Thongor Fights the Pirates of Tarakus

by Lin Carter

  Gradually, droplets of water vapor began to condense out of the thin cold air about him till all the deck was slick and shiny with a queer dew. Blue fire crackled and hummed from the copper conductors; the power coils throbbed like the beating of a giant’s heart, and, as the opposed fields of force were projected farther and farther into the night air about the fleet, ever greater volumes of damp vapor condensed into being, until at last the flagship was wreathed in gray billows of heavy mist. With magical swiftness this flowing wall of fog enveloped rank after rank of the moving ships, until the entire armada was totally enveloped in a tremendous cloud. In the elusive moonlight the ships loomed like dark phantoms through the fog, but from any considerable distance even the dark silhouettes were lost to sight behind the mists of enchantment.

  And on the quarterdeck of the Scimitar, Barim Redbeard gasped with awe as the uncanny mists flowed into being about the fleet. Signal lamps flaring from the rear of the flagship had passed the word down the line that the Gray Magician was shrouding their passage behind impenetrable mists of magic, so the pirates of the other vessels would not panic in their ignorance.

  Then his awe gave way to mirth, and Redbeard broke into peals of laughter. What a grim jest, if the very methods whereby Belshathla sought to protect them from discovery, were to prove an agent that permitted the Scimitar to fall upon the flagship unobserved, and take it by surprise!

  CHAPTER 14:

  NAKED STEEL

  Unseen and silent as a ghost

  The galley clove the waves and came

  To where the Red Wolf led the host

  Against the City of the Flame …

  —Thongor’s Saga, Stave XIX

  NOW that the vast armada of the corsairs moved through the still night, cloaked in a veil of magic mists, Barim Redbeard was free to strike for the kill.

  They had thought to wait until the hour of midnight, when the greater number of the pirates aboard the nearby ships would perchance be deep in slumber, hence to make their strike under the smallest danger of observation. But now the enchantments of the Gray Magician made it no longer necessary for the sea wolves of Barim Redbeard to delay the hour. They would strike—now!

  A ghost-ship gliding through the phantasmal fog, the lean black galley slid from her place in the last rank of the armada, and fell aside to starboard. All about the decks, gray streamers of the clammy fog swirled like the impalpable draperies that clad the skeletal limbs of the spirits of the dead. Queer tricks were played by fog and wind: leering mask-like faces appeared out of the sliding film of fog, eye-holes and maw but gaping rents in the mist, torn by unpredictable gusts of wind.

  Long coils of mist drifted out, like reaching arms, as if to seize the sailors clustered on the mid-ship deck. Although they knew the nature of the mist to be Belshathla’s demon sorcery, this did but little to allay the superstitious fears that arose in many of the seamen. Many a grimfaced warrior, standing with naked steel in his hands, ready to face death upon the signal, felt his heart go cold and the chill sweat of terror bedew his brow. Even fat old Blay felt the clammy fingers of fear clutch about his stout old heart as he blinked and gawped at the gliding phantasmal forms that flickered eerily across the deck, borne on the invisible wings of the wind.

  Near him, laconic one-eyed Durgan paled and swore under his breath, and the grinning blond Kodanga giant, Thangmar, grinned no more, but clutched the little green paste idol of his tribal god suspended by a leathern thong about his thick-corded throat. Aye, even the nine-foot-tall Blue Nomad, Roegir, muttered a counter charm to ward off the Demon of the Mists.

  Then suddenly they were clear of the fogbank, and sailing out across open water. Dancing waves were glittering with the silvery path of Illana the Moon Lady who rode serene and glorious against the bosom of the night. As the last gray tendrils of mist were whipped away from the decks of the Scimitar, many a hardy seamen there was who felt his spirits rise and who breathed a bit easier.

  Barim commanded his men to clap on every foot of canvas the masts would bear, for he must outrace the armada and circle it, approaching from the front. Wind boomed in the scarlet sails, and the brass-beaked dragon prow of the corsair galley cut through the moon-silvered waters at an ever more rapid pace. Now rank on rank of the great armada was falling away behind them as they strove to out-distance the fleet.

  Not yet were the soaring towers and mighty battlements of Patanga visible on the horizon. But it would not be long before the king-city of the Empire would heave into view …

  ERE long the master seamanship of Barim Redbeard had proven itself, and they had circled the great mass of ships and now rode even with the foremost rank of the attack force.

  Now with great care and craft and subtlety, the captain guided the Scimitar within the moving mass of magic mist.

  Like fog-cloaked phantoms, the dark shapes of ships loomed up about them through the gray gloom. Red and green, like the burning eyes of demons, the ship lights burned dimly through the fog. No light showing, all but invisible in the swirling vapors, the Scimitar wove like a sea serpent through the line of ships until at length the unmistakable silhouette of the great flagship, the Red Wolf itself, loomed up before their bows.

  With great care, Redbeard maneuvered his rudder and trimmed his sail, until at last he rode steady, directly to starboard of Kashtar’s flagship.

  And now it was Thongor’s turn to take action.

  The mighty Warrior of the West had devised an alternate plan of attack. Rather than gamble everything on a single throw of the dice, he decided to try a different scheme. Were the Scimitar to attempt to ram and sink Kashtar’s ship—and fail—they would be left utterly helpless. Thus he grimly commanded Barim Redbeard to hold his helm in readiness, while Thongor gambled his life on his fighting skill. He and young Charn Thovis would dive overboard and swim the hundred yards or less that lay between the two ships; rising from the waves, they would attempt to wreck the Lamp of Madness—aye, and that weird instrument which had conjured up the magic mists, as well, whose crackling aura of blue fire could be seen yonder across the fog-wreathed waters—and if perchance they should fail to do so within a given time, then Thongor commanded that Redbeard should bring about the Scimitar and ram the Red Wolf amidships.

  Growling at this, the pirate captain grudgingly agreed. To his simple way of thought, direct action was the only route to success, but the Lord of the West was his Lord as well, and he had no recourse but to submit. Far rather would he have preferred to send his brass-beaked prow crashing like a brazen ram deep into the timbers of the flagship’s hull, and sweep aboard the decks of the enemy with a naked cutlass flashing in his hand. But he would yield to Thongor in this.

  Thus, when the ship was positioned and all was ready, Thongor stripped off his black cloak and removed his heavy sea-boots so that they should not encumber him as he swam. The mighty Valkarthan broadsword swung at his thigh, and he knew that down there in the cold waves of the Gulf the long scabbard might well entangle his legs and hamper his movements, so he borrowed a baldric from Barim Redbeard and slid the glittering length of Sarkozan into this, slinging the baldric over his chest and adjusting the scabbard so that the sword would hang down between his shoulders, giving his arms and legs free play.

  Then, making certain that the young chanthar, Charn Thovis, was similarly accoutered, he wasted no time in lingering farewells, but sprang to the top of the mantlets that shielded the rowing benches. For a moment he loomed there above them, astride the wooden shield. The next moment he raised one hand in farewell, and vanished over the side. Charn Thovis followed him. The two warriors clambered down the curving hull of the galley and slid silently into the dark cold waters.

  The stinging shock of the chilly waves struck new vigor into Thongor’s mighty thews. Setting his heels against the waterline of the Scimitar, the Valkarthan kicked out and propelled himself away from the vessel. His great shoulders rose and fell, his long powerful arms clove through the waves, as he swam towards the di
m hulk of the pirate flagship that towered up, a vague and fog-wreathed silhouette, across the dark waters.

  It was not as difficult to see as Thongor had imagined. The barrier of magic mist did not extend down all the way to the surface of the water, but ended a foot or two above the waves. Thongor had grimly taken into account the possibility that the flagship would be invisible to him once he was in the waters of the Gulf, so he had securely fixed its position in his mind before going overboard. He was relieved to learn that such was not the case. And it was a distinct relief to know he did not have to worry about swimming the black cold waters, lost

  As he swam towards the hull of the Red Wolf, Thongor turned to see how Charn Thovis was doing. The young swordsman was behind him and to his left, following him as he swam. Thongor grinned at his young comrade, white teeth flashing in the murk, and turned his attentions to swimming.

  All about them the night was murmurous. The slap and slither of waves against the gliding ships, the creak of the masts, the hollow boom of the sails, the song of the wind in the rigging, the distant sound of voices. Surely, Thongor thought, amidst all this the two of them would make no sound that might attract attention.

  After some little time, the hull of the pirate galley rose above them, and Thongor slowed his progress. The Lamp of Madness, Karm Karvus had told him, was erected upon the foredeck of the Red Wolf. So he sank underwater and swam about the prow of the ship, coming up before its figurehead.

  Reaching up, he caught a hand-hold in the gilt and carven sea monster which adorned the prow, and drew himself dripping from the waves. The prow was Carven with heavy scrollwork, which afforded easy hand-holds. Thus the Valkarthan, with Charn Thovis at his heels, climbed to the foredeck without difficulties.

  He lifted his brows above the deck-rail and searched the scene before him with burning eyes.

  That weird mechanism of twinkling brass and sparkling crystal must be the very Lamp of Madness itself, for it matched the description Karm Karvus had given him of the deadly ray machine in every particular. And there beyond it, before the deck house, that soaring copper antenna wreathed in crackling sparks of blue electric fire, that must be the devil-thing that had caused the enchanted mists to envelop the fleet and hide it from watchful eyes.

  Two guards stood before the mind-destroying ray projector with naked steel in their hands, he saw. But the mist mechanism was unguarded …

  Thongor’s head sank down behind the carven work and he crouched there at the prow for a moment, whispering a plan to Charn Thovis. The young noble nodded, and Thongor began the chancy business of climbing around the curve of the hull, clinging to precarious hand- and toe-holds on the outside of the ship, until at length he came to a place somewhat behind the position of the two guards.

  Then, silent as a phantom, his mighty figure all but invisible amidst the ghostly fog, the Valkarthan glided up and over the rail. His wet feet crept across the planking as he advanced upon the two unsuspecting guards. As he approached them, a ghostly and silent figure in the gray gloom, his strong fingers closed about the massy hilt of Sarkozan.

  With but the faintest whisper of steel against leather, he drew the glistening length of the broadsword free from its scabbard. With naked steel glistening in his hand, he advanced with the soundless tread of a stalking vandar upon the two guards …

  FRONTING upon the Great Plaza that lay at the heart of Patanga, the spires of the Air Citadel ascended into the moonlit skies. The upper works of this citadel were honeycombed with entry ports and hangars, for this towering structure housed the Air Guard of Patanga.

  On this cold, windy night in the late fall, the command of the night patrol had fallen to Changan Jal, a senior officer of the Guard. At his desk in the signal tower, he received a flow of reports from the airboats of his patrol as they circled tirelessly above the City of the Flame. With monotonous regularity these reports delivered the identical message: no activity.

  Once each night, to relieve the boredom of his administrative duties, Changan Jal liked to go aloft in his sleek command boat, to make an aerial tour of the city himself. And this night, some time before the middle hour, he left his desk and went out on the wind-swept flight deck for his accustomed round.

  Anzan Varl, an alert young Otar under his command, would serve this night as his pilot. And the trim little airboat was powered and ready, hovering at the length of its mooring mast. The cold, alert eyes of the older officer softened as they gazed on the sleek lines of the speedy little craft, and lingered approvingly on the powerful electrode of the lightning gun that was built into the pointed prow.

  What hath Patanga to fear from any foe, he thought with satisfaction, with such a flying fleet of vessels to guard her skies?

  Settling the winged silver helm on his close-cropped, graying hair and drawing his flowing blue cloak about him more closely against the cold night wind, the senior commander returned the young Otar’s crisp salute and boarded the hovering airboat. Seating himself in the snug little cabin, he held the controls steady while Anzan Varl loosed the mooring lines and took his place in the pilot’s chair. Then, in the observer’s position, the older officer watched as the Otar took the trim little craft up to the twenty-thousand-foot-level and began a tour of the city.

  The night was clear and cold, the wind from the south, with a touch of frost in it. The streets were all but empty in the city below their floating keel, save for an occasional squadron of the Night Watch tramping their rounds.

  As the slim airboat curved far above the harbor area, however, the eyes of Changan Jal sharpened and an expression of bafflement crossed his stern features.

  “Otar! Take her down to five thousand feet and level off,” he ordered. Obediently, the airboat sank to the lower level and steadied in her flight, while the keen eyes of the senior commander searched the peculiar thing he had sighted from aloft.

  “What is it, sir?” the pilot inquired.

  Changan Jal shrugged thoughtfully.

  “Probably nothing, but … it is odd! That great fogbank rolling in from the Gulf—see? It all but blocks the channel. Odd, to see so heavy a mass of fog on so clear and cold a night as this is … and the wind from the south, too! I should have thought any fog would disperse before such gusts.”

  For a long moment the airboat circled above the harbor area, while the two Air Guards observed the peculiar actions of the mysterious bank of mists. There was something uncanny about that cloud of grayness, something that aroused the suspicions of the senior commander. But nothing that he could name. A formless feeling—almost like an intuition; certainly nothing he could label. Yet it was odd … for forty years Changan Jal had dwelt in the great City of the Flame that rose here at the head of the Gulf between the Twin Rivers, and never in all that time had he observed fog to act as strangely as this …

  “Shall I give the signal to alert the patrol?” asked Anzan Varl. His commander rubbed a thoughtful hand across his trim small beard.

  “No,” he said at last “ ’Tis but a fog, and what’s harm in that? The morning sun will disperse it soon enough, I warrant. No, Otar, continue the patrol.”

  The airboat rapidly ascended to the proper level and continued its circuit of the great city. Changan Jal shrugged, and put aside from his mind the strange action of the mysterious mists.

  Still… it was odd …

  BOOK FOUR

  THE STORM PASSES

  “Earth stands ever in peril from the Forces of Darkness, for the legions of Chaos and Old Night wait ever at the portals to the Universe to work destruction and evil against Creation; many and manifold are the means whereby the Dark Powers work for the doom of man, and science and sorcery are the weapons they employ … and against such weapons, mortal men have little else wherewith to combat the Darkness … but they have courage and strength and faith, and these three be enough to win the victory.”

  —The Great Book of Sharajsha the Wizard

  CHAPTER 15:

  THE GOLDEN DRAGON

/>   A phantom monstrous in the gloom,

  He rose out of the waves to stand

  Before the awesome Lamp of Doom,

  And naked steel was in his hand.

  —Thongor’s Saga, Stave XIX

  THONGOR was upon the first guard in an instant. He bore him to the deck before his rush, like a charging lion. Before the corsair had time to utter a single cry, the iron hands of the Barbarian had crushed him to silence. And even in the same instant Thongor sprang upon the first guard, Charn Thovis hurled himself upon the second. Bright steel flashed and red blood spurted, and the second watchman sank to the deck without a groan.

  Alas, the man Charn Thovis struck down bore a naked cutlass in his hands. And as the steel blade of the young chanthar was driven through the pirate’s heart, his muscles leaped in a last convulsion—and the blade fell clattering and clanging to the deck. As luck would have it, the cutlass struck the metallic housing of the base of the Lamp of Madness and the clash of steel on steel rang across the deck like an alarm bell.

  Even as Thongor rose from the recumbent body of his kill, the midships watch shouted a query and a whiskered face thrust itself up the top of the stairway that led from the main deck to the raised platform whereon they stood.

  “What’s the clamor, mates—” the watchman said, but Thongor’s flashing sword caught him across the throat and he fell, gurgling, down the stairs to land with a thump and clatter. The alarm was given now, and Thongor and Charn Thovis heard the drum of booted feet pounding up from below.