnest hope of this individual that the Goddess might well find her newest guest an interesting and 
attractive addition to the court . . . ." 
"I just bet it was," I said with a grin. Then my grin widened, for across the room, under guard, Xask 
stood, face grim. He shot me a glance of the purest malignancy, and my grin turned into a chuckle. My 
sudden rise in status had put the slimy little villain off his stride; he had planned, I have no doubt, to 
make a grandstand play before the throne, bragging how he had maneuvered me into the grasp of Zar, 
and displaying the automatic with a splendid flourish, boasting of how his loyalty to his Empress was 
such that he was ready to lay at her exquisite feet the thunder-weapon which would conquer the 
Underground World for Zar. 
Now, suddenly, his plans had gone awry. The Empress had not even noticed him, and I was almost 
elevated to the position of Royal Favorite-all because I had intrigued her curiosity with my astonishment 
at seeing her, and had knocked General Cromus on his keester with a single blow. 

The same thought must have flashed through Xask's seething brain in the identical instant, for he turned 
a thoughtful and appraising glance in the direction of that fine fellow, and a small thin-lipped smile 
played about the corners of his mouth. 
I might have made a very powerful friend in the last few minutes.. . but I had also made a rather 
dangerous enemy. 
He glanced in my direction, caught my eye, and smiled one of those bland, cunning smiles of his. 
Oh, we understood ourselves perfectly, Xask and I! 
No more slave pens for the likes of the Professor and me; we were moved into a sumptuous suite of 
apartments which opened upon a small walled garden. The rooms were handsomely furnished with 
many low, silken divans, heaps of cushions, oddly shaped but not uncomfortable chairs, small tabourets 
and huge hassocks. 
Soft carpets of glowing colors and bold maritime designs lay piled underfoot. Charming frescoes of 
nymphs and fauns at play in Arcadian woodland glens adorned the plastered walls. Lamps of fretted 
brass and silver depended from long chains. In them, perfume-impregnated oils burned, shedding a soft 
glow of light and a rich incense. 
"Quite a pad," I remarked, looking around. "Better than the slave pens of the cavern-city, at any rate!" 
"There's no question about that, my boy!" the Professor chuckled, sinking into one of the divans with 
bliss written across his features. "So long as we, I mean you, can manage to stay in the good graces of 
the Queen, we shall be living in the veritable lap of luxury . . ." 
"And eating pretty high off the hog, as well," I informed him. "Forgot to mention it, but we've been 
invited to a royal banquet tonight." 
"Which will further serve to discomfort your friend Cromus, to say nothing of our old comrade, Xask," 
he mused. "We are in dangerous waters, my boy, and I hope you realize the fact! Imperial courts like 
this are a seething hotbed of Byzantine intrigues, plots and counter-plots and . . . well, all that sort of 
thing. But-Sainted Schliemann, what an opportunity! There is not an archaeologist alive who would not 
sell his soul for a chance like this! To observe at first hand the people of Minoan Crete, their customs 
and traditions, crafts and arts, daily life . . . . It is very like being equipped with Mr. Wells's Time 
Machine, and voyaging back nearly four thousand years to Knossus at its height . . . !" 
"You really think these people are still living the way their ancient ancestors lived, Doc?" I asked 
skeptically. "Any reasons why they couldn't have changed, progressed, over all those centuries? I mean, 
look at our Cro-Magnon friends, the warriors of Thandar and Sothar: they made it on their own out of 
the Stone Age, discovering how to make copper and bronze and Lord knows what else." 

"That is true enough, Eric," he said, pursing his lips judiciously. "Under the pressure of adversity, 
battling against the beasts and rival tribes of Zanthodon, our Cro-Magnon friends rose to the occasion 
and advanced, I think, rather remarkably. But the Cretans were decadent even back in the days of 
Knossus, and here on their island-city they are almost completely insulated from the perils and monsters 
of the Underground World, walled away behind that range of mountains, guarded by their wide moat . . . 
the motifs of their frescoes and mosaics, the ornamentation on their urns and vases, their modes of dress, 
even their architectural styles, are one and the same with those uncovered from the ruins of Knossus by 
Sir Arthur Evans. I very much doubt if the people of Zar have altered their life-style significantly in all 
this time." 
"Well, we'll have to wait and see, I guess." 
That night the royal banquet proved to be like something out of a Cecil B. DeMille movie epic. There 
were dancing girls in skimpy garments, lithe acrobats, clowns, twanging but not unharmonious music 
played on odd little bagpipes, lutes or harps or something like that, small brightly colored drums, and 
chimes and cymbals. 
We reclined on sumptuous couches, decked out in longsleeved robes, hand-fed by kneeling slaves. I 
couldn't begin to tell you what we ate, but every dish was saturated with herbs and spices until we gave 
up trying to identify the source. 
There were little cubes of meat on long skewers with raw onions in between, just like shish kebab; thirty 
kinds of soups and stews and broths and ragouts; pastries made to look like squid and sharks and 
dolphins; jellied fruits and honeyhearted wines and preposterous sherbets built out of shaved ice and 
soaked in fruit juices; and, above all, there was seafood, seafood, seafood- 
Crete used to be the major sea power of the ancient Mediterranean, and the Zarians have never forgotten 
it. 
Cromus was there, and so was Hissab, and some of the courtiers I recognized from the throne room, but 
everyone else was a stranger to me as I was to them. Gossip had gotten around, however, and the men all 
smiled and waved when I happened to look in their direction, while the women flirted and ogled me, 
whispering to each other about me behind their feather fans. I felt distinctly uncomfortable, but this was 
the first truly civilized meal I had enjoyed during all the weeks or months I had spent in Zanthodon, and 
I tackled it with gusto. 
Zarys sat across from me, reclining on a silken couch being fanned by two stalwart blond Cro-Magnon 
slaves in very brief scarlet loincloths. She wore a long gown with deep sleeves made of some soft 
crinkly stuff that began at the shoulders as salmon pink and deepened in hue as you went down, until the 
hem was royal purple. This time the golden wig was gone and her exquisite skull wore a tall headdress 
that was one glittering mass of blue-white diamonds. 

Her breasts were bare but this time the nipples had been painted with liquid gold. 
Outside of a languorous glance or two in my direction, she more or less ignored me, placidly permitting 
herself to be fed. I was just as pleased to be ignored, and busied myself with filling my belly. 
After one long murderous glare at me, Cromus ignored me. He wore his gilt armor and a scarlet-plumed 
headdress, rather like an Indian chief's, and looked grand, I must admit. But he was still quite a bit out of 
sorts;-I could tell he was holding his temper under control, and just barely, because when one of the 
slave girls-a timid little thing with huge frightened eyes and a shy manner-spilled a little wine, he 
slapped her resoundingly and angrily wiped the dribble off his chin, brusquely demanding to be served 
by a less clumsy slave for the rest of the meal. 
I could gladly have knocked him down again for that, but I controlled the impulse. 
After dinner, slaves snuffed out the candelabra, plunging the windowless room into thick gloom, which 
was a real novelty here in the Underground World. Then a troupe of dancers came in stark naked, their 
lithe limbs, bare breasts, and long slender legs painted with some phosphorescent substance so that they 
glowed with weird colors in the dark. It was a gorgeous dance, I have to admit. 
Although, as things turned out, I didn't get to see very much of it. Because, just as we were settling down 
to watch the luminous dancers, a girl touched me on the wrist. I turned around, recognizing the 
Empress's handmaiden, the one called Ialys. 
She laid her fingertip across my lips as they parted to ask her what was up. 
Obeying her tug on my sleeve, I got up and followed her through the darkened room. Whether or not 
anybody besides the Professor happened to notice me go, I've no idea. 
At the doorway, I asked her what was up. She smiled kittenishly, with demurely downcast eyes. 
"The Divine Zarys awaits you for a private audience," the girl whispered. 
Here it comes, I thought with a sinking heart. 
And I was right, too .... 
Chapter 13 SUNDERED PATHS 
From his place amid the plain, Sarga the huntsman watched with horror as the monstrous flying reptile 
carried away the limp, dangling body of the princess of his tribe. 

The grizzled veteran had followed the spoor of Yualla of Sothar when the headstrong girl had decided to 
strike out on her own in quest of game. He knew very well her reckless, adventuresome ways, having 
watched her grow from childhood. Partly, he admired her for her contempt of danger and her skills at 
tracking game, which were qualities he might heartily have desired to discover in any son of his; but, as 
she was his responsibility as chief of the hunting party, he grimly dreamed of turning her over his knee 
(or whatever the Cro-Magnon equivalent of a good spanking is) and giving her a lesson in obedience. 
When the thakdol descended upon her, Sarga was very far away from where Yualla was-too far away 
even for his bow to send a feathered shaft. And the pterodactyl had borne the blonde girl into the skies 
before even his fleet foot could bring him near enough to fight in her defense. 
Now, with a sinking heart and a feeling of utter helplessness, he stood and watched as the winged 
dragon bore the girl aloft. From his distance, even the keen eyes of Sarga could not tell whether it was a 
living girl the thakdol carried off or a mangled corpse. But somehow Sarga did not quite believe that 
Yualla had been slain, for all that she hung limply from those cruel claws. He knew her well enough to 
know that Yualla would have fought with every skill at her command rather than yield supinely to the 
thakdol's attack. And no sounds of battle had reached his ears. 
Marking with his gaze the direction in which the reptile slowly flew on flapping wings, heavily 
burdened by its prey, the huntsman lifted to his lips the hollowed aurochs horn he wore belted at his 
waist and sounded a call. Shortly there came to him through the long grasses the others of his hunting 
party, summoned from their stalking by the signal. In swift, blunt words Sarga made known to them 
what had just occurred, and indicated the direction in which the pterodactyl had carried Yualla. 
"Doubtless the thakdols nest in the peaks of that range of mountains in the distance," he remarked. "It is 
the nature of such beasts to bear to their nesting place their kill, to be devoured at leisure or to be fed to 
their young." 
"If the gomad Yualla has been slain, O Sarga, it makes no difference in which direction her corpse was 
carried," reasoned one of the younger hunters. A cold smile touched the lips of the older man. 
"But if the gomad Yualla lives, then it makes all the difference in the world," he pointed out. 
"What, then, shall we do?" demanded another of the party. 
"We shall return to the encampment of the tribes and bring these sad matters to the attention of the 
Omad Garth," said Sarga. "As to that which will transpire thereafter, it is up to the Omad to make the 
decision. Come, let us begone with what little game we have managed thus far to procure." 
Wasting as little time as possible, the hunting party returned to camp and found Garth of Sothar and his 
mate in conversation with one of the warriors of the Thandarians. They were discussing the direction 
and the duration of that day's march, but the conversation was swiftly terminated as soon as Sarga had 

informed his chief of what had happened. 
The brows of Garth of Sothar darkened thunderously and he set his jaw grimly against any display of 
emotion which might appear unmanly. But those who stood nearby could not help but notice that he 
balled his fists with great force, as if crushing the throat of an enemy. So tightly did Garth of Sothar 
clench his mighty fists that blood spurted from beneath the nails. 
His mate, Nian, stood nearby-a handsome, strong woman just past the blush of her first youth, fit mate 
for the mighty jungle monarch. At the sad news which Sarga related, she paled and bit her lip, but said 
nothing. She held her head proudly high, but involuntary tears welled up behind her blue eyes. 
The Cro-Magnons of Zanthodon are, of course, true savages in the finest sense of the word. That is, they 
are primitives with a rich but simple and thriving culture, their vigor and emotional honesty 
unencumbered by the accretions of custom and tradition imposed by so-called "civilization." Unlike us 
of the Western world, they are not ashamed of their emotions, any more than they are ashamed to bare 
their bodies before others, as prudery and the puritanical repressions of civilization as yet do not 
constrict their natural responses. There is, I suppose, much about them that would seem shocking to a 
native of New York or London. The women nonchalantly bare their breasts and both sexes freely 
employ the great outdoors for their sanitary needs, in lieu of toilets. But let me assure you that there is 
much about our urban way of life that would seem shocking to the citizens of Thandar or Sothar-our 
denial of natural emotions, our sense of shame, our repression of the animal instincts, and the ways we 
cover our bodies and fear and shun the wilderness. 
What I am attempting to explain is that it is as common to see a Cro-Magnon male burst into tears over 
the loss of a comrade as it is to see a Cro-Magnon woman defend her hearth and brood against 
marauders with a battle-axe. But the High Chief of a tribe, and his mate as well, hold themselves proudly 
before the eyes of all as an example of stoicism, dignity, and courage. Thus Garth and Nian bore 
themselves bravely under the shock of Yualla's loss. 
Within mere moments, mastering his emotions, Garth had elicited from his huntsman the essential facts 
surrounding the disappearance of his daughter. Nor did Sarga neglect to advise him of the precise 
direction in which the pterodactyl had flown, and of the conjectures voiced at the time about its probable 
destination. The Omad of Sothar was familiar with the habits of thakdols and knew as well as did Sarga 
that hunting pterodactyls generally carry their prey back to their nests and that they generally nest on 
mountain peaks, such as those dimly visible across the breadth of the mighty plain. 
"Remain here," said Garth to his huntsmen. "Rest. Replenish your supplies of water. Gather your 
weapons. Summon the chieftains, woman-I shall take counsel with my brother, Tharn of Thandar, and 
will soon return." With those words he strode off across the camp in the direction of Tharn's tent, a 
kingly figure, straight as a soldier, his features clamped tight in a cold mask against the intolerable pain 
he bore in his heart. 

Such was the dignity of the two High Chiefs that it would have been unseemly had Tharn expressed his 
consternation at the word that the daughter of Garth had been carried off by beasts. Such men as they 
speak seldom, and to the point, wasting neither words nor energy in displays of emotion. 
They both knew exactly what was about to happen. The two Cro-Magnon tribes, which had stood and 
fought together shoulder to shoulder ever since the battle of the cavern-city against the Gorpaks and the 
hideous Sluaggh, must now sunder their paths and go their separate ways-at least, for a time. 
It was, in fact, Tharn who suggested the inevitable. 
"There is, in honor, no other way, my brother," he said sternly. "During this long trek, you and your 
valiant warriors have served me well in my own quest for my lost daughter, Darya. It would be 
inconceivable for Tharn to ask that the Omad Garth continue to assist him in his search, when now the 
gomad Yualla has met with a similar fate. The tribes of Sothar and of Thandar must now part. There is 
no other course to follow." 
"I agree," nodded Garth. "For blood calls to blood, and I cannot stand idly by while at least a chance 
exists that my child yet lives. Neither can I reasonably expect my brother Tharn to abandon the search 
for his own child, to assist me in my quest. We are agreed, then, that much as it grieves us both-our 
paths must here part." 
"It is agreed. We shall divide the stores and the weapons, the garments and the tents and bedding, 
between us evenly," said Tharn. "Naught must be allowed to delay the departure of the warriors of 
Sothar from the rescue." 
"It may well be that we shall meet again," said the Sotharian. "On his part, it is the wish of Garth the 
Omad that such will prove the case. For, inasmuch as our own homeland has been destroyed, the tribe of 
Sothar has nowhere to go in a world filled with hostile tribes and enemies, both human and bestial. In 
such a world, my brother, it is good to have found a friend." 
The two men clasped each other's shoulder in the Zanthodonian equivalent of a hearty handshake. 
And there was really nothing more to say. 
The equal division of the supplies was swiftly accomplished, and farewells were made. During the time 
they had marched and fought together, brief though it was, the men and women and children of the two 
tribes had made many friends, and partings are never pleasant. But time was of the essence, so the 
partings were brief. 
While the men of Thandar stood silently watching, the tribe of Sotharians departed. There were no 
backward glances, and there were no tears. Fate had stepped between the two Cro-Magnon tribes, and 
that was all there was to it. 

Garth struck out boldly into the midst of the plain, heading directly for the distant mountains which, as 
we know but he did not, formed a wall behind whose towering ramparts lay sheltered the Scarlet City of 
Zar. 
With Sarga and his fleet-footed huntsmen in the lead to guide them, the tribe moved at a rapid pace. 
Both men and women could hold this steady pace for hours, if necessary, without yielding to fatigue. 
They are a hardy race, these direct descendants of our own Cro-Magnon ancestors, and virtually to the 
last individual they are superbly health-physical specimens. I suppose this is because the life they lead is 
a hard one, with many perils, and thus the weak and sickly die early. 
Garth did not know how distant the mountains were, for the Sotharians have not developed a system of 
measurements sophisticated enough to be of use. Neither did he have any notion of exactly how long it 
would take his tribe to reach the foothills of those mountains, because in their timeless world the 
Zanthodonians have no real conception of time. 
He simply headed in the direction of his choice, knowing that he would eventually reach his goal. 
As it chanced, other eyes were watching as the tribe traversed the grassy plains in search of the lost girl. 
The people of Zar were effete, their vigor sapped by the endless round of pleasures, but they were not 
fools. The saying that the price of liberty is eternal vigilance would have struck a responsive chord 
within their breasts. 
And the Dragon-riders who had captured the Professor and Xask and me were not the only mounted 
troops patrolling the plains which stretched before the gates of Zar. 
Chapter 14 THE LANDSLIDE 
The mighty wall of mountains which guarded the way to the Scarlet City was tall and sheer, but 
certainly not unscalable. The Cro-Magnon warriors took the climb by easy stages, resting often in order 
to conserve their strength. Only Hurok found the ascent truly difficult, but this was not because he 
lacked strength; no, it was that his bowed legs and splayed feet were not designed for mountaineering. 
However, he set his prognathous jaw grimly, and toiled along in the wake of the more lithe and limber 
Cro-Magnons. 
Jorn the Hunter fell back in order to accompany his chieftain. A strange, almost unspoken comradeship 
had grown into being between the burly Neanderthal and the young huntsman. Neither could quite 
account for it, but it was there, nonetheless. 
For an hour or so they climbed the sheer wall, finding hand- and foot-holds where you or I might have 
seen nothing. The vertigo which might well have claimed us did not bother them: true savages, children 

of the Dawn Age, they were as supple and fearless as monkeys, and could climb nearly as well. 
How old these mountains might be none of them could tell, but the Professor has since voiced as his 
considered opinion that the Walls of Zar (as the denizens of the Scarlet City term this range) are 
relatively young. Doubtless they were thrust up from the bowels of the earth by volcanic forces in one of 
those titanic convulsions of nature which shaped our own world and that of Zanthodon. For the rock 
whereof they were composed was relatively soft and porous, and centuries of wind and rain had 
crumbled and flaked it into its present state. Ledges and crevices, wherein one might find temporary 
hand- and foot-holds, were numerous, which made the ascent of the sheer cliff vertiginous and laden 
with peril, but very far from impossible. 
From time to time, the cliff was broken by a level ledge, where sheets of strata had crumbled or broken 
away. Seldom were these ledges more than a foot or two wide, but narrow as they were they afforded the 
warriors sufficient security to snatch a few moments rest before continuing the climb. 
The goal for which they were striving was a cleft between the mountains which formed a pass. Unlike 
the dragon-guarded pass through which the Professor and I had been escorted by Captain Raphad and 
his Dragonmen, the pass to which Hurok and the others strove was situated much higher up the wall of 
the mountain. Still quite distant, it loomed above them tantalizingly. In time they would, of course, reach 
it, and from that point on the descent down the farther side should be much easier than the way up had 
proven to be. 
Such, at least, was the hope of Hurok and the others. 
It is to be regretted that Fate or Destiny, or whatever name you wish to use to designate the unseen and 
inscrutable Force which controls our lives, from time to time intervenes to frustrate our desires. The 
future is an unknown road veiled from our vision by clouds of mystery, and it is doubtless a great mercy 
that we are not permitted foreknowledge of those events which are yet to come, since there is no way 
known to men to avoid them. 
Such was the case with Hurok and his men as they snatched a brief few moments of rest upon a narrow 
ledge. Suddenly, and without warning, that ledge and the mountainside wherefrom it obtruded, began to 
quiver as if to the beatings of a mighty heart. Small crumbs of rock, dislodged by the vibration, fell 
clattering down the cliff to sprinkle upon them as they crouched warily, eyes wide with alarm. 
"The mountain shakes, O Hurok!" cried Varak. "What shall we do?" 
The Apeman of Kor shook his head slowly. Nowhere within the reach of his eyes could he discern a 
cave opening or any other breach in the cliff wall wherein they might seek refuge from the hail of 
pebbles. And that this hail of pebbles might easily presage an avalanche was all too apparent to the 
Neanderthal. 

Were a landslide to occur above their precarious perch, the tide of boulders resultantly dislodged would 
certainly sweep them from the ledge, hurtling them to a swift and sudden doom far below. And there 
was nothing which they could do to prevent this from happening, being men and not gods. 
The warriors huddled upon the ledge peered about them fearfully. There was nowhere to go and naught 
that they could do. Whatever earthquake or volcanic perturbation might be the cause of the present 
danger, it was impossible to avoid the doom which yawned before them. 
"Look!" cried Warza, suddenly pointing. 
Hurok followed the direction in which his warrior was gesturing, and saw a portion of the cliff wall 
somewhat farther along the same ledge on which they crouched. At that point a massive outcropping of 
heavier, more weather-resistant ore thrust from the side of the cliff like a great sheltering hand. Were 
they to take refuge under that shelf of rock they might, just possibly, manage to avoid the rain of 
boulders which now they expectdd momentarily. 
"Come-follow me!" boomed Hurok. Rising, and clinging to the quivering wall, he moved with slow and 
careful steps down the declination of the ledge and toward the spot where it seemed they might crouch 
in safety under the protection of the protruding shelf of stone. One by one, in single file, his warriors 
followed his example. They perforce ignored the pebbles and bits of stone which fell upon their heads 
and shoulders like hail; they squinted their eyes against the stinging clouds of rock dust which hissed 
and swirled about them. 
And, far above their heads, they heard a mighty grinding, cracking, crunching sound, as of massive 
amounts of stone breaking loose from the upper peaks . . . . 
Now that Yualla had found Murg, or vice versa, the two fell into argument concerning which route to 
take from this point on. Murg, as we already know, heartily craved the protection which would be 
afforded by his rejoining the host of the two tribes. But, as soon as he whiningly revealed that Hurok and 
Jorn and the others had launched an expedition to free Eric Carstairs and the Professor from the hands of 
Zar, the adventure-loving heart of the blonde girl desired to join in the excitement. 
You must try to understand Yualla. Very seldom did the young spitfire manage to elude the stern and 
watchful gaze of her parents in order to enjoy an adventure of her own. Most of the time she was forced 
to submit patiently to being protected by those in whose care nature had placed her. Which did not mean 
that she submitted willingly, of course .... 
But now that, through no fault of her own, she had perhaps only temporarily escaped from the vigilance 
of her father and his mate, the girl impulsively foresaw no consequence more desirable than to seize the 
opportunity and join the small band of warriors on their adventure. 
She knew that her parents and friends would worry about her. And she also knew that they probably 

feared her slain and eaten by the pterodactyl. It was not that she intended to inflict suffering upon those 
who loved her . . . it was just that the temptation to play hooky for a little while was well nigh 
irresistible. 
Later, she would rejoin the tribe of Sothar, which would rejoice at her return. And she, somewhat 
guiltily, was counting on that thankfulness which would well up within the hearts of her family to 
forgive the small transgression which she now considered. 
"Yualla will journey to the mountains, to join with Hurok and the other warriors," the girl said 
determinedly. "Murg, however, may traverse the plain to rejoin the tribe of Sothar, if such be the wish of 
Murg." 
"Alone . . . " faltered the valiant Murg, lips dry, heart pounding. 
The cave-girl shrugged carelessly. 
"If Murg wishes to rejoin the Sotharians, then he must make his way back across the plains alone, for 
Yualla is determined to go forward toward the mountains," she said firmly. "The decision is up to 
Murg." 
Now, Murg all too clearly remembered the terrible encounter with the gigantic xunth, which had 
occurred on this very plain and at no particular distance, too. And he also understood that the dreaded 
Dragonmen patrolled this grassland-they who had seized and carried off Eric Carstairs and Professor 
Potter. And, while Murg certainly did not want to go back to face the scorn and contempt of the 
comrades he had deserted and from whom he had thieved, the only alternative seemed even grimmer. 
Having found companionship, Murg was exceedingly reluctant to abandon it. 
So Murg at length yielded to Yualla's determination, and began retracing his steps. Whining and 
whimpering every foot of the way, he trudged gloomily along behind the briskly striding girl toward the 
mountains. 
It seemed to Murg, poor Murg, that the Fates were conspiring against him. Everytime he managed to 
escape from one perilous situation, he was compelled to enter an even more terrible one. It certainly 
wasn't fair, not fair at all! 
All that long, interminable day, Murg slunk at the heels of Yualla, until after many hours, weariness and 
hunger overcame the eager zestfulness of the high-spirited girl. Her bow brought down game; a fire was 
built; they rested and fed, lacking only a source of fresh water to appease their physical needs. 
The meal consumed, Yualla stretched out under the humid skies of perpetual noon, closed her blue eyes, 
and promptly fell asleep. Hers was the deep and undisturbed slumber of a healthy young animal. 

Murg, however, tossed and turned, unable to compose his mind sufficiently to woo the slumbers which 
his weary and aching muscles clamored. 
From time to time, rolling over to seek a more comfortable place amid the soft grasses, the little man 
glanced accusingly over to where the girl lay sound asleep. Nor did the rise and fall of her firm pointed 
breasts elude the lingering gaze of Murg, nor the sleek length of her bare thighs and slender legs. 
It was then that an alternative to following Yualla's path occurred to Murg. If the girl could be bound, 
made subject to his will, helpless to oppose his slightest whim, he could go where he pleased without 
giving up the pleasures of companionship in peril. 
His eyes lingering on the slim body of the half-naked girl, it came into the mind of Murg that those 
companionable pleasures, in the present instance, might well prove headier and more exciting than had 
heretofore entered into his imagination . . . . 
Eyes gloating on the nude flesh of the girl, a cunning smile creasing his thin lips, Murg chuckled 
throatily, and began to creep toward the sleeping girl across the grasses .... 
Chapter 15 THE LIPS OF ZARYS 
When Ialys, the Empress's handmaiden, led me from the banqueting hall for what she had 
euphemistically described as "a private audience," I felt a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. I 
had a nasty hunch the audience was going to be a lot more than just "private"-intimate, would be more 
like it. 
The only thing that pleased me about the prospect was the venomous glance of purest hate Cromus shot 
after me as he watched me leave. I had the feeling that splendid fellow had designs in that direction, 
himself . . . and why not? What better way for an unscrupulous, ambitious officer to gain the coveted 
crown than by wooing and winning the beautiful young woman who currently wore the royal bauble? 
Not that the Divine Zarys was not worthy of being coveted completely for herself, with or without a 
crown. She was, truly, one of the most exquisite women I have ever had the good luck to set eyes 
upon .... 
This being the case, my reader may legitimately wonder why I felt so squeamish about the amorous 
tussle which I anticipated in the immediate offing. I spent a few moments rather pondering the same 
question, myself. After all, I have spent a lot of years knocking around some of the seamier corners of 
the world, and more than a few lovely ladies have succumbed to my raffish charm. I have never exactly 
taken vows of chastity, either. Why, then, did I more or less dread the coming "interview"? 
I guess it's because, being an old-fashioned man in some ways, I like to be the one that makes the passes. 

To be summoned into the royal bedchamber gets my back up; not that it has ever happened before, of 
course. It's rather like being sent for as one sends for a pet dog. 
And I don't intend to be anyone's lapdog. 
Ialys led me into a high, vaulted chamber whose walls were of fretted alabaster through which a 
lustrous, dim light shone softly, transforming the interior of the circular room into something which I 
imagine is very like the heart of a hollow pearl. 
Glowing fruits in bowls of hammered silver rested on low tabourets of rare woods. Wine breathed from 
an open amphora which sat in a bed of crushed ice. The floor, tiled entirely in three kinds of jade, was 
covered-not by carpeting, but by silken furs. Ornaments and fixtures glittered with cut jewels. The room 
breathed luxury from every pore: only unlimited power and unimaginable wealth could have fashioned 
such a nest. 
In the center of the chamber lay a sort of chaise longue draped with gleaming fabrics, and heaped with 
many small, plump cushions colored magenta, orange, canary, lavender, and pink. 
Thereon reposed the Empress. Her long-sleeved feasting gown had been discarded in favor of a 
voluminous and very transparent peignoir of fragile lace. Beneath this flimsy robe her tender flesh was 
bare: warm, naked womanflesh gleamed through the interstices of the woven lace. 
At the foot of this couch Ialys left me, with a single, demure smiling glance. I felt very foolish and 
awkward just standing there, but there was nowhere for me to sit, unless I wished to share the Empress's 
couch. And that was coming soon enough, I thought uncomfortably. 
She selected a ripe grape from a bowl near the chaise longue and popped the morsel of fruit between 
soft, rosy lips. All the while she looked me over with a slow, appraising glance that was thoughtful, even 
admiring, but somehow not degrading. 
"It is customary, Eric Carstairs," she said after a moment, "for lesser mortals to prostrate themselves in 
my presence." 
I opened my mouth to say something inane, or stubborn, or possibly both; but she stilled me with a lazy 
gesture. 
"However, I sense that you are not the sort of man who willingly prostrates himself, even before 
goddesses," she observed with a slight smile. 
I grinned back. 

"As a matter of fact, Majesty, I'm not." 
"Your candor is refreshing to ears soothed by flattery and lies," she said. "However, I could always have 
you beaten to your knees, as Cromus attempted earlier ...." 
"Yes, you could," I acknowledged. 
We studied each other for a time. Then: 
"I do not intend to do so," she remarked, "for men such as you I suspect to be rare. Let us speak frankly 
together, Eric Carstairs, setting aside for the time the contest of wills. I have need of men such as you-" 
"Frankly, I speak a lot better when I'm sitting down," I said, interrupting. For a long instant I thought I 
had gone too far, for her magnificent eyes flashed with imperious fury and her superb bosom heaved 
tumultuously. Then she calmed: her self-control was extraordinary for a personage who seldom if ever is 
required to use self-control. 
"You dare--!" 
I shrugged. In for a penny, in for a pound. 
"If you want a man to grovel and whine at your feet," I pointed out, "you have a banquet hall full of 
them back there. I thought you were looking for another sort of man." 
She threw back her head and uttered a peal of silvery laughter. Then, with a sinuous movement, she 
curled up like a kitten at one end of the chaise longue and patted the other with the tips of her fingers. 
"Sit, then, Eric Carstairs, if it will serve the better to loosen your tongue." 
I sat down. I accepted a goblet of wine. I drank thirstily. And all the while she studied me, darting 
oblique little glances at me from under the shadowings of her sooty lashes. 
"You interest me, Eric Carstairs . . . you are very unlike the other men that I have known hitherto. They 
are either cringing and cowardly, or greedy and self-serving, or direct and brutal." 
"Like Cromus," I said. 
"Like Cromus," she agreed with a smile. "How you pleased me when you felled him with your bare 
hands! It is a remarkable art; some time you must demonstrate it for me again." 
"The next time somebody tries to push me around, I'll do just that," I promised. 

"You are direct, but honest," she observed. "Self-serving, I suspect, but uncompromising. Capable of 
brutal actions, but able to be gentle, as I also suspect." 
I said nothing, flushing just a little, which, in the dim nacreous light, probably wasn't visible. It made me 
less than comfortable to be praised to my face; but, then, I'm not exactly sure I was being praised, come 
to think of it. 
"You are a barbarian, for all men of Zanthodon that are not the men of Zar are barbarians. But your 
culture and breeding are as obvious as are your physical attributes. Tell me, Eric Carstairs: the country 
from which you come, is it very distant from my kingdom?" 
"It's quite a ways away," I admitted. Which was only the honest truth, as the good old U.S.A. was a 
couple of hundred miles straight up and on the other side of the globe from this subterranean world 
under the Sahara. 
"And are all of the men in your country very much like yourself?" 
"Well, some are and some aren't. But there's an awful lot of them that are." 
"It must be an interesting country, then. And-. . . are the women of your homeland as beautiful as am I?" 
"Very, very few of them," I answered with complete and utter honesty. 
That pleased her! She smiled a lazy, languorous smile. 
"And is there a woman of your country who awaits your return . . . a mate, perhaps?" 
"There is not." 
"But when you first saw me, there enthroned in the Pasiphaeum, you seemed to know me at one look. 
And I read many emotions in your face . . ." 
I colored a little. 
"There is a young woman of the tribes," I explained, "to whom Your Majesty bears a strange 
resemblance . . ." 
"Indeed?" She wrinkled up her pert little nose fastidiously. "How odd! And you-love this young woman 
of the tribes?" 
Something cautioned me to tread carefully here. So I temporized just a little. 

"Well . . . she and I barely know each other . . . and we have been very long apart from each other," I 
said at last. 
It seemed to have been the sort of answer that Zarys wanted to hear, for a flash of satisfaction gleamed 
and was gone in her lustrous eyes. She relaxed with another of those lazy, catlike movements, and laid 
her hand upon my arm almost caressingly. 
"You are strong," she murmured softly,, "so strong and I have been so long among fools and 
weaklings . . . with a man such as yourself at my side, what an empire I could carve from this savage 
world!" 
Here it comes, I thought grimly to myself. 
Quite suddenly she was in my arms, her own slim arms twined about my neck, her panting breasts bare 
against my chest, and the sweetness of her perfume heady and intoxicating in my nostrils. 
But her lips were even sweeter . . . . 
She broke off the kiss, gasping for breath. I felt dizzy and half-drunk, torn between arousal and disgust. 
As she uncoiled from my embrace, she struck something from the tabouret at her side. It had been 
covered by a silken scarf. It fell to the tiled floor with a clang. 
I looked down and saw my .45 automatic. 
Part Four 
THE DIVINE ZARYS Chapter 16 LEAP FOR LIFE> 
As Hurok and his warriors sought safety beneath the sheltering crag above the ledge, the mountain 
shook and huge fragments of stone were torn loose and began to thunder down the mountainside in an 
avalanche. 
It was indescribably horrible to look up and see great, jagged boulders hurtling directly toward you. 
What made the experience all the more terrible was that there was hardly anything you could do to 
protect yourself from the spinning rocks as they bounced and slid and fell toward the narrow little ledge 
in a massive and deadly rain. 
As the ledge was too narrow to afford passage to men except in single file, one of the warriors had, of 
necessity, to be the last in line. And, as it happened, this was Jorn the Hunter. Already the landslide had 

very nearly reached the ledge, and Jorn knew that he could not reach the shelter of that rocky shelf 
which jutted out above the ledge in time to take refuge beneath it. 
There was truly nothing to do but jump. 
The urge for self-preservation is strong within the hearts of all men. But it is perhaps strongest within the 
breast of a savage warrior such as young Jorn. Even though to leap from the ledge was suicidal, it was 
the only action which the young Cro-Magnon could conceivably take. For the alternative was simply to 
stand there and dumbly wait for the landslide to sweep him to a gory death. And any action, however 
hopeless, was preferable to that. 
Jorn sprang from the ledge and fell as fell the heavy stones above him. He vanished from the sight of his 
comrades in an instant. 
As Jorn vanished, Hurok uttered an inarticulate cry: it was a roar of bestial rage and loss, quickly stifled. 
The other warriors who clung together under the sheltering slab said nothing, their faces drawn and 
grim. The loss of a comrade was a common enough occurrence in their primitive existence. But Jorn had 
made good friends, and all in their number liked the youth. 
The avalanche swept down about them in deafening thunder. Whirling clouds of bitter rock dust 
enveloped them. Fragments and splinters of stone pelted them. The ledge shuddered beneath where they 
crouched. Darkness closed upon them. The shelf of stone above their heads groaned to the impact of the 
landslide-which parted to either side of the projecting slab as a spur of rock parts asunder a waterfall. 
The air cleared; the thunder died in the distance below. 
No longer did the mountain shiver to the impulse of hidden volcanic forces. 
One by one they emerged from the shelter of the slab, coated with gray dust, shaken and bruised, but 
otherwise unharmed.. 
No word was spoken regarding the loss of Jorn the Hunter, for there was nothing to say. 
Looking above him, Hurok of Kor saw that the landslide had cracked and scored and pitted the surface 
of the cliff overhead. The climb, from this point on, would be swifter and easier than it had been before. 
Grunting a command, he reached up, grabbed the projecting rock which had saved them from certain 
death, and hoisted himself upon it. 
They began to climb. 

Garth and the tribe of Sothar marched across the plains in the direction in which the thakdol had borne 
away his daughter, Yualla. 
The scouts and huntsmen of the Sotharians ranged far afield, searching for any sign or token that the 
young girl was dead or alive. With keen eyes, alert and vigilant, they scanned the thick grasses, the 
muddy places, the many small, meandering streams, but without finding that which they sought. 
It seemed dreadfully likely to the chieftains of Garth's council that the thakdol had carried Yualla home 
to its nest, to feed its young upon her flesh. This was, after all, the way of hunting thakdols from time 
immemorial, and there occurred to them no reason why a thakdol should change its habits now. 
A realistic man-for monarchs should be practical, at very least-Garth inwardly agreed with the 
assessment of his counselors as to the gomad Yualla's grisly fate. But within his mighty breast there 
lurked an optimist, as well; and he determined that he would not give over the quest until positive proof 
had been found, or until such time had elapsed that the last faint hope of his daughter's survival 
dwindled and died. 
As they marched, they hunted and slew game. When they made their brief camps to rest and refresh 
themselves, the women of the tribe cooked the game thus taken, and they fed. 
These pauses to rest were, as I have said, brief, for time was of the essence-an apparent contradiction in 
a people innocent of the very concept of time, I know, but I can do no other than record here what they 
did without trying to interpret what I cannot understand or explain. 
Suffice it to say, some inward urge-call it an instinct of necessity-drove them constantly on, and they 
paused to rest only when they must. In a world without beasts to ride, where the remotest ancestor of the 
horse is a small plump mammal no bigger than a collie, men must perforce travel on what used to be 
called shank's mare. They must walk. 
With every waking period of the march, the barrier of mountains known as the Walls of Zar crept nearer. 
After every sleep, they arose to find the mountains before them still tantalizingly distant, but no more 
distant than the "night" before. 
And somewhere among those fang-like peaks, in an untidy nest littered with thakdol droppings, might 
repose the gnawed bones of young Yualla. 
Conversely, somewhere amid that wilderness of jagged and cloven rock, she might well be wanderinglost, 
alone, hungry and defenseless, having by some miracle survived the claws and fangs of the 
pterodactyl. 
It was that hope which drove them on. 

Unfortunately for the warriors of Sothar, the people of the Scarlet City did not depend upon the 
mountainous barrier alone to protect them from the savage tribes and monsters which shared this world 
with them. 
For these plains were patrolled by the Dragonmen, that guard of Zarian males who rode mounted on 
great, stalking dinosaurs tamed by the mysterious telepathic crystals which the wizards of Zar had long 
ages ago perfected. 
They were not numerous, these patrols, but numbers are not needed when you ride upon the backs of 
monster reptiles thirty feet in length. They tended to follow no fixed patrol routes, but to trace huge, 
random circles before the walls of Zar. And on one of these circuitous rides, the Dragonmen espied-still 
a great way off, but steadily coming nearer-the Sotharian host. 
As things turned out, it was the squadron of Captain Raphad which discovered the approach of the 
Sotharians. This same officer, you will recall, had been responsible for the capture of Xask, Professor 
Potter, and myself, although there is a considerable difference between seizing two or three men, and 
facing a pitched battle against hundreds of stout warriors. 
Whereas the folk of Zar, the city-dwellers, sheltering behind that mighty range of mountains, guarded 
from harm by their vigilant patrols of Dragonmen, tended to dismiss the Cro-Magnon tribes as mere 
ignorant, naked, superstitious savages-Raphad knew better. He had faced and fought the blond 
barbarians before, and he knew and respected their fighting prowess and dauntless courage. 
While the Cro-Magnon warriors were fighting men of superb skill and bravery, the one thing they 
lacked, to Raphad's way of thinking, was discipline. Like all savages, the Cro-Magnon tribesmen fought 
individually, chieftains taking a stand surrounded by their own warriors, rather than presenting a united 
front as was the custom among civilized nations such as the ancient Minoan colony. 
Raphad clambered up the long neck to the head of his reptilian mount, and from that lofty vantage point 
scanned the approaching host. He could not count individuals from such a distance, but it was obvious to 
him that the Cro-Magnons were to be numbered in the hundreds. 
While many of these would be women and children, of course, this did little to lessen the advantage in 
numbers which the strangers held over his squadron. For the blond savages are taught the cruel arts of 
survival from their mothers' breasts, and even the women and older children make dangerous and 
formidable adversaries in an open conflict. 
As ever, Raphad counted upon the fear which his monster saurians inspired in the breasts of the 
barbarians to weigh mightily in his favor. Always, on previous encounters, had this proven greatly to his 
advantage, and doubtless it would do so now. 
For the mighty dinosaurs are the most fearsome and enormous brutes the world has ever known, and the 

Cro-Magnon and Neanderthal warriors give them wide berth, avoiding them if at all possible. This is 
only common sense, when you find yourself face to face with something weighing many tons. 
Of course, the giant lizards upon which Captain Raphad and his scouts were mounted were not meateating 
predators, but were instead docile and relatively harmless vegetarians. But the Cro-Magnons 
rarely had the leisure to differentiate between the meat-eaters and the grass-eaters, preferring to avoid 
anything taller than the trees. 
And even a placid vegetarian the size of a two-story house can tread men to slime underfoot .... 
Therefore, without particular trepidation, Raphad ordered his men forward so as to meet the Sotharians 
face to face. 
Even as Raphad spied from afar the Sotharians, so of course did the Sotharians spy from afar the 
Zarians. In fact, they saw the Dragonmen first, mounted, as they were, on the monstrous reptiles. 
Garth of Sothar set his jaw grimly. That these were foemen was certain: in his savage world, all 
strangers are considered enemies, until proven otherwise. 
And he greatly feared the huge lumbering brutes upon which the slender olive-skinned men were so 
curiously mounted, and which they had so mysteriously under their control. 
Nevertheless, he drew up his men for battle, positioning the women and children in the rear with the 
baggage. His fighting chieftains each sought advantage of the best ground possible-a knoll or hillock, or 
a hedgy place of concealment, with their warriors ranged about them, shields of tanned hide sheltering 
their bodies, spears and axes and bows at the ready. 
As there seemed to be no way to avoid the encounter, then let it come: that was Garth's fatalistic 
philosophy. 
He stood, massive arms folded upon his mighty chest, and watched the line of Dragonmen approach 
with slow and ponderous tread .... 
Chapter 17 WHEN ZARYS COMMAND 
There was no question about it-it was my pistol. There could not possibly be two Colt .45's here in the 
Underground World! 
Which meant that Xask-that wily schemer!-had gotten to the Empress at some point, and had told her of 
the power of my "thunder-weapon," as the Zanthodonians called it. This meant that all of the other tribes 
and nations of Zanthodon were in mighty big trouble. For Zarys would not have been Zarys had she not 

lusted to extend her empire to cover as much of the subterranean world as could be conquered. 
"You recognize the weapon, do you not?" Zarys demanded, with one of those lightning changes of mood 
that I was to discover part of her mercurial makeup. I acknowledged the fact, as there was nothing to be 
gained by a pretense of ignorance. 
"And is it truly as terrible as Xask has described?" she pressed. 
"Terrible enough," I admitted. 
"And did he truly slay a gigantic drunth with your thunder-weapon?" she inquired sharply. 
I shrugged. "As to that, Majesty, I cannot say, for I did not see him do it." Which was only the honest 
truth, after all. 
"Xask has told me of the drunth he slew with a single stroke of lightning from your device," she said. 
Now, a drunth is quite a hefty critter, to be sure. Professor Potter believes it to be the same as the 
stegosaurus, and it's bigger than a fire engine. So if Xask really did fell a drunth with a single shot, it 
must have been pure and simple luck. 
And I said as much to Zarys. 
She seemed satisfied, purring with pleasure, fondling the automatic sensuously. I would have snatched it 
from her if I had dared, but something in the demure glance she gave me told me that guards were 
positioned nearby-behind the wall-hangings, perhaps, or in niches behind that screen of carved and lacy 
alabaster. 
For one moment I thought of taking the gun and holding Zarys as a hostage, forcing her to permit our 
escape from the city. But where, in the winding and labyrinthine ways of the Scarlet City was the 
Professor right now-for I certainly could not leave without him. 
No, this was not the time to try for an escape. There were too many things I needed to know, like how to 
get out of the city, for instance, and how to get across the mountains. So I held off, if only for a while, 
cursing my faintheartedness. 
This opportunity might never come again, I grimly knew. 
Zarys touched a chime. A single bell-like note rang sweetly. The handmaiden, Ialys, entered and knelt 
by the couch to touch her brows against the bare feet of her Empress. 

Zarys indicated the automatic. 
"Show me," she said. 
I blinked, astounded. 
"How-?" 
She nudged Ialys with the toes of one rosy foot. 
"Kill this slave," she said, not even glancing down at the girl who knelt on the furs of the floor. 
I set my jaw truculently. 
"I don't murder people in cold blood," I snapped. "Especially not people who have never harmed me!" 
Temper flared in her magnificent eyes. 
"When Zarys commands, lesser mortals obey!" 
"Not this lesser mortal, lady," I growled. From her kneeling position at the Empress's feet, Ialys shot me 
one unreadable glance in which astonishment, gratitude, and some third emotion were mingled. 
Her superb breasts heaving with the tumult of her emotions, the Empress stared at me as if trying to 
conquer my will by her will alone. I matched her stare for stare, though inwardly I had some qualms 
about getting out of this spot with a whole skin. 
Then her mood changed again, and she became playful. 
"If I summon Xask, will you demonstrate your weapon upon him?" she demanded with a faint smile. 
Well, I was tempted. I admit it. Xask was certainly no friend of mine; in fact, I owed him a couple right 
in the chops. On the other hand, what I had already said was perfectly true. I will kill an enemy in 
combat any way I can, sure. I will kill to save a friend, of course. I will kill to protect a woman, beyond 
question. But I have never in my life murdered anybody in cold blood, and I didn't intend to start here. 
Certainly not just to impress a painted temptress like Zarys of Zar .... 
I shook my head. Whether or not the gesture is understood in the Scarlet City, she must have been able 
to read the answer in my face. 

She tapped her fingers on the carven arm of the couch, studying me meditatively. 
"I could have you whipped, or beaten," she remarked. 
"So you could," I growled. 
"Why are you so stubborn?" 
I had to laugh, although it came out more like a snarl. 
"A few minutes ago you were praising me for being uncompromising," I reminded her. "Now you want 
to whip me for being uncompromising. Doesn't make much sense to me!" 
She must have agreed with me, in spite of herself, for a mischievous twinkle shone in the depths of her 
eyes, and the corners of her lips twitched in a brief half-smile. 
"Well . . . we shall discuss these and other matters further, at a later time," drawled the Empress lazily, 
stretching like a cat and putting away the automatic-very carefully, I noticed. 
Ialys rose to her feet and led me from the chamber that was like a hollowed pearl. 
I was almost trembling with exhaustion from that interview, but somehow I had gotten away with it. 
Maybe the Divine Zarys rather liked to be faced up to and denied something . . . after all, it must have 
been a novel experience for her! 
At first, Jorn fell like a stone, turning end over end: The speed of his descent was such that the wind tore 
the breath from his lungs, and the boy knew that long before he could be hurtled to death against the 
rocky floor beneath he would likely perish of suffocation. 
To hurl from a height to dash your brains out against jagged rocks is a cruel death, to be sure. But to die 
as young as Jorn the Hunter, with most of your life still ahead of you in the womb of the unborn future, 
is doubly cruel .... 
The wind whipped his eyes savagely, making them water. Squinting against the gale, Jorn suddenly 
spied the glimmer of a mysterious blueness beneath him, as the floor of the plain came rushing up 
toward him 
Then the sheer instinct for survival took over. 
He extended his legs behind him, pressing them together. He pointed his arms over his head, hands 

pressed palm to palm. And what had been a whirling fall turned into a perfect dive. 
Cold water struck him a numbing blow. He cleaved the surface, stunned from the impact, and touched 
the muddy bottom of the little mountain lake that had broken his fall. 
The icy shock of the water about him roused him from his state of momentary unconsciousness. Kicking 
against the lake bottom, he floundered clumsily back to the surface again. 
All about him, heavy boulders fell, churning the surface of the lake into exploding froth. 
Sucking air into starved lungs, he dove again, and swam toward the nearest shore. To every side, rocks 
sank through the muddy water. One grazed his shoulder, another scraped against his leg. But luckily, the 
impact of striking the lake surface had broken the fall of the rocks as it had broken his, and they sank 
through the water too slowly for these collisions to do him any particular harm. 
He dragged himself out upon a rocky shelf and lay there, gasping for breath. 
He felt pummeled and bruised, and he ached in every muscle known to anatomy. Groggy, shaken; boneweary-
yet, miraculously, he still lived! 
After a brief rest, Jorn felt much recovered from his narrow scrape with doom. 
The hot, humid air of Zanthodon dried his flesh and warmed the chill from his bones. He had taken no 
injury from his fall into the lake, although a split second one way or another and the impact could easily 
have snapped his spine or broken his legs. 
Fortune seemed to be smiling upon Jorn the Hunter. 
When he felt better enough to move, the boy looked around, taking stock of his situation. 
All of his weapons had been lost in the fall; he retained nothing of his accouterments but the scrap of fur 
wound about his loins, the thong which bound the loin-covering to his lean waist, and his sandals. 
Above him, lifted the mountain. Jorn groaned within him at the thought of attempting to climb that 
height again, especially in his present bruised and shaken condition. Food would do much to restore him 
to his full strength and alertness, but where could he find anything to kill, here in this rocky wilderness 
among the foothills? 
He headed out upon the grassy plains, having found a sharp splinter of rock, hoping to make a lucky kill. 
Instead, he saw someone who was about the last person in all the world whom he could have expected to 

see .... 
Chapter 18 THE CUNNING OF MASK 
One moment Yualla was sound asleep, deep in the innocent slumbers of the young and healthy-the next 
instant she was shocked awake. To find herself crushed under the panting weight of Murg! 
The scrawny little man writhed atop her, striving with one hand to pin her wrists above her head while 
with his other hand he fumbled, pawing at her naked breasts, with his hot breath searing her face as his 
slobbering lips sought her mouth. 
The girl was frightened, and amazed. Rape was not a crime unknown to her primitive society, but it was 
a rare one, truly. The tribe of Sothar was small and inbred so that nearly every male was related, 
however distantly, to nearly every female-cousins, second and third cousins, and so on. And in nearly 
every society known to man, incest has been the most loathsome and despicable of crimes. 
Yualla, however, remained frozen by shock and surprise for moments only. The gasping, grunting 
creature which wriggled atop her, clawing at the brief garment about her loins, was thin and scrawny. 
And he was no fighting man, was Murg. So writhing to one side, turning her head away from Murg's 
foul-breathed kisses, the lithe jungle girl raised one leg sharply between the legs of her assailant. Her 
smoothly muscled thigh caught him a shrewd blow in the crotch-and, in the same instant, her pointed 
elbow struck the little man in the breast, just below the heart, where a cluster of ganglia lie which are 
extremely sensitive. 
Murg voiced a strangled yelp. His face turned the unwholesome hue of dirty milk. Gagging and retching, 
he fell aside, clutching himself and moaning in sick pain. For a time he was unable to do aught else but 
roll about the grassy ground, grasping at his injured parts and groaning at the well-nigh intolerable pain. 
Erelong, when he was sufficiently recovered from the girl's blows to become cognizant of his 
surroundings once again, he peered up to see Yualla standing alertly near, her clear eyes fierce with cold 
fury, her lovely features hard and grim. And in her tanned, capable hands she held her hunting bow, a 
long arrow nocked and pointed unwaveringly at his heart. 
"M-mercy, my Princess!" he babbled, thoroughly frightened and fearing his death was impending. 
"Forgive poor, crazed Murg, whom your beauty has driven mad-but only for a moment!" he added 
hastily, as the thought struck him that the jungle girl might well decide to put him out of his misery if 
she truly believed him crazed. 
"Murg knew very well what he was attempting to do," said the girl in level tones, eyes hard and 
unforgiving. "And Murg knows very well what Yualla's sire, the mighty Garth, would do to him in 
punishment for his daring to put his dirty paws upon the person of the gomad of Sothar-" 

Murg thought about that for a moment, remembering the burly shoulders and deep chest and massive 
thews of the High Chief. And he licked dry lips uneasily, shuddering at the thought of the terrible 
vengeance Garth would extract from his hide. 
"Do not kill poor Murg," he babbled fearfully. "Make him your slave, merciful lady, to fetch and carry 
for you, to toil and labor, and to fight valiantly in your behalf. . . " 
At that, Yualla had trouble repressing a smile. The very thought of Murg, that whining and treacherous 
little coward, doing anything in a fight besides trying to run away from it, brought the element of humor 
into the situation. 
"Very well, perhaps, after all, Yualla will permit the miserable Murg to live a little longer," the girl said, 
beginning to relent a little. "Turn over on your face and put your hands together behind your back." 
"The beautiful Princess would not slay poor old Murg from behind, surely?" whimpered the little man 
cautiously. 
She shook her head, blond mane tousling about bare, tanned shoulders. "Not I; but Yualla can hardly 
trust Murg unless his hands are bound. Now, do as I say, or we shall end this matter here and now, and 
the grass of the plains will drink the thin, weak blood of the cowardly Murg!" 
Hastily, Murg rolled over and pressed his face into the meadow grass, while Yualla knelt and bound his 
wrists together in the small of his back, using a spare bowstring in lieu of a rope of woven grass. Then 
she kicked him to his feet. 
"Now we shall continue on our way, as Yualla no longer feels the need of sleep, and the quicker we 
traverse the distance between this place and the mountains, the sooner we shall join the warriors of 
Sothar and Thandar who search for Eric Carstairs," she said. 
And without further speech, she set off over the plain, in rapid, long-legged stride, without looking back. 
The unhappy Murg must perforce scramble to his feet and trot along after her; nor did he dare whine or 
complain about the pace which she had set. For were she to abandon him here like this, bound and 
helpless and without any weapon, he would fall prey to the first monstrous predator who came his way. 
Speaking of Murg reminds me of that other wily and cunning traitor, Xask, former vizier of Kor and 
exile of the Scarlet City. The differences between the two men are only a matter of degree, save that 
Xask was far more clever than Murg, and less tempted by lust, and certainly no coward. 
Both Xask and Murg were driven by self-interest, but Xask was willing to take great risks to attain the 
power he sought, while Murg simply hungered for a safe, snug life without danger. To have placed 
himself once again within the power of Zar was a hazardous and dangerous risk, but it was one which 
Xask had gladly taken, for the stakes were high. No sooner had he been brought within the palace

citadel which crowned the heights of the island-city, than Xask sought a private audience with the 
Empress who had condemned him to outlawry and exile. Curious as to what had impelled him to return 
to the kingdom which he was forbidden to enter upon pain of execution, Zarys permitted the interview. 
She listened dubiously to his fantastic account of the powers of the thunder-weapon, and, with great 
skepticism, to his protestations of loyalty. Women such as Zarys are not likely to be taken in by men 
such as Xask, and the two thoroughly understood one another. It did not seem to Zarys that Xask could 
possibly be lying about the titanic power of the weapon, for his claim could swiftly be exposed as a lie 
by a simple demonstration. Therefore, his claims as to its effectiveness must, after all, be true, no matter 
how fantastic they might sound. 
Zarys knew exactly what Xask hoped to gain by delivering the secret of the thunder-weapon into her 
hands: he hoped to regain in full the power and authority which he had lost when his plots against her 
throne had been exposed. Having enjoyed the ultimate in power since she was a child, Zarys knew very 
well what a heady intoxicant it was, and she was more than willing to restore Xask to his former position 
of influence if he could, indeed, render up the secret of the weapon. 
Power and authority and influence with the throne-these are the payments whereby queens purchase the 
service of intelligent and gifted men. But this time, Zarys determined to keep a careful watch on Xask. 
There would be no more plots against her, not a second time. 
The two understood each other perfectly. Xask, given the freedom of the palace, wasted no time in 
seeking out the sumptuous apartments where Professor Potter and Eric Carstairs had been lodged. He 
found only the Professor in residence, for I was then awaiting my own private audience with Her Nibs. 
The scrawny scientist was reclining blissfully on a couch strewn with silken stuffs, nibbling on grapes, 
while giggling slave girls trimmed and perfumed his stiff little spike of snowy beard and the wisps 
which fringed his balding dome, buffed his fingernails, and shaved his lean, bestubbled cheeks. 
Professor Potter seemed to be enjoying himself hugely; but, then, after weeks and months spent 
tramping through the jungles, crawling through noisome caverns, sloshing about in swamps, and 
otherwise enduring the discomforts of the wilderness life, why shouldn't a few of the amenities of 
civilization have pleased him? 
Xask wasted no time in getting directly to the point. The wily Zarian knew almost by instinct when to be 
threatening, when to be conciliatory, and when to appeal to reason. On this occasion, he assumed the 
outward trappings of complete honesty, somewhat leavened with urgency and directness. 
"I know that you and your friend dislike me and distrust me," he began, for he could read the older man's 
suspicions in the distrustful gaze with which the Professor examined him. "And, in all truth, my friend, 
we have been at odds in the past. Now, however, our interests coincide, and I must admit to a certain 
guiltiness. It is not impossible that, had I not interfered with you and Eric Carstairs, neither of you would 
presently find yourselves immured in this silken dungeon." 

"I am glad to hear you have the honesty to admit to your treacheries," sniffed the Professor. "But I have 
no reason to presume that the leopard has changed his spots-oh, you know what I mean!-and I warn you, 
my friend, that you will not find Percival P. Potter, Ph.D., as easy to befool as you found Fumio and One- 
Eye-!" 
"I am certain of that," said Xask, his beautiful orator's voice ringing with sincerity. "For I well know 
that, in your native land, wherever that may be, you are recognized as a great savant, revered for his 
wisdom and his scholarly attainments." 
I suppose the Professor would not have been completely human had he not relaxed a little at this point, 
basking in praise which, to be frank, he believed honestly earned. Xask pressed on, sensing his 
momentary advantage. 
"It was, as you know, my intention to obtain from yourself and your fine young friend the secrets of the 
thunderweapon so as to present them before the throne of the Divine Zarys," he said. "What you do not, 
however, realize, is my reason for wishing to obtain those secrets. You will have assumed, I am afraid, 
that it was simple greed and the cold ambition which leads to the lust for power." 
"Well, ah, to be honest . . . ." 
"Nothing could be further from the truth!" declared Xask. "I am a patriot, sir! My one desire is to serve 
my Empress, and my fellow countrymen, and to preserve them from danger and destruction, inasmuch 
as it is within my power to do so. Here you see a dying people of dwindling power who have attained to 
the superior heights of urban civilization, although ringed about with savages and terrible beasts. The 
warlike spirit of our conquering ancestors has long ago deserted us; our legions weaken, not only in 
numbers but in morale and fighting skills. It is the thunder-weapon and the thunder-weapon alone which 
may sustain us, in a hostile and savage world." 
"Um," said the Professor. 
"I assume that the level of your civilization is superior to our own," said Xask cunningly. "For to invent 
such a device as the thunder-weapon presupposes an advanced culture of great artisans and scholars and 
philosophers. But I somehow feel inwardly convinced that your people are only more advanced in 
degree above my own, and that we are not all that terribly far behind you: tell me, sir, am I not close to 
the truth?" 
Professor Potter licked his lips, thinking of New Crete which, with its flush toilets and hot and cold 
running water, was a considerably higher civilization than certain rural towns in Mississippi and 
Alabama which he had visited, and which lacked these same amenities to a noticeable degree. 
"Well, ah, to tell the truth," he muttered lamely. 

Xask smiled. The elderly outlander might be more learned than he in strange skills and curious lore, but 
he was as easily coerced as any other human mortal whom Xask had yet encountered. 
Then he told the Professor what he wanted him to do. 
Chapter 19 THE HUNTER AND THE HUNTED 
Garth watched grimly as the half-circle of Zarian guards approached the place where his host had taken 
its stand. He did not fear the olive-hued, strangely clothed little men, for they were few in numbers, slim 
and short of build, lightly armed. What he did fear was the tremendous beasts they rode, which he knew 
as thodars; Professor Potter might have identified them as a subspecies of brontosaurus, smaller and 
lighter than a true brontosaurus, and adapted to life on the plains rather than in the swamps and marshes, 
but still formidable and mighty beasts, with their long, snaky necks, barrel bodies, and long tapering 
tails. 
They were coated in a slick, leathery hide a dark greenish-gray in coloration, paling to yellowish-white 
on the underside and belly. They moved along on huge, bowed legs as thick around as tree trunks, 
ending in splayed feet whose ponderous tread shook the earth. They must have weighed tons, and brave 
indeed would be the warrior willing to face them in battle. 
The psychological advantage of taming and riding the great thodars was an obvious one. Professor 
Potter, had he been present to watch the effect these ponderous, lumbering reptiles had on the brave and 
stalwart Cro-Magnon fighting men, might well have been reminded of the devastating psychological 
impact which the ancient Greeks and Romans suffered every time they faced in battle Eastern armies 
mounted on Indian elephants. The only difference here was that the thodars were at least five times the 
size and weight of the largest Indian elephant ever seen. 
The small Zarian with the gilded cuirass who rode the lead thodar and who was probably Captain 
Raphad, as his brows were crowned with the orichalcum band which bore the telephathic crystal which 
controlled the giant brutes, uttered a shrill command in a language hitherto unheard by the men of 
Sothar. At once, and in perfect order, the riders urged their beasts into something which resembled a 
charge in slow motion. 
The ground literally trembled under the mighty feet of the advancing circle of thodars. Warrior of Sothar 
glanced at warrior of Sothar; men paled, licked lips suddenly dry, but no one broke and ran. 
"We do not stand a chance, my Omad," said one of Garth's chieftains who stood near. No fear was 
audible in his quiet tones, only a somber hopelessness. 
Garth considered, frowning. Behind his majestic brows, his alert and agile mind raced. For what the 
chieftain had said was perfectly true: there was no hope of slaying beasts so mighty as these. Bristling 

with a score of spears, they would still remain on their feet and moving forward. 
Suddenly, out of nowhere, inspiration struck. Garth, although a primitive Cro-Magnon savage, was a 
great leader of men in peace and in war; and great leaders have at least one thing in common, that being 
the ability to devise bold new methods of warfare. Alexander, Napoleon, Caesar, Hannibal, all have 
possessed this uncanny knack, and triumphed over incredible numbers. Which is why we remember 
them as great leaders, rather than the foes, like Vercingetorix and Darius, whom they soundly defeated! 
"Bowmen! Pick off the riders! Do not attempt to slay the thodars, nor even to injure them!" he cried in a 
great voice like a roll of thunder. 
The wisdom of Garth's words instantly struck new courage and fortitude into the hearts of his wavering 
men. All knew the thodars to be placid and docile grass-eaters rather than dangerous carnivores. With 
their riders slain, the beasts might very well wander off to crop the meadow grasses, indifferent to the 
presence of the Sotharians. 
Bows were strung and lifted, feathered bows were bent until featured tips touched the earlobes of the 
archers. With a taut, humming song, long straight shafts were loosed and barbed death struck the 
advancing reptiles. 
And the first arrow caught Captain Raphad straight between the eyes. . . 
Yualla and Murg continued on across the plains, drawing ever nearer to the range of mountains known 
as the Walls of Zar. The girl maintained a rapid, limber, space-eating stride, for she was impatient to join 
forces with Hurok and the other warriors, and reluctant to miss any of the excitement of this adventure 
which she had impulsively determined to share. 
Murg, his bony wrists lashed together behind his back, a noose about his throat, must perforce trot along 
behind the cave-girl. This was because she bore one end of the tether about his neck in her small, 
capable fist. If he failed to keep up with her, he might well be strangled. 
Or so Murg feared. Actually, the girl was too tenderhearted (at least as concerned enemies she viewed 
with contempt, like Murg) to have let the miserable little man strangle. 
Fortunately for Yualla and Murg few beasts more dangerous than the plump, timid, and edible little uld 
roamed the plains this close to the Walls of Zar, for the larger and more ferocious predators were held at 
bay for fear of the mighty thodars. Although they are not vegetarians and not carnivores, the brontosaurs 
are so large and heavy that they can break the backs of lesser reptiles or even of the mighty mastodons 
and woolly mammoths by simply stepping on them-which reminds me of the time a triceratops had the 
Professor and me treed, during our first day or so in Zanthodon, and got into a fight with a woolly 
mammoth, which promptly broke the back of the triceratops in the very manner I have just described. 

Of all the beasts of Zanthodon the Underground World, one of the most fearless, as it is one of the most 
ferocious, is the mighty vandar or sabertooth tiger. Twice the size of the Bengal tigers of the Upper 
World is this sleek, tawny, vicious brute, whose powerful jaws, armed with the formidable footlong 
fangs which give the monster its name, make it a deadly adversary even for the great saurians who share 
the jungle world with it. 
One particular vandar, fully grown and weighing more than a percheron, was roaming the grasslands 
hungrily this day. The jungles which bordered the northern plains to the south were empty of game, and 
hunger gnawed at the vitals of the giant cat. For many wakes it had not made its kill and now, goaded 
almost to the point of madness by the pangs of starvation, it had ventured out onto the broad plains in 
search of game. Doubtless, its small but cunning brain was teeming with images of the plump, 
inoffensive, and succulent uld which it knew were to be found aplenty amid the grassy plains beyond the 
jungle's verge. 
That these plains were ruled by the little olive-hued men who rode upon the feared and mighty thodars 
was well known to the sabertooth. This knowledge suggested caution to the predator; but hunger has a 
logic which can supercede even knowledge. And, were the vandar to have been capable of human 
reason, it might well have reasoned thus: better to die swiftly and cleanly beneath the tread of the thodar, 
than to die meanly by inches from starvation. 
Mad with hunger though it was, the vandar crept furtively upon the plains into the region of low hills 
and ravines which bordered upon the mountains. Here the ponderous, slow-moving thodars could not 
move about, save in certain pathways. By avoiding those paths, which, of course, savored pungently of 
the spoor and droppings of the huge reptiles, the vandar hoped to avoid a confrontation. 
Keeping well to the shadows, clambering lithely over the boulders and broken rocks, the great cat glided 
through the hills, seeking the borders of the open plain. It paused atop a rounded knoll to taste the humid 
breeze with twitching, sensitive nostrils. The oily smell of thodars was upon the wind, for they were 
abroad today, tracking the Sotharian tribes. But the mouth-watering odors of tender uld also rode upon 
the brisk winds, and the sabertooth slavered as it caught the scent. 
Abandoning cover, the great cat sprang down and slunk into the thickly grown meadow grass. As it 
prowled, snuffling the ground for uld spoor, another odor even more inviting came to its nostrils. 
The scent of human flesh . . . 
The sabertooth had made human kills before, and in one corner of its bestial brain it warily knew that 
two-legged prey most often went armed with sharp and heavy rocks fastened in some mysterious fashion 
to the end of short sticks, or with throwing-sticks which were long and sharply pointed and could 
somehow kill from a distance. 
But this knowledge lurked in one corner of the vandar's brain only, and all the rest of that organ was 

possessed to the point of madness by hunger. And so overwhelming had that hunger become by now that 
it drowned out all caution in the mind of the famished supertiger. 
It tested the breeze, and found that it did not have to track this new game, for the game was advancing 
upon it with swift and eager strides. 
The striped cat easily concealed itself in the cover of the long grasses, and crouched, belly to the earth, 
tail-tip twitching, ready to launch upon its terrible and irresistible charge. 
The earth trembled slightly beneath its body, beating like a drum from the impact of striding human feet. 
The vibration was so slight that only a canny predator might have caught and interpreted it, but the 
vandar was full-grown, a veteran fighter, an experienced hunter, and could read that faint, far drumming 
with ease. 
It crouched, tension gathering in the coiled and steely muscles of its lean hindquarters. 
The game was only instants away now, and the vandar was crouched in the concealing grasses directly 
in its path .... 
Yualla came across the grasses toward the first of the hills with a light, rapid pace, poor Murg wheezing 
and puffing as he trotted along in her wake. 
The girl did not even have time to scream as the thick grasses parted to reveal a hideous face distorted in 
a snarl of fury. 
In the next instant a tawny form hurtled upon her like a furry thunderbolt. 
Chapter 20 THEY REACH ZAR 
Hurok stood, heavy arms folded upon his hairy breast, and stared down thoughtfully into the valley of 
the inland sea. There before him stretched the immensity of Zar, the Scarlet City of the Minoans. And 
what a spectacle it was! 
Never in all of his days had the mighty Neanderthal of Kor- seen a city. Never had he even imagined 
one. All he knew was Kor, land of the Apemen, with its caves burrowed into the cliffs, and the jungle 
country of Thandar and the other Cro-Magnon nations, and the cavern-city of the Gorpaks and the 
ghastly Sluaggh. 
He was impressed in spite of himself, was Hurok the Apeman. The massive structures were obviously 
man-made, looming two or three stories into the air, spired with squat, four-sided towers and slim 
obelisks. Toward the central parts of the Scarlet City loomed the palace citadel atop its high place, 

perhaps the most stupendous mass of masonry ever erected within Zanthodon the Underground World. 
Dim, small eyes peering and blinking beneath the heavy shelf of his bony brows, the apelike 
Neanderthal slowly looked over the city . . . the streets and boulevards and avenues and narrow, dark 
alleys between the looming piles of masonry . . . the squares and forums and bazaars, like open glades or 
clearings amid the forest of buildings . . . the palaces and temples, mansions and warehouses, fortresses 
and barracks . . . and, beyond, the vast, walled, seatringed oval that was the mighty arena . . . . 
Fantastic and bizarre were the decorations which ornamented the city: friezes and mosaics, tapestries 
and banners, statues and idols and stone monsters, carven masks and leering dragons, the glitter of 
glazed tile, the rich mingling of brazen colors flaunting their brilliance back in the face of daylight . . . 
the throng which surged to and fro in the streets, ragged beggars whining for alms, fat-bellied merchants 
squatting on bits of carpet under striped awnings, guardsmen alert and vigilant atop the towers, daylight 
flashing from gilt helm and spear-blade and trident . . . veiled women glimpsed in swinging palanquins 
borne on the brawny shoulders of blond slaves . . . fountains playing, rooftop gardens .... 
And upon the breast of the inland sea itself, the watery moat which guarded Zar from its enemies no less 
staunchly than did the sheltering wall of mountains, ships bobbed at anchor: pleasure craft glided to and 
fro, laden with blossoms and girls . . . stern, brass-beaked war triremes lashed to the end of stone 
piers . . . merchant ships, as fatbellied as their owners, plied the bright waters, hulls crammed with casks 
of red wine and wild honey, chests of gems and worked brass and carven ivory hewn from the curlicue 
tusks of mammoths, bales of cotton, rolled-up carpets, tin pots, ripe fruits, bales of golden grain- 
Hurok blinked, and rubbed his eyes, dazed and bedazzled at the complexity, the colors, the sheer, 
inconceivable newness of so much in the busy, bustling, gaudy, magnificent scene which stretched far 
beneath where he stood on the farther slopes of the mountain range. 
Behind and about him, his warriors crouched and stared, with much the same awe and amazement that 
filled his mighty breast. For the Cro-Magnon warriors of Sothar and distant Thandar dwelt, for the better 
part, in bamboo huts or long, rambling, low-roofed structures which resembled log cabins. Only the 
High House of the Omad was taller, a two-storied building which had heretofore seemed to their simple 
imaginations the most impressive structures of which human hands were capable. 
And now they looked for the first time upon one of the last cities in the world wherein the grandeur and 
might of the ancient world could still be seen. Only, perhaps, in the ruins of Pompeii or Knossos could 
the magnificence of the mighty past be glimpsed, and only in part, the gaps in those ruins pieced 
together by the magic of imagination. But here was one of the oldest cities of the world, surviving in all 
its fantastic richness and color! 
"O Hurok," muttered Varak from his side in dazed, low tones, "how can we ever hope to find Eric 
Carstairs and the old man in all of . . . that?" 

The Neanderthal shook his heavy, low-browed head ponderously, choosing silence over speech. He 
could not have said what he had expected to find-a valley whose cliff walls were pocked by caves, 
perhaps, or a palisade-walled cluster of wood huts, such as he had seen on slave-raiding expeditions into 
Thandar and Gorad and Numitor and other Cro-Magnon lands. 
But he could never have imagined anything like this. 
"What shall we do, my chieftain?" muttered Erdon helplessly, from where he stood beside his brother-inarms, 
Ragor. "We are six warriors against many, many times that number. How can we do battle against 
so many, or find our way to the side of Eric Carstairs amid that-that wilderness of colored stone?" 
The Apeman of Kor spoke up then, but with his customary brevity. 
"We can but try," he said dully. "For at least to try is what Black Hair would expect of us. Notmiracles 
...." 
"There are sentinels atop the taller structures," observed Warza, pointing. "They will have been chosen 
for their posts by alertness and vigilance, to say nothing of possessing the sharp eyes of hunting hawks. 
And they will see us as we descend the slope." 
"Then we shall conceal ourselves as best we may," grunted Hurok, "and descend the slope with care, 
taking advantage of such cover as we may find." 
"And then?" demanded Parthon the Sotharian. "How can we enter the city? True, it is not guarded by a 
palisade, but see how the buildings crowd together, with but narrow ways between. Surely, these are 
guarded!" 
"And how shall we be able to swim the moat, for in truth it is more than a lake, this place, almost a sea!" 
cried Varak impatiently. "The stone bridges are guarded-see? And there? Can mere men swim so far 
unseen?" 
"They will slay us with arrows before we have swum even half the distance to the island," muttered 
Ragor gloomily. 
Hurok shrugged his burly, anthropoid shoulders irritably. Idle talk always depressed and annoyed him, 
for he preferred the more direct and simple course-taking bold action, rather than endlessly talking about 
which action to take. 
"We shall swim beneath the wider of the stone bridges," he rumbled. "Men cannot see through the solid 
floor beneath their feet. The bridge is supported upon pilings sunk into the floor of the sea, and there are 
struts of heavy logs built between the pilings to brace and strengthen them: upon these shall we rest 
when we become weary from so long a swim.. " 

"But-I have heard that Hurok of Kor knows not how to swim!" cried Erdon, remembering my account of 
how I had once saved the Korian from death by drowning when a great yith (or plesiosaurus) overturned 
a dugout canoe.* 
"That is true," admitted Hurok somberly. 
"How then will Hurok swim the waters of the sea?" inquired the other. The Apeman of Kor shook his 
head dumbly. 
"Perhaps Hurok will learn by doing," he said. 
The others looked at one another, questioningly. They had learned to swim as boys in jungle rivers and 
in the many lakes which dotted the countryside. And they remembered that the skill was not all that 
swiftly or easily acquired .... 
"We shall have to have Hurok sit upon a log large and light enough not to sink beneath his weight, and 
steer him along by swimming beside the log, guiding it with one hand," suggested Varak to his 
companions. 
"Hurok will not do it," said that worthy in firm tones. The very notion of squatting gingerly atop a fallen 
tree, being towed along by his warriors, while they twisted through the water, lithe and supple as so 
many eels, would tend to make anyone feel ridiculous. And Hurok had a very well-developed sense of 
personal dignity. 
"Hurok must do it, or something very like it, if he is to cross the moat with us," Parthon pointed out. 
Grumbling and growling to himself, the Neanderthal subsided into a lame silence. 
They waited for his acknowledgment that they were right. But none came, as the Apeman maintained a 
stubborn, truculent mien. 
"What does Hurok say?" Warza asked at last. 
"Hurok says: let us climb down the slope, and leave crossing the moat to the moment when we are faceto-
face with that problem," growled Hurok shortly. "Perhaps, with any luck, Hurok will trip and fall 
down the mountainside, and break his neck!" 
Grinning, but avoiding his angry eye, they began with great care and caution to descend the 
mountainside, taking every advantage of cover and concealment which presented itself. From time to 
time a diversion occurred: two galleys collided in the midst of the lake-like sea, starting a loud argument 

between the two merchant skippers, which attracted the amused attention of everyone within earshot and 
eye-reach. 
The warriors took advantage of this noisy incident to sprint a good way down the slope, flinging 
themselves into the bushes as the argument began to subside. 
A bit later, three thakdols soared over the inland sea at an unusually low height, providing another 
diversion. The warriors got down into the lake up to their necks and waded along the offshore area until 
the width of the bridge concealed them beneath it. 
"That was close," muttered Parthon grimly. 
"Yes, but I would enjoy thanking those thakdols personally," quipped the irrepressible Varak. 
"There's a good log, O Hurok," said Ragor, pointing to the trunk of a fallen tree which had become 
lodged among the pilings which supported the end of the bridge. Hurok looked gloomy. 
But not so gloomy as he looked when, a bit later, he sat hunched atop that very log, clinging for dear life 
to the stubs of brokers-off branches, as six grinning warriors steered him across the lake with many a 
humorous remark at his expense. 
Part Five 
THE THUNDER WEAPON 
Chapter 21 I BREAK OUT OF JAIL 
Following the unsatisfactory conclusion of my private interview with the Empress, I found myself being 
escorted to a new suite in another part of the palace. I was left alone there, kept under strict guard, 
although every courtesy was shown me and my prison cell was luxurious. 
It bothered me that I could not see the Professor. The old geezer and I had been through some interesting 
times together, and had shared some remarkable experiences and adventures. No one would answer me 
when I asked why I could not see my friend, and I was not again summoned into the presence of Zarys. 
I was more than a little thankful for that. 
And I was more than a little anxious about the meaning of all of this. When I discovered that Zarys had 
my automatic, many things fell into place like the pieces of a puzzle. Obviously, that wily rascal, Xask, 
had been busily at work behind the scenes, and the attempted seduction-or whatever it was-had been a 
try at winning my cooperation in the manufacture of the thunder-weapon. 

Zarys was no fool: she must have known from my words and my manner that there was no real hope of 
coercing or coaxing me into revealing the secret. But why was I being kept apart from Professor Potter? 
I fretted the long days of my captivity away. Perhaps "captivity" is the wrong word to use for a 
sumptuous and airy apartment crammed with gorgeous tapestries and wallpaintings, adorned with 
perfumed lamps and silken cushions, where I dined splendidly on the rarest and most succulent foods 
and wines. 
If this was what being in jail was like in Zar, thought I to myself, I'll take it to being in jail anywhere 
else in the world. 
Since my repeated requests for an interview with Zarys or Hassib the Grand Panjandrum fell on deaf 
ears, after a week or so of this sort of kid-gloves treatment, I resolved to take things into my own hands. 
One "night" I climbed out on the narrow ornamental balcony of the window in my room and secured one 
end of a long line to the railing of carven stone. 
I had manufactured this line by knotting together strips of strong cloth torn from my surplus bedding. 
Not having been able to give my handiwork a genuine test, I prayed to whatever gods watch over crazy 
adventurers like myself, and clambered down the line. About thirteen feet beneath my windowsill a 
stone ledge ran along the outer wall, parallel to the parks and grounds below. It was there purely for 
decoration, but I thought it looked strong enough to bear my weight . . . . 
It was. 
But it was only about fourteen inches wide. I crept along it, inching my way with my shoulders pressed 
fiat against the outer wall and feeling my way along with bare toes. 
I tried not to look down. I've always had an average head for heights, which is to say I would have made 
a mediocre-to-crummy mountain climber. But vertigo is an affliction to which the human animal is 
universally subject, and I tried to keep cool. Which makes me laugh, thinking back on that dreadful trip, 
for all the while I was sweating like a bull. 
In the perpetual noontime of Zanthodon anyone who cared to glance up could have discovered me 
inching my way along the wall, and probably would have roused the gendarmes to pry me off it. 
Gardeners toiled beneath my feet, trimming hedges, spading moist earth, and doing the other grubby 
little things that keep gardeners busy. But not one of them turned to look at me. 
After what seemed like about half an eternity, I found the ledge had brought me within arm's length of 
another balcony and another window. Risking much, I peered in and discovered the room to be empty. 
Not only that, but it seemed untenanted as well, for the couch was stripped of bedding and the carpets 
were rolled up and stacked against the farther wall. I climbed in through the window and tested the door. 

It was locked from the outside-naturally, I suppose. 
I set my shoulder against it and heaved. Nothing happened. Another heave, and a bit more muscle 
behind it this time. Something within the lock mechanism went KRAK!. and I opened the door ever so 
slightly and peered both ways. The corridor was empty. 
Moving on quick, light feet, I went down the hall, choosing a direction at random. I was by now 
completely disoriented and had no idea where I was. I also began to curse myself for taking such a 
chance, as the first person to come along would spot me as an escaping prisoner and would sound the 
alarm. 
Well, what the hay! So long as your captors want something out of you, they're not very likely to feed 
you to the cobras for a minor transgression. And-aren't prisoners supposed to try to escape, anyway? 
The slap of leathern sandals up ahead, around the curve of the hallway, alerted me. I just barely had time 
to conceal myself behind a heavy tapestry before a squadron of palace guards went clanking by. I felt 
mighty grateful that the Minoans seemed unusually fond of wall-hangings, because over the next two 
hours of my prowl through the palace, I was able to avoid discovery and capture by taking similar refuge 
about six times. 
I had timed my expedition to a fine degree: it would be four hours before the next meal was brought to 
me, which gave me a comfortable margin of time to cover as much ground as possible before beating 
(hopefully) a retreat and regaining my rooms before the maids came in. 
What I hadn't figured on was that the palace was as large and as complicated as it turned out to be. I had 
thought that, with a little diligent prowling, I would soon encounter familiar territory and find the 
apartments in which the Professor and I had first been situated, and in which the old fellow was 
presumably still staying. 
After two solid hours of searching, I had to abandon my plan. I simply didn't find anything that looked 
familiar. 
I was about to turn back, retrace my steps, get back up my line and give it up for this time, anyway, 
when the unexpected happened. I say "unexpected," but actually I should have expected it. 
I turned a corner and walked smack into a girl! 
With a frightened squeak, she dropped to her knees and bumped her forehead against the floor. Looking 
down, I saw that she wore the slave collar of a palace servant. 
Then she looked up timidly, obviously fearing that she had collided with a snooty member of the local 
aristocracy, and I had another shock. I knew her! 

It was Ialys, the Empress's handmaiden . . . . 
I must have looked about as flustered and tongue-tied as I felt, for her expression of surprise swiftly 
gave way to one of sly amusement. She rose to her feet and saluted me deferentially. 
"Is the Lord Eric taking a bit of a stroll?" she inquired demurely. 
I shrugged, forcing a laugh which rang false even to my ears. 
"You've got me!" I said. "Actually, I wasn't really trying to escape; I was just trying to find my friendyou 
know, the old man with the little white beard?" 
She nodded, humor dancing impishly in her eyes. 
"Has the Goddess given her noble guest the freedom of the Great House?" she asked. "If so, Ialys has 
heard nothing of this . . . ." 
"I'm afraid not," I confessed with a grin. "I sort of took it on myself to go for a walk. And I'd be eternally 
grateful, Ialys, if you wouldn't give me away. I'm honestly not trying to escape." 
Her expression sobered. She examined me thoughtfully. 
"When the Goddess commanded that you use the thunder-weapon upon her handmaiden, why did you 
dare to refuse?" she asked. 
I cleared my throat awkwardly. 
"Like I said at the time," I muttered, "I'm not used to killing nice people in cold blood." 
"But Ialys is not a 'person,' she is a slave." She said this with a questioning lilt in her voice, and her eyes 
were puzzled. In her world, I gathered, one does not risk disobedience to goddesses-and certainly not 
over one so lowly and unimportant as a mere slave. 
"In my country, there are no slaves," I commented. "Oh, sure, we had them once, to our eternal regret 
and guiltiness. But the wisest and most humanitarian of our statesmen and philosophers taught us that no 
person has the right to own another person. And in my country it is against the law to own a slave . . . ." 
Her face expressed her wonderment, and the emotion in her beautiful eyes was all but unreadable. Tears 
welled up but were quickly suppressed. 

"Ialys could wish that she had been born in your country," she said wistfully. 
I nodded, saying nothing, for there was nothing I could think to say. She studied me for a long, long 
moment, her face inscrutable. Then, before I could stop her, she took my hand and pressed her lips 
against the back of it. 
"What was that for?" I demanded, flushing. 
A sad smile touched her warm lips. 
"For having the courage and the manliness to spare the life of a worthless slave," she said softly. 
"No human life is worthless,'' I said stoutly. 
"Is that another wise teaching from the philosophers of your country?" 
"I believe it is." 
"They breed wise men in that far land," she observed. "And brave and gallant men, too." 
"They do that." 
Her eyes were inscrutable. But from the way she squared her shoulders and took in a deep breath, I 
gathered that Ialys had reached a decision. She took my hand again, but not to kiss it this time. 
"Come," she said simply. "I will take you to your friend. But Ialys fears that the Lord Eric will not at all 
like what he is about to see . . . ." 
A cold stab of fear went through my vitals at that. But I set my jaw grimly and let her lead me to the 
Professor. 
Chapter 22 JORN TO THE RESCUE 
When Jorn emerged from the ravines which twisted between the low hills, his gaze fell upon a spectacle 
which astonished him. 
There, trotting at a rapid pace directly toward him were the young Sotharian girl, Yualla, and the 
runaway, Murg. Jorn did not at once notice that Murg's hands were bound behind his back and that the 
cave-girl was leading him along like a dog on a leash. 
This he did not have time to notice because of what else met his gaze. 

Directly in front of him, with its back toward him, a gigantic sabertooth tiger crouched in the 
concealment of the long grasses. 
The girl did not see Jorn, who stood in the shadows. Neither did she apparently see the giant vandar, 
crouched belly to earth concealed in the long meadow grasses. But Jorn took the entire situation in with 
a single sweeping glance. 
The young hunter knew the vandar was about to pounce upon the Sotharian girl. He knew this from the 
way the muscles in its hindquarters were bunched with tension, and from the restless twitching of its tailtip. 
Jorn had hunted vandars in his native land, and knew well their habits. Within a split second, the beast 
would leap upon the girl and dash out her brains with a single swipe of its mighty paws. They were as 
heavy as sledgehammers, those velvet paws. 
And Jorn was unarmed . . . . 
Nevertheless, he did not for the slightest fraction of a second hesitate in what he next did. Chivalry is 
innate in the human breast, it seems, as the Cro-Magnons-who happen to be just about the finest people I 
have ever encountered-were very much human. 
With a wild, crazy yell, the boy leaped full upon the back of the giant cat just as it began its lunge for the 
girl. 
He landed between its shoulders; locking his legs about the barrel of the cat, he clung with both arms 
tight around the beast's neck and buried his face in the coarse, dry fur at the base of its throat. 
Startled by the unexpected weight upon its back, the vandar's leap miscarried. It sprang to one side, 
missing the amazed Yualla, landing lightly on the turf. The weight of its unwanted burden, and the 
maddening man-smell, drove the sabertooth into a frenzy. It rolled over on its back, seeking to crush its 
rider beneath its weight. Fortunately, the grass was long and thick here, and very springy; all this 
maneuver accomplished was to drive the air out of Jorn's lungs. 
Regaining its feet, the great cat sprang into the air, landing heavily. Obviously, it hoped to jar the grip of 
its rider loose. This, too, failed. 
Next it attempted to reach back with snapping jaws and rip the offending weight from its shoulders. 
Those hideous ivory fangs clashed within mere inches of the boy's face. Its stinking breath blew foul in 
his nostrils, and gobbets of foam from its dripping jaws splattered his neck and shoulders. 
Through it all, Jorn clung grimly to the back of the beast as one clings for dear life to a log in a 

maelstrom. 
The paralyzing shock which froze Yualla proved only momentary. An instant later, the girl dropped 
Murg's tether and whipped up her bow, a weapon, with which she was extremely expert. Time and time 
again she sought to loose a shaft into the belly or side of the rampaging sabertooth, but each time she 
faltered, fearing to transfix her rescuer with the shaft. 
Moments later she saw her opportunity, and trained reflexes took command with the swift surety of 
instinct. She sank an arrow to the feather in the fleshy underpart of the beast's throat, just below the jaw. 
Coughing blood, the brute shook its head, dazedly; then, mad with pain and fury, it gave voice to a 
thunderous yowl and hurtled toward her. 
Yualla stood her ground just long enough to loose a second shaft, then threw herself to one side. The 
great cat stormed by, missing her so narrowly that its harsh fur brushed her bare legs. It wheeled to come 
at her again, a striped juggernaut of tawny-furred death-then reeled, lurched, and fell heavily on its side. 
It lay there, panting raggedly, dribbling hot gore from between open, distended jaws. 
Then it heaved one great sigh, and its eyes glazed, and it lay still. 
The second arrow had caught the sabertooth directly in the left eye and had driven its cruel barb deep 
into the brain. 
Crying and shaking like a leaf, Yualla half-dragged, halfshoved the dead weight of the vandar off Jorn's 
leg and helped him to his feet. He was shaken and stunned, bruised and battered, but otherwise unhurt. 
When both boy and girl had recovered themselves and had regained a modicum of calm, they regarded 
each other somewhat warily. 
"Jorn of Thandar, the Hunter, is grateful to the gomad Yualla for her assistance in slaying the beast," the 
boy said solemnly. 
"Yualla of Sothar is grateful to Jorn the Hunter for risking his life to save her own," the girl replied with 
equal solemnity. 
These ceremonial exchanges of gratitude done with, her eyes flashed angrily. 
"What does Jorn mean-'assisting' in slaying the beast?" she demanded scornfully, staring obviously at his 
hands. "Did Jorn the Hunter hope to slay the vandar with his bare teeth or with his naked hands?" 

The boy began an angry retort, then subsided, blushing, with a shamefaced grin. 
"The gomad Yualla is correct," he admitted. "I had no hope of slaying the vandar. At the time, it did not 
occur to me that I had lost my weapons. I . . . only did what needed to be done," he finished lamely. 
Her eyes glowed. Her expression softened. Her cheeks went bright pink. 
"It was very, very brave of you," she whispered. 
"It was nothing, really," said Jorn around a huge lump which had suddenly come into his throat from 
wherever it is that lumps in the throat of adolescent boys come. 
She smiled shyly. 
He stared deeply into her beautiful eyes . . . 
Quite some time later, they remembered about Murg. With a little searching, they found the scrawny one 
crouched on his bony hunkers in the grass, eyes squeezed tightly shut. 
"Is it you, m-mistress . . . or the b-beast?" he squeaked fearfully, sensing their nearness. 
The girl grinned impishly, and made a growling, catlike sound deep in her throat. 
Murg paled to about as pale a hue as one covered with dirt can pale, and shivered miserably. 
They helped him to his feet, dusted him off, and cut his bonds. Now that Jorn had joined the party, 
Yualla feared nothing from the miserable little man. 
Then they set off toward the mountains to rejoin Hurok and the others, if possible. 
As Jorn, Yualla, and Murg followed a winding path through the foothills and began to ascend the slopes 
of the mountains, they broke the monotony of their journey with conversation. In fact, they narrated to 
each other in turn the story of their recent adventures. 
The young huntsman was astonished to hear of the manner in which the thakdol had carried off the 
Sotharian girl, and was even more astonished that she had survived the adventure with neither hurt nor 
harm. 
For her part, Yualla was impressed that Jorn had managed to live through the landslide, to say nothing of 
the lengthy and dangerous dive into the little mountain lake. Her estimate of the courage and stamina of 
the Cro-Magnon boy-which was already high, since his incredible feat of attacking the giant sabertooth 

tiger-rose all the more. It verged, perhaps, on idolatry; and the gomad of Sothar was not easily impressed 
by the male sex, being adventurous and daring to a fault herself. 
The boy and the girl got along famously, exchanging information and getting to know one another. As 
for poor, miserable Murg, however, he plodded along, sniffing and snuffling, groaning with weariness 
from time to time, and feeling very, very sorry for himself. The two ignored him as much as was 
possible, the girl with frosty and aloof scorn, the boy with utter detestation. Rape is a crime not unknown 
to the Cro-Magnon tribes, of course, but one severely frowned upon as unmanly and displaying the 
vilest traits of cowardice. 
From Murg in turn, however, during a pause to rest their aching leg muscles, the young people elicited 
an account of his own experiences since being captured by One-Eye. I suspect, as did they, that the 
account was rather heavily censored, if not considerably rewritten. It was ever the way of Murg to vainly 
attempt to conceal his faults and flaws and weaknesses by lies, deceits, and a certain application of 
soothing cosmetics to the plain unvarnished truth. 
He did not really fool them, however. Both Jorn and Yualla were clever enough to see through the 
abridged and retouched portions of his narrative, and his pitiable attempt at embellishment they found 
wryly amusing. 
"To hear Murg tell the tale," murmured Jorn to the jungle girl at his side, "he fled from Hurok's 
encampment with nothing but the noblest of motives in mind." The girl chuckled. For indeed Murg had 
striven to convince his captors that he had crept away from the sleeping place in order not to burden the 
stronger, swifter warriors with his less hardy presence. 
Which hardly explained his thefts of the sleeping-hides, water bottles, extra buskins, and surplus 
weapons, of course. 
As Jorn was unarmed, he pressed the stolen armament into service. It made him feel naked to be 
unarmed, and even though he resolved to return the stolen property to its owners as soon as they had 
caught up to Hurok and the others, he intended in the meantime to put the weapons to good use. 
They continued on their journey. 
They began to climb the mountains. 
Chapter 23 THE MYSTERIOUS CIRCLET 
When the Cro-Magnon arrow struck Captain Raphad between the eyes he uttered a shrill cry and fell 
from the back of his enormous steed. 
Moments later, he got shakily to his feet, stunned and dizzy, but otherwise unharmed. 

The arrow had struck the circlet of shining metal which he wore upon his brows, and had dislodged the 
narrow band. Outside of giving him a headache, the lucky shot had done no harm. 
Rubbing his aching forehead, he peered about him. And discovered the most surprising events taking 
place . . . . 
Kicking and pounding the sides of their mounts and tugging furiously upon the reins, his squadron of 
riders seemed unable to command their docile beasts. What had been, only a moment before, a 
disciplined line-of-charge had now mysteriously decayed. The thodars had broken ranks and were 
wandering to and fro, placidly browsing upon the thick, lush meadow grasses, indifferent or perhaps 
actually oblivious to the furious commands of their human riders. Some had wandered off into the 
plains, perhaps in search of water. The battle, if so brief a skirmish can be thus properly described, was 
over. 
As for the warriors of Sothar, they had also broken formation and were striding among the beasts, 
unceremoniously pulling the Zarians out of the saddle and binding their arms behind their backs. More 
than a few of the Dragon-riders had attempted to defend themselves against the savages, but the Cro- 
Magnons were taller, brawnier, and stronger than their diminutive adversaries and swiftly disarmed them 
with ease. 
Garth came striding up to where Raphad stood, swaying dizzily, peering about in extreme puzzlement. 
The giant chief disarmed the Zarian officer and bound him in the same manner as his men were being 
bound. Nor did Raphad, who was no fool, attempt to resist; as good a soldier as the Scarlet City 
possessed, he recognized defeat. 
Not that it tasted any better this time around .... 
Then Garth stooped to pick up the fallen circlet. He turned it this way and that in his heavy, powerful 
hands, studying it curiously. As an ornament it was attractive, but there seemed more to the device than 
mere beauty of worksmanship. For Garth had keenly observed that the very instant the circlet had been 
struck from Captain Raphad's brows, the advancing half-circle of giant reptiles had evaded the control of 
their human masters. 
Garth was no more and no less superstitious than other savages of his degree of civilization. He 
supposed when he thought about it, which was very seldom, that he believed in ghosts and curses and 
(what was more to the point in this case), in magic. 
It seemed to him that, somehow, possession of the circlet had enabled the leader of the enemy troop to 
control the enormous thodars. And he decided that it must therefore be a magical talisman. Having 
decided this, Garth carefully tucked away the circlet within the hide garments he wore. 

Noticing this, Raphad bit his nether lip sourly. 
Obviously, the Cro-Magnon leader thought the magic circlet might come in handy on some other 
occasion. And this was bad news indeed for Raphad and his people .... 
The fact of the matter was, as Garth of Sothar imagined it to be, that possession of the circlet did indeed 
give the man who wore it a mysterious power to control the great reptiles. 
When Raphad had, considerably earlier on, captured myself, Xask, and Professor Potter, the old scientist 
had sharply observed the uncanny circlet. And-as always!-he had evolved a theory concerning it. 
The metal of the circlet was of a peculiar composition, ruddy yet gleaming. It seemed to be some sort of 
an alloy, perhaps the mixture of silver and copper. Both metals, the Professor knew, are excellent 
conductors of electrical impulses. And it had logically occurred to the scrawny savant that thought itself 
is nothing more than an electrical impulse, albeit one which is very feeble. 
Centering between the brows of its wearer, the circlet bore a large cut piece of crystal. From these 
observations, the Professor theorized that the metal band somehow conducted the impulses of thought, 
which were focused by means of the crystal exactly as light is focused by a lens, and that in this manner 
the leader of the Dragon-riders maintained control of the beasts which he and his men rode through 
mental telepathy. 
Had the Professor been present on this particular occasion, it would doubtless have delighted him to 
obtain practical verification of his tentative theory. For the very moment the circlet fell from the brows 
of the squadron leader, he and his men totally lost control of their reptilian mounts, which instantly 
reverted to their normal behavior. 
I have neglected to mention another observation which had occurred to Professor Potter at the time. That 
mysterious alloy of reddish-silvery metal sounded very much like the unknown metal orichalc, the 
mystery metal of Lost Atlantis of which the Greek philosopher Plato spoke in his celebrated Atlantean 
dialogues, Critias and Timaeus. 
The identity of the mysterious metal has never satisfactorily been determined by science. But, then, 
neither has the location of the fabled Lost Continent of Atlantis, itself. 
But more recently, some scholars have tentatively established a connection between the legendary 
Atlantis and the very real island of Minoan Crete. And if the story of Atlantis sprang from the Greeks' 
half-remembered traditions of ancient Crete, and the uncanny orichalc of Atlantis was the same as the 
strange alloy of Raphad's circlet, then quite a few pages of material hitherto missing from the history 
books could be sketched in . . . . 
Before the Underground World was very much older, Garth's warriors had secured and disarmed the 

Zarians and were ready for further instructions from their High Chief. 
As for the thodars, the immense and placid beasts had all wandered off by this time, and were cropping 
the grasses here and there about the plains. 
"What are your commands, my Omad, regarding the prisoners?" inquired one of Garth's chieftains. With 
a gesture he indicated the bound Zarians, who were looking extremely unhappy, as well they might. 
Garth studied them, thoughtfully. The Cro-Magnon tribes were not accustomed to the slaughtering of 
helpless prisoners, but neither did their traditions demand that a war party encumber itself and retard its 
maneuverability by burdening itself with unwanted and useless guests. Unable any longer to control 
their mounts, which in any case had now wandered well out of reach, they offered no possible threat to 
the security of the Sotharian host. 
And yet, to set the prisoners free might well give them an opportunity to carry the warning of the 
Sotharian advance back to Zar in time for the legions of the Scarlet City to mount a vast force against 
them. 
Garth had no particular reason for wishing to invade the country of the Zarians, and, although he was 
unafraid of the possibility of a battle, it was prudent to avoid one if this could be done. All he was 
interested in was in finding his lost daughter, Yualla, who had been carried off by the pterodactyl. 
As was his way, the jungle monarch swiftly made up his mind. 
"Keep them guarded closely and see that not one Zarian escapes to bring the word of our approach back 
to Zar, lest they rouse a great force against us," he commanded. "We shall at once resume the march to 
the mountains, in order to search for the gomad Yualla. Pass these orders along . . . ." 
The chieftains saluted and marched the prisoners off. Captain Raphad cast one sad glance behind him as 
he was forced to accompany his warriors into captivity. If he could somehow purloin the circlet from the 
savage chief, it might be possible even now-and at this distance-to regain control over the mighty 
thodars . . . . 
There seemed, however, no opportunity of doing this. But Raphad decided to bide his time and keep his 
eyes and ears open. In low tones he instructed his soldiers to obey the savages instantly and to avoid any 
trouble. The more the Cro-Magnons thought him and his men cowed and demoralized and helpless, the 
less attention they would give to guarding them. 
And that meant the more chance Raphad might have to escape and regain the circlet, although he knew 
in his heart of hearts that he would have to murder Garth in order to get his hands on it. 
The host of Sothar marched across the plains and approached the mountains called the Wall of Zar. 

If any further patrols of Dragon-riders had been sent forth upon the plains, they saw no sign of them. 
The keen gaze of Garth's scouts and huntsmen spotted the nesting places of many thakdols upon the 
upper heights of the mountains. So many of these could be discerned in the eternal midday light of 
Zanthodon that even the spirits of Garth were depressed. It might well take many weeks to search the 
nests of the pterodactyls, and the Sotharians were not accustomed to climbing mountains. 
Garth discussed this problem with his chieftains when they gathered around the council fire before one 
sleep period. 
"On this side, the slopes of the mountains are extremely steep, almost like vertical cliffs," one of the subchieftains 
pointed out. And perhaps I should explain at this point that the Sotharian host had come 
against the mountains a considerable distance from the place at which Hurok and his warriors had 
ascended the Walls of Zar. The mountainous terrain differed here from the part which Hurok had found, 
and was indeed much steeper. 
"Does Kovor imply that the mountains might be easier to climb on the far side of the range?" asked 
Garth. The younger man shrugged and nodded. 
"There is no way of knowing that, my Omad," he admitted. "But it is at least possible." 
"So it is," rumbled the High Chief. "But to traverse the wall of mountains might consume many wakes 
and sleeps. And if the gomad Yualla yet lives, every moment might count." 
At this point, one of the shrewdest of the Sotharian scouts spoke up. 
"There is a pass through the mountains not far off, my Omad," he suggested. "It is low between the 
peaks, and from the shapes of the mountains on either side, it seems straight enough. Were we to take 
that route, we could perhaps be on the far side of the mountains before we next sleep." 
Garth, too, had noticed the notch in the mountainous wall, but had thought little about it, as this problem 
had not presented itself before now. 
Next "morning" the host marched toward the pass in question. For it was perfectly obvious that it would 
be an immensely difficult feat for the Sotharians to attempt to scale the mountains at this part of the 
range, and the suggestion of his counselors had persuaded the jungle monarch to cross the mountains 
first. Even though this meant invading the country of Zar .... 
When Raphad discerned the direction in which the Cro-Magnon tribe was headed, his shrewd eyes 
gleamed with satisfaction. 

For the pass which was obviously the destination of the savages was none other than the main pass into 
Zar, the one of the stone monster heads. 
And that pass was thoroughly guarded by unseen watchers .... 
Chapter 24 THE PROFESSOR'S INVENTION 
Ialys had led me into an enormous stone-walled room filled with seething vapors, blazing furnaces, 
sulphurous stenches, and vile chemical reeks, where many artisans and workmen toiled. It was crowded, 
busy, and very noisy. 
Hammers clanged on anvils, wielded by burly men stripped to the waist and black with soot. Sparks flew 
in showers from the strokes of their mauls and these, mingling with swirling clouds of black smoke, lent 
the cavernous room an aspect satanic, like a glimpse of the Inferno. 
Amidst the noise and turmoil, my old friend Professor Percival P. Potter. Ph.D., hopped about shrilling 
orders, waving his arms excitedly, reprimanding or instructing his workmen in a feverish mixture of 
Zarian, Zanthodonian, and English. 
He stopped short when he perceived me standing there at the entrance to this incredible basement 
factory. 
"Eric, my boy! Holy Heisenberg, whatever are you doing here? I . , . I had thought you in chains, 
groaning under the cruel lash of these fiends . . . ." 
I stared at him in utter bewilderment. 
"What in the world-or under it!-are you talking about, Professor?" I demanded. 
"Why-why-well," he spluttered, "Xask said-that is, I was given to understand . . . ." 
"Xask, is it?" I said harshly, beginning to comprehend the astounding scene. "And you trusted a single 
word from that sly devil?" 
"I-I-um," he muttered, subsiding feebly. And eyeing me more than a bit guiltily . . . . 
Guiltily? Guilty about what? 
I looked around me, eyes narrowing against the smoke. I could smell the sulphur in the air, and there it 
was-heaps and mounds of raw yellow sulpher, being raked to and fro in long wooden trays. They were 
purifying the stuff. 

Looking beyond, I saw open fireplaces where wood was obviously being reduced to charcoal. 
And my heart sank within my breast. For I knew the ingredients of gunpowder as well as the Professor 
did .... 
While I maintained a grim silence, the old boy showed me around. Since I had yet to utter a word of 
reproof, his natural buoyancy asserted itself. And he was obviously very proud of his work. 
"I was presented with a host of problems, my boy, as you can doubtless well imagine . . . the Minoans 
are not yet into the iron age, although their technology is quite advanced; it is simply that this part of the 
mountain country seems lacking in iron ore. How, then, to fashion pistols or rifles? I resolved on casehardened 
bronze, bound with brass wire to reduce the chances that the explosion of powder in the 
chamber might crack the barrels of the guns .... 
I nodded, saying nothing. The old boy's enthusiasm was so simple and pure, I did not wish to hurt his 
feelings by giving speech to the emotions I was feeling. Taking heart from my silence, he burbled on, 
proud as a peacock 
"The mechanism of a revolver is, I fear, a trifle too complex for the Zarian craftsmen, although, of 
course, in time. . . in time . . . at any rate, my dear boy, I simplified the design of my weapons to 
something like the old-fashioned blunderbuss, employing a lengthier barrel so as to build the velocity of 
the bullets and to improve, as much as is possible, the directness of their flight . . . it was a pretty 
problem, I assure you! But there was no way for these simpletons to rifle the inside of the barrels, if that 
is the proper word for it-you know what I mean, the inner spiral groovings which give a bullet the, ah, 
'spin' . . . ." 
He showed me the finished product. It was an ungainly cross between a Kentucky squirrel-hunter's rifle 
and a primitive blunderbuss. It looked ugly as hell, but I had little doubt that it would shoot well enough. 
The old flintlock rifles generally did .... 
"The powder is crude enough, I know," he went burbling on, "and coarse, but as time goes on we shall 
undoubtedly be able to refine the mixture and reduce the size of the grains. . . for bullets, now, I settled, 
after considerable thought, I can assure you, on simple slugs with cross-grooved noses" 
"Like dum-dum bullets?" I inquired heavily. 
His watery blue eyes brightened cheerfully and his stiff little white spike of a goatee waggled as he 
nodded with enthusiasm. 
"Precisely! I-ahem!-saw more than a few gangster movies in my younger years . . . the lead is easy 
enough to procure in these parts, fortunately . . . ." 

I groaned inwardly. I had seen a few old gangster movies myself. And knew that a dumdum bullet goes 
in easily enough, but when it comes out the other side, it leaves a hole large enough for a cat to walk 
through. 
And we are talking about human bodies, not marksmen's targets. 
"However did Xask talk you into this?" I asked, finally. 
"Well, ah . . . the fellow presented me with some very cogent arguments, as I hope you realize," he 
faltered, evading my eyes. And then he went into a long and vague and rambling account of what Xask 
had said, which boiled down to very, very little. 
Xask was an excellent con man. Like all con men, it's not the idea content of his sales spiel that counts, 
but the seeming honesty, vigor, and reasonableness of his voice and manner. 
The Professor was honestly not able to recall the arguments and persuasions which the wily little 
Machiavelli had used to win him over. Except, of course, for the flat lie that I was in a damp, dripping 
cell, being worked upon daily by the torturers of Zar .... 
Which suddenly made me understand why I had been escorted to an entirely new suite after my private 
interview with the Divine Zarys, rather than going back to bunk with the Professor. With me out of 
sight, Xask could tell the old man any lie he wanted to. 
It was all very neat. 
And very ugly. 
Armed with these guns, the legions of Zar could overrun the entire length and breadth of the 
Underground World. No army had a chance of standing in their way. Picture the poor Cro-Magnons, 
with their bows and arrows, axes and spears, trying to stem an invading flood of Zarians armed with the 
Professor's flintlock rifles! Primitive and clumsy weapons though they were, they could cut down the 
boldest and most skillful of the warriors of Thandar or Sothar or any other tribe. 
Including the Neanderthals of Kor-however many survived that massacre on the plains of the thandorsfor 
all their ponderous might and savage ferocity. 
Not even the Barbary Pirates could withstand the legions of Zar, no matter how strong their fortresses 
might be. 
When you have gunpowder, you have rifles. It is a very short step from there to siege cannon. To 
catapult bombs. To grenades. 

To world war. . . . 
The Professor was chagrined when I finally pointed these things out to him. He looked crestfallen, lower 
lip wavering childishly, vague eyes filling with something suspiciously like tears. I tried to speak as 
reasonably and patiently as was possible under the circumstances, and I tried not to upbraid him, for I 
didn't want to hurt his feelings. 
But my words must have been a crushing disappointment to the Prof. Like stepping on someone's bright 
new toy. And that's exactly what his flintlocks represented to him: not a weapon of war, of conquest, of 
sheer murder, but a bright, fascinating new toy. 
The sheer, intellectual game of reinventing firearms, using ancient, traditional crafts and Bronze Age 
artisans had intrigued and captivated him. That the practical applications of his glittering new toys were 
nothing less than red murder, warfare, rapine, and plunder simply had not occurred to him. Or, if they 
had, it was but hazily, as a far off, distant possibility, outweighed by the excitement of the technical 
achievement. 
I understood all of this, and tried not to speak harshly to the poor old fellow or to make him feel any 
worse than he did already. But plain facts had to be pointed out and, if necessary, driven home bluntly. 
"Think of our brave and gallant friends facing a disciplined troop armed with these bright new guns of 
yours," I begged. "Think of Tharn and Varak and Garth and old Hurok . . . all of their bravery and 
gallantry and brute strength would be of no avail against what they call 'the thunder-weapon.' Of no avail 
at all." 
"M-my boy," he quavered broken-heartedly. "I d-didn't think, I simply didn't think . . . why, Xask told 
me how the Scarlet City is ringed about with savage foes, unable to defend itself, the warrior spirit 
fading out-" 
"Come on, Doc, use your head!" I said roughly. "Those tame dinosaurs they ride are a dreadful weapon, 
better than Hannibal with his elephants, and a lot scarier." 
"Y-yes, I believe you are right, I am indeed culpable . . . ." 
"And to put such armaments within the grasp of sneaky rats like Xask-whom I wouldn't trust any farther 
than I could throw him, and I'd love to see just how far that would be!-or the Queen's pet general, our pal 
Cromus, remember him? As ambitious and as unscrupulous as they come-" 
"You are quite right, my boy, and I deserve your harshest words. It was criminally negligent of me to 
have cooperated in the reinvention of firearms, intriguing experiment though it certainly was. But-what 
can I possibly do to stop it now? These Zarian engineers and bronze-smiths are cunning artificers, and 

swiftly grasped the principles I taught them . . . what could I do to change what has already been 
accomplished here?" 
He had me stumped, and I had to admit it. 
"I honestly don't know, Doc; but you've got to do something," I said. He looked troubled, but thoughtful: 
and when Professor Percival P. Potter, Ph.D. starts Thinking (with a capital 'T'), you can rest easier with 
the knowledge that you've got one of the best brains on (or under) the Earth working on your problem. 
Ialys was tugging on my sleeve. I had almost forgotten she was there. She looked nervous and 
apprehensive. 
"Lord Eric!" she cried. "You have stayed here too long-you must get back to your suite before the 
officers come-" 
"What officers, girl?" I demanded. 
"During every wake they come to inquire after the progress the old man, your friend, has achievedhurry! 
I will escort you back to where we met." 
I guess I had lost track of time, talking to the Doc. So I bade him a hasty adieu and let her hurry me to 
the door. But it was a little late for making a strategic withdrawal. 
We ran straight into Cromus and his bully-boys. 
Chapter 25 THE UNDERGROUND ROAD 
Within the black mouth of an alley lithe figures lurked. Overtopping them by head and shoulders loomed 
a burly shape. Bewildered, they peered out upon a busy, noisy, bustling bazaar. 
Hurok and his warriors had managed to reach the outskirts of the Scarlet City unobserved, by means of 
their trick of swimming beneath the stone bridge which connected the island of Zar with the shores of 
the inland sea. But from this point on, there seemed to be no way to penetrate more deeply into the 
Minoan city without risking the chance of discovery. 
The alley was narrow and black as pitch, for tall buildings shut out the eternal daylight of the 
Underground. This darkness was unnatural to the Cro-Magnon men and it made them distinctly uneasy. 
Neither did they enjoy the filth and stench of the narrow way, with its heaped and fetid garbage, its worn 
cobbles beslimed with ooze, its mouth choked with abandoned junk and fragments of debris. They were 
eager to be out of this dark, vile place-into the open air and daylight once again. 

Hurok, however, cautioned against such rashness. What, after all, could a mere handful of men however 
bold and brave, hope to accomplish in a city filled with thousands of their enemies? 
The gloom of the alley bothered the Neanderthal warrior little. Accustomed as he was to the dark caves 
of his rocky homeland of Kor on the island of Ganadol, his small and dim eyes rather enjoyed their brief 
respite from the all-pervading daylight of the surface of Zanthodon. 
"How can we hope to do battle against so many?" he rumbled in his deep bass tones. "Only by stealth 
and with great care could we dream of finding where Black Hair and the old man, his companion, are 
held . . . " 
"But where, O Hurok, in all this wilderness of stone caves would they imprison our chieftain?" asked 
Varak pointedly. "What use to linger here amid the blackness and the stench, when we have not the 
slightest idea of where Eric Carstairs lies imprisoned?" 
There was good sense in Varak's words, as Hurok well knew. But the burly and hulking Apeman of Kor 
had a shrewd notion of where his black-haired friend could be found. From the cliffs he had studied the 
layout of the Scarlet City, and had noticed that toward the center of the metropolis a lofty palace or 
citadel reared its spires atop a rise of ground. Of course, Hurok had no acquaintance with cities, ancient 
or modern; he had no way of guessing that the highest part of ground within the circuit of most of the 
great cities of the ancient world had been chosen to house the most important structures. This was true of 
the Acropolis of Athens as it was true of the Capitoline of Rome and the Brysa of age-lost Carthage. 
And it was also true of Zar, the Scarlet City of the Minoans . . . . 
To Hurok's way of thinking, so important a prisoner as Black Hair would be held in the residence of the 
ruler of Zar. And that residence could only be the huge and imposing pile of masonry which rose on the 
hilly heights at the center of the city, with the great arena behind it. The problem was-how could he lead 
his warriors all that distance without their being seen and the alarm sounded? 
And that was a problem indeed .... 
Squatting on his heels, Hurok pondered his dilemma. And as he did so there came to his ears a gurgling 
as of running water. This sound seemed to come from a rust-eaten grill set into the cobbled surface of 
the narrow little alleyway. For what reason the barred opening had been built Hurok could not imagine; 
he had not, after all, ever heard of sewers and neither could he have known that ancient Knossos, capital 
of Crete, had been famous in antiquity for its running water and flush toilets. 
And running water must run somewhere . . . . 
Examining the grill, the Neanderthal warrior discovered that it could be lifted free of its iron frame. 

When he strove to accomplish this, he made the further discovery that ages of neglect had effectively 
welded the grill to its frame with layers of encrusted rust. 
While his baffled men looked on in total lack of comprehension, Hurok bent all of his mighty strength to 
the task of wrenching free the grill of the sewer. Great thews swelled to rock hardness along his sloping 
and apelike shoulders; ropes and cables of muscle sprang into sharp relief along his broad back and 
deep, furred chest. 
With a sharp crack! the layers of rust shattered and the grill came loose in his hands. Peering down into 
the opening he had made, the Apeman of Kor blinked as his eyes adjusted to the virtually impenetrable 
gloom of the sewer. Soon he discovered the opening to be a long, narrow tunnel one end of which 
obviously emptied into the inland sea, as it went in that direction. 
Peering the other way, he glimpsed the continuation of the underground passage, as it rose ever so 
slightly, extending in the same direction as they wished to travel, toward the center of the great city. 
The roof and walls of the tunnel were of dressed and fitted stone, and seemed secure enough as no fallen 
or crumbling blocks could be seen. Down the middle of the floor trickled a slimy stream of black water 
which reeked of human offal. If one could endure the darkness (he thought slowly to himself) and ignore 
the horrendous stench-and if the sewer tunnel truly extended as far as the palace citadel on the height, 
one could with luck and fortitude traverse the city unseen, by the remarkably simple expedient of 
traveling beneath it. 
Slow-witted and unimaginative primitive Neanderthal though he certainly was, Hurok of Kor possessed 
a native shrewdness that sometimes serves one better in adversity than a dozen college degrees. 
"What is it that Hurok has found?" inquired Parthon as his leader slowly straightened and turned to 
confront the little band. 
A rare grin slowly stretched the thick lips of the Apeman. Humor and relief gleamed in his little sunken 
eyes. 
"The pathway to the place where our chieftain lies in prison," he grunted. 
The Cro-Magnon warriors blinked and stared at each other, then bent to regard the black opening in the 
alley's floor and the even blacker tunnel thus revealed. 
They were troubled and dismayed; if the darkness of the narrow-walled alley had discomforted them, 
how could they endure the stench and the unbroken gloom of the underground road Hurok had found? 
In low tones, rather ashamed of their complaining, they put this question to the great Neanderthal who 
had become their leader. He grinned again, and gave voice to a throaty chuckle. 

"Are the warriors of Thandar and of Sothar children that they fear the darkness of a cave?" he inquired 
sarcastically. "If this is so, then let them employ the flints they carry to ignite a torch by whose 
illumination the darkness may be driven hence and they may see their way!" 
"Flints we have, as Hurok knows," grumbled Warza sourly. "But torches we have not, as Hurok also 
knows . . . ." 
The Apeman of Kor gestured with one mighty arm at the mounds of rotting garbage which blocked the 
mouth of the dark alley. 
"There before Warza lie broken boxes and discarded rags," he said significantly. "Surely, one so clever 
as Warza can fashion therefrom a torch or two?" 
Flushing a little at the implied rebuke, Warza bent to the task. Wrenching apart the slats of a broken 
crate, he wound one end with filthy rags. Flint struck fiery sparks when dashed against flint; with a little 
encouragement, the makeshift torch was set burning. 
It burned smokily, true, sending a coil of sooty black smoke into the air. And the light it cast was fitful 
and even feeble. Still and all, it was light and would certainly serve to alleviate somewhat the gloom of 
the sewer tunnel. 
One by one the warriors lowered themselves gingerly into the black mouth of the opening, finding 
themselves up to their ankles in dirty water and not quite able to stand erect. The torches Warza had 
fashioned shed a dim, wavering orange glow which disclosed to their eyes the gradually ascending 
tunnel that extended in the direction of the central parts of the Scarlet City. 
Holding their breath against the fetid stench, they began to inch along. The stone trough which ran down 
the middle of the sewer tunnel was slimed with layers of ancient grease and mold and nameless ooze. It 
was uncomfortable not being able to stand erect, and the air was of vile quality. 
Nevertheless, they went up the tunnel and began their unpleasant trip to the citadel of the Witch Queen 
of Zar, the Scarlet City. 
What they should find when they reached the end of the underground road none of them knew or could 
even guess. Perhaps, another grilled opening such as the one whereby they had entered into the sewer. 
Or perhaps a sheer pipe leading upwards into the structure of the palace, a vertical ascent which not even 
the nimblest or most agile of their number could hope to climb. 
But, at every step of their quest to rescue Eric Carstairs and Professor Potter, they had faced up to and 
overcome obstacles which had, at the time, seemed unconquerable. By courage and strength, patience 

and ingenuity, they had come this far in their search for their captive chieftain. 
And this was merely one more obstacle to be met and overcome .... 
These thoughts passed slowly through the mind of Hurok of Kor as the mighty Apeman plodded through 
the underground tunnel. Like the true leader he was, like the actual leader he had become, the burly 
Neanderthal tried to foresee the hazards that might lie ahead, the dangers they might soon face, and the 
problems which the future might soon reveal, so as to plan a means of surmounting them. 
Of course, not a man of them-not even Hurok-could possibly have guessed what they would face when 
they reached the end of the underground road . . . . 
Part Six 
GODS OF ZAR 
Chapter 26 MY BLUFF FAILS 
Cromus regarded me with blank astonishment. Obviously, the little commander had thought me safely 
mewed up in my silken, sumptuous cell. To find me here, in the secret factory where the Professor was 
busily reinventing firearms was about the last thing the pompous, strutting little bantam could have 
expected. 
There was no hope of fighting my way through half-a-dozen armed men, so I resolved to try to bluff my 
way out of this predicament. Permitting no trace of my shock or consternation to show, I folded my arms 
across my breast and regarded the gaudy little officer with a casual smile. 
"What do you here, prisoner?" demanded Cromus in harsh tones. I shrugged and turned upon him a 
serene and guileless gaze. 
"The chosen lover of the Divine Zarys," I said blandly, "is free to come and go as he wishes in the palace 
of his beloved." 
The features of Cromus darkened, flushing with anger and jealousy. His thin lips parted, then closed to 
stifle an angry retort. As he eyed me truculently and suspiciously, chewing his lower lip in obvious 
indecision, I realized my advantage. 
Cromus knew very well that I had been granted private audience with the woman he desired. Palace 
scuttlebutt probably had it that I had been offered the love of Zarys. The frustrated and madly jealous 
heart of Cromus quite likely pictured the scenes which his tormented imagination painted-scenes of 
myself in the cool arms of Zarys, of myself pressing fiery kisses upon the moist and panting mouth of 

Zarys-scenes certainly calculated to do nothing to assuage or lessen his hatred of the man who had 
knocked him down before all of the assembled nobles. 
Palace scandal doubtless also reported that I had scorned the love of Zarys, and had been locked up for 
weeks in order to meditate upon my refusal of her favors, and, perhaps, repent. 
However, to refuse the arms and lips of the Goddess was something so incredible and unprecedented as 
to seem utterly impossible to a rejected suitor such as Cromus. And now my cool-words confirming his 
darkest fancies, so that his acceptance of the rumor was deeply shaken. 
"And now if the commander would kindly step aside, I shall be on my way," I suggested. It couldn't do 
any harm to try bluffing my way out of this, for I was already in enough hot water to scald the toughest 
hide. 
He eyed me dubiously, trying to make up his mind what to do. Of course, it would hardly be wise for 
him to offer violence to the chosen lover of Zarys . . . on the other hand, supposing that I lied, it would 
hardly be wise to let me go scot-free. 
It was a pretty problem! 
Cromus solved it in such a way as to earn my admiration, although I disliked the strutting popinjay 
almost as much as he disliked me. 
"Come, then," he grunted. "I and my soldiers will escort the Lord Eric to the apartments of the Divine 
Empress as a, ah, guard of honor. Surely, the Goddess will appreciate the esteem and honor we will thus 
bestow upon her chosen . . . ." 
Then he shot me a sly and cunning glance. 
"And surely the Lord Eric will not offend those who would do honor unto him by refusing to accept that 
honor!" 
Well, he had me there, all right! There was nothing that I could think to do but nod with cool politeness 
and let the guardsmen lead me through the corridors beyond the Professor's laboratory. 
Ialys, looking pale and frightened, had perforce to accompany us. Two soldiers closed in on either side 
of the handmaiden so that she must walk between them. 
My mind racing furiously as I strove to figure out some way of getting out of this spot, I barely noticed 
the suites and halls and stairways by which we traversed the bewildering maze that was the palace 
citadel. 

I didn't notice much of anything, in fact, until with a sudden shock I found myself standing before the 
veiled aperture which led to the private apartments of the Empress. 
Here we halted while Cromus strutted forward to exchange a few words with the guard captain stationed 
before the door. These words were breathed in tones too low for my ears to catch their meaning. 
Saluting, the captain entered the suite and within a moment or two he returned. 
"The Divine One will see you now," he said to Cromus. "All of YOU." 
Within the boudoir of the Goddess, another shock awaited me. It certainly was turning out to be a day 
full of surprises .... 
For the Empress, it seemed, was in her bath. 
It was a sunken tub, tiled with pale jade and rich lapis Lazuli, wherein she reclined in sudsy, perfumed 
water, reposing languidly while handmaidens as naked as was she gently laved her slender limbs. 
She regarded us lazily, with a little smile. How beautiful she was I give my reader leave to imagine for 
himself. Her slim, bare limbs gleamed lustrously through the soapy water; foamy bubbles clung to her 
perfect, pointed breasts like pearls. 
I hastily averted my eyes while Cromus, coming stiffly to attention, began making his report. 
"Goddess, I found the Lord Eric in the workshop where the wise one toils at the fashioning of the 
thunder-weapon," he said. "Understanding that he had been made a prisoner by the command of Your 
Divinity, I inquired into his presence and learned from his lips that, as the chosen companion of the 
Divine Zarys, he might come and go as freely as he wished. Not daring to contradict one who might, 
indeed, be speaking the truth and be thus intimate with the Divine Presence, and therefore sacrosanct, I 
merely escorted the Lord hither to make this report." 
He darted a snaky glance at Ialys who stood, white-faced and trembling, between two strong guards. 
"And his accomplice, as well," he added. 
The Empress studied me and the hapless girl for a long moment, the brilliance of her gaze veiled by 
silken lashes. Her expression was inscrutable. 
"So, Eric Carstairs," she drawled at last in a lazy, purring voice, "you claim to be my lover? You boast to 
others of that relationship which was offered unto you, and which you so rashly declined? And, to make 
matters even worse, you have subverted-if not even seduced-my faithful handmaiden?" 

I tried a bit of bluff again. Shrugging and grinning with a touch of bravado, I said: "Well, I went for a 
little walk, I must admit! Gets awfully tiresome, locked up with nothing to do. As for Ialys, she had 
nothing to do with it. I just sort of ran into her along the way-" 
Those magnificent eyes flashed dangerously. 
"Do not dream that you can make a fool of the Divine Zarys with your flimsy lies!" she snapped. 
"Guiltiness is written upon the girl's face for every eye to read. If she had naught to do with your escape, 
why, then, has she turned as pale as fresh milk? Why do her limbs tremble, and why do her eyes mirror 
forth the fear that is within her heart? What is there to fear, if one has done nothing for which to deserve 
punishment?" 
"I was just looking for my friend, the Professor-" I began, hoping against hope that simple honesty 
would convince her that I had no sinister intent. "If I had been intending to escape, I wouldn't have been 
prowling around the palace, but off and over the walls" 
"Enough, barbarian!" She lifted one slender hand, her voice imperious. "I have only contempt for your 
lies, and they will avail you naught-nay, nor will they interpose between my wrath and the guilt of the 
girl, Ialys, whom I loved and trusted!" 
At this the little handmaiden choked a sob and fell to her knees beside the tiled pool, burying her face 
between shaking hands. 
"Mercy, O Divine One-" she implored in a quavering voice. 
The face of the Goddess softened as she stared at the weeping girl. One hand emerged from the water to 
touch gently the girl's head, to smooth back the locks of her complicated hairstyle, which had become 
disarranged. 
In the very next instant-with that quicksilver, catlike change of mood I found so disconcerting-her face 
hardened and her superb breasts heaved with emotion. 
"One whom I trusted and have given favor to has betrayed that trust," she hissed coldly. "And one to 
whom I offered the ultimate favor has deceived and lied to me. For crimes of such affront to the Sacred 
Throne, there can be but one punishment great enough!" 
"And that is . . . ?" inquired Cromus with a leer, licking his lips gloatingly. 
"These two shall be immurred within the Pits of Zar, to await death in the great arena on the comingforth 
of the God," she commanded. 
And I must confess my heart sank into my boots. Except that I wasn't wearing any, of course .... 

While it had proved a pretty crummy day for me, Cromus obviously found it something to write up in 
his diary, if the Zarians keep diaries, that is, and if he could write. 
As he led us to the cells beneath the arena, he was strutting and preening himself like a peacock, 
shooting me smirking and malevolent little glances all the while, and in general really enjoying himself. 
As for myself, I tried to keep a calm composure and an unruffled mien. It wouldn't do me any good to 
show my feelings, or the depths of despair in my heart. and to do so would only have pleased Cromus all 
the more. So I hung onto my cool and didn't even respond to his jibes. 
The arena is a great amphitheatre ringed about with stone benches, and built up against the cliff-wall on 
whose top the palace citadel rises. The Pits, as the dungeon cells are known, lie beneath the floor of the 
arena, much like the ones tourists see in the ruins of the Roman Coliseum. 
And I can guarantee they are just about as uncomfortable. 
Chapter 27 THE PROFESSOR DECIDES 
Interminable though they seemed, the sewers beneath the Scarlet City of Zar must end . . . this Hurok 
and the warriors knew; but it seemed as if they had been crawling through the fetid subterranean 
passageways for an abnormal length of time. 
The darkness was penetrated only by the feeble, flickering rays of light cast by their torches, which 
burned poorly in the vitiated, moist air of the sewers. At no point along the tunnels had it ever been 
possible for the little band to stand erect, so they were forced to progress in a stooping position, half bent 
over. At times, the tunnel narrowed and the arched ceiling closed down so closely that they were forced 
to crawl on hands and knees. 
By this time, they were all heartily sick of the experience. But there was nothing else to do but to trudge 
grimly on, trying to ignore the claustrophobic closeness and the stench. 
After a time, the tunnels angled steeply upwards and it seemed to the Apeman of Kor that they must be 
nearer street level. The air became no fresher, neither did the black gloom of their surroundings lighten, 
but the primitive senses of the great Neanderthal told him that they were near the surface. 
The others sensed it, too. No less primitive in such respects was Neanderthal than Cro-Magnon; the 
senses of both had been honed to keenness by the harsh struggle for survival in the jungle wilderness of 
savage Zanthodon. 
"O Hurok," muttered Varak from ahead, "it seems that we are coming to the end of this warren." 

"Hurok senses it, too," grunted the Apeman. The others felt their nearness to the street level, and their 
sodden spirits lifted. 
"It will be a pleasure to leave these filthy holes in the ground, and fight face-to-face with the foe in the 
clear light of day!" said Erdon with an eagerness in his voice they all shared. 
"And the fresh air of the open sky," chuckled the irrepressible Varak. "Do not forget the fresh air!" 
"I have almost forgotten what it smelled like, in this vile place," returned Erdon. 
"Save your breath for climbing," advised the Neanderthal in his heavy tones. "It gets a lot steeper here-" 
And, indeed, it did. From just ahead of their present position, the tunnel rose almost vertically, obviously 
almost at its end. Ascending the steep incline, Hurok blinked above, awed at the glimmer of daylight 
now clearly visible beyond another barred grating similar to the one they had pried free to enter the 
sewers. 
"How do we get up that?" muttered Warza, indicating the vertical rise. Hurok shrugged. 
"As we ascended the wall of the mountain," he growled. "We climb!" 
And climb they did. Fortunately, ages of running water had crumbled and washed away the mortar 
between most of the great blocks of stone, and these interstices afforded them handholds and toeholds. 
But the throat of the sewer tunnel was slimy and very slipppery. They began to climb slowly and with 
much care, after falling a few times. 
At length Hurok, who had taken the lead, reached the barred grating which covered the opening. So 
dazzled were his dim little eyes by the unaccustomed brilliance that he could make out little of the scene 
which awaited beyond the grating. He caught the blurred impression of noise and tumult and movement, 
although he could not at once make out anything in clear detail. 
Bracing his splayed feet and wedging his burly shoulders against the throat of the tunnel, he clasped the 
iron grill in his great hands and heaved with a mighty surge of strength. 
Incrustations of rust and filth groaned, cracked, flakedgave way. The grill he thrust aside, crawling 
upward to hook his elbows over the brink of the opening; he emerged, cramped and filthy and sore in 
many muscles, to clamber to his feet and blink about him in the light of day. 
One by one, his warriors emerged from the sewer to group behind him. 
As his dazzled vision cleared, Hurok peered ahead and saw two things that astounded him. 

One of these was the one person in all of Zanthodon whom he most wished to see. 
The other was a titanic monster such as he had never seen, even in his most horrendous nightmares .... 
Sadly watching Cromus and his bravoes march the girl and me off to face the judgment of Zarys, 
Professor Percival P. Potter heaved a heart-deep sigh, and returned gloomily to his work. 
The elderly scientist had no way of guessing what would be the fate of his young friend, but he somberly 
feared the worst. Cromus he knew to be a vindictive, jealous bully and coward, who envisioned Eric 
Carstairs as a rival for the love of the Divine Empress of Zar. And now that same Cromus had me where 
he wanted me! 
Hours later, during the sleep period, the old man tossed and turned, unable to still the tumult of his 
thoughts. My words had pierced him to the heart, showing him the frivolous nature of his scientific 
curiosity, and the tremendous danger which his reinventing of gunpowder presented to the world of our 
Cro-Magnon friends. Guiltily, he cursed his avid quest for knowledge and the fascination which Xask's 
challenge had awakened in him. 
All that "night" he wrestled with his conscience. To stop work on the project now would be futile, for 
already the gunbarrels were forged and the crude black powder, although still undergong purification, 
was already perfectly usable. Even if the Professor stubbornly declined to continue his work on the 
weapons, the master smiths and artisans could carry it through to fruition without him. 
After breakfast, while being escorted to the workshop, he continued moodily puzzling over the few 
courses of action which were available to him, striving to choose the one true action which would 
redeem him in his own eyes, if not in those of Eric Carstairs. 
"Greetings, O wise one!" the master artisan Phorias hailed him as he entered the busy workshop. 
Absently, the Professor returned the greeting. 
"The Goddess has requested to know how much longer it will be before the thunder-weapons are ready 
for use in training her troops," Phorias informed him. The Professor shrugged gloomily and muttered 
something or other. 
"She desires to know, because on the morrow all of Zar will be in the great arena for the Great Games 
and the worship of the God .. . ." 
"Oh, ah?" mumbled the Professor, not really paying much attention. A gleam of malice flickered in the 
shrewd eyes of the bald, olive-hued artisan. 
"Yes! And you should be there, as well, for on the morrow your youthful companion walks forth alone 

to face the God," he added suavely. 
The Professor snapped out of his moodiness as if struck in the face. He stared at the other man, his old 
heart pounding. 
"What's that you say?" he demanded fearfully. "Eric!-the dear boy? To 'face the God'-what God?" 
"Mighty Zorgazon, the Supreme God of Zar, to whom the Divine Zarys herself is bride and sacred 
consort," replied the other. 
Blinking rapidly, the Professor strove to recall if he had ever heard of this Zorgazon before. He knew 
that the Zarians worshipped a male divinity, of course, but had paid little attention to the matter. And 
now it seemed to the old savant that he was going to have to stand idly by and watch Eric Carstairs 
sacrificed to some hideous idol or other .... 
"Get about your work and leave me to my computations," he rasped irritably, waving the other man 
away. With a polite smile, which was almost a mocking sneer, Phorias saluted and returned to 
supervising the purification of the gunpowder. 
All the rest of that endless day, Professor Potter grimly wrestled with his conscience. That he must do 
something to eradicate the evil he had caused was perfectly obvious; exactly what to do was the 
problem. 
And now, as if this weren't enough to struggle with, yet another problem had intruded. He must do 
whatever was humanly possible to rescue his young friend from these cold-hearted fiends . . . . He would 
never be able to sleep easily again, if he were forced to sit idly by and watch Eric Carstairs offered up as 
a human sacrifice to some Cretan idol. 
Toward the end of that day, a notion occurred to him. Promptly, he dispatched a guard to request a 
certain object from Xask, the Empress's counselor, who was theoretically in charge of the manufacturing 
of the thunder-weapon. 
His request was couched in cunningly phrased language which seemed, on the surface, casual and 
insignificant. But Potter knew the shrewdness of Xask, and feared mightily that even this innocuous 
request might arouse the suspicions of Xask and alert him to what the Professor was planning. 
Fortunately, Xask was attending upon the Empress at her court, and one of his servants complied with 
the request. The guard returned with a small object wrapped in white silk, which the Professor hastily 
concealed beneath his garments. 
Later, as the workmen and smiths left, the Professor lingered behind, pretending to be busied with a few 
last details. Once he was alone and unobserved-except, of course, for the guards who waited at the 

entrance to escort him back to his apartments-he set about his work hastily but with great care. 
Breaking open one of the wooden casks of gunpowder, the Professor poured a gritty trail of shining 
black particles on the floor. The line began at the stack of kegs which held all of the gunpowder thus far 
produced, and ended at the front door of the workroom. From there, out of direct view of anyone at the 
door, the professor produced a length of tallow-soaked twine. One end he inserted into a small heap of 
the black powder, at the end of the trail, and the other end he extended across the floor into a far corner 
of the room. 
The Professor had earlier planned to use just such twine in the nature of a fuse, when he had conceived 
of a slightly different design for his weapons. Through experimentation, he had learned exactly how 
slowly the tallow-impregnated twine burns. Thus he knew to a nicety how long it would take for a spark 
to consume the considerable length of the twine he had stretched across the floor. 
Just before leaving the workroom and locking the door, the old man struck flint and steel. 
And lit the long fuse . . .. 
Chapter 28 THE GREAT GAMES 
Life in the Pits of the Scarlet City was about as crummy as you might suppose it would be, and the only 
thing that made it endurable was the knowledge that it would soon end. 
Very soon. A little too soon. Our fellow captives in the Pits of Zar gloomily informed us that the Day of 
the Great Games was almost upon us. They certainly didn't seem very happy about the fact, but then, 
they knew what was coming and I was still in a state of blissful ignorance. 
I guess I suspected the Games to be on the order of gladiatorial combats-sort of a cross between The 
Last Days of Pompeii and the Olympics. 
Shows how much I knew .... 
There were two things, actually, that made the dungeons endurable. The other was the prisoners we were 
locked up with. For the most part, these were a surly, frightened bunch of Zarians who knew all too 
bloody well what was coming. They were a seedy lot-thieves, usurers, a murderer or two. Fat merchants 
caught counterfeiting or something. You can imagine the sort of scum. 
The others, though, were former Cro-Magnon slaves condemned to the Games for one or another 
transgression, like refusing to whip a fellow slave to death or failing to kiss the dirt between some 
aristocrat's feet. 

None of these fellows was from Sothar or Thandar, although they were the same sort-stalwart, 
handsome, superbly built warriors with fair skins, blue eyes, and yellow hair. 
They told me that their nations were Gorad and Numitor, which were to be found far to the "south"-well, 
they waved vaguely in what seemed to be that direction. None of them had been born in slavery, but all 
had been taken captive by slave raiders who periodically descended from Zar to replenish the supplies of 
livestock, so to speak. None of them had adjusted very well to slavery, which explained why they were 
here. 
I liked them, especially one big blond warrior named Gundar of Gorad, who had the broadest shoulders 
I've ever seen this side of my old pal, Hurok. Another man, younger and with a winningly cheerful way 
about him that reminded me of Varak, I also made friends with. He was of the tribe of Numitor; his 
name was Thou. 
All told, there were about thirty Cro-Magnons chained in the Pits, awaiting the Great Games. We did a 
lot of talking about a plan of escape, but there really didn't seem to be much point to it, although it 
helped us keep our spirits up. 
Ialys clung constantly to my side. The daintily reared maiden felt lost, her life in ruins. I felt guilty, as 
she was being kind to me when Cromus caught me off guard, and because of helping me she found 
herself in this present predicament. So I took care of her the best that I could, and protected her from the 
men. Not the Cro-Magnons, of course, for they are courteous and chivalric gentlemen, for all that they 
are little more than savages-no, from the other Zarians. They would have heartily enjoyed a bit of gangrape 
on their way to the Games .... 
As I have already said, we didn't spend much time in the Pits of Zar, because the Day of the Great 
Games was nearly upon us. Just how nearly was anybody's guess, in this world without time. But that 
"night," just as we stretched ourselves out for some sleep, Ialys who had crept up beside me, laid her 
slim small hand on my shoulder. 
"What is it?" I asked drowsily. 
"When we awaken, Lord Eric," the girl said solemnly, "it will be to face the God in the arena." 
"What God is that?" 
"Zorgazon, who made the world," she informed me. 
"Oh, yeah?" I yawned. 
Then she said something that woke me up fast enough 

With a pitiful expression in her large, beautiful eyes, the Zarian girl whispered: "Yes . . . when we 
awaken, it will be to look upon the world for the last time. For in his beast-avatar, great Zorgazon is very 
terrible . . . and on the Day of the Games, he is very hungry . . . farewell, Lord Eric! Soon, all our 
sufferings will end, and we will be at peace. . . " 
Then she fell asleep, cuddled at my side. 
But-let me tell you-I didn't get much sleep that night. "Gladiatorial games"-hah! 
These people were going to feed us to a monster. 
We were awakened and, oddly enough, considering what was shortly to happen to us, fed an excellent 
meal. 
"'The condemned man ate a hearty breakfast,"' I quipped. The Cro-Magnons regarded me solemnly. 
"Sorry, fellows," I said with a feeble grin. "Joking helps to keep my spirits up!" 
Thou of Numitor glanced at me with a twinkle in his eye but said nothing. My huge friend, Gundar, 
more grim and stolid and less mercurial than the Numitorian youth, looked at me with a certain 
admiration. 
"It is a brave man who can jest in the very jars of due," he rumbled. I winced. 
"Please, Gundar-do you have to say things like that?" I protested. He shrugged. 
"The jaws of Zorgazon are mighty jaws, Eric Carstairs. I have attended my Zarian owners in this arena 
many times, and have seen the monster-worshiped." 
"Let's change the subject," I begged. "Ialys is losing her appetite. 
The girl smiled wanly, but said nothing. 
In a little while they assembled us into ranks, and marched us out into the daylight. We walked across a 
sand-strewn floor about the size of a football stadium, and to every side rose tiers of stone benches 
crowded with gaily dressed Zarians in their holiday finery. They cheered and hooted as we emerged 
blinking into the light. 
"Looks like a full house," I muttered to myself, trying to muster a bit of swagger into my stride. 
The guards halted us in the center of the arena, and left hurriedly, closing the thick-barred gate to the 

Pits behind them. 
In a curtained box, Zarys lolled in a glittering harness of gilded leather studded with flashing gems. To 
one side of her, Xask reposed, favoring me with a slight smile. To the other, Cromus sat, looking me 
over with a gloating, malevolent grin. 
I could cheerfully have throttled him. 
Beneath the royal box, a very huge door swung slowly open on ponderous hinges of solid brass, 
revealing the yawning mouth of a black cavern. 
I put my arm about Ialys's trembling shoulders. 
Out of the gate stalked Zorgazon. 
The crowd gasped and quailed. The Zarians in our little band fell to their knees, wailing and pressing 
their brows against the sand in abasement. The Cro-Magnons stood tall and proud . . . and, like myself, 
empty-handed. Not that any weapon this side of a howitzer would have done any good. 
For the God of Zar was a gigantic tyrannosaurus rex! 
As the host of Sothar approached the entrance to the pass which led to the Scarlet City, Garth eyed 
without comment the gigantic dragon heads positioned to either side, hewn from the living stone of the 
cliffs. I had seen those very heads when Raphad and his troop had led us into the pass, and remembered 
that Xask had humorously referred to them as "very good likenesses" of the God of Zar. Which indeed 
they were. 
Suddenly, Garth threw up his hand, halting the march. For his keen eyes had seen his scouts hurrying 
through the foothills, running with all fleetness, as if being pursued. 
"Archers! Bend your bows," rumbled Garth, hefting his long spear and loosening his war axe in its sling. 
The bowmen nocked their bows and held them at the ready. 
The first of the scouts came running up to where Garth stood in the forefront of the Sotharian host. 
"What have you seen that impels you to return in such precipitous haste, Mordan?" inquired the Chief. 
The scout panted for a moment, recovering his breath. Then he spoke. 
"Withdraw to better ground, my Omad!" said Mordan hurriedly. "A great host approaches down the pass 
which leads through the mountains. They will be upon us sooner than you might suspect!" 

Garth nodded, lifting his aurochs horn to summon the chieftains. When they were assembled, he gave 
rapid orders. The host withdrew to a large knoll which stood amid the grasses of the plain some little 
distance away. To his practiced eye, it looked to Garth to offer as much advantage as could be expected 
in such flat land. 
His warriors encircled the knoll in a triple ring of men. They locked their long, kite-shaped shields 
together, for all the world like the Vikings of olden time, and crouched behind them so as to offer the 
least possible target to their approaching adversaries. 
Atop the knoll, Garth and his personal guards stood waiting for whatever was coming to emerge from 
the mouth of the pass. 
There was a long moment of stillness, as if the very world of Zanthodon held its breath in suspense. 
Then the ground seemed to tremble slightly, as if to the tread of ponderous feet. 
"Dragonmen, my Omad!" one of the guards said alertly. From a little distance away, the Minoan 
prisoner, Captain Raphad, smiled slightly. He, too, recognized the heavy tread of the feet of the thodars. 
In the next moment, a host of running figures burst from the pass to flee into the plain. 
At their very heels came stalking along the giant forms of the mounted dinosaurs. 
"Who are those warriors in front of the line of beasts?" rumbled Garth, shading his eyes with one hand. 
"I recognize one of them, at least, my Chief," observed a keen-eyed warrior. "Is it not-? It is! It is ...." 
In the next instant, the eyes of Garth of Sothar widened incredulously, and his bearded jaws gaped in a 
startled cry. 
Chapter 29 ZORGAZON! 
The thing was as big as a house. Quite literally; it stood on enormous legs towering as tall as a threestory 
building. In contrast to its huge hind legs, the forelegs were small but sinewy, and armed with 
hooked claws like wicked sickles. Its hide was leathery, pebbled rather than scaled, of a browngreenish 
hue on the back which faded to muddy yellow on the chest and belly. It stank like a pit of squirming 
snakes. 
Its hideous head seemed to be all gaping jaws packed with fangs longer than cavalry sabres. Under the 
shelving of its brow, scarlet eyes blazed-soulless, unwinking orbs filled with ferocity and wild hunger. I 
have little doubt that the Zarians had starved the brute for days to give it sufficient appetite-for us. 

As it came clambering up the runway into the arena, Zarys rose to her feet and saluted her husband and 
consort with a regal gesture. The tyrannosaurus seemed to recognize her, for as she lifted her arm in 
salute it threw back its horrible head and gave vent to a screeching cry like a tugboat's steam whistle. 
Then, with an eloquent gesture, she drew its attention to us. That ghastly, grinning head lowered; we met 
the impact of those mad scarlet eyes. 
"Zorgazon!" she cried imperatively. 
"Zorgazon," moaned the vast throng as with one voice they hailed their monstrous God. 
With a ponderous stride that shook the ground, the giant reptile came stalking across the arena toward 
us. We stood our ground, the Cro-Magnons and I, and I held little Ialys tightly against my chest. But the 
Zarian captives broke and ran, squealing. 
Zorgazon peered down at them curiously, fang-bristling jaws agape, saliva dripping in slimy ropes from 
its scaly chin. 
Then one huge splay-toed foot lifted and came down on a whimpering cluster of Zarian thieves. 
They.. . squelched. 
The foot lifted, dripping crimson. I shuddered and bit my lip. 
Beside me, giant Gundar gripped my shoulder. "Steady," he rumbled. 
I nodded grimly. 
Zorgazon broke into a loping stride. Half-bent, it snatched with those sinewy little grasping forelimbs. 
Shrieking men were plucked into midair, popped into that vast maw like peanuts. 
Zarian after Zarian it snatched up and gobbled down. It seemed to be ignoring us, perhaps saving us for 
last, as a diner samples the hors d'oeuvres first, while savoring the approach of the main course. 
Then those blazing scarlet eyes glared down at us, and our turn had come. 
There was nothing we could do to defend ourselves. But, then, bare hands were every bit as useless 
against that titan of the Dawn Age as swords or spears would have been. Its leathery hide was toughimpenetrable. 

The shadow of Zorgazon fell over us, like the shadow of doom. 
And then the world went crazy! 
The ground jumped under our feet. The floor of the arena shuddered, then tilted crazily. Stones fell 
clattering from the nearer wall of the arena. Women screamed. 
We looked up, dazed. 
A boiling cloud of inky black smoke enveloped the upper works of the palace citadel. Whirling, seething 
black smoke shot through with streaks of furious crimson. 
A deafening explosion shook the very air. For a moment, all I could hear was my ears ringing. 
Momentarily deaf, I could not even hear the uproar as the crowd went mad, and men came leaping down 
the tiers, running headlong for the exits. 
Another explosion, louder than before. Again, the arena floor rose to slap against the bottom of our feet. 
Gundar and Thon glanced at me, shaken. 
"What is it?" one of them gasped. 
"Who knows? Or cares? Run for it " 
The second explosion took off parts of the palace roof, and felled one tower. It fell slowly, like a falling 
tree, except that it came apart with dreamlike slowness as it fell, disintegrating into a shower of stone 
blocks that pelted down across the arena in a deadly rain. 
Zorgazon did not like the explosion, or the sulphurous stench of the drifting black smoke. He threw back 
his hideous head and screamed his challenge. 
A mass of falling masonry came whirling down, and caught the tyrannosaurus aside the head, He 
staggered sideways, shrieked again, dark red blood trickling down his working jaws. 
At that impact, the dinosaur went crazy. He headed for the grandstand and plowed into the stone wall. It 
came apart as if built of children's alphabet blocks. Seats crunched, people scattered. Splat-splat! went 
his little forepaws, as he swatted the crowd, leaving wet red marks that had been men. 
Huge as he was, Zorgazon could not break through the solid stone construction of the arena. So he 
swung about, and swiped with his thick, long, heavy, kangaroo-like tail. It thundered against the side of 
the arena like twenty bulldozers, and even the stonework had to give. Screaming like fury, he began 
kicking and punching his way through the side of the arena. 

I got one glimpse of Zarys, frozen, standing alone in her box. Her gorgeous face was white with 
unbelieving horror-white as death. 
Then the framework of the box gave way and her slim, proud form vanished as the awnings fell. 
Gundar slapped my shoulder. We turned and ran for it. I grabbed up Ialys, flung her across my shoulder. 
The thirty-odd Cro-Magnons and I headed for the nearest exit. 
Along the way we found a couple of guards and relieved them of spears, swords, tridents-whatever. 
Another explosion ripped the palace apart. The crackling of flames shooting up from burning buildings 
was very loud in our ears; soot and hot ashes fell about us in a stinging black snowstorm. 
Suddenly a huge, hairy form heaved itself up in front of us. 
"A Drugar!" yelled Thon, and made to fling his spear. 
"No-" I shouted, knocking his arm aside. For in the same instant I saw the recognized Hurok of Kor, and 
he knew me. 
"Friend," I panted. Thon glowered, but subsided. Beyond Hurok I saw Varak and several others. I 
wondered dizzily what they were doing here, and how they had managed to find their way, but there was 
no time for that now. Zorgazon was going crazy, tearing the arena apart, and stones the size of 
Volkswagens were thumping down all around us. 
We found the exit and dived into it. 
The streets around the burning palace were a howling madhouse. Zorgazon had come this way, and 
houses had been smashed flat under the tread of his ponderous feet. People, too, if you can call smears 
of wet redness people. Villas had been kicked apart, luxurious gardens trampled into mud. And, 
everywhere, ashes were falling, falling. 
We headed for the stone causeway across the inland sea. Just about everybody was heading in that 
direction, too, and nobody tried to stop us or even bothered to notice us. I saw men waddling along, their 
arms loaded with bric-abrac and rolled-up tapestries, women weeping, but hanging on for dear life to 
their jewelry boxes, scared-looking kids hugging jointed wooden dolls. 
Zorgazon was somewhere up ahead, towering above the rooftops, howling like a fire engine. He swatted 
at a tower and it burst apart in a shower of bricks. He kicked in the side of a mansion as a man might 
kick in an egg crate; it folded in upon itself, collapsing in slow motion. 

We ran, dodging through side streets and narrow alleys to avoid the crush of jammed, stampeding 
humanity that choked the main boulevards. 
I tripped over a fallen pillar and went down on my face. Hurok caught me by the shoulder and lifted me 
to my feet like a rag doll, while Gundar paused to scoop up the limp form of Ialys, who had fainted 
sometime during the nightmare of the streets. He threw her over his shoulder and kept on running, as if 
the girl weighed nothing. 
Suddenly, out of the veils of falling ashes and smoke and whirling sparks, a scrawny, gleeful figure 
appeared smack in front of me. 
"Professor-!" 
"Eric, my boy," he panted. "I've been chasing after you for blocks-" 
I cocked a thumb back at the wreckage of the burning palace, high on its hill atop the city. 
"Did-you-do-that?" 
He nodded happily. "Yes, I'm afraid Xask and Cromus will not have their rifle platoons, after all," he 
chuckled. 
"Professor . . . you amaze me," I said helplessly. 
"And that's not all," he breathed. "I managed to carry off a little souvenir." 
He whipped a silk-wrapped bundle from under his smoke-blackened garments and thrust it into my 
hands. 
It was my.45 automatic! 
We got across the bridge and headed straight for the pass. The sooner we shook the dust of the Scarlet 
City from our heels, the happier we would all be. 
There were plenty of other fugitives crowding the causeway, but all they wanted to do was to put the 
breadth of the inland sea between themselves and their God run amok. 
Nobody tried to stop us, or even bothered to notice us. It was weird, almost like being invisible. You 
would think that thirty-five blond Cro-Magnons and a huge, hairy Neanderthal would have attracted 
some attention from that crowd, but no. 

At the top of the pass we paused to take a breather. Along the way we had all picked up plenty of 
weapons, and it felt good to be armed again. It also felt good to be able to stop running and sit down for 
a while. 
Then Hurok grabbed my shoulder in a hand the size of a catcher's mitt. 
"Look, Black Hair, they pursue us," he grunted. 
I turned and my heart sank into my boots. 
Down the length of the causeway came the Dragonmen, twenty strong, mounted on their immense 
loping thodars. 
On the lead beast rode Zarys of Zar in her glittering golden harness. Directly behind her rode Cromus, 
his face flushed and angry, red murder in his eyes. 
They were not escaping the burning city, no, not them. They were set to hunt down the fleeing slaves 
and prisoners who had caused all of the commotion in the first place. 
White-faced, her superb eyes flashing with fury, Zarys rode like the avenging goddess she was. And, of 
the two Gods of Zar, I cannot say which of them was the more dangerous and implacable, Zarys or 
Zorgazon! 
This day she had worn that sparkling wig of spun gold that made her so closely resemble my lost, 
beloved Princess. How beautiful she was-how glorious! 
And how deadly. A woman-a queen!-scorned and rejected by the man to whom she had offered her love, 
and by whose bold connivance her splendid city now lay in blazing ruins. 
To have earned the undying enmity of such a woman is not the sort of thing that lets you sleep easy of 
nights . . . . 
I looked at Hurok and Gundar. They looked at me. 
Then we. . . ran. 
Chapter 30 RAPHAD STRIKES 
When Garth of Sothar saw the band of running men who emerged from the mouth of the pass and came 
pelting down the slope onto the plains, he frowned in puzzlement. Most of them were tall, strong, blond 
Cro-Magnon stalwarts like himself, but none of them was known to him. From their accouterments and 

the way they braided their long hair, he guessed them to be mostly warriors of Numitor and Gorad. 
What it was that they were running away from he did not at once see. For, suddenly, to his complete 
astonishment he began to recognize the faces of men whom he knew among the throng of strangers. 
There in the very forefront was Eric Carstairs, with mighty Hurok of Kor at his side! Puffing along 
behind them he spied the scrawny form of Professor Potter, who still clung gamely to his dusty pincenez 
spectacles and his battered and travelstained sun helmet. 
About these, like a guard, were the missing warriors Varak and Ragor, Erdon, Warza, and Parthon-men 
of Sothar and of Thandar all. 
Then there emerged into view the giant forms of the thodars, each with its armed rider seated between 
the shoulders and straddling the massive column of the reptile's long neck. 
But nowhere did he espy the form of his lost daughter, Yualla . . . . 
With arms folded upon his mighty breast he waited as we came up to the knoll where his warriors were 
arranged for battle. I burst through the line, bearing the limp form of Ialys in my arms, Gundar and Thou 
and Hurok at my heels. 
"Garth!" I called, "these men are friends-former slaves in Zar-let them join your ranks!" 
Handing the unconscious form of the Zarian girl to the solicitudinous arms of his mate, Nian, who bore 
her off among the women, Garth issued the command. Reluctantly, the ranks of Sothar parted to admit 
the warriors of Gorad and Numitor among them. The Sotharians eyed the newcomers suspiciously, and 
were stared back at with grim truculence. 
I joined Garth on the height, and together we observed the huge forms of the lumbering thodars as they 
came out of the pass and drew up in a vast half-circle. There wasn't much that we could do to defend 
ourselves against the vengeance of Zarys, but at least we could go down fighting. I felt sorry that Garth 
had shown up just in time to have to face with me the Dragonmen. 
"I perceive, Eric Carstairs, that again you have been making a few enemies," the Omad observed with 
somber humor. I grinned. 
"A few," I admitted. 
"May I inquire into the cause for this pursuit?" 
I shrugged. "Well, we left the royal palace of Zar a flaming wreck, and the arena of the Games has been 

knocked apart, and a considerable portion of the city lies in ruins ...." 
He nodded solemnly. "I suppose that is enough to make an enemy of anyone," he commented. "If you 
were a slave in Zar, did you encounter therein my child, Yualla?" 
I blinked, this being the first news I had received that the teenaged girl was missing. Reluctantly, I 
admitted that I had not seen her. 
"Or Jorn the Hunter?" Hurok rumbled questioningly at my side. Again, I shook my head negatively. 
Garth sighed, then straightened. 
"Then she is lost," he said heavily. "Time enough to mourn our dead when this present circumstance is 
over." 
I gave him, a surprised look. "There isn't much even you and your brave men can do against the 
Dragonmen," I protested. He shook his head with a slight smile. 
"We have faced them before, and won," he remarked, gesturing to where Raphad stood between tall 
guards. I was amazed to see the little Captain who had first taken the Professor and me prisoner, but 
there was no time to ask what had been going on. 
For just then Zarys lifted her gleaming lance in a royal gesture of command, and the huge, lumbering 
thodars began to advance upon our position. 
Among the Dragon-riders I recognized the angry red face of Cromus, but nowhere did I see Xask. It 
would have been perfectly in character for that sly devil to have concealed himself in time to miss this 
expedition-if, in fact, he still lived. 
And if I had been Zarys, I certainly wouldn't have felt comfortable leaving the Scarlet City behind, with 
Xask there .... 
But there was no time for these thoughts right now: we had a bit of fighting to do, and, I thought, a bit of 
dying, too. 
With slow and ponderous strides the great thodars advanced upon our position across the grassy plains. 
Their long, snaky necks reared high above us, and their long,. thick tails dragged through the trampled 
grasses. 
You couldn't have brought down one of monster brontosaurs with a hand grenade, much less a javelin or 
an arrow, or even my precious .45. Realizing this, I couldn't understand why Garth seemed so confident. 

As they came near, the High Chief of Sothar reached into his fur garment and withdrew a circlet of 
sparkling, reddishsilver metal, crowned with a dully glittering crystal. 
This he placed upon his brows, and turned to face the advancing Dragonmen with a kingly frown upon 
his majestic features. 
The Cro-Magnon doubtless believed the circlet to be a magic charm. The technology of the uncanny 
telepathic receptor was naturally beyond his primitive experience. But he had nothing to lose and 
everything in the world to gain by testing its strange powers . . . . 
In the forefront, the Divine Zarys saw and recognized the circlet, and frowned, her furious expression 
changing to one of slight uneasiness . . . . 
She almost raised her hand to halt the advance, to call a parley. But then she saw the Professor and me 
among the others and her face hardened again into an expression of vicious hatred. 
With a wave, she signaled the charge- 
At that precise moment, Garth hurled the full power of his iron will against the advancing reptiles. 
With every atom of strength his disciplined mind and strong body possessed, he willed the beasts to halt 
in their tracks. And the will and mind of such as Garth, monarch of Sothar, was much more powerful 
than was the will of the Dragonmen, their inner strengths vitiated by the decadence of their enervating 
pleasures and by the soft pamperings of urban life. 
The monster saurians came to a halt. 
Wild-eyed, Zarys tugged at the reins, pummeling the sides of her gigantic steed with her heels. But she 
might as well have kicked a stalled locomotive, for all the reaction she got. Consternation and surprise 
flickered in the features of Cromus and the other Dragon-riders when they discovered that they had 
unaccountably lost control over their mounts. 
Never before, in their experience, had such a thing happened. Frowning in concentration, they hurled 
their wills against that of Garth, commanding their steeds forward to trample and crush the blond 
barbarians. 
But the beasts did not move, although they stirred restively, giving voice to bewildered and plaintive 
honkings. 
A huge grin split the somber visage of Garth of Sothar. Merriment twinkled in his hawklike eyes. 

He hurled another mental command at the giant reptiles. The stream of his thought waves, augmented 
and tightened into focus by the strange power of the circlet, broadcast his mental command into the tiny 
brains of the placid saurians. 
The beast which Zarys rode turned, its long neck curving, small, snake-like head questing. 
Jaws opening, it reached down and plucked the fear-frozen form of Cromus out of the saddle of the next 
beast. The head rose high into the air, the tiny figure of Cromus kicking and fighting in panic between its 
jaws. 
The brontosaurus was a herbivore, not a meat-eater. Its jaws were huge and powerful, but they were not 
lined with fangs as are the jaws of a predator. Thus it did not eat or swallow the hapless Minoan; it didn't 
have to. 
It tossed him. 
Like a flimsy doll, the tiny form of Cromus whirled up into the air and came down to thump against the 
plain. And that was that, as far as Cromus was concerned. 
Garth turned his attentions to the next thodar. Its long, serpentine neck curved down, but this time the 
Dragon-rider managed to leap out of the saddle in time to avoid meeting the same doom as Cromus. He 
fell, sprawling on all fours in the long grass. Picking himself up, throwing aside trident and helm, he 
went sprinting off in the direction of the pass. Better to face a burning city and a God amok, than stay 
here and be tossed about like a child's doll, were his obvious thoughts. 
Freed one by one of their riders, the huge reptiles were lumbering off amid the plains in search of fresh 
water or succulent grasses. Zarys, too, slid off her mount and vanished in the direction of Zar before 
Garth could turn his attention to her. I was glad to see her escape death, and hoped that I had seen the 
last of her. 
Raphad paused only long enough to realize that Garth had seized control of the thodars before making 
his move. The wily little Minoan officer had planned his next action. He had found a smooth, heavy 
stone amid the grasses, which he had hidden in the folds of his cloak. Now he drew it forth and, turning 
swiftly, struck one of his guards in the head with the rock. The man fell and even as he toppled, Raphad 
whirled and struck down the other guard. 
Then he threw himself upon Garth before anyone could stop him, and the unexpected impact of his 
weight bore the surprised High Chief to the ground. 
I yelled and made a grab at the Minoan, but Hurok was there before me. His huge balled fist rose and 
fell; with a sickening thud he broke the neck of Raphad with a single blow. The corpse kicked, then slid 
face-down into the grass. 

We bent to help Garth to his feet, but then we drew back in consternation. 
For in the split-second before Hurok slew him, the wily little captain had whipped a bronze dagger from 
Garth's scabbard. And had plunged the blade into his heart. 
WHAT HAPPENED AFTER 
We met there in council on that knoll amid the plains, the chieftains of the host of Sothar and my friends 
and myself, to decide what must next be done. 
It was a strange, sad ending to an amazing day full of surprises. I've seen victory plucked out of the very 
jaws of defeat before, as the saying goes, but this was one of the first times I ever saw triumph followed 
so swiftly by stark tragedy. 
The one redeeming factor was that, somehow, miraculously, Garth had survived the assassin's blade. 
The sharp knife had missed the mighty heart of the jungle monarch by a hair's-breadth, but it had missed 
it and the great artery, too. 
But Garth lay on the very threshold of death, and he could not be moved. With hands as steady as those 
of a surgeon, Professor Potter gently withdrew the blade of the dagger from Garth's chest. Nian, the 
monarch's mate, stanched the flow of blood with tender care. The wound was packed with healing herbs, 
and bound tight. 
There remained a chance that Garth would live, but only a chance. In time, perhaps, his body would heal 
itself. He was a magnificent physical specimen, with the vigor and stamina of two men packed into his 
powerful frame, and, although a man of middle age by the standards of the cavemen, a strong man in the 
full noontide of his prime. 
For the moment, the tribe of Sothar must be led by the will of the chieftains. For Garth had left no son to 
succeed him to the Omadship, only a daughter, the lost Yualla, whom we all believed to be dead 
somewhere in the mountains. 
"We cannot remain here," argued Parthon. "There is no source of water, and no trees from which to 
fashion huts to protect us from the elements." 
"We could withdraw to the south, where the jungle stands at the end of the plains," suggested Varak. 
"There we would no longer be at the mercy of wind and rain." 
"And be at the mercy of the first prowling grymp or drunth or vandar that comes along," sniffed the 
Professor, who always liked to put in his two cents. 

"We could move into the foothills and perhaps find caves there," suggested one of the chieftains, a 
warrior named Thorg. 
"And be all the closer to Zar," I pointed out. "And closer to its vengeful queen." 
My friend Gundar of Gorad nodded grimly. "The Divine Zarys in her unappeased wrath will mount 
another expedition against those who defeated and disgraced her," he promised. "I have been longer in 
the Scarlet City than have you, Eric Carstairs, and I understand the folk thereof more completely. The 
Witch Queen will never rest until she has dealt out fitting punishment to us all ...." 
"Pooh!" scoffed the Professor, brandishing the circlet which he had retrieved from the brows of Garth. 
"If she sends thodars against us, we shall fend them off as before, with this!" 
"And if she sends an army?" inquired Hurok in his heavy, deep tones. The Professor flinched and wilted. 
"The legions of Zar are not to be despised," said Thon of Numitor, for once without his cheerfulness. 
"I think the wisest thing to do would be to go back across the plains again and try to get together with 
the tribe of Thandar," I said. "That way, we can put as much distance as possible between ourselves and 
the Dragonmen and double our fighting strength, if it comes to fighting . . . ." 
"How soon can the Omad safely be moved?" inquired Gundar of Numitor of the Professor. The elderly 
scientist shrugged, then pursed his lips thoughtfully. 
"Our friend Garth is a very strong man, brimming with superb health," he mused. "Holy Hippocrates, 
but I should say-if he continues to rest and mend-within six or seven sleeps. Then we might bear him, 
very slowly and carefully, in a litter. With frequent stops, of course." 
And so it was eventually decided. 
One week later, the host of Sothar decamped from the vicinity of the knoll and moved off slowly toward 
the northwest. There, across the width of the great plain, somewhere the tribe of Tharn of Thandar 
wandered, searching. 
There, somewhere beyond, on an unknown island amid the steamy waters of the Sogar-Jad, my lost 
Princess, Darya of Thandar, remained in captivity with the cruel Barbary Pirates. 
Would Garth survive the assassin's cowardly blow, and would we ever find Yualla or Jorn or my 
beloved Darya again? 
Only time would tell. 

I marched at the head of the host, my thoughts dark and my heart heavy. At my side went my new 
friends, laughing, lighthearted Thon of Numitor and huge, powerful Gundar of Gorad. At my back 
marched the faithful warriors who had come through so many perils to rescue me-Varak of Sothar, and 
Ragor and Erdon of the Thandarians, Warza and Parthon. 
And the best and chiefest friend I had yet made during all of my adventures in Zanthodon the 
Underground World-Hurok of Kor. He had become a leader of men during his search for me, and a 
chieftain of Cro-Magnon warriors. He had found within his loyal and faithful heart the courage and 
wisdom and leadership that one might not expect of a Neanderthal, perhaps. 
Sometimes, in dire adversity, men break. Other men, however, pass through the fire and emerge strong 
and tempered, like steel passing through a smith's forge. 
And thus had been the fate of my old friend and comrade-in-perils, Hurok of the Stone Age. 
THE END