Thongor and the Wizard of Lemuria

by Lin Carter

  Thongor retrieved his blade and eyed the older man expressionlessly.

  “My thanks for your aid, grandsire,” he said.

  The stranger combed his long gray beard with slim fingers, smiling faintly.

  “The dust of the dream lotus,” he said in a deep, resonant voice. “One grain will transport a man to the dreamworlds of fantastic pleasure within his own mind for many hours. The dragon has inhaled enough to render a fair-sized city unconscious. It is unwise and dangerous to wander these jungles armed with the sword alone. But let me introduce myself. I am an enchanter, dwelling nearby. I am Sharajsha of Zaar.”

  Thongor touched the back of his hand to his brows in courteous salute to the old man.

  “I am Thongor, the son of Thumithar of the House of Valkh,” he growled, “come hither from Valkarth in the Northlands, and till but recently a mercenary sword in the legions of Thurdis, the Dragon City.”

  Unobtrusively, he kept the broadsword free of its scabbard, dangling from his hand. He was no friend to wizards, and until this hour he had found few of the sorcerous breed worthy of trust. The name of Zaar, that weird City of the Magicians far and far to the east, aroused his suspicions as well, for the Black Druids of Zaar were reputed to be devil-worshippers and devotees of the Dark Forces.

  “Belarba, warrior!” the old magician smiled. “You are far from home, and far even from Thurdis…but come, we shall have time to converse later. You are wounded and fatigued, and my home is near. Let me offer you what small hospitality I can before you continue on your journey. My zamph is near, and you need food and drink and rest.”

  Thongor eyed the old man expressionlessly. While every drop of his clean, healthy Northlander blood distrusted those who dealt with the devilish arts of warlockry and magic, he would be a fool to refuse this offer of a haven. After all, one lost and alone in the jungled wilds of this savage land many leagues from the nearest outpost of man did not hesitate before accepting the offer of assistance, even if that offer came from a sorcerer. So with a philosophical shrug, Thongor bowed slightly, and gruffly thanked the wizard for his aid.

  And besides, it occurred to him that he had heard the name of this Sharajsha before. Aye, the fame of this particular magician had penetrated even into his remote homeland beyond the Mountains of Mommur. Sharajsha the Great, they called him, and by repute he was one of the most powerful of all the enchanters of this age of magic. Some called him the Wizard of Lemuria, and Thongor did not ever recall having heard anything dubious or evil concerning him.

  At any rate, Thongor had no fear of magic. The man was old, and Thongor resolved to keep one hand near his swordhilt and a wary eye cocked for treachery, and to leave the rest to the Nineteen Gods.

  “I will go with you, Wizard,” he growled.

  “This way, then.”

  They went down a jungle aisle, and as they walked, Thongor took a good long look at the stranger who had come to his aid so unexpectedly. The wizard was old—how old, he did not venture to guess. But the stamp of centuries lay in the deep lines of his face. He was tall and lean, and there was an air of majesty and power about him as he strode through the brush. He wore a long and widesleeved robe of neutral gray, bound in about his waist by a broad girdle of serpent skin. From this hung a short rod or baton of peculiar design, and a pouch of scarlet photh-hide.

  His eyes were what held Thongor’s attention. They were black as night, and wise and cool and thoughtful. Magnetic fires burned therein, and depth on depth of darkness. A great mane of iron-gray hair crowned his high and noble brow and fell to his shoulders. A patriarchal beard of the same hue clothed his firm jaw and poured like a cataract of shadows to his lean waist. This was no frail, bent, mumbling oldster, for all his years. He strode like one of the kings of the earth, clothed in majesty and power, and wisdom blazed in his great deep-sunken eyes.

  Sharajsha lifted one arm to brush aside the bushes, and the young barbarian saw that his long fingers bore many sigils and talismanic rings of power. One was a hoop of iron, embossed with a curious glyph. Another was carved of red jade, engraved with wedge-shapen runes in some unknown tongue. Other rings flashed upon his long, sensitive hands—the hands of an artist or a thinker. Each ring was fashioned from a different substance: crystal, metal, stone, or wood. With the power locked in these talismanic rings, Thongor grimly surmised, the wizard could invoke and command spirits and elemental forces.

  * * * *

  Tethered in a clearing nearby, a mighty zamph stood placidly munching the long, succulent grasses that sprang up in the shadows of a towering lotifer.

  The peoples of the cities of the South used the slim, swift-pacing kroter for steeds. The slower, more massive zamph served as beast of burden to draw their wains or to drag their plows.

  The zamph was a great, slow-footed reptile, heavy with armor-plate, stumpy-legged, enormous of girth. Its hide was thick and leathery, tough with plates of horn, dull blue in color and fading to a muddy yellow on the belly plates. Its bowed legs were hoofed with thick pads of horn. Untiring strength slumbered in those short legs, strength which could carry zamph and rider for days without rest, if need be.

  The zamph had a beaklike snout, and between its mild little pig-like eyes a thick, straight horn grew, which tapered to a needlepoint. Its neck was covered with a curved, saddle-shaped natural shield of bone. A zamph’s rider sat in this bony saddle and guided his mount with reins attached to rings that pierced the zamph’s small and tender ears—virtually the only exposed portion of its anatomy which was sensitive to pain. Sharajsha’s zamph was a great bull, a giant of the breed weighing perhaps several tons. Its bony saddle was wide enough to seat two men.

  As they came into view, the zamph lifted its beaklike snout and sniffed the air. Catching the familiar scent of the wizard, it hooted and pawed the turf with one mighty foot. As Sharajsha came up to it, the zamph blinked mild little eyes and butted the wizard’s shoulder affectionately. He slapped one burly shoulder and scratched behind the sensitive little ear, holding the beast’s attention as the young Valkarthan climbed astride. Then Sharajsha untethered the zamph, mounted, and they set off. The zamph waddled heavily through the thick brush, reached a long aisle between rows of trees, and set off with a steady, lumbering stride.

  “I have found the jungles of Chush inhospitable,” the barbarian commented. “I am surprised that even a wizard cares to make his home in a land so wild and dangerous.”

  “I dwell not in the jungles, but in the Mountains of Mommur,” the old man explained as they rode. “You are closer to the foothills of Mommur than you think. Wizards, as you can imagine, prefer to dwell in remote and inaccessible places so that they are free to pursue their studies and experiments unmolested and undisturbed. When I came hither out of Zaar many, many years ago, I chose the mountain country beyond the jungles of Chush for my home because that region is as far from the cities of men as one of my retiring habits could ask.”

  Thongor grunted. “I too have no fondness for cities. There is something about them which seems to bring out the worst elements in men: greed, jealousy, the thirst for power. But do you not find it difficult and demanding of your time, living without servants?”

  Sharajsha laughed. “I have my servants, but they are not mortal men! Nay, I am served by the invisible hands of spirits sworn to obedience, thus I require little of cities. Many years ago when first I came hither into this realm, I commanded my spirits to construct for me a subterranean palace beneath the mountains. Thus am I doubly hidden from the eyes of men: first, that I dwell far from the nearest of the cities; and second, that my home is concealed beneath the surface of the earth’s crust itself. Therein have I dwelled through all the long years from that dim day to this. And but rarely do I leave my subterranean abode to venture forth in the open air of the upper world. Far more seldom still do I ride forth into the trackless jungles of tropic Chus
h.”

  Thongor grunted. “’Twas most fortunate for me that you chanced to do so at this particular time; else, I had most likely served as part of a dragon’s dinner!”

  The wizard looked at him with wise, dark eyes.

  “It was not a matter of chance, Thongor of Valkarth. In my magic glass, which gives me vision of all that which takes place across the breadth of Lemuria, I spied your strange flying boat as it floated above the jungles of Chush. By the power of that magic mirror I watched your battle against the dragons of the earth and of the sky. I saw your boat attacked and destroyed by the flying dragons. I saw you wandering lost and alone and on foot. I knew that no warrior, even so mighty a swordsman as yourself, could long survive against the perils of the jungle. So I came riding forth to lend you whatever aid lay within my powers.”

  The wizard paused.

  Then: “I have need of a warrior,” he said slowly.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Underground Palace

  Now in all this dark age, the wisest among the wise was the wizard Sharajsha, the Magician of Mommur. He alone had peered into the dim vistas of unborn futurity and glimpsed the terror to come…

  —The Lemurian Chronicles,

  Book Three, Chapter Ten

  Sharajsha would speak no more on this until a later time. There were many things whereof he would speak, but he suggested they leave those matters until after Thongor had rested and downed a good meal.

  The great zamph continued on through the dense jungles. Row upon row of towering lotifer trees rose about them, their deep red boles the color of dried blood in the sunlight. But the trees were thinning out now that they were approaching the edges of the jungle. Soon the foothills of the mountains were about them and the thick jungle foliage fell away. Across the world in front of them strode a mighty range of mountains, a titanic wall of gray and purple. These were the Mountains of Mommur, Thongor knew. This towering range stretched from east to west across the full breadth of the continent of Lemuria like a mountainous spine. And Thongor realized with a grimace that he had indeed been traveling in exactly the wrong direction all those weary hours when he had fought through the thick jungles on foot. Aye, he had labored long—to cut a path in a direction exactly opposite to the one that would in time have led him to the gates of Kathool, the nearest of the cities of the Southland.

  Now they rode between hills and over parched, rocky earth. They followed no path—at least, Thongor’s keen eyes could discern no path. But a level way seemed to wander at random, weaving through the hills.

  The zamph followed this winding way without hesitation, and Thongor concluded that the road to the wizard’s subterranean abode was cleverly concealed from the eyes of men.

  At length they entered the narrow mouth of a great canyon. It was long and thickly shadowed. Steep cliff-like walls of gray stone soared aloft on either hand. The canyon was cut deep through the hills. It seemed little more than a narrow, winding alley or cleft, which would abruptly end beyond the next turn.

  Blank walls of rock lifted sheer about them as the sides of the canyon narrowed. For all that the barbarian’s sharp eyes could discern, no man or beast had ever come this way. The rocky earth underfoot showed no tracks. Yet this was the entrance to the house of Sharajsha.

  At length the canyon ended in a sheer cliff of stone. The zamph came to a halt and Sharajsha dismounted and strode forward while Thongor, still mounted, watched with curiosity. The light was dim, but he could see no slightest sign of a door cut in the rock.

  The old wizard stepped before the cliff and reached out. His hand crept across the surface of stone until his sensitive fingertips found a minute depression. Into this he set the seal of one of his talismanic rings.

  Thongor froze and the nape-hairs lifted along his neck. For without the slightest sound a huge slab of stone sank into the earth.

  A black cavern yawned open before them. Sharajsha gestured.

  “Enter!”

  He tossed the reins over the zamph’s neck, and the beast ambled on before them into the darkness. Obviously Sharajsha kept his steed penned in some part of this cavern, and the zamph was trained to find its own way.

  With a fatalistic half-grin, Thongor strode into the darkness with the wizard behind him. Sharajsha lifted one hand and from the depths of his capacious sleeve drew forth a short rod of translucent crystal. He lifted it and a flickering nimbus of pale blue light glowed forth about one end. It gradually strengthened to illuminate the cavern.

  Soundlessly the wall of rock closed behind them.

  Magic! Thongor snorted to himself with the warrior’s natural contempt for such sly trickery. It seemed foolhardy to enter the lair of the most powerful wizard of all Lemuria of his own free will; and yet…the old man had done him no harm, had, in fact, rescued him from the jaws of certain death. What will happen will happen when it will, if it will, he thought. And determinedly setting his fears aside with the careless philosophy of the Northlander, Thongor looked about him with interest.

  Illuminated by the weird blue glow, the cavern spread before him a fantastic and unearthly panorama. Gigantic dripping stalactites hung from the arched roof overhead—spears of living stone as huge as the fangs of Baroumphar, the Father of All Dragons, who devoured the moon in the ancient tale. And the cavern’s floor rose to meet them in glassy humps formed by centuries and aeons of those slow, calcareous drippings. Here and there amid the fantastic stone forest, pits of fire glowed, and occasionally Thongor saw a jet of the yellow flame which rose from the volcanic world of fire that burned far below Lemuria, and which, prophets claimed, would someday destroy the continent, sinking it beneath the sea.

  “Come.”

  Thongor followed the wizard, who led him through the stalagmites. Weird light from the firepits painted their rounded glassiness with flickering, fantastic colors. Alertly glancing around, and with one hand resting lightly on the pommel of his broadsword, Thongor strode after the wizard.

  It was like a maze in which one who did not know his way would soon become lost and might well wander for many hours. Sharajsha led him through the stone forest and beyond, where a deep channel cut through the cavern floor. Through this channel a sluggish trickle of hot lava flowed like a river of liquid fire. The slow fluid was cherry-red, and tiny yellow flames flickered about its wrinkled, mud-like surface. The heat rose to smothering temperatures and clouds of thick oily smoke made Thongor’s eyes smart. A stone arch spanned the glowing stream, and by this natural bridge they crossed the river of fire. Beyond the lava river the cavern floor rose in a wall. It had been carved into a shallow flight of steps leading to a great iron door set into the wall and rust-red in color. Rude gryphons cut from the same rock as the floor flanked the stair. Thongor glimpsed strange yellow gems set like eyes within the rough stone heads. Was it his imagination, or did a weird spark of intelligence flicker within the jewels? With a prickling of his flesh, he sensed that at a word the wizard by his side could summon life into those monstrous stone bodies, calling them to his aid.

  Sharajsha pressed an iron ring against the portal, and with a groan of giant hinges, the huge valves of the gate opened slowly.

  Within, the solid mountain had been hewn into a long hall. At its further end, a dais of seven steps was set against the wall and bore a great throne-like chair of dead-black stone. A long wooden table stood in the center of the hall. Candelabra of pure gold flickered at either end. Benches were drawn before it. The walls were broken with curtained doorways leading off into other chambers of the subterranean palace, and here and there along the wall and between the doorways, cabinets and chests of wood bore strange secrets. A great circular pit of roaring fire stood before the dais.

  “Be welcome in my home,” the wizard said.

  * * * *

  Hours later, Thongor and his host feasted at the table in the underground
hall. Invisible servants had bathed Thongor’s tired body in scented warm water. Soothing salves had cleansed and healed his cuts and wounds. He had slept away most of the afternoon and early nightfall on a soft bed, waking with a ravenous appetite.

  Thongor’s suspicions were relaxing. And the wizard spread a fine table. Roast bouphar swam in rich, steaming gravy, with succulent, although nameless, fish from subterranean streams. Bowls of weird jungle fruit and platters of sweetmeats were there, and he washed down all with fine wines of classic vintage.

  As they feasted, they talked. The wizard listened to his adventures with a wry half-smile. He expressed great curiosity over the mechanism of the airboat, and strongly desired to see it.

  “I am not unfamiliar with this Oolim Phon,” he said thoughtfully. “His mastery of the alchemystical art has come to my knowledge. But he errs in lending his wisdom to the service of an ambitious, warlike Sark such as this Phal Thurid—whose reputation I am also aware of, and his plans to conquer the seacoast cities. Magic is knowledge. Knowledge possessed by ambition is power. And such power, placed in strong hands, could bring all of Lemuria beneath one bloody tyranny. But tell me more of your battle with the lizard-hawk. To my knowledge, never before has a single man slain the Terror of the Skies.”

  Their meal complete, they sat at ease before the pit of fire. The hard life of a mercenary warrior had but rarely afforded Thongor such cushioned ease, and with a full belly and a goodly supply of wine he stretched out like a great golden-eyed cat.

  “Tell me of your plans,” Sharajsha urged, so Thongor briefly sketched out his intentions to seek service either with the legions of Hashab Chan, Sark of Kathool, or with those of another of the cities along the Gulf.

  Sharajsha unrolled a mighty map drawn with colored inks on tanned leather. “Here is the site of my underground palace,” the old wizard mused, setting his thumb on a spot among the southern foothills of the Mountains of Mommur, “and here is Kathool of the Purple Towers on the River Saan to the north of Patanga. You have many vom of impenetrable jungle to cross ere you can come to Kathool.”