Thongor Fights the Pirates of Tarakus

by Lin Carter

  The swift and deadly pirate fleet made Tarakus master of the seas, and in time the lawless realm of sea-going rogues grew more daring and audacious till at last the lean black ships struck at whole cities, pillaging the ports of the South without fear of reprisal. Like lightning they would strike, slim black hulls closing in like sharks for the kill—struck, and were gone to impregnable Tarakus the Pirate City ere slower naval vessels could pursue.

  All this Thongor well knew, for years before, when he had been a roving adventurer, long ere Chance or Fate or Heaven raised him to the highest throne of the West, he had ravened with the sea wolves of Tarakus. A Captain of the Red Brotherhood, the bold Valkarthan had sailed his ship, the Black, Hawk, from Tarakus to loot the high seas of gold and wine and treasure.

  Eighteen years had passed since those wild, lawless days. The pirate city had grown since his time. A savage and ambitious leader had arisen to goad the corsairs to new enormities—Kashtar, Red Wolf of Tarakus, men called him. Wealth, mere gold, did not suffice to sate his furious hunger … he would win thrones, kingdoms—an empire! Scowling grimly, Thongor listened as Barim concluded.

  “ ’Twas when this renegade wizard, Belshathla, sought haven in Tarakus that Kashtar found the means to sate his lust for power,” Barim’s growled. “The magicker came out o’ the wastelands of Nianga where the buried cities be—the ones the Gods whelmed and trod down aeons ago for some great crime against the world. This Belshathla brought with him some black secret—some weird weapon from Earth’s Dawn—stolen from a Niangan tomb, belike, or looted from the rubble of the accursed cities. Whatever the thing be, ’tis given the Red Wolf courage to strive for the greatest prize of all …” His voice sank to a whisper and they bent near to catch his next words.

  “… Patanga itself!”

  Cries of outrage, astonishment, denial rang out. Zad Komis swore a grim oath: “This is madness! True, the pirate rabble have a strong fleet—but to assault the mightiest city on Earth? ’Tis madness, I say! They have no chance of success.”

  Grizzled Thom Pervis, Daotarkon of the Air Guard, agreed. “We are impregnable to attack, Sire! What fleet, however strong, can stand against our flying navy—armed with the lightning guns our wise young sage Iothundus has perfected!”

  Lord Mael, one of Thongor’s most loyal peers, growled acknowledgment of this. “ ’Twas proven, Sire, some twelve or eleven years ago at the Battle of Tsargol when we broke the force of Yelim Pelorvis; and won a throne for young Karm Karvus. The flying boats make us invincible. The conventional measures of strength—a huge fleet, a mighty host—are naught against our power in the skies.”

  Thongor was impassive, his strange gold eyes wary and thoughtful.

  “I would know more of this weapon,” he grunted, “ere I speak of being unconquerable.”

  CHAPTER 3:

  THE GRAY MAGICIANS

  “Now in these days of his greatness was

  Thongor supreme among the lords of the

  world, and in the fulness of his power

  there was no king in all the land of

  Lemuria who had the might to stand against

  the Lord of the West of the World …”

  —The Lemurian Chronicles, Book 5, Chapter III.

  AEDIR the Sun-god rose high above Patanga and all the land was bright with morning. Shortly after dawn, the Lord Thongor and his peers were met a second time. With dawn the Hierarch had sent messengers to beg their attendance upon him in the priestly palace that rose on the southern side of the central plaza at the city’s heart. All that night had Father Eodrym searched through crumbling scrolls and ancient books, seeking some clue as to the lost wisdom of Nianga, some hint as to what the weird weapon from Time’s Dawn might be.

  They met in his vast librarium, a great room of high ceilings, the walls covered with thousands of mighty tomes. Some were writ on sheets of tanned leather, bound between carved wood or ivory boards; others were scrolls of pterodactyl-hide, etched with metallic inks; yet more were yellow, wrinkled vellum, sealed with iron hasps. ‘The wisdom of a thousand ages slumbered in this quiet room.

  Weary from a sleepless night, the frail old Hierarch met them seated in a great chair of black and carven wood, drawn up before a bookstand whereon a mighty volume lay open. The leaves of this ponderous volume were thin sheets of perdurable metal worked in fiery acids, and thus proof against the assaults of time.

  “Sire, and my Lords,” the old man spake in a thin, exhausted voice, “I have begged your presence here to divulge certain discoveries I have made which bear both on the disappearance of the Prince of Tsargol and the ominous threat of this Niangan sorcerer.”

  He laid one frail hand on the great book that lay open on the lectern before him.

  “This is that mighty book of records known as The Lemurian Chronicles,” he said. “Somewhat of this volume you may have heard ’ere now, for it is the mightiest book of all the ages. I possess the only copy that still exists in the West, and therein have I found a strange and shadowy tale of ancient horrors …”

  AS they sat listening, the old Hierarch told a curious tale in his faint, exhausted voice.

  He told of an ancient collegium of sages who dwelt in a secret monastery hidden in a far land … a mystical fraternity known as the Pnothic Brotherhood. From, the age of the First Kingdoms of Man, the Seven Cities of the East, these wise seers had explored the limitless expanse of Eternity by means of a difficult mind discipline called the Akashic Science. Past, present and future they delved into, and the fruit of their mystical quest was a vast epitome of the history of the Universe which was set down in this age-old book.

  “The Pnothic Brethren see all of time as the single history of one eternal conflict which they have named The Wars of Chaos and Creation,” the Hierarch murmured. “In the dark, howling Chaos that lies beyond the frontiers of Creation, malign forces of destruction and doom strive ever to extinguish the Universe … ever the Lords of Creation battle to preserve Creation against Chaos … and this eternal war hath been fought ere now on many worlds, in aeons lost to memory.

  “The planets of heaven, say the sages, are worlds much like unto our own, and life exists on some of these. Was a world once named Zarkandu where Chaos begot a mighty Son, and long the kings and heroes of that lost world of time fought to preserve the empire they had builded. At length they won and Chaos’ Son they destroyed, but the Dark Powers triumphed in the end and all that world was wrecked, and now but frozen rubble mark its place in the trackless void. The battle of the eternal War was lost … and on another world, which we call Iridar, Chaos subverted a dark immortal Flame Being to evil, and again heroes strove against the tides of Chaos and Old Night, and won, but in the passing of many ages fair, garden-girdled Iridar was drained of life and now floats on the void a dead world of crimson deserts, where a thin wind sifts dry red sand across the broken thrones of forgotten cities …

  “On our world, too, this War is being fought. You know the tale, my Lords, and the Lemurian Chronicles preserve the annals of Hyperborea in her prime, that ruled the Age of Reptiles ere the coming of Man. Chaos seduced the Dragon Kings of that dim dawn age to vile sorcery, and the Lords of Life wrought Man, and Man and Dragon fought in The Thousand Year War and at length the Dragon fell and the Age of Men began. The Seven Cities rose … but Chaos, abandoning the Brood of the Serpent, tempted Zaar and all that city turned to evil wizardry. The Seven Cities fell and the raw young cities of the West rose … and again Chaos tempted men with subtle sciences, this time in Nianga, which lieth between East and West …”

  Old Father Eodrym told of the Aeon of the Gray Magicians, wherein the three cities of Nianga strove to master the dark sciences and by that mastery to dominate the Earth. This was thirty centuries before the age of Thongor, and little his age knew of those dark days. The three cities of Kuth and Shandathar and grim Zanjan learned many of the secrets of Creation, aye, even dared to tamper with that force which sustains the Earth amidst the firmament, and with t
he secrets locked in the fiery heart of the Sun itself. And, as the Scarlet Edda whispers, they mastered a gray magic which gave them control over the human mind, to hold it prisoned in terrible slavery or to shatter it to madness, if such be their whim.

  But the Nineteen Gods struck them down in their blasphemy and trod their cities into dust, and all their land was laid waste and their people fled in terror … but who can say what dread secrets lay buried in the ruins of those lost cities … secrets which mayhap the cunning Belshathla had brought to light again, to lay all this new age in peril with the terrible menace of an evil lore?

  THE trembling voice of the old Hierarch stilled and with a reverent hand he closed the mighty book and locked the nineteen seals wherewith it was secured against the prying eyes of the unworthy.

  A thoughtful silence followed upon the reading of that solemn passage of Elder Lore.

  The strange gold eyes of Thongor blazed with wrathful fires like the savage eyes of the kingly vandar of the wild, the great black lion of ancient Lemuria.

  “And again, Chaos,” he growled. “Will we never be done with the taint of the dark powers! It has been six long years since we whelmed the Black City of Zaar before the sithurl-guns and let the waters of the sea cover it from the sight of men, and still it haunts us!”

  “My son,” the old Hierarch said somberly, “the Wars of Chaos and Creation have been fought from the beginning of Time unto this very hour, and the end is not in sight. Chaos and Creation battled on the lost planet of Zarkandu one hundred million years ago, nor did they end even when the Divine Avatar, Sargon the Lion, whelmed the Black God’s Son. Neither did they end on age-lost Iridar ten million years ago, when Chandar broke the Dark Flame, or when his mighty son, Arn, secured the Sword of Psamathis and the Three Talismans were preserved from the grip of Chaos. Nor did the War of unending aeons close when you broke down the walls of Black Zaar. Of this War we shall not see the ending in our time, nay, nor for uncounted ages to come …”

  AEDIR the Sun-god had long since ascended to the zenith of the noon and now inclined his fiery orb to the west. The long shadows lay thick on the broad avenues of Patanga. And within the Palace of the Hundred Kings, Thongor sprawled like a great cat before a blazing hearth, his infant daughter in his arms.

  His mate, Sumia, regarded him with great dark eyes. Solemn was the gaze thereof, and they brimmed with unshed tears, like wet black jewels. But the Sarkaja did not give way to those tears but held them in.

  “Thus I have no choice,” Thongor growled. “It was the benison of Tiandra, Goddess of Fortune, that permitted the stout old Redbeard to bear advance warning of the plans of Tarakus to me in time. Barim says the invasion will be soon—terribly soon—but that we have yet some several days of freedom wherein to work against the plot of Kashtar Red Wolf. That margin of time may prove precious indeed, for much may be accomplished in even so few days, by daring and desperate men.”

  “But why must you venture into the streets of Tarakus alone?” Sumia asked, her calm voice betraying no sign of the turmoil within her heart. “Surely it is reckless to the point of madness to thrust yourself into the very hands of your greatest enemies! Why not pass the word to Thom Pervis, and strike first against Tarakus with all the might of our sky navy—a sudden, unexpected stroke that would bring the strength of the Pirate City down before they even guessed the Empire was forewarned?”

  Her mate regarded her with thoughtful eyes.

  “There is wisdom in your words, my girl, but I dare not try it. Suppose the pirates of Tarakus turn the Gray Death against the airboats and destroy them … the last hope of Patanga fails, then, even before the corsair fleet sets forth upon the seas. No! We of Valkarth have an old adage—Trust not all your arrows in one quiver, lest it be lost and your bow go empty in the hour of need.’ I shall ship aboard the Scimitar with Redbeard and no man shall know me for the King, for who would dream the Lord of the Six Cities would venture alone into the stronghold of the corsairs, rather than sit safely throned amidst all his warriors? Now, Kashtar knoweth not that Barim Redbeard is my friend, and the Scimitar can come into the very harbor of Tarakus without giving alarm. Thus shall I gain entry to the Pirate City and, mayhap, by aid of Redbeard and his trusty crew, work mighty mischief on the Red Wolf and his Gray Magician, to the saving of Patanga itself, perchance, if the luck of the Gods be with me at my need.”

  The Princess made no further protest to his going-forth. There was a certain wisdom in his words, though perhaps the weight of sober reason and responsibility resided in her own arguments against his going. But she knew her savage mate well, and she knew the restlessness that seethed within him, and how he hungered for action and adventure. More than once had he referred to himself during these long years of peace and kingship, as a bright, keen-edged sword that was left rusting in neglect. Her woman’s heart knew well the nature of her man. The long, adventurous, roving years he had spent as wandering swordsman, thief, pirate and bandit chief, ere destiny had lifted him to the height of the mightiest throne of all the West, had instilled deep within him the lust of battle and action. And so she did not argue further against his going.

  “When will you sail, then?” she asked.

  “With dawn,” he grunted.

  She smiled, and stretched languidly, and her slim white hands went up to the massed midnight sheen of her tresses. Slowly, her great dark eyes on his, she began to undo her hair.

  “There are yet many hours until dawn,” she whispered, and smiled to see the fires that leapt up in his eyes as he set the babe aside and rose lithely to crush her in his mighty arms.

  CHAPTER 4:

  DRAGONS OF THE DEEP

  From hidden reef and fickle wind

  And changeful tides, preserve us;

  And from the dragons of the deep,

  O Father Gorm, preserve us.

  —Lemurian Seamens’ Prayer

  AS the first faint glory of dawn flamed golden in the east, a slim black galley crept from the harbor of Patanga and set forth on the waters of the Gulf.

  Scarlet sails spread wide to catch the morning wind, the black ship clove the dark waters almost without a sound to mark its passage, save for the creak of the timbers, the snap of booming sails, and the moaning cry of the wind in the rigging.

  Morning mist roiled, thick and white, upon the face of the waters. Stars still burned in the darkness of the sky, but steadily, moment by moment, glory grew brighter in the east and shafts of burning light thrust across the gloom of heaven, driving the stars to rest. And it was day.

  A brisk wind snapped the cordage. The tang of salt spray was in the gust and stung the lips of Thongor as the great Barbarian strode the decks of the Scimitar. It had been years since the mighty Valkarthan had bestrode a quarterdeck, and he was glad that his years of court and palace life had not taken away his seamanship. He grinned hugely, black mane tossing in the salt wind, and his deep chest expanded as he drank in great breaths of the clean, briny air. Hai—Gorm! ’Twas a good thing to be alive, in the full strength of his prime, and setting forth to new adventure on the high seas, with a good ship under him and stout and proven comrades at his side.

  Dour, lean old Durgan was at the wheel and Thongor greeted him. As for Barim Redbeard, the corsair captain of the Scimitar was at the aft rail, drinking in the salt wind and snorting lustily. The red-bearded giant was stripped to the waist, save for a boat cloak slung across his broad shoulders and the baldric across his chest. Thongor, too, had tossed aside his robes of imperial velvet and gladly donned again the plain leathern harness of a wandering Lemurian warrior.

  Black boots clad him to the knee. A loincloth of scarlet hung for his ornate girdle. A broad leathern collar encircled his mighty throat and his bronzed and mighty chest was bare save for the straps of a warrior’s trappings. A great black cloak, pinned to the shoulders of the broad collar, with cairngorm broaches, swelled with the wind behind him like vast black wings. Sarkozan, his great Valkarthan broadsword, swung in its s
cabbard at his side, and pocket-pouch and dirk completed the total of his accouterments.

  Barim spied him as the Barbarian strode grinning across the deck to where the captain stood at the rail. Snorting and beaming affably, the Redbeard hailed him.

  “A fine day, eh lad? Kerhem! I mean, Sire—ah, my Lord—”

  Thongor grinned, white teeth flashing in his dark face.

  “No titles, Redbeard! Here you are captain and I, but a member of the crew. And, mayhap, since we plan to enter Tarakus without revealing who I am, ’twould be better to forget the name under which I am Lord of the Six Cities.”

  “Flay me, but ’tis a worthy notion, man,” Barim rumbled. “What name, then, shall we use for ye?”

  Humor flashed in Thongor’s strange gold eyes.

  “Now, let me think! When I fought as one of the pirates of Tarakus many years ago, they called me Khongrim—the Black Hawk. Let me be named Black Hawk, then, whilst aboard the Scimitar—eh?”

  “Black Hawk, it is,” the Redbeard nodded.

  The deck planks creaked behind them and they turned to see the young kojan, Charn Thovis, climb the stairs that led to the quarterdeck. The dragon helm and jeweled harness of the Black Dragons, wherein the young warrior was a high officer in command of a thousand troops, had been set aside for the duration of this voyage. Charn Thovis wore simple black leather studded with gray iron, even as did Thongor. He hailed his Lord and Captain Redbeard deferentially.

  Of all his nobles, lords and warriors, Thongor had chosen young Charn Thovis alone to accompany him on this perilous voyage. Perhaps he had made his choice because, three years before, when this youth had rescued Prince Thar from the clutches of Dalendus Vool and carried the boy out of the city, Charn Thovis had sailed on the Scimitar. It was the young warrior who had won over the captain and crew of the black corsair galley to the protection of the Jasark. His words, and the winning ways of the brave young Prince, had been equally responsible for turning the hearts of the Scimitar pirates.