Young Thongor

by Adrian Cole, Lin Carter

  And were he to reach the world’s edge without being captured—what then? How to find his way back through the enchanted crystal to the land of Lemuria? The boy shrugged his shoulders, growling deep in his chest: it was not the way of the Black Hawk warriors to gnaw at more than one problem at a time. He would find or fight his way to the limits of this artificial world, and then worry about a way beyond it.

  Suddenly he was not alone.

  He knew it by the prickling of his nape-hairs, the way a jungle beast senses the presence of danger. The boy whirled in a fighting crouch, the broadsword flashing in his hand—to stare into the cold, inhumanly perfect visage of the Veiled Enchanter.

  Zazamanc had melted from invisible air soundlessly, but the keen senses of the savage had detected his presence. In his right hand the magician bore an ominous baton of black wood, carven with twisting runes and capped at both ends with ferrous metal. Thongor would not have known it for a weapon, but such it was. It was the wand called Bazlimoth, the Blasting Rod. Within it, lightnings slumbered.

  “You are strayed from the Pits, child,” said the Enchanter in a cold, remote voice.

  Thongor made no reply, but his strange gold eyes blazed lion-like through tangled locks and his weight was on the balls of his feet, ready for action.

  The Enchanter slowly extended the black wand until its tip pointed at Thongor’s breast. The cunning brain of the Enchanter seethed in a turmoil of unanswered queries—had the demon lied to him? How could the destruction of the wild boy bring about his own doom? True, Death had never entered here, but what of that? He could shrivel the boy to ash in an instant—and how could the act endanger him? Upon his cold lips a Word formed unspoken; suddenly the wand was vibrant with force. It throbbed in his hand like a live thing, eager to kill.

  And in that instant a hand fell upon his arm and Zazamanc shrank with amazement and fury to find the faceless horror of old Yllimdus by his side. In his frenzy to blast down the barbarian, he had forgotten that his former councilor was imprisoned in this hall by his order. He shrugged off the hand of Yllimdus, his perfect visage a mask of fury. The old man fell back so that he stood between the rage of Zazamanc and the Valkarthan youth.

  “Your end is near, Zazamanc,” the old man said. “Your reign is over. Slay not this child, but permit him to return to the outer world from which you drew him: do this, and you may yet live.”

  “You dare lay hands upon your master?” Zazamanc cried, trembling with wrath. “Stand aside, fool, or die with him you would shield in your folly!”

  “I do not fear death, for it is but an end to an existence of weary torment,” the old man said quietly. “It is you who fear, for all too well you know what will follow in the instant of your demise.”

  Zazamanc flinched at these words, for he had never dreamt his councilors knew the nature of the vow between himself and Xarxus; for the demon was sworn to serve his will during his life, but upon the moment of his death, his spirit would enter the service of Xarxus…and Zazamanc knew all too well the horrors that awaited him beyond the grave. He shuddered, his face livid and suddenly lined and weary with age, as if his supernaturally prolonged youthfulness was fading already.

  “Die, then, worm!” he snarled, lifting the rod and loosing its dormant fires.

  17

  Letting Death In

  The shadow-thronged hall lit suddenly with a flash of supernal brilliance that seared the eye. A thunderclap shook the domed roof and echoes bounced from wall to wall. Caught full in the fury of the bolt, the faceless man crumpled and fell, robe blackening, breast burnt away, a hideous charred pit.

  Old Yllimdus spoke no further word, his head falling to one side as life left his shattered body. Nape-hairs rising with primal awe, Thongor blinked away the after-images of the flash and saw to his astonishment that in the moment of death the fleshmask crawled and shrunk and molded itself into the features of an old man. Noble of brow, weary and lined was that face, but, somehow, at peace.

  Zazamanc shrank back at the sight. His enchantment was broken, but he did not understand it, for it should have persisted beyond death. A cold hand closed upon his heart, for at last the grim premonition of the doom he had for so long denied came home to him. He thrust his hands wide, face a writhing mask of naked fear.

  “No—!” he shrieked, shrilly and weakly.

  And in that instant, Thongor struck.

  He sprang over the charred corpse of Yllimdus, booming his savage war cry. The great sword flashed as he swung it high above his head and brought it hissing down upon the shrinking, cringing form of the Enchanter.

  Zazamanc staggered and fell to his knees, his face a crimson, torn thing. The black baton fell from nerveless fingers and rolled across the stony paving. On his knees he swayed, staring blindly up into the grim face of the half-naked boy who loomed over him like a vengeful specter. With quivering fingers he dabbed at his wound, peering in horror at his own blood. His dazed brain could scarcely comprehend what had happened: a thousand spells rendered him immune to death, invulnerable to assault. The sword blade should have glanced aside from his magically protected flesh, leaving him unharmed.

  It was then that he saw the great glyphs acid-etched down the blade of the mighty sword, and knew their meaning—knew as well that no mortal hand had drawn those immortal and portentous sigils in the steel of Thongor’s sword.

  “Aiii,” he moaned, rocking to and fro on his knees, while his l ife’s blood leaked from him, drop by drop; “Aiii…it is Sarkozan…Sarkozan…Sarkozan, my Bane…”

  Again Thongor lifted the broadsword above his head and brought it whistling down. Bone crunched, snapped: gore splattered. The severed head of the Enchanter flew from his shoulders to plop like a grisly fruit against the paving. The headless cadaver fell sideways to collapse in a spreading pool of scarlet.

  Thongor’s grim lips were taut. Beneath his bronze tan, his flesh whitened. His burning eyes widened in disbelief. For even as he watched, the bloody head…shriveled. The flesh tightened—dried—split, and peeled away from raw, naked bone that browned in moments. The fleshless skull grinned up at him from the gory floor. Before his unbelieving eyes, the gaunt bone grew pitted and sere; crumbled. The brain-pan fell in; the jaw detached to clatter on the stone. In mere moments there was nothing to be seen but a clutter of bony shards and dry dust…it was as if the centuries Zazamanc had denied had come rushing back upon him at the last.

  It was even as the demon had warned. Zazamanc had let Death in and it had taken its toll, long overdue, at the end.

  And Ithomaar was free.

  * * * *

  Thongor stood at the world’s edge, where glittering mists roiled and crept endlessly, moving as if with a life of their own.

  “Will you not come back to the real world with me, Jothar Jorn?” he asked.

  At his side the burly gamesmaster rubbed his beefy jaw reflectively. “I don’t know, lion cub,” he grunted. “This world is a fair one, and snug enough, with Him gone from it. And no doubt all my old friends in Tsargol would be gone by now, or so changed with the years I’d not be more than a stranger to them. As for me, well, I’ll stay here. Someone must take charge of things now; someone must keep order and rule here for those who will not go back to the world outside…it might as well be me, me and my stout lads.”

  “Will many stay, do you think?” the youth asked.

  The big man shrugged, grinning. “Some of them, I expect. Many will leave, to find their places in the outer world; but many more will stay, for they were born here, and this is home to them, and a fair place it is, with an end to fear and evil magicking. But what of you, cub? Is it back to the frozen north?”

  Thongor stared at the coiling mists, his grim bronze face unreadable.

  “There is nothing for me there. Those I loved are dead, all, all of them. I will fare down the pass into the Southlands, to seek my fortune among the bright cities. Surely there will be a place for a man who can use a sword and can face Death unafraid�
��”

  Jothar Jorn mused on the tall youth with thoughtful eyes. “Go, then, lion—cub no more, but a lion now, in truth! And—may you find what you’re looking for, in the end!”

  Thongor clapped his shoulder and turned away, striding into the seething mists and through the magic crystal into the great world that lay beyond, bound for the road that would eventually lead to the jungle-clad Southlands.

  INTRO TO DEMON OF THE SNOWS

  Thongor’s path at last begins to bring him out of the vast tableland of the Northlands, until he reaches the very gateway to the southern kingdoms and the promise of the riches he has dreamed about for so long. Soon after leaving the magical realm of Ithomaar, he is again on a lonely, desolate road. But he is not to be alone for long.

  DEMON OF THE SNOWS

  1

  Out of the Shadows

  All day the lone traveler had trudged down the great Jomsgard Pass that cleft the mighty wall of mountains in two, and now, as the day died in crimson across the western horizon, he had come within sight of his goal.

  From east to west across the world the wall of mountains strode like marching giants struck to stone by some dark enchantment. And, in very truth, they walled the world, dividing the wintry wastes of the bleak and barren Northlands from the golden cities of the jungle-girt Dakshina, as the Southlands were called. Tall they were and snowy-crested, these Mountains of Mommur, but the pass of Jomsgard broke their frowning battlements and gave an avenue to the weary traveler, such as this youth who stood with strong arms folded upon his breast as he viewed the awesome scene.

  Here at this point the mountain pass narrowed until it was but little more than a footpath between towering walls of sheer, unbroken stone. They soared high aloft, those cliffs of granite, sloping to ice-clad peaks. Above the argent horns of the twin peaks the crimson of sunset faded to dim purple, whereupon the first sharp stars now ventured, one by one.

  The taller of the twin mountains thrust forth a spur of rock above the pass, and upon that spur a high-walled keep was built. This was Jomsgard Keep, the hold of Barak Redwolf, the Lord of the Pass. For a dozen generations of men the Northlander baron and his warlike ancestors had held the narrow way beneath the shadow of the sword, the spear and the arrow, exacting a toll of heavy gold from merchant caravan, homeless mercenary and wandering pedlar.

  Unassailable by the skills of war were the high walls of Jomsgard Keep; commanding the head of the pass as it did, the old castle could not be taken by surprise, or storm, or even stealth. If ever there had been in all the annals of ancient Lemuria a castle unconquerable, it was the keep of Barak Redwolf.

  And to his gates the lone traveler had come. The last of his savage tribe, in all the Northlands no hand was held out to him in comradeship, no kin had he in all the North, nor had he anywhere found a friend.

  But the high walls of Jomsgard required many warriors to man them, and the tall towers needed sentinels to watch by day and by night. Here, from of old, flocked renegades and outlaws, men with blood on their hands and prices on their heads. Here, if anywhere, the traveler thought to find a safe haven against the hostile clans and nations of the North. And if not, then southwards he would fare, down to the golden cities basking beside the summery sea.

  Cut from the hard stone of the granite wall, a wide stair rose from the level of the pass to the barbican-gate of Barak’s keep. Guessing himself watched from aloft, the traveler mounted the stair and stood before the mighty portal—

  And beheld a marvel!

  For the great gate guarding Jomsgard castle was unbolted and—ajar!

  Baffled, the youth—for he was scarce more than that—regarded the half-open gate with puzzlement.

  Had some enemy crept into the citadel of Barak Redwolf? Had some force of warriors smote their way into the keep? Had some sly traitor, bribed with a satrap’s ransom, left the door ajar?

  Across his bronzed young shoulders, in a worn leather scabbard strapped to a baldric, the youth bore a great broadsword that his forebears had wielded in battle for many generations. Now, wary as some great cat, the youth slid the glittering blade from its leather sheath.

  Bearing the great sword Sarkozan before him, the youth stepped within the portal.

  And the blackness swallowed him up.

  * * * *

  The guardian of the gate had not, after all, deserted his post. For the youth found him just within the shadow of the barbican, face-down in a puddle of congealing gore.

  The youth dropped to his knees, dabbling his fingers in the dead man’s blood. Then he raised his wet fingers to his nostrils and sniffed keenly. At this height, and in this cold, dry air, fresh-shed blood cools swiftly and soon dries to brown scum. But the blood of the corpse was still damp. The man had been murdered, the boy guessed, a little more than two hours before.

  On swift, silent feet the youth prowled the gloomy halls and chambers of the citadel, finding, here and there, more bodies, but nothing that lived. Neither did he find any evidence of battle—no signs which would have indicated that the castle of Barak Redwolf had been attacked by a force of warriors.

  The men of Jomsgard Keep had been struck down one by one by something that had come upon them in silence and in stealth, out of the black shadows—

  These thoughts were passing through the mind of the youth as he entered the inner hall of the keep.

  He stepped through the gateposts and froze motionless, scarce daring to breathe.

  For the blade of the knife which a small but firm hand held at his naked throat was sharp and cold as the kiss of death!

  2

  Terror in the Night

  Flames still flickered upon the hearthstone of Barak Redwolf. They had not yet slumped to glowing coals.

  By their orange light the youth was able to see the foeman who held him at bay.

  Or—foewoman.

  His eyes widened incredulously, and he uttered a short laugh. For a slim, long-legged girl held the knife at his throat—a girl younger, if anything, than himself.

  Her skin was clear bronze, tanned by the sun and her cheeks were reddened by the icy winds. Her tresses, which lay in twin thick braids across her slender shoulders, were sun-golden. Her huge, long-lashed eyes were blue as sapphires. She wore rude garments of tanned leather, belted around her with chains of silver, and her feet were shod with buskins of supple hide. Clasped about her slim throat she wore gleaming amber beads, warm against her clear skin. She was very young—breathtakingly lovely—and very, very frightened.

  The last was discernible from the way her firm young breasts rose and fell beneath her tunic, panting with quick, short, shallow breaths.

  “Come, girl,” the youth growled shortly, “take your sting away before you slice my gullet. I am no enemy to such as you. What in the name of all the gods has befallen here?”

  The knife did not move from his throat; neither did the girl take her eyes from his face.

  “Who are you, and why are you here?” she demanded, panting breathlessly. “Swift, now! And speak true, or my blade will drink your blood—”

  “My name is Thongor, the son of Thumithar,” the youth said.

  “Where do you come from?” the girl demanded fiercely.

  Thongor took a breath to steady himself. The girl’s knife just touched his skin, and the blade lay along the great artery of the throat. One false word, one twitch of her hand, and his heart’s blood would encrimson the rushes which lay strewn about the stone-paved floor beneath his feet.

  “I am a Valkarthan, of the Black Hawk people,” he said.

  “How did you enter here?”

  He arched his black brows. “The door was open; the captain of the gate lay dead in a pool of his own blood. I walked in to discover what thing had slain the man and left the gates ajar. Come: put away your knife; I am newly come to Jomsgard, and had nothing to do with whatever has struck here…”

  The girl took her knife from his throat, although she did not put it away. Thongor rubbed his thr
oat, wincing. Then he walked over to the fire and threw off his cloak of furs. The firelight gleamed on the thews of his bare, muscular torso. The girl followed him with her eyes.

  “I am Ylala, the daughter of Thogar the Smith, of the White River people,” she said at length, in a listless voice.

  He said nothing, rubbing his palms together briskly before the burning logs. He was a lean, wolfish boy of perhaps seventeen with sturdy shoulders and strong arms: the corded muscles that rippled beneath his bronzed hide gave just a hint of the massive strength that would be his with manhood.

  “My people pay tribute to Barak Redwolf, that our hides and furs and ivory may pass to the Southlander tradesmen,” the girl said. “When times are hard, and there is no gold with which to pay, we pay in tribute of slaves. This year, the times were hard. I am the tribute,” she said simply.

  Thongor lifted his head and stared at her. His own people would have starved to the last babe rather than give a daughter of the tribe into slavery to such as the Baron of Jomsgard. Her limpid eyes fell before his stare, and her cheeks crimsoned. He said nothing, and after a moment he turned his scowling eyes from her.

  By the glow shed by the leaping flames he could see the full length of the hall. Great benches of rough wood lined the walls; a rack near the door contained spears; bows and quivers full of arrows hung on iron hooks between brackets which held guttering torches.

  There was only one dead body in the hall, and it lay at the foot of the low dais on which stood the chair of Barak Redwolf. It had been too dark in the antechamber beyond the half-open gate for Thongor to have made out the manner in which the gate captain had been murdered. Now, examining the figure which lay sprawled at the foot of the dais, he felt faintly sick.

  He had seen men die in a variety of ways, but never a corpse like this.

  The man had been crushed to death.

  He nudged the corpse with his foot.

  “Barak?”

  The girl glanced over, then shuddered. “No; he was a bigger man, with a narrow head, amber eyes like a beast, and red hair. I think that man was Bothon, one of the chieftains.”