Jongor- the Complete Tales Read online

  Spears, launched downward from the ledge, hissed through the air where he had stood a split second before, thudded into the ground.

  A frustrated yell sounded from the rocky hillside.

  The Murtos had hoped to get Jongor with the first cast of the spears. Failing in that, they expected him to run forward or to turn and run back in the direction from which he had come. As he started to run, the Murtos in the trees were to launch their spears. From the Murto viewpoint it was an excellent plan, one that could not fail in the execution. Whichever way Jongor turned he would find spearmen waiting for him. The Murtos hidden in the trees, the ones lurking behind, the ones ready to cut him off if he ran forward, all got ready.

  Jongor had not survived in this jungle by being slow-witted. The second he caught the flicker of movement on the ledge and realized he was in ambush, he knew there would be spearmen waiting ahead and behind. The Murtos would not leave unguarded an obvious avenue of escape.

  In the split second during which the spears were flashing down at him, he sized up the situation, estimated his chances, and acted. He did none of the things the Murtos had expected him to do. They thought he would try to escape. He didn’t. He charged straight up the rocky hillside, straight at the ledge from which the spears had come.

  A roar of rage sounded from the trees behind him. The spearmen waiting there, cheated of their prey, rushed out to follow him up the hill.

  The Murtos on the ledge above saw him coming at them. This charge was not a part of their plan. They had expected him, if he escaped the spears, to run away, not to run toward them. They did not know what to do.

  Spat!

  One of them would never learn what to do. An arrow drove itself completely through his body, the wicked-looking, bloody head projecting behind his back. Clawing at the arrow, the Murto fell off the ledge, hit with a thud on the ground below.

  “Give ’em hell, Yale!”

  Jongor’s strange battlecry roared across the jungle. Jongor, holding both the spear and the bow in his left hand, the shaft of the spear parallel, to the stave of the bow, was shooting as he charged up the hill. The spear was a reserve weapon, to be used in close quarters.

  The two Murtos left on the ledge stared in consternation at the giant leaping up the rocky hillside toward them. The sight sent a shudder of fear through their hearts. They knew this jungle giant. For years they had tried to catch him. He had laughed at their efforts. All the magic at their disposal, he had flouted. Now he had evaded their cunningly laid trap.

  “Run!” one of them hissed.

  The second hesitated. “Orbo tear us to pieces if we run,” he faltered.

  Spat!

  The one who wanted to run had his wish granted. After the arrow struck him, he would have all the chances to run he could ever want—in the Murto equivalent of hell. As he fell, Jongor leaped upon the ledge. He was yelling at the top of his voice. He hoped the third Murto would be frightened into fleeing.

  THE Murto was frightened. He had seen their spears miss, he had seen arrows bury themselves in the bodies of his two comrades. In the depths of his superstitious mind was the thought that this giant was a jungle devil. If he had had the opportunity to think, he would certainly have run, and if Orbo hadn’t liked it, then Orbo could be damned.

  He didn’t have time to think. Jongor had come up the hill too fast, had leaped too quickly on the ledge. Instead of running, the Murto, screaming as loud as his lungs would permit, launched himself straight at Jongor. The instant the human reached the ledge he found himself face to face with one hundred and eighty pounds of madly squalling, charging beast-man.

  The Murto had gone berserk.

  The furry thunderbolt hit Jongor before he had time to loose an arrow. Bow and spear were knocked from his hands. Then the beast, all clawing legs and arms and gaping mouth, was on him. He had no time to brace himself. The Murto knocked him backwards, fell on top of him.

  For a mad instant, they threshed at the very edge of the ledge. Jongor was flat on his back. The Murto’s hands had closed around his throat. Fingers so strong they seemed to be tipped with steel were digging into his flesh. He tried to get a grip on his antagonist. Fierce yells below told him what would happen if he did not break loose at once. He didn’t need to look down to know that other Murtos were bounding up the rocky hill as fast as their bowed legs would carry them.

  With a violent convulsive heave, Jongor bent his body like a bow. It was a display of strength and of ability that a professional wrestler would have envied. The Murto was tossed upward. As he fell, Jongor jerked himself from under the furry body. The movement cost him a great patch of hide scraped from his shoulder and his back on the rocky ledge, but it got him out from under the paralyzing weight of the Murto. Before the fur-covered monster knew what was happening, Jongor had hit him a savage belt with the. base of his palm against the edge of his chin.

  The Murto had not been expecting the blow. Momentarily dazed, he loosed his grip on Jongor’s throat.

  The Murto probably never knew what happened after that.

  Yells sounded from below the ledge.

  “Get him!”

  “Catch Jongor!”

  Like the flying wedge of a football team, the Murtos were racing upward, leaping for the ledge.

  Jongor lifted the struggling Murto over his head, flung him downward—straight into the flying wedge that was leaping up to the ledge.

  There was a loud thump and a grunt. Like tenpins struck by a bowling ball, the wedge scattered.

  “Give ’em hell, Yale!” Jongor’s battlecry roared forth. Then he grabbed his bow and spear and took to his heels. By the time the Murtos had discovered what had happened, he was racing up the hill.

  “After him!” Orbo yelled. “Two extra ;wives for the one who catches him.”

  “Two extra wives!” Umber shouted enthusiastic agreement. Such a reward for catching Jongor appealed mightily to him. “Me for that.” He charged hastily after the fleeing human. He was so anxious to win the promised reward that he outdistanced the other Murtos. His eagerness was increased when he realized he was rapidly overhauling Jongor. He, on his short, bandy legs, was running faster than the long-legged human. Then he saw why he was running faster.

  Jongor was limping. Each time he put his right leg to the ground he stumbled and almost fell. Jongor was wounded.

  IF Umber needed anything to make him run faster, this was it. In spite of the promise of two women as a reward, he had not been too eager to catch the human. Jongor, unhurt and full of fight, was not a prize that any Murto was anxious to win alone. But Jongor wounded, crippled so that he, could barely run—Umber’s heart was filled with joy at the sight He saw himself pulling Jongor down, then, later, before a group of admiring Murtos, boasting of his exploit. Killing Jongor would make him a mighty man among the Murtos. Even Orbo would have to respect him. He would be the mighty hunter, the great fighter. Umber ran faster still.

  Looking back over his shoulder, Jongor saw him coming. The sight of Umber’s bulk, of the huge club he was waving—Ann Hunter had taken his spear with her when she escaped—seemed to drive the human to desperation. He managed to put on a burst of speed. He had reached the top of the hill and he was fighting his way down the other side, seeking the protection of a thick grove of trees that lay in the little valley below.

  Yelling, Umber charged after him. Going downhill, his short legs seemed to fly. Jongor was limping worse now. He could barely move at all. He just managed to get inside the grove. Umber was hot on his heels.

  For a minute, in the shadows of the trees, Umber lost sight of the human. Then the breaking of a twig attracted his attention and he saw Jongor trying to sneak silently away. Roaring and waving his club Umber dashed after him. Jongor was not going to escape now. Jongor was his. Jongor was only a step ahead of him. The human was whimpering as he ran. Umber could hear little animal cries of fright.

  Jongor knew the end was near and he was crying out in fear. Umber whirled the
club, brought it down with all his strength, straight at Jongor’s head. The heavy weapon would crack Jongor’s skull like the shell of an egg, would splatter brains in every direction. Umber gloated at the thought. He put an extra ounce of strength into the blow.

  It landed. Umber thought his arms had been wrenched from their sockets. The club had not struck Jongor. Somehow he had managed to dodge it. It had hit the ground. Before he could lift it again, it was jerked from his grasp and flung far aside.

  Umber found himself face to face with Jongor. Impossible as it was, Jongor was no longer wounded. All trace of the limp had vanished. Jongor was no longer uttering the little whimpering cries of fear. He was laughing.

  The laugh was the most unpleasant sound Umber had ever heard. It told him he had been tricked, that Jongor had lured him into a chase, that Jongor had only pretended to be wounded so that Umber would be all the more anxious to follow him. It told Umber that instead of overtaking a wounded human, he had found himself face to face with Jongor in all the fury of his strength. It also told Umber that he was in the toughest spot in which any Murto had ever found himself. Wailing his fright and his fear, Umber turned to run.

  Something struck him as he turned. He found himself flung to the ground. Steel bands seemed to dive under his arms, to wrap themselves around the back of his head. The bands applied agonizing pressure. Umber heard his neck pop.

  Umber, had never heard of the full Nelson. All he knew was that Jongor was on top of him and that any second now Jongor was going to break his neck.

  AMAZINGLY, Jongor did not break his neck. Umber felt the pressure relax a little. The pain was still so agonizing that it paralyzed all movement but it was not quite as great as it had been. Umber thought that Jongor was only playing with him, like a cat with a mouse. It was what Umber would have done if the circumstances had been reversed.

  Jongor had no such intentions. If he had planned to kill this Murto, he would have done it as quickly as possible. There was something else he wanted far more than the death of a single Murto.

  “Where is the girl?” Jongor hissed in Umber’s hairy ear.

  “Girl?”

  “The female. You know what I’m talking about,” Jongor spoke in the harsh gutterals of the Murto tongue. “Where is she?”

  “She got away,” Umber wailed. He was convinced that the next second would be his last on earth.

  “Got away? You mean you killed her——”

  “No! No! No!” Umber howled. “We did not kill her. She got away. A devil came last night and cut her loose. She went away with the devil——”

  Jongor tightened the pressure on the Murto’s neck. “You lie!” he hissed.

  “I am telling the truth,” Umber wailed. “Do not kill me, great Jongor. I had nothing to do with it at any time. It was Orbo. He planned it. It was he who prevailed upon the Arklans to send the fake message that lured you back to Lost Land. It was Orbo who planned to kidnap the female and use her to bait a trap for you. Orbo did it——”

  “What’s that?” Jongor had turned cold inside. The message from Queen Nesca had been a fake! It had been a trap, to lure him back to Lost Land! Nesca had betrayed him! Hot rage surged through his mind. “The Arklans sent a lying message to me! Queen Nesca tricked me into coming back here! You Murtos knew I was coming and laid in wait for me!”

  Umber howled again that this was the truth and again he insisted that it was Orbo who had planned everything. “Do not kill me, great Jongor,” he begged. “I had nothing to do with it——”

  “Which way did the girl go when

  she escaped?” Jongor demanded.

  “I do not know. Orbo sent three men to follow her. Please, master——”

  But Jongor had already released him. Umber got hastily to his feet and ran as fast as his short legs would carry him.

  Jongor picked up his spear and his bow and turned in the other direction. He made a great circle around the spot where the Murtos had laid their ambush, looking for the trail left by Ann as she fled.

  He found it. The footprints of three Murtos were plainly visible following it. Jongor set out in the same direction.

  He soon caught up with the Murtos. They were hurrying as fast as they could but they had only Ann’s footprints to guide them whereas Jongor had the marks left by the Murtos as well as the trail left by the girl.

  An arrow leaping out of the jungle accounted for one of the Murtos. The two others fled. After that, Jongor went on alone.

  It was only a question of time until he caught up with Ann. She would probably be hungry and thirsty but she would be safe enough, now that the Murtos were no longer following her. Jongor trailed her easily, almost at a run.

  He found where she had stopped, where she had changed directions. She had been traveling in a wide circle, apparently in an effort to circle the Murtos. Now she was moving erratically.

  Part of the time she had been running, part of the time she had apparently been trying to hide. Her trail was more difficult to follow. Jongor uneasily wondered what she had been doing, acting in so strange a manner.

  Then the broad pads of a lion showed over her footprints and Jongor knew what she had been doing. A lion was trailing her.

  He found where she had tried to evade the beast, where she had crossed streams, where she had forced her way through the jungle in the hope that the beast would not be able to follow her. It had followed her. By the signs she was growing tired and desperate. Jongor made all possible speed. Surely, he hoped, she would know enough to climb a tree.

  Suddenly he came upon the body of a dead lion. It was lying under a tree. If it had been struck by lightning, the body could not have been more completely charred and burned.

  Jongor read the signs. Ann had climbed the tree. Her spear was visible in the fork between two limbs. After she had found safety, the lion had come up. Later something else had come along. The lion had been aroused. It had charged the intruder! A bolt of lightning had killed it.

  Although she had sought safety in the branches of the tree, Ann was no longer there. Footprints on the ground revealed that she had either come down out of the tree of her own will, or had been forced to come down.

  Delicate hoofs marks in the soft earth revealed why Ann had come down the tree. They also revealed who had killed the lion, and how. An Arklan had been here. The Arklan had killed the lion.

  The Arklan had also carried Ann away.

  CHAPTER VIII

  In the Arklan City

  “WHAT, precisely, is your plan?” Schiller questioned.

  “After dark, I’m going down there,” Jongor answered. With a sweep of his hand he indicated the city that lay in the valley below them.

  When Jongor discovered what had happened to Ann Hunter, he had gone immediately for his companions. If Ann was to be rescued, he would need their help. He grimly suspected, from his knowledge of the Arklans, that he would need more than the help of the three men. What the Arklans took, they intended to keep.

  It was the city of the Arklans that lay below them. The delicate hoof-prints of the Arklan that had captured Ann had led here.

  The city lay in a small valley. At the rear, it was protected by high cliffs, which, as Jongor knew, had been hollowed out to serve as a last place of refuge, in the event the Arklans found themselves hard-pressed by an attacker. The cliffs were in reality an almost impenetrable fortress. Surrounding the city on the other three sides was a high stone wall.

  The place was not large. The whole area could have been compressed within a few blocks of an American city. There had never been many of the Arklans. They reproduced slowly and even after a long period of peace, they would not have numbered as many as a thousand. During times of war, their numbers may have shrunk to a few hundreds. Like the dinosaurs, the Arklans were an experiment tried by nature, an experiment that was found wanting and doomed to extinction. Only in Lost Land had the dinosaurs survived, as had the Arklans.

  The city of the Arklans was old, old, old. One l
ook at it gave the impression that it had stood here for thousands of years, that it was old when Troy was a new-born town on the Aegean coast, that it had been built before Nineveh, before the first brick had been laid in Babylon. It was built of stone, low, sprawling, flat-roofed houses, usually only one story in height, and the stone had weathered a dirty gray. Many of the houses had been allowed to fall away into ruins and the wall around the city was on the verge of collapse in many places. The spark of life was slowly ebbing out of the Arklans. A dying race, they no longer tried to rebuild, they no longer had the spirit to attempt any but the most badly needed repairs. The Arklans had lived too long.

  But in spite of the fact that they were a dying race, Jongor knew how dangerous and how deadly they were. As friends, they were powerful. As enemies, they were exceedingly dangerous. Within that fortress in the cliffs were weapons which no other race had ever devised.

  A few of the Arklans could be seen moving about the streets of their city.

  “Golly!” Morton gasped, for the twentieth time. “I just can’t get over it. They’re really centaurs, live centaurs, half human and half horse!”

  “I told you they were centaurs,” Jongor said.

  “I know you did. And I saw the tracks of the one we were following, but I just couldn’t believe it.”

  “You can believe it now,” Schiller said. He was staring down at the city, his gaze hungrily devouring every building. His eyes were alive with strange, eager lights.

  “What I don’t see is why this Queen Nesca would trick you?” Alan Hunter said slowly. “Why should she want to harm you? Why should she lure you into an ambush? You said she was your friend, that she had saved your life, that you had visited here in her city.”

  “I thought she was my friend,” Jongor answered. “As to why she sent me that fake message, I cannot answer. The Arklans are strange people. They are not human, and many of their reasons for doing things cannot be understood by a human. I do not know why she aided the Murtos in deceiving me. She may have been under obligation to them. They may have made her an offer she could not resist. She may have had any of a dozen different reasons.”