Tarzan and The Martian Legion: The Thing in the Pyramid

By Jake Saunders

Tarzan and The Martian Legion is a story too big to be contained to one world, one age, or one universe. A pantheon of heroes including Tarzan and John Carter combat a foe across planets, dimensions, and time. The epic account takes readers not only to Africa and Barsoom, but to new worlds, with new heroes in the grandest Burroughsian tradition. - Scott Tracy Griffin

Praise for Tarzan and The Martian Legion

An unreserved recommendation from Harlan Ellison: Get yourself a copy of THE MARTIAN LEGION!!!, a brand-new novel by Jake Saunders based on, and continuing, the ever-popular Edgar Rice Burroughs chronicles of John Carter of Mars or Barsoom, Tarzan, and other memorable pulp fiction stellars, all set in a story by Saunders -- you may have knowledge of his wildly original Texas-Israeli War novel (co-written with Howard Waldrop) some years ago from Ballantine -- or know him as a pulp/comics enthusiast/author who writes a good page, many of which are in this magnificent homage to many of the most lasting popular fictional icons in our collective memory. Bringing me to a wholly-insufficient description of this BREATHTAKING novel.

Go thee, with my stoutest urging, and possess a copy for a lifetime.

- Harlan Ellison

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publishdrive
• Release date: Feb 13, 2024

Book preview

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN The Thing in the Pyramid

Ielf, the slave girl, walked sleepy-eyed down a silent corridor of the Hekkador’s palace. Although the endless Pellucidarian day was as brilliant as ever, the city was a slumber. Ielf, whose ancestors were twenty-five thousand years ancient and likewise yet unborn, had stolen a quick look at the water clock by the bed of her mistress. The pandam was well advanced into the ninth zode with morning still two zodes away. What an unholy hour, thought Ielf, to roust anyone, even a slave girl, from her well-earned repose! But my mistress, my oh so ever-demanding mistress, she must have her whim looked to.

In truth, a stomach pang had disturbed the sleep of Ielf’s thern lady, rendering further slumber impossible. And so Ielf was rudely roused from her own sleep, and sent to procure a nostrum from the apothecary. Ielf frowned. Adik-Tar, the old brewer of stenches and bitter syrups, would be as unpleasant as his wares upon being disturbed. But waking him will not be my fault, thought Ielf, pouting, and I will tell him so!

Ielf’s way took her near a wing of the palace where female prisoners were kept. These ladies were said to have come from a distant place. And, indeed, that seemed likely if they were truly as described by the other slaves. Their features, their complexion, the color of their hair, hardly a thing about them suggested thern or half-caste ancestry. But they were all very beautiful, and equally impertinent—even to the Holy Hekkador—or so the gossip went.

It is a wonder, thought Ielf, that they are not scolded for their audacity. Well, marriage would change that, she thought with a twinge of envy. Marriage would bring a chastening reality. Ielf smiled wistfully, imagining herself a thern bride and free of the invisible chains that held her. Luckiest of all was the one called Jane Clayton, who had the Father of Therns’ eye.

Such were the thoughts passing through the mind of Ielf, the slave girl, as she turned a corner near the quarters where the captive women were housed. It was then that she thought she saw a shimmering of light and darkness further along the dimly-lit corridor. Rubbing her eyes, the slave girl hurried on.

Minutes later, Margo Cranston woke to a gentle touch.

Margo, whispered The Shadow, bending close, his face revealed.

Oh, Lamont, it is you, it really is, Margo whispered, looking up from where a tumble of auburn hair and white bedding framed her face.

The Shadow bent nearer, one black-gloved hand resting on the edge of Margo’s pillow. He kissed her, then drew her up and held her close. For long heartbeats nothing was said. The Shadow kissed Margo again before pulling away, his eyes bright with that same emotion he saw mirrored under his wife’s fluttering lashes.

I cannot stay long, darling, The Shadow whispered, as reluctant as she to break their embrace. The Shadow must be gone before dawn breaks.

Lamont, said Margo, her voice trembling, In three days Klee Tun means to have us married to his repellent priests. And Jane will be forced to marry Klee Tun.

The Shadow’s eyes narrowed. The horror does not end there. In three days Tarzan and young Conan are to be murdered in honor of the Hekkador’s worm god.

Margo gasped and her brown eyes grew wide. Oh, dear God, Lamont, we didn’t know. Jane doesn’t know. We knew only that the boy had been captured.

The Shadow’s laugh was low, like a vengeful whisper from the grave, but the goose bumps it formed on Margo’s arms came from a visceral thrill of emotion that was not fear.

Klee Tun must be stopped, said Margo, her voice urgent.

And he will be, answered The Shadow. Be patient a little longer. The others are with me, but we must plan your rescue and that of Tarzan and the boy.

The Shadow laughed again, kissed his wife one last time and was gone.

Margo lay on her bed, staring sightlessly at the timber-ribbed ceiling. Lamont Cranston was as voluble as The Shadow was not, but although The Shadow had revealed little, his mere presence was assurance enough. Margo smiled and sighed, happier now than she had been since seeing her man depart for Mars. Although the Hekkador did not know it, his plans for murder and marriage were destined for a dramatic challenge.

Later, as the rays of morning framed nearby windows with rectangles of yellow light, Margo carefully, quietly, and always out of earshot of the attending slaves, passed among the captives, telling each of The Shadow’s visit.

Our men are out there, just as my boy assured me, said Jane Clayton on hearing the news. They will come for us in three days. We must be ready.

Of Tarzan and Conan, Margo said only, When our men come for us, they will free Tarzan and Conan as well.

The three days passed. Gongs and chimes sounded throughout the Hekkador’s palace and in the city beyond announcing the day most dreaded by the captive women. The second zode of the morning sounded. Fully attired and perfumed as befits thern brides, the other women joined Jane Clayton where she sat gazing out an open window. Beyond the deep casement, the fourth floor view looked out on Asoth-Naz, a vista that under different circumstances might have been breathtaking.

The city, warming under the new sun, was already active with the commerce of the day, but it was obvious that what interested the citizens most was the forthcoming ceremonies. Some shops had not opened. Others opened only briefly, as both proprietor and patron hurried to the temples high upon the southern flank of the Well of Time and Space. First would come a multiple sacrifice to the demon god, He Who Eats Life, and should the offerings and the ceremony be pleasing in the eyes of Skhet, the Father of Therns prophesied the very coming of the Dark God himself.

Later the multitude would descend the mountain, perhaps with Skhet himself moving in their midst, and all would gather in the broad plaza in front of the old temple near the mountain’s base. Here the Holy Hekkador would preside over the mass marriage of more than a thousand lesser therns. Then also would the Hekkador be married, even as would be priests of the Ten Cycles, each wearing a golden wig and jeweled headband of gold.

Dejah Thoris and her daughter and granddaughter joined Jane.

They will come, said Margo, guessing the thoughts of all. I know my Lamont. The Shadow will come. And the others, they, too, will come.

I will die before I wed a thern, said Dejah Thoris.

We have all had such thoughts, answered Margo.

The women joined hands and drew strength each from the other. Then the door at the opposite end of the long chamber opened. A thern priest of the Eighth Cycle, his features disdainful, strode in flanked by six fighting men.

Ladies, I am given to tell you, the priest began, that you will put aside any thought of your past lives. Your men are dead. Only two still live, the ones called Tarzan and the youth Conan. These will soon die in service of Skhet’s glory. Turn now your thoughts to a productive future where you will serve those who serve Skhet, as wife and mother both, bearing in your turn a portion of the next and greatest generation of therns.

You are lying! cried Dejah Thoris, as Tara restrained her mother. The thern has not cracked shell that can kill John Carter.

The Warlord is most assuredly dead, laughed the priest, both he and the others. Their flying device exploded in the air as it approached the city. None survived.

Despite the priest’s undisguised malice, nothing in his attitude suggested deception. Seeing this, and finding here a horrid possibility that explained why their rescuers were late in coming, the women as one felt their hearts all but stop.

And now, the one called Jane Clayton, continued the priest, you are to come with me. As the bride of the Holy Hekkador, you must undergo further purifications.

As Jane was dragged from the room, the women and their cowed slave girls looked on in silent horror. Then the door closed and they were alone. A long, tortured minute passed. The door opened again. The Hekkador’s sister entered, accompanied by two slave girls, each bearing scented pitchers of water.

Phaidor, said Margo urgently, her voice near breaking, you are not the woman you once were. You are kinder, you have found your soul. In just three pandams, I have seen new things in your eyes and likewise in your face, good things.

Weak from the wound she had received not many days earlier, Phaidor managed a smile. I am indeed much changed. The words in Jane’s small black book touched me although I at first little understood what she read. I was sorely hurt, wounded in both flesh and spirit by those whom I loved. I might have died. I wanted to die. But Jane asked to be with me, to comfort me, and my brother made no protest. Jane read still more to me, more from her book, and as she did, a comfort came to me, and now I am mended fast by something more powerful than healers and balms.

Margo took Phaidor’s hand. Our men, is it true? Are they dead?

Indeed, I know naught with certainty, answered the thern princess with obvious reluctance. I know at least that my brother believes those you love are dead. The evidence brought to him was persuasive, and I saw him weep that he himself was not the instrument of death.

The Princess of Helium seemed not to hear.

Do you suppose a four-story fall is enough to kill? asked Helium’s incomparable princess, her voice flat.

Possibly, replied Margo, becoming exasperated with the Warlord’s wife.

Llana of Gathol beckoned Margo aside where neither Dejah Thoris nor Phaidor might hear. Forgive the Princess of Helium. My grandmother and adversity do not well mix.

Before Margo could reply, a low laugh, almost a whisper, reached their ears. Oh, ye of little faith. Did I not say we would come?

Shadow! gasped Margo as he appeared as from thin air.

You tremble like an aspen, my girl, whispered The Shadow, his black gloved hand taking hers reassuringly, but I am here, and I will not be gone again.

But just now...we were told... breathed Margo.

The Hekkador was misinformed. Nor were we in any way delayed, although my preference was to come before dawn—and I know you expected me then—but our actions are timed to the surest rescue of Tarzan and his boy.

Your slave girls, continued The Shadow, bind and gag them, as none may be trusted. In minutes we depart this place.

And Phaidor? asked Margo.

Take her, my girl, take her and bind her, too. We may have need of a hostage.

She will go willingly, answered Margo. She fears her brother no less than we.

Wide-eyed, the slave girls watched the black-cloaked Shadow pass among them as he strode to the door at the chamber’s opposite end.

Jane Clayton, snapped The Shadow, eyes cutting swiftly about the room. Where is she?

Gone! cried Margo. They’ve taken her.

How long ago? demanded The Shadow.

Just a few minutes.

The man in black drew his twin .45 automatics and listened at the door. Still too many guards out there. We’ll have to chance snatching her another way.

A moving shape blotted out the sunlight at the window.

Ladies, to the window and your freedom, said a black-maned fighting man with the arresting confidence of a jeddak of jeddaks as he leaped into the room. In one hand he held a short sword, in the other a Navy Colt. Following closely behind the Warlord was Doc Savage.

One by one, John Carter and his companions helped the women through the window. Beyond, waiting hands drew them onto the deck of a single-prop flyer that looked much the worse for wear, one stolen from the Hekkador’s meager few.

They told us you were all dead, said Margo, now smiling.

My Warlord cannot be killed, cried Dejah Thoris, her eyes drinking in the vision of her mate as he stood with her on the flyer’s prow.

We still live! grinned John Carter. Our purported deaths were but a ruse to mislead the Hekkador.

As rescued and rescuers alike stepped aboard the flyer, the door at the opposite end of the chamber burst open. The thick-necked colonial of the Eighth Circle entered, followed by several guards. He had come expecting to fetch a few women. Instead, he found a nearly empty room.

In the company of a man dressed in black, the last of the women were disappearing out the window at the far end of the chamber. Just beyond was the deck of a flying machine such as those the new hekkador had brought into the land. A black-cloaked figure paused, threw back a taunting laugh,