by Lin Carter
But now, at any rate, no man would ever use this horrible invention in war against his fellow men again …
He turned away, to join the battle. Then, suddenly, he paused, lifting his head.
“Lord Thongor!” he cried.
The Barbarian turned from his red work.. And Charn Thovis did not have to say more. For the clammy fog no longer choked their lungs. Now they breathed in the fresh salt tang of open sea. And, looking up, they saw the faint red glimmer of dawn dim as a ghost of light away to the East
Kashtar’s blade had short-circuited the mist machine and it was dead and cold. And now the clean gusts of wind tore the gray mantle of the fog to ribbons and swept the decks free of its insubstantial tendrils.
Thongor’s face broke into a grin of joy. No more the mists of foul enchantment cloaked the invading fleet from watchful eyes. Now the warriors of Patanga would look upon the waters and they would see the cunning and treacherous foe that had crept almost to their gates, and the alarm would go forth. Whether he and his comrades took the Red Wolf, or whether they went down at last under the overwhelming numbers of the pirate throng, it no longer mattered. For Patanga was saved …
And then the gloomy skies of very early dawn were illuminated by a sudden and almost supernatural explosion of blue-white fire, and Thongor raised his eyes to the open skies above him. And he saw what was there and there was a glory in his face as he looked upon their salvation …
TOWARDS dawn the senior officer, Changan Jal, wearied of his watch and bade the young Otar, Anzan Varl, to turn the needle-prow of the sleek little airboat back to the soaring pylon of the Air Citadel. His night duty was over and the weary commander looked forward to a cold bottle, warm bed, and a dreamless sleep.
But some slight trace of lurking suspicion concerning that great fogbank he had earlier observed, rolling up the shining waters of the great Gulf in its slow and remorseless advance upon Patanga, came to him even as he spoke the word.
On a sudden impulse he countermanded the order and bade Anzan Varl direct the craft to the waterfront for one last look. Had the immense body of mist dispersed in the winds of early morn? Or would he find the harbor deep under smothering waves of clammy, clinging fog?
Just as the trim little floater arched over the harbor, and as Changan Jal peered down at the roiling mists that had by now moved very close to the sea wall… the gusting wind whipped aside the mantle of deception and he saw with a thrill of unearthly shock the black-hulled war galleys of the dread pirates of Tarakus!
Swifter than thought he slapped the throttles home and sent the little craft arrowing down on a long glide. Seizing the controls he swung the gleaming electrode of the sithurl weapon mounted in their prow, until it pointed at the scarlet sails beneath.
No time now to exchange leisurely signals with the watchmen who dwelt in the signal tower atop the crest of the Citadel. Shouting that Anzan Varl should fire at will, to inflict the greatest damage, he sprang from his seat and tore open the locker beneath one of the two bunks built into the little cabin.
From this he snatched up a device the clever hands of the wise Nephelos, Iothondus, had built. By compressed air it fired a rocket which would explode into a blinding flare after a certain period of exposure to the air.
Even as the droning crackle of the lightning gun speared white fire down at the black lean black ships below, Changan Jal sprang to the afterdeck of the floater and fired his signal flare high into the dim air of earliest dawn.
Like a new star burning in the skies of dawn, the flare floated down over the streets and squares of Patanga, a blinding dazzle of blue-white fury.
Never before had the flares been used in earnest. They were only to be employed in moments of ultimate peril. Only in the greatest and most urgent of emergencies were they to blaze in the skies of Patanga.
No sooner had Changan Jal’s brilliant flare cast its bright rays above the city, than silvery horns rang out over the spires and towers of the city. A company of the Patangan Archers sprang upon their mounts and went clattering into the streets to man the gates of the city. Airboats broke formation—hovered indecisively for an instant until the thunder of Anzan Varl’s sithurl gun drew their attention to the harbor area—then swooped over the waterfront, the dark waves, and the embattled invasion fleet, to join their searing beams to the attacking fire from the lone vessel commanded by Changan Jal.
Like lean and deadly hawks they swooped down upon the confusion of tangled and blazing ships, and like hawks they struck to kill. Soon the darkness before full dawn was ablaze with flickering fingers of fire, and ship after ship exploded into a cloud of flaming wreckage as the stored energy of the sithurl crystals was expended in irresistible beams of electric fire.
IT was characteristic of Thongor that, in his delight at the attack of his Air Guard, he did not think of his own peril. Indeed, it was not until a probing finger of white flame struck the afterdeck of the Red Wolf that he realized the circling airboats could not tell friend from foe.
The deck jumped and slapped the soles of his feet as the rear of the ship blew apart in a deafening explosion and an eye-searing flash of white and crimson flame.
Thundering a command to the others who fought with him to hold the foredeck, Thongor sprang lightly over the rail and wove through the staggering throng of battling seamen. The air was thick with oily black smoke now; the upper works were ablaze, and smoking cinders drifted down like some grim Pompeiian rain to bestrew the decks with smoldering sparks.
Seizing the shoulder of Barim Redbeard, Thongor shouted into his ear, striving to make himself heard through the din.
Barim heard, and lifted a golden horn that hung at his waist. Settling it to his lips he blew the call that signaled return to the ship to every seaman of the Scimitar who still lived on the gory decks of the flagship.
Disengaging from their opponents, the well-trained fighting men of the Redbeard turned almost on the instant and went swinging across the wreckage of the rail to the decks of their own vessel.
Thongor, Karm Karvus and Captain Redbeard were the last men to quit the decks of the burning wreck. The instant his booted feet bestrode the decks of his own ship, Redbeard bellowed to his helmsman to take her out. Seamen snatched up oars and boating hooks and thrust against the broken timbers of the Red Wolf’s hull, prying their ram loose from the doomed vessel. And not a moment too soon.
For the beam of destruction that had flashed from the hovering airboat had torn a gaping hole in the hull of the Red Wolf, and tons of black water were pouring into her hold. Her rigging aflame, her decks strewn with the dead and the dying, the erstwhile flagship of a once-invisible armada was settling visibly. Ere many minutes past she would carry the last of her crew down to a watery grave …
But now the Scimitar herself was in deadly peril from the airboats that swooped and circled and struck in the skies above. Barim bawled an order that sent fat, puffing Blay across the deck to the lockers, from whence he drew the white flag of surrender. Swift hands tied it to a line and hauled it up into the top mast, replacing the black banner of piracy. Then Redbeard sent his galley curving away to starboard, and soon clear water separated them from the chaos of burning, sinking, or fleeing ships.
As the Scimitar drew in to anchor in the harbor, a company of the City Guard came clattering down the stone quay on racing kroters to disarm, the men of the surrendering ship. To their blank astonishment they were met at the rail by Thongor himself. They threw themselves out of the saddle to kneel before the Lord of Patanga, but already he had turned away and his attentions were fixed on the last moments of the doomed fleet
Half of the armada was sunk, or sinking, or aflame. Many other ships wandered unscathed, but their erratic course suggested that their decks had been bathed in the throbbing radiance of the Lamp of Madness, and their crew were now a band of howling madmen.
Some of the vessels in the rear ranks turned to flee. But the Air Guards of Patanga were striking for the kill, and they mercil
essly tracked down and blew to flaming ruin each of the fleeing galleys.
Few, very few, of the pirate ships surrendered, and thus escaped the holocaust that raged there in the great Battle of the Patanga Gulf.
By far the greater portion of the fleet were destroyed. Nearly one hundred ships went to a flaming death in this battle, and the loss of human life was in the thousands.
But as the first rays of dawn touched to rose and gold the tallest of the towers of Patanga, the Battle was ended.
And Patanga was saved.
CHAPTER 19:
KINGS OF THE WEST
A word given,
A friend made.
A friendship tested,
A world saved.
—The Scarlet Edda
IT was the better part of a month later, in the early days of Amgor, the first month of winter.
Although chill and gusty winds blew down from the mountains of the North and frost had withered the few remaining leaves to scarlet and gold, the Sun of noon blazed brilliantly in a clear azure sky and it would be long before the coming of Kyramon the Month of Snows rendered the season intolerable.
A great procession moved through the streets of Patanga, beginning on the steps of the mighty Temple of the Nineteen Gods, circling once the Great Plaza at the city’s heart, and then rolling forth into that splendid avenue that was known as the Thorian Way.
At the fore rode heralds in the black and flamy gold of royal Patanga, and yet others in the scarlet of Tsargol, the green of Tarakus, and the pale gold of westernmost Cadoma by the sea.
Then came a troop of the Patangan Archers, their nimble kroters glittering in jeweled harnesses. The archers wore dress helmets of sparkling gold; gems flashed from cherm and cuirass and girdle; tall gold plumes nodded from the crest of their shining helms. At their head rode Prince Dru, the cousin of Sumia, Thongor’s queen; as hereditary Daotar of the Patangan Archers, he led them at the fore of the mighty pageant.
Behind the bowmen a cohort of the Black Dragons strode on foot, and their gray and grizzled commander, Zad Komis, marched at their head. Black cloaks swung from the broad shoulders of the grim warriors, and the bright sunlight flashed from the dragon helms they wore, and glittered on the jeweled hilts of their mighty broadswords.
Following this came a bridal chariot drawn by a snow-white zamph, its great wheels rumbling over the smooth flagstones. In this chariot Karm Karvus and his young bride, Yian of Cadoma, rode. The Lord of Tsargol lifted a hand to acknowledge the plaudits of the throng gathered to watch the procession. But his other arm was about the shoulders of the lovely girl who had become his queen but moments before, as they stood together at the foot of the great altar.
Then came the Lord of the West himself, in a mighty chariot drawn by two lumbering zamphs, the war standard of imperial Patanga going before. Splendid in kingly robes, his radiant queen beside him. Thongor smiled as the crowd thundered forth his name. With him in the chariot of state rode his young son, Prince Thar, and the Prince Kazan, Lord of Cadorna, father of Yian, smiling on the cheering throng.
Chariot after chariot followed that of the Lord of the West, and in them rode the barons and princes, the lords and nobles, the courtiers and officials of the Empire. In one of these, looking distinctly uncomfortable in his stately robes, was Barim Redbeard. His blazing bush of whiskers was newly trimmed; gone were his usual gaudy kerchief, baldric, sea-boots and axe. He rode this day in the green velvet royal robes of Tarakus, and the emerald-and-silver diadem of that city glittered about his brows. Wrapped in the long robes, holding the trident sceptre in one awkward hand, the Redbeard was flushed and stiff. But he carried himself with dignity, as became a new king. For not a half an hour before, on the steps of the altar, Thongor had proclaimed him as Lord of Tarakus. And he had knelt there before the Black Hawk and accepted him as his overlord and emperor, and thus the staunch and hearty old seaman became one of the Kings of the West and a seventh city was added to the Empire of Thongor the Mighty.
The days just past lingered in the thoughts of Barim of Tarakus’ as he rode through the splendid streets of Patanga. After the alert Changan Jal had discovered the presence of the fleet and given the alarm, the Air Guard had broken the pirate fleet and burned or sunk or captured every last ship that had sailed therein. In the busy days that had followed, the flying legions of Patanga had carried war to the gates of Tarakus itself, and after some street battles and a few days of siege, the men who held the Pirate City had surrendered before the irresistible might of the City of the Flame. It was well-done. All but impregnable at the end of its lone promontory, walled about with the bastion of the sea, the fortress-like city might have held out longer for a grueling siege—for, although his sky navy could have shattered the walls of Tarakus and swept its streets and houses with devastation, Thongor held his airboats in check for he had no wish to turn the city into a flaming ruin.
But few men were left to man the walls of the Pirate City, as Kashtar Red Wolf had taken most of the fighting men with him to the conquest of Patanga. Those who were left behind were either old seamen unfit for the hardships of battle, or peaceful tradesmen, inn-keepers, cobblers and the like, or those who had for one or another reason earned the enmity of the Red Wolf of Tarakus and had been languishing in his dungeons. These had no heart for battle, and no cause, now that the armada was destroyed and both Kashtar and his grim accomplice, Belshathla, were slain. Hence, after some little show of resistance, cooler heads prevailed and the gates were opened to the legions of Thongor.
As well, more peaceful expeditions had consumed the days just past. A princely flagship of the aerial navy had flown to distant Cadorna, over the waters of the Gulf and the trackless jungles of Kovia, to bring the Princess Yian home to the city of her fathers. On this glad voyage she had been accompanied by her gallant rescuer, Karm Karvus. The Lord of Tsargol had a double mission in this venture; not only did he serve to escort the Princess to safety, but he came to sue for her hand in marriage. The dignified, elderly Lord Kazan of Cadorna was delighted and relieved to see his long lost daughter alive and-well, for he had long since given her up for dead, assuming her pleasure boat to have been lost at sea. And once he had taken her into his fatherly embrace, and heard an account of her adventures and how the brave young Prince of Tsargol had saved her from amidst the very stronghold of the corsairs, he gladly gave his paternal consent.
While these thoughts had been passing through the memories of Prince Barim, the mighty procession had advanced down the Thorian Way and they were now before the gates of the Palace of Patanga. Here they dismounted and made their entrance.
THE hall of the Hundred Kings had not changed from the way it had been many weeks ago when last Barim Red-beard had seen it. Still the great circle of stone faces gazed down upon the dais of the throne from the base of the mighty dome. Sunlight streamed gloriously through tall narrow windows of many-colored glass, casting glowing color across the noble throng gathered there before the Flame Throne to see the Lord Thongor dispense honors and ennoblement to those who had earned such in the perilous days just past.
Gules and emerald, azure and topaz, purple and gold, the colors lay across the glistening stone pave and flashed from sword-hilt and gemmy coronet.
For this occasion, the thrones of the Sarkaja and the Jasark were drawn up to either side of the central throne.
When his wife and son had taken their places on the dais, and all the brilliant assemblage was arranged to the satisfaction of Pheris Marn and Zaldon Thald, the (Chamberlain and the Chancellor, Thongor strode up the central aisle past bowing men and women. Up the nine steps of the dais of black marble he strode, and to the foot of the Flame Throne itself, while the Lord Chancellor rang his great silver mace of office against the polished tiles, and cried out in a deep voice—
“Hai, Sarkon! Hail, Great King! All ye that stand here, let ye know that ye are in the Presence of the Great Prince Thongor the Mighty, the King of Patanga, the Emperor of the Seven Cities. An
d let all hail the Lord of the West …”
And ere the solemn echoes of his stately proclamation could die, a great cry came from a hundred throats.
“Hail to the Lord of the West!”
Standing before the Flame Throne, the hilt of Sarkozan under his hand, Thongor looked down upon his people. Splendid and kingly was he as he stood there, robed in the black imperial velvet with the Gold Shield of Patanga upon his breast, charged with the Black Hawk of Valkarth.
From the dimness of the shadowy dome above him a vagrant beam of sunlight fell, striking to flashing fire the Flame Crown that sat his brow, all of pure red gold and studded with sparkling chandrals. Bleak and grim and impassive was the bronze mask of his features, but those that knew him well could read the glint of satisfaction in his eye, the deep happiness in the slight smile that touched his lips, and the pride in his tall stance.
His eyes swept the hall to either side of the dais, where a half-circle of thrones had been drawn up, facing the throng. Therein seated, the shield of their domain above their heads, sat the Princes Zul of Zangabal, Turmis of Shembis, Thon of Thurdis, Karvus of Tsargol, Thal of Pelorm, and Barim of Tarakus.
He began speaking without preamble.
“Long have I desired to give honor to this man for his many services to the realm and to my house. Let him come forward now and receive his reward, and my gratitude.”
The silver mace rang on the marble floor and the deep voice of the Chancellor rang out—
“Charn Thovis of Vozashpa, kojan of the Empire and leader of the Ninth Cohort of the Black Dragons, come forth!”
His face pale, his shoulders back, as erect as if he stood on parade, the young chanthar stepped before the dais of the Flame Throne and met the approving eyes of his Lord as Thongor smiled on him from above.
“For three years now the barony of Tallan has lain vacant since the hand of the Jasark my son struck down Dalendus Vool when he sought to usurp my station. Kneel, Charn Thovis, and rise as the Lord of Tallan!”