by Lin Carter
“I will hold the head of the stair,” Thongor growled. “You wreck the ray projector. Swift, now, lad!”
And he swung away to stand at the head of the stair, the great broadsword clenched in his fists. Its bright steel glowed wetly crimson now, and the first pirates who came charging up the stair faltered at this grim and terrible apparition that had melted out of thin air to oppose them.
Up flashed the broadsword—and down it came, ringing in cloven bone—and a second corpse fell dead at the foot of the stair. Snarling like an enraged panther, a black-bearded corsair replaced his fallen mate, cutlass raised to block Thongor’s blow. The metallic music of sword against sword rang out, and Thongor was battling furiously.
Little there was in life the great Valkarthan loved more than a good fight—and this was one of the best! His broadsword rose and fell tirelessly, and soon with every sweep the blade left a curve of crimson droplets traced upon the air. Blocking the head of the stair as he did, the Barbarian had the great advantage of height—and a second, in that the maddened pirates could only come at him one at a time. For a short while he killed and killed, sustaining no more than a sabre-cut on his bare thigh and a scratch or two on chest and shoulder.
From the foredeck at his back, where he had left Charn Thovis to wreck the projector, Thongor heard but silence. For some moments he was too heavily engaged in holding the pirates at bay to think much about the queer stillness at his back. But ere long it troubled him, and he cast a glance over his shoulder—
The glowing tip of Belshathla’s wand caught his shoulder with a numbing shock that drove Thongor staggering.
A cold electric thrill ran down his right arm from that uncanny blow. And then the great crimson blade of Sarkozan fell from numb and nerveless fingers to ring against the iron studs of the deck. Before Thongor could move or even attempt to shrug off the cold paralysis that gripped him, the pirates fell on him from behind and bore him struggling to the deck while Belshathla stood watching, a cold smile of gloating triumph on his skull-like face.
Thongor caught one quick glance at the sprawled form of Charn Thovis where the youth lay face downward and unmoving before the instrument he had striven to destroy … then the tide of brawny bodies crushed him under a smothering weight.
Belshathla had emerged from the deck house in time to fell Charn Thovis with the touch of his paralyzing wand before the youth had damaged the projector of the mind-destroying ray. Drawn forth perhaps by some occult premonition that danger threatened his beloved mechanisms, the Gray Magician had first struck down the young warrior and then had advanced to deal a numbing blow to Thongor. He had intended to touch the Barbarian at the base of his skull with the weirdly glowing tip of his wand, but Thongor had turned at just the right moment, so that the paralyzing blast struck only his shoulder and not his brain.
Thus the Valkarthan was still fully conscious, and, although his arm tingled from fingertip to shoulder from the surge of uncanny force, he was otherwise unharmed and in possession of his faculties.
Even deprived of the strength of his right arm, he was a formidable opponent. And before they crushed him down under the sheer weight of bodies, his savage blows had hurled several of the corsairs sprawling with broken jaw or shattered ribs. But at last they held him helpless.
“Let me kill the dog now, wizard,” one of the pirates spat. His dirty fist held a dagger whose glittering point was suspended above the naked chest of Thongor.
The commotion above had roused Kashtar from his cabin and now the Pirate King gained the foredeck in time to halt this impending blow with a curt word of command.
Reluctantly, the other put aside his blade as the captain of the Red Wolf came to stand over Thongor where he lay pinned beneath a mass of panting corsairs. A cold mirthless smile touched the lips of the Lord of Tarakus as he surveyed his captive.
“So the Lord of Patanga has come forth to welcome the guests at his gate!” he purred with a note of feline menace in his silken tones. Thongor grunted and spat.
“Shall we slay him, Lord?” the Gray Magician asked. “It is dangerous to permit him to live, even though a captive. For, although many men have held the Barbarian prisoner ere now, none of them are now alive. He has a way of eluding captivity …”
Kashtar shook his head.
“Wizard you may be, but you are also a great fool, you gray dog,” he said. “For you would throw away the key that Fate has set within our very grasp! Aye, here’s the key that will unlock the gates of Patanga before us … think you they will dare oppose us, when we hold a knife at the heart of their Lord and King?”
Belshathla hovered, indecisively, searching for words. His instincts told him that now, while he lay helpless, was the time to slay the dread Warrior of the West. What had they to fear from all the fighting force of the City of the Flame, while the Lamp of Madness was their weapon to employ? And yet, here Kashtar commanded and not Belshathla.
“What shall we do with him, then?”
“Shackle the dog to the prow, so that when we enter Patanga harbor, all his warriors may see their mighty Sark our helpless slave.”
Heavy chains were set on Thongor’s wrists and ankles, and he was dragged across the deck growling, to be bound at the very prow.
And even as the hand of one burly rogue went forth to lock the shackles—a clear voice rang out across the deck and froze them all motionless.
“Loose the Lord Thongor, or you are all dead men!”
KASHTAR spun on his heel, snarling.
And there stood young Charn Thovis at the Lamp of Madness. His paralysis had passed while they had gathered about the great Valkarthan. Finding himself ignored for the moment, the young chanthar had swung the ray projector about on its gimbals until the terrible crystal tube of the weapon was aimed full at the pirate band. With one hand on the throttle of the instrument, he held them all at bay. For every eye could read the truth of his words—he had thrust the dial over into the range of killing intensity, having heard Karm Karvus describe the controls of the magical weapon.
Even Belshathla blenched and recoiled before the ominous glittering crystal snout of the ray projector.
The hands of the pirates fell away, and Thongor stood free, albeit heavy steel chains still dangled from his hands.
“Well done, Charn Thovis,” he growled, as he tore from the hands of his captor the ring of keys. Swiftly he unfastened the chains at his ankles and wrists, and tossed them aside. Stooping, he found the fallen broadsword where it lay in a welter of gore.
None of them saw the grinning pirate who had climbed the foredeck rail behind the deck house and who crept now on silent feet behind the gallant young warrior. It was Duranga Thool, Kashtar’s chief lieutenant. He had stood in the darkness of the midship deck below, listening. And now as he heard the young chanthar threaten his captain, he had climbed the rail and now he slunk like a shadow behind Charn Thovis where he stood holding them all at bay.
Suddenly his powerful arms enveloped the young warrior and whirled him away from the controls.
In the same instant, Thongor struck out with his broadsword, felling the pirate who stood nearest to him, striving to cut a path to the Lamp of Madness.
All was howling pandemonium in the next instant.
Belshathla thrust his glowing wand at Thongor but the bronze giant dodged to one side, and cut down another foe.
Kashtar voiced a snarling cry and whipped out his rapier, springing to engage the Valkarthan.
The crowd of pirates surged about Thongor. In every hand naked steel flashed—dirk and dagger, sword and sabre, cutlass and scimitar. Thongor battled like a trapped tiger amidst the howling mob.
At the forward rail, Charn Thovis staggered to his feet—snatched up a sword—and turned to engage Duranga Thool.
Thongor’s mighty blade wove a wall of flashing steel about him, as he held off the swords of nine opponents.
Grinning, Duranga Thool beat Charn Thovis back with lusty blows from his cutlass. The pirate chieftain was th
e taller and the heavier man, and his burly shoulders drove the blade against the youth with telling force. Step by step, Charn Thovis was driven back until at length he stood against the rail and could retreat no further. With every ounce of skill and strength within him, the young warrior strove to keep the edge of that flying blade from his throat.
Now the thud of booted feet came pounding up the stair, as dozens of corsairs came belatedly to join their comrades in the unequal battle against two lone swordsmen.
Thongor had cut down six men. They lay heaped about him like a wall of gory corpses. But the corsairs had ringed him in now, and he must strive with redoubled vigor to hold at bay so many flashing points. Now keen blades were lifted against his unshielded back. Within moments, he knew, the unequal contest would end and he would fall, struck down from behind. Yet still he fought on, and would fight on till the very end.
A moment more, and his spirit would go on its last voyage into the Shadowlands, to dwell forever with the mighty dead who thronged the Hall of Heroes. But he would not go empty-handed before the shining throne of Father Gorm … for he would send many of his enemies down into death before his valiant heart beat its last …
THERE where he stood against the rail, Charn Thovis fell reeling under a shower of blows. At last the heavier blade of Duranga Thool beat his own weapon aside, and his breast was unprotected.
With supernatural clarity the young warrior could see every line in the snarling, grinning face of the pirate as Duranga Thool drew back to plunge his sword through the heart of Charn Thovis. He could see the perspiration that beaded the brows of the pirate, the expression of hatred and triumph stamped on his swarthy features, the blaze of blood-lust in his vicious eyes—
Then, even as he watched, a miraculous change came over the face of Duranga Thool. From a snarling mask of murderous fury it was transformed to blank astonishment. The eyes goggled unbelievingly and the sword, drawn back for the final lunge, went wavering aside.
Charn Thovis knew not the cause of the gap-jawed amazement that had struck the other, but his hand flew to seize this momentary advantage. And in the next instant, with the last dregs of his strength, he had thrust his own sharp rapier through the hairy breast before him.
With gore dribbling from his open mouth, Duranga Thool fell stone dead at the feet of the young warrior.
And in the next instant, Charn Thovis knew the cause of the astonishment that had frozen the hand of Duranga Thool.
For looming out of the phantasmal mists, the contorted face of a dragon towered above the rail. Light glinted gold from its burnished beak and frowning brow.
In the next instant the deck shuddered under their feet as the brass-beaked dragon prow of the Scimitar drove full against the hull of the Red Wolf.
The rail came apart in flying fragments. Timbers crunched and squealed as the terrible brass ram came crashing through the side of the corsair flagship. Men fell like toppling ninepins as the Red Wolf shook under the impact of the collision.
And in the next moment, flying through the fog, a score of howling warriors came swarming aboard the crippled vessel with swords flashing in their fists. And at their fore towered a roaring giant in steel cuirass and horned helm, wielding a great axe, his fiery beard blazing through the murk.
Barim Redbeard had come at last.
CHAPTER 16:
THE RAY OF MADNESS
Steel rings on steel—an iron song!
We hew our red path through the throng
And with each stroke we break their line—
As drunk with battle as with wine!
—The Battle-Song of the Black Dragons
BARIM REDBEARD had waited as long as he dared before driving his battering prow into the side of the Red Wolf. The time allotted to Thongor and Charn Thovis had elapsed, aye, and a bit more, and still the magic mists seethed about the pirate armada. Then, faintly to his ears across the dark waters, came the red music of battle and the mighty Redbeard knew that his friends had been discovered in the work of smashing the devil machines.
The command boomed from his lips and the prow of the Scimitar swung for the black hull of the flagship and the great golden dragon-ram at her prow went crashing through a hail of flying timbers as the Scimitar clove the Red Wolf’s side.
Leaving the command to little Angar Zend, Barim seized a dangling shroud and swung over to board the pirate vessel in the van of his warriors. His boots came crashing down into the astounded face of one of Kashtar’s men. The Redbeard landed on the deck and the man whose face had cushioned his fall went reeling back, spitting broken teeth in a welter of splattering blood.
Voicing a lusty challenge, the mighty Redbeard sprang into battle. His weapon of choice for this red business of boarding was a great Belnarthan battleaxe. With this mighty blade, swinging with the savage strength of tireless arms, he cut his way to the center of the deck. At his right the blond Kodangan giant, Thangmar, slew with a scimitar of shining steel; at his left the Rmoahal titan, Roegir, wielded a great broadsword. The three of them, who were the mightiest men and the champions of the Scimitar, fought through the howling horde of Kashtar’s crew with ease. And at their backs a roaring tide of their comrades followed.
From the foredeck, which loomed up from the swirling mists to his right hand, the keen ears of Barim Redbeard heard the deep booming challenge of the Valkarthan war cry—the call of the Black Hawk tribe. He answered it with the war cry of his own folk, the White Wolf warriors of Belnarth. And, turning, he began to cut a path through snarling men to reach the place where Thongor battled alone, ringed in by the foe.
The flagship of the Tarakan fleet was crammed to the gunwales with fighting men, and the Scimitar shipped no more than the ordinary number of her crew. Still, the overwhelming advantage of surprise was on the side of Barim, and he seized on this advantage to the fullest. Wave after wave of his men came swarming over the shattered wreckage of the rail, and in mere instants the decks were alive with battling figures and the roar of yelling men; the shriek of the wounded, the screams of the dying, rang through the fog like a chorus of the damned yowling up from the scarlet hells of the Ultimate Pit.
Chanting a lusty war song of his primitive people, Barim Redbeard carved his way towards the stair that led to the foredeck. His deep-chested anthem boomed above the snarling, yapping chaos that seethed and eddied around him, as he hacked a path to the side of Thongor.
BLAY was stout and heavy-built. Not to be unkind, one might as well admit he was—fat. But beneath his wobbling paunch and red, moon-faced exterior there beat the valiant heart of a fighting man. Laying about him lustily with an old cutlass, his girdle bristling with daggers and dirks, his high-topped sea-boots flopping, he must have seemed a ferocious figure as he came whacking through the mists, snorting and wheezing curses.
At his side his old comrade, Durgan, fought. The dour-faced, lean and leathery old pirate used a fine sabre, and he used it with great skill. Bright gems flashed in the hilt of that sabre, and it needed no stretch of the imagination to hazard that once it had slapped against the thigh of some high admiral or noble lord, ere it had fallen as booty into his lean old hand. His one good eye glancing sourly about, the empty socket of the other hidden beneath a black patch that flapped with every sword-stroke, the gaunt old corsair fought with surprising vigor.
Eventually they found themselves at the mainmast. The crowd had somewhat fallen away by now, and many erstwhile members of it lay red and limp underfoot. Leaning on the nicked blade of his battered old cutlass, Blay found a quiet moment to catch his breath and he seized the opportunity thus offered by this momentary lull in the battle to sneak a surreptitious draught from the fat black wine-bottle that hung from his girdle by a thong.
He upended the bottle and let its contents gurgle into his mouth for a spell, until forced to come up for breath. Smacking his lips at the sound of flowing liquor, gaunt old Durgan took it from him and gave it similar employment for a bit.
The tide of battle wa
s swinging their way again, so Durgan thrust the bottle back into the hands of his wheezing old comrade, who hastily corked it and put it back in its place.
Then, refreshed and stimulated to new efforts, Blay and Durgan returned to their red work of slash and cut and parry and were soon far too busy to feel thirsty.
WHEN the Scimitar had rammed the flagship of the Tarakan fleet amidships, the shuddering shock and roll of the deck had knocked the men around him from their feet. All but Thongor, who had glimpsed the brass-beaked dragon looming above the rail an instant before she struck.
Thus, as his foes went tumbling to the deck, the Valkarthan took advantage of this brief respite to extricate himself from the circle of his foes. Thrusting the blade of his great Valkarthan broadsword back in the scabbard that was still clipped to the baldric slung across his chest, he sprang up, seized the shrouds, and was up into the rigging in an instant.
From this high vantage, he could see the furious work that Barim Redbeard and his stout-hearted men were wreaking on the stunned and staggering crew of the Red Wolf. He grinned at the lusty vigor with which the towering Redbeard cut deeply into the enemy crew. And the roaring seamen that swarmed over the rail, brandishing their cutlasses, and surging into battle behind their mighty chief, delighted his heart.
Cold winds blew about him as he clung to the frost-sheathed rigging. He knew that it must be midnight by now, perhaps later. And he knew that if this was so, they must by now be well within the sight of the flying patrols of Patanga.
Doubtless the airboats had assumed the fogbank, which hid from all eyes the invasion fleet, to be but a harmless mass of mist. Which meant they had given no alarm, to the fighting forces of the City of the Flame.
But if Thongor could disable the mist machine now, the fogs would melt away and the alarm would go out to the gallant warriors of Patanga. Hence he determined to take advantage of the distraction afforded by the surprise attack of Barim’s crew, to wreck the instrument. From his height, he could see it plainly, even through the swirling film of gray gloom. Blue fire crackled eerily about the slender copper antenna.