4.
Spawn of Hell
For a moment he stood frozen with shock, his senses still tingling with the warmth and softness of her slim, young body. She stood across the room, her lips parted—and laughed.
But it was not the soft laughter of a young girl. Peal after ringing peal boomed and roared from her soft, warm lips—and even as he stared uncomprehendingly, dazed with the swiftness of the change, hellish fires blazed up in her almond eyes. They flamed like pits of burning sulfur. And now that she laughed, her lips were drawn back, revealing hideous yellow tusks, like those in the black, blubbery, bristling jaws of the savage Lemurian jungle boar.
She began to…change.
Her limbs blurred, then grew transparent as smoke, then remolded themselves. A ghastly parrot-beak thrust from the warm oval of the girl’s face. Blazing orbs of yellow fire seethed with hellish mockery beneath her arched brows. Her hands became scaly bird-claws, armed with ferocious talons.
“Fool of a mortal,” the bird-demon croaked in a ringing metallic voice, “I knew of your presence within the house of my master from the first moment you set foot herein, and I chose a form that would lull your suspicions—”
Thongor struck.
The girl-thing had fooled him for a few moments—but now the fighting instincts of a northland warrior turned him into a battling engine of destruction. One hand flashed out, scooped up the fat, round, silver incense-lamp and hurled it straight as an arrow into the demon’s half-transformed face. The thud of heavy silver against flesh was audible the length of the room. The monster, its body still a hideous blend of exquisite human female and grisly bird-thing, staggered back from the impact.
The silver lamp broke open, and glowing pink coals splattered the half-changed body of the demon guardian. In an instant, the disarranged piece of green silk the devil still wore went up in a flash of flame. Blazing coals dribbled down between the white, soft breasts of the girl-like torso, raising terrible weals and blisters. The parrot-beak gaped open, screeching with agony and fury.
Thongor had not paused, as would a civilized man of the southern cities, to use reason; instinct alone told him that if the demon still wore flesh, that flesh could feel pain. He followed the flying brazier with the small tabouret on which it had stood. This he hurled like a powerful catapult straight at the ghastly scaled claw that clutched the protective talisman. The blunt edge of the wooden tabouret caught the slim girl’s wrist, which had only partly changed into a demon’s claw. The bone snapped with the sound of a dry branch cracking. The claw sagged limply as the demon howled—and the amulet fell.
Thongor dove across the room. His flying body crashed against the tender girl-legs of the monster and sent it reeling back against the further wall, while he scooped out one hand to catch the talisman. Luckily the fragile crystal thing had fallen on thick, soft carpets—had the floor been of bare stone, like the workshop through which he had recently passed, his only hope of escaping from this den of hell alive would have smashed to a thousand tiny shards.
Swift as he was, the demon was swifter. Even as he went crashing back against the wall, it—changed. The body crumbled into a coiling length of smoking stuff, and one arm snaked out, inhumanly long, to snatch the fallen amulet almost out of Thongor’s very fingers. The young warrior came to his feet in a rush, steel singing as he tore his sword from its scabbard.
The demon melted before him, reassembling itself across the room. Only the hand which grasped the all-important amulet had remained solid on this plane as the demon moved. Thongor took a swipe at it, but missed. Now he lunged for the monster, swinging up the mighty broadsword, deep chest thundering forth his primitive challenge. The great sword swung glittering up and came hissing down to clang against the scaled, reptilian body of the demon, by now fully transformed to its normal appearance on the earth-plane.
It was like swinging at a wall of solid steel. The shock travelled up Thongor’s arms to the shoulders, numbing and paralyzing even his mighty thews. The demon’s breast was solid as iron. It was astonishing that the blade of the sword did not shiver to fragments from the impact. But they had wrought well, those wonder-smiths of age-old Nemedis from which the ancient sword had come: potent spells and powerful runes had filled the crystalline structure of the great steel sword with terrific power. The blade held, although nicked: but the ringing shock numbed Thongor to the shoulder and the great sword fell from his nerveless fingers to clang like a struck bell against the stone floor that lay beneath the carpets.
His arms temporarily helpless, Thongor lashed out with a booted foot. Howling with harsh mockery, the great yellow beak of the demon was open, and Thongor’s foot crashed into its mouth, crushing the beak to gory ruin. Green hell-blood spurted from the crushed face of the devil, and again it went reeling back against the wall.
Thongor began to understand the limitations of the thing. It had complete control over its body and could doubtless transform itself to the likeness of any creature in earth, hell or heaven, but it was slow of thought. Anticipating a blow from the great Valkarthan broadsword, it had increased the density of the matter of which its breast was composed until it reached the hardness of solid metal—but had not thought to extend the same protection to the rest of its body.
Thus, if the young barbarian could keep it off balance, he might yet defeat the creature, or at least wrest the powerful talisman from its clutches. He dove after the monster as it fell squealing to the floor, its face a bubbling, gory wreck. He landed squarely upon it, both boots crashing down in its groin with crippling weight.
It was naked now, the green silk covering of its girl-guise burnt away by the scattering coals, and sexless as a stone to the eye, at least, but still vulnerable to such a brutal blow. He came crashing down with both feet and heard it voice a shrill shriek of bestial agony. Alien organs crunched and popped under his weight, and more of the green gore splattered from pulped flesh.
But it availed him little. For a second only it squalled and flopped in pain—then it hardened its body to the density of steel all over. He could feel it happening even as he grappled with the wriggling thing. They were both on their feet in a moment, battling lustily. Thongor swung balled fists into the thing’s gut and groin, but only tore the skin from his brawny knuckles and numbed his hands again. He shouldered it with terrific force, hoping to break free, and for a moment he took the monster-thing by surprise and shoved it off balance. He heard bird-clawed feet rip through the soft carpeting and squeak against naked stone as it fought to regain its balance.
Then two great hands like twin iron vices closed about his throat and squeezed. Blood roared in Thongor’s ears like pounding surf. A red haze thickened before his eyes, obscuring his vision. Dimly he could see the snarling visage of the demon’s beaked face—now repaired and whole—screeching into his own. But the crushing and intolerable pressure on his throat sent needles of unbearable torment lancing through and through his brain like thrusts of pure, blinding flame.
He fought desperately with every atom of strength in all his mighty form. Lashing out with strong legs, he sought to crush the clawed feet of his foe or entangle its legs and knock it off balance, but to no avail. The demon increased the density of its body, and thus its weight, till it stood as unmovable as a pyramid of solid stone. Thongor rammed his burly shoulders into its chest, thudded balled fists into midsection and groin—but again, to no avail.
He could not breathe. The iron strength of the howling brute was crushing the very life out of him. Strength drained from his knees; he sagged toward the floor, still battling like a titan. His vision had darkened now, so that he could barely see. His knew his face must be black from congested blood, a snarling tiger-mask of grim ferocity. The blood roared in his ears like a thousand seas plunging over the edges of the world to shatter like a thunderclap against the foundations of eternity.
He fought on, as consciousness ebbed and darkness closed around him like black rising waters. He passed into utter blac
kness, still fighting…
5
Ald Turmis
Thongor came awake like some great jungle cat. His savage heritage had honed his reflexes to exquisite keenness. He did not come awake through slow, foggy transitional stages, as softer, city-bred men awaken, but all at once—from total unconsciousness to full, tingling alertness, like a jungle predator whose slumbers are disturbed by the faint, distant snapping of a twig.
A dim, remote light beat about him. Cold, rough, wet stone was against his naked back and his numb wrists were stretched against the wall of rock, clamped helpless with thick bands of icy metal.
He was in a large, empty chamber cut from naked stone. This his hearing told him instantly; he could hear the faint echoes of water dripping down through the foundations of the building above. From the darkness, the moisture, the foul stench, he reasoned that he must be in some dungeon cell beneath the house of the Ptarthan wizard. His cloak was gone, his sword and other weapons and accoutrements—even the pocket-pouch at his waist, where a few lonely coins were stored against hunger.
But these things mattered little. He was surprised to find himself still alive. And alive he was, or all the myths were wrong—for surely no disembodied spirit could feel such pain as went throbbing and pulsing through every nerve in his body. He took a deep breath, and felt the red waves of pain beating against the very citadel of his mind. His body felt as if every inch of it had been beaten all over with leather clubs. But he still lived.
“I wasn’t sure whether you were alive or not,” drawled a young man’s lazy voice very close to him. Thongor felt the icy drench of shock go through him, and twisted his head about—ignoring the blaze of pain from sore, bruised muscles—to find he had a cell-mate.
His companion was a slim, dark young man, Thongor’s age or perhaps a year or two younger, who wore the simple red leather harness of a lone fighting-man unattached to the service of any house or lord. The youth wore a scruffy beard of perhaps two weeks’ growth, and was somewhat soiled and stained from the filthy dungeon.
Thongor took him in in one swift, measuring glance. The young man was well bred, with intelligent, dark eyes and a not-unpleasant smile, if a trifle dispirited and sardonic, and he had about him the trim, supple, hard-muscled look of a good fighting-man.
Thongor relaxed, grunting. “I live,” he said simply. “Why are you not bound, as I am?” he asked immediately, for his companion was secured by a single chain about his booted leg which was fastened to a ring set in the wall.
The young man grinned faintly. “Because Athmar Phong’s pet devil had no trouble in knocking me witless, in contrast to the battle you put up. I gather he doesn’t consider me of any particular danger. Unlike you—he must judge you a worthy opponent, even for a demon. I could hear the fight all the way down here: it must have been a magnificent brawl!”
“It was,” Thongor grunted, “but I lost it. Who are you, and why are you here?”
The dark youth cocked a quizzical brow. “For that matter—I might ask the same of you, my friend!”
The barbarian grinned. “Just so: I am Thongor, a warrior out of Valkarth in the northlands. I sought to steal a magic mirror from this Ptarthan sorcerer, but it seems I have yet a few things to learn about the profession of thievery. And you?”
His companion smiled wryly. “I am named Ald Turmis, and my city is Zangabal. Belarba,” he said, and Thongor returned the familiar Lemurian word of greeting. The dark young Thurdan regarded him closely.
“Our sanitary facilities are somewhat limited, but I used most of what water we have to clean you up a bit,” he said. “There is still a little, if you thirst.”
“I thirst, but also, I hunger,” Thongor admitted. “I don’t suppose there is any—wine?”
Ald Turmis laughed. “A man who has just escaped alive from a barehanded battle with a demon deserves wine aplenty! Alas, we have none. But there is a jug of ale, and some meat.”
Since the barbarian was bound in such a way that he could not use his hands, Ald Turmis had to help him eat and drink. Thongor downed the strong, sour ale in great gulps, and felt his head clear and new life spread through his battered body. The meat was cold and dry and tough, but it was meat; he ate until his hunger was appeased, then he lay back with a grunt of contentment. With a full belly, a man could face the future on its own terms.
Ald Turmis had been looking thoughtful. At last, when the barbarian had eaten, he spoke up. “I don’t suppose,” he began carefully, “that it was a certain Zangabali priest named Kaman Thuu who hired you to rob this house…”
Thongor blinked. “How did you know?”
Ald Turmis shrugged. “I, too, am down on my luck, Valkarthan. I have been travelling about the cities of the Gulf, seeking a place to sell my sword. I should have gone to Thurdis, it seems, for the new Sark of that city, Phal Thurid by name, has ambitions of conquest and empire and is hiring an enormous mercenary army. But, at any rate, I have thus far failed to find a sinecure, and turned to slavery. This same Kaman Thuu offered me gold to steal a certain mirror from the house of Athmar Phong. That was half-a-moon ago, and I have been languishing in this cell ever since.”
“Gorm’s Blood!” Thongor rumbled. “That sneaking pig of a priest! He didn’t tell me there had been others!”
Ald Turmis smiled narrowly. “If he had, you might not have followed his wishes.”
“There is truth in that,” the barbarian growled. “Why does he seek so diligently for this cursed mirror? It’s not a wench’s vanity, that’s sure; he is as ugly as a skull.”
“Oh, but it is a very famous mirror—the mirror of Zaffar, as it is called. He was a mighty wizard of Patanga in ancient days, and this magic glass holds imprisoned within it a great Demon Prince, who must obey him who holds Zaffar’s mirror. All the secrets of time and space, all the wisdom of past ages, all the cryptic lore of age-lost and legend-filled Hyperborea is his who possesses the mighty mirror. Doubtless our priestly friend seeks power, as was ever the way of priests.”
Thongor’s gold eyes blazed under black, scowling brows. They burned amber and fiery as the eyes of lions. “Well, if ever I get free of these chains, I will smash his cursed mirror over his shaven pate for not giving me warning I was walking into a trap,” he growled.
6
Naked Steel
For a time they slept, the two of them, their talk done. Food and drink and rest did much to restore the animal strength of Thongor’s battered body. When he awoke again, rested and refreshed, he tugged at his bonds restlessly. “Enough of snoring our time away,” he rumbled, nudging Ald Turmis to wakefulness with one foot. “This Ptarthan mage will return hither with dawn. It must be near that now, an hour or so hence, perhaps. If we are ever to free ourselves, we must do it soon, for once the wizard has us in his grasp, we are doomed men. Naked steel cannot battle against blasts of magic.”
“We are already doomed men,” Ald Turmis yawned. “For bare hands cannot battle naked steel, and I have long since given up trying to break my chains.”
“But I have not yet tried,” Thongor said quietly, and there was something in the level quality of his voice that made Ald Turmis feel a thrill of hope.
“You have the body of a gladiator, Thongor, and the thews of a god. But surely even you cannot burst our chains?”
There was a note of question in his voice, but Thongor merely grunted and turned to examine his bonds. His arms were spread against the stone wall at his back, and his wrists were held flat against the wall by bands of iron riveted to the stone. The position was cleverly thought out: thus bound he could only employ a portion of his strength towards freeing himself, and could use little, if any, leverage. Still, a man could try.
He took deep breaths, his massive chest swelling with power. Great ropes of sinewy muscle writhed across his naked shoulders and down his mighty arms. He set his back firmly against the wet, rough stone, and strove against the bonds. Although his face blackened with effort and the thews of his torso ha
rdened like solid rock, the bonds held. He relaxed, breathing deeply; then he threw every ounce of surging strength in his terrific body against the bonds once more. Ald Turmis watched with growing fascination. The primal, brute-strength of this half-naked barbarian was something beyond his experience.
City-bred men are for the most part shielded against the raw world of nature—for this is the purpose of cities. Raised behind walls, guarded by armies, they but rarely are forced to pit their naked strength against the savage wild.
But Thongor was born on the wintry steppes of the most terrible wilderness on all the earth. The child of wandering hunters, born to bare rock and numb snow and howling winds, in a cruel land surrounded with merciless enemies, men, beasts and the hostile forces of nature, he was driven to battle for survival almost from the very hour of his birth. At an age when most boy-children can scarcely walk, Thongor had fought with his brothers against hungry wolves, knee-deep in frozen snow, with only a piece of rock for a weapon. Hunting the great white bear of the north, he had lived for days alone on the mighty glaciers with no nourishment but the hot blood of his kill to sustain him. The struggle for survival in the savage wilderness was brutal and fierce; the weak died swiftly and only the mightiest of men survived. Thongor had survived the cold, the harsh winds, the ferocious competition, and the cruel years of his boyhood had driven the hard iron of barbarian manhood deep within him.
The iron band—broke.
* * * *
Like twin shadows, Thongor and Ald Turmis prowled through the darkness of the secret passage within the walls of the wizard’s house on silent feet. They went armed with lengths of chain, since both the great Valkarthan broadsword and the Zangabali’s slim rapier had been wrested from them when they were captured. But a length of iron chain was better than no weapon at all, and in this dark house of magic and mystery a man needed a weapon in his hands.
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