Beast-Gods of Atlantis by John Peter Drummond

Book Details

Into that lost world, that ancient, terrible land of Timeless Evil, came Ki-Gor, White Lord of the Jungle, and his lovely mate, Helene. They came in peace, offering friendship — and Sha-Topat, High Priest of the Sun-God Raa, greeted them at the Temple-Altar of the Drinking Stone — treachery and death like gifts in his hand!

Ki-Gor, Helene, Tembu George and N’Geeso venture down a wild lost river and are chased into a ravine that opens onto a lost civilization. There they find a remnant of that great empire of Atlantis. Ruled by an hereditary queen and a priestly caste, that once great empire has fallen into a savage isolation. Can Ki-Gor and his companions even make it out of this lost world alive?

The Ki-Gor series ran quarterly for 16 years in Jungle Stories from the Winter 1938 issue to the Spring 1954 issue. The Ki-Gor stories were originally written by John Murray Reynolds but after the second year they were assigned to the house name “John Peter Drummond.” Reynolds continued to write stories and was joined by Dan Cushman, Robert Turner, Wilbur S. Peacock, and James McKimmey.

While Ki-Gor is an obvious imitation of the better known Tarzan, these stories are terrific adventure tales in their own right. The blond-haired jungle lord and his friends, Masai chief Tembu George and pygmy chief N’Geeso, as well as his flame-haired wife Helene, risk life and limb for each other on numerous occasions, battling ferocious animals and evil men.

Beast-Gods of Atlantis is a nine chapter novel first published in Jungle Stories in the Summer, 1950 issue. It contains 1 illustration.

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Excerpt: Beast-Gods of Atlantis

I

WITHOUT BREAKING THE swift stroke of his paddle, Ki-Gor snatched another brief glance over his shoulder at the pursuing war canoes.

Like the relentless tightening of a giant hand, anxiety gripped his stomach. Sweat beaded his bronzed face, ran in glistening streaks down his broad, muscle-corded back.

For more than three hours, he and his three companions in the small canoe had strained to stay out of arrow range of the two great thirty-man craft. But Ki-Gor could see clearly that in the past few minutes the strange warriors had begun to gain.

The White Lord of the Jungle couldn’t hope to call forth more speed from his companions. Already they had done the impossible in fending off for so long their savage pursuers. Their tortured bodies possessed no reserves with which to match this latest sprint of the many-oared war canoes.

“For the thousandth time, Ki-Gor’s glance sped ahead along the sheer, smooth bluffs which walled in the river, searching for a break in the gorge which might offer a way of escape. If they could ever reach the thickly-forested heights above the river, he felt he could lead them to safety.

But every yard further that they penetrated into the canyon, the precipitous rock walls towered higher, grew more impregnable. No wonder the savage tribesmen had followed them with such grim confidence. The blacks had known from the first that they had their quarry trapped.

KI-GOR CURSED the impulse which had led him long miles from home into unknown land expressly to search out this river. Worst of all, he had been stupid enough to let his beloved mate, Helene, and his two close native friends, Tembu George and N’Geeso, accompany him on the foolhardy trek. And the whole business had been for no better reason than to seek the truth behind the black men’s legends of the “Batanya-Abi”, the River of No Return.

Well, he had learned the truth quickly enough, but it would do neither him nor the superstition-ridden black men any good. He would never live to tell them that instead of their fabled devil-city peopled by monsters and ghostmen who preyed on all who entered the gorge, that there was only a pack of murderous river-pirates lying in wait for travellers.

The two skull-prowed canoes had been hidden in a reed-choked cove near the mouth of the canyon. Ki-Gor, Helene and their two friends had paddled leisurely past the cove, debating whether they should enter the gorge in their small canoe or land and attempt to follow the river on foot.

Their decision had been made for them when the war canoes drove suddenly out of concealment, sent them fleeing into the canyon before a shower of arrows. And from that first moment on, the warriors had pursued them with insane ferocity. At least, it seemed insane to Ki-Gor, for he could see no logic in sixty men laboring hour after hour in the burning heat to overtake a small boat which obviously bore no worthwhile spoils.

The seeking arrows nosed closer with every shot. The next, or the next, would find its mark.

Only implacable hatred would drive blacks to such exertions, and yet, how or why would warriors hate men they had never seen before? This was the first time Ki-Gor, N’Geeso or Tembu George had visited this isolated area.

The White Lord gave no hint of these thoughts tumbling pell-mell through his mind as in a steady, confident voice he called encouragement to his companions. But even as he spoke, he was thankful he sat in the stern of the canoe, so they couldn’t read the truth of his feelings in his face.

Helene was directly ahead of him in the craft. He heard the tortured rasp of her breathing, saw the tremors of weakness beginning to clutch her arm and back muscles. For all her iron determination to keep up with her male companions, her woman’s body was unequal to the task. It caused the White Lord unbearable anguish to see her bravely, without a single complaint, drive herself to the verge of collapse. He longed to call out to her to rest, but he dared not, for as she knew, even the loss of her faltering stroke would increase immediately the rate of gain of the two war craft.

In front of Helene sat Tembu George, the giant chieftain of the Masai. Except for the glistening streams of sweat pouring off of him, the huge-thewed warrior showed less the effects of the grueling race than any of them. Ki-Gor knew, though, from the leaden fatigue numbing his own arms that Tembu George’s prodigious strength was being put to its bitterest test.

The squat, wiry pygmy chieftain, N’Geeso, crouched in the prow of the canoe also was weakening. He still dug the water with the same machine-like precision he had an hour before, but the White Lord could tell he was going on sheer nerve, unwilling to let his comrades down though he burst his heart in the effort.

The canyon made a wide, sweeping turn, and abruptly the high walls began to press closer. Ki-Gor stared ahead down the narrowing gorge, strain penciling white lines about his hard-set mouth. The current was gaining speed.

Not one of them spoke, but in every mind was the same question: What lay before them?

Every sign pointed to turbulent, dangerous water. They were in no condition to cope with rapids. In the fast-narrowing canyon, it would take perfect coordination and boundless strength to keep their light craft from capsizing or being smashed to bits against the walls.

Along the base of the rock, the water swirled whitely. Small whirlpools and strings of dancing bubbles told of converging pressures beneath the surface as the river was forced in upon itself. Already the canoe was beginning to strain and leap as though imbued with a life of its own.

THE GORGE was closing in with alarming speed. Two hundred yards ahead the sheer walls swung within twenty feet of each other. And in that narrow opening the river leaped and whirled in white-capped fury. Could they possibly put the canoe through that swirling corridor without capsizing or smashing themselves to bits against the granite?

Ki-Gor twisted for a last look at the enemy craft, wondering whether they would carry their strangely furious pursuit into the passage.

As he turned back, he cried to his three companions, “The dangos are following us in, so it can’t be too dangerous! Hold to the center and we’ll make it!” Ki-Gor deliberately told the merest half-truth. The only thing proved by the war craft following them was that the river beyond this narrow point wasn’t impassable. As for going through the perilous corridor itself, what would be safe for the heavy war canoes, steadied by many paddles, would be a veritable hell for four exhausted people in a frail, skittering shell of a boat such as theirs.

But the worst fact of all was that even if by some miracle they did get through, the large craft would gain tremendously in the swift-running current. And Ki-Gor entirely failed to mention that now braced against the skull-tipped prow of the leading war canoe was a warrior with a drawn bow.

The lead canoe had pushed within arrow range. Since a single hit in those roaring waters might well throw the small craft out of control, the picked bowman had wasted no time in scrambling up for the try.

Because of his position in the stern, Ki-Gor’s own broad back would be the warrior’s target. Therefore, he kept his knowledge to himself, seeing no sense in this crucial moment of further upsetting Helene and the two chieftains. They needed to keep all their attention on the passage, and distracting them with worry about whether he might be hit wouldn’t help to block off the arrows.

Then with a sudden wild spurt, the canoe drove into the dangerous area. It bucked and leaped like a frenzied horse, shuddering under the river’s blows, seeming to fight deliberately to spin out of control and shatter itself against the cliffs.

Above the rising tumult of the river sounded the exultant cries of the pursuing blacks. As they saw the crazy skittering of the small boat, they were confident their long chase was nearly over. Their own great canoes were knifing straight down the center of the gorge.

An arrow, barely seen so swift was its flight, dug the roiling surface beside Ki-Gor’s paddle. The next barb was high, whirring overhead. But in the noise and confusion of that hurtling ride, when their whole beings were concentrated on the desperate task of controlling the boat, the White Lord’s companions didn’t notice either arrow. And to all outward appearances he was no more aware of his danger than were they.

His paddle didn’t hesitate in its furious labors. He held his same position unflinchingly, aware that his own broad body shielded Helene. His strong, clear voice as he shouted instructions and encouragement was devoid even of excitement, let alone fear.

The walls swirled past. A dozen times disaster threatened and was turned away by the swift, coordinated action of the jungle couple and the two chieftains. With death reaching from every side, a sudden strength flared up in them like that last bright burst of flame from dying embers.

Years of trekking together had trained them to act with a single mind in emergencies, so that they strove together against the river in perfect unison. It was this skilled teamwork plus raw courage which kept them afloat, brought them hurtling into the narrowest part of the gorge.

THE spray-splashed walls reached inward for them. Uncounted tons of rock seemed deliberately pressing down to close off that foaming lane of water. An arrow broke against the granite beside Ki-Gor. Another streaked blood across his muscle-swollen left shoulder.

The seeking arrows nosed closer with every shot. The next, or the next, would find its mark. He’d been lucky to last as long as he had. Realizing this, he was braced inwardly for the tearing shock of a death-barb hammering into his back.

Excerpt From: John Peter Drummond. “Beast-Gods of Atlantis.”