by Lin Carter
He reached the lower floors drenched with cold sweat, and searched through many chambers, finding only heaps of ecclesiastic robes or sacrificial weapons, but not the great talisman he sought.
And then a flood of slorgs poured hissing into the room, a flood of slithering white serpents so deep he knew there was no chance of making a path through them. He retreated from room to room, his broadsword dripping with slime and gore…
In the last chamber his back pressed up against a rough and jagged surface. The Star Stone! It stood upon a low, unpretentious altar against the wall, a rough black mass of metal slag.
Thongor seized the globe of cold metal, secured it under one arm, and retreated on before the rushing snaky tide. Up the stairs and down another long hall he went, fighting both the slorgs who advanced from below and the creatures who came at him from the darkness of each room as he passed them.
He could move much faster than the sluggish, coldblooded nightmares. That alone had enabled him to preserve his life till now. He raced up the last flight of stairs before the oncoming tide, reaching at last the room to whose window the anchor of the Nemedis was hooked. Hurriedly he twisted the cable about the Star Stone and knotted it securely—but before he could climb out of the window, slithering coils closed about his legs. Sibilant voices sang death to him.
He turned, kicking loose, and as he did so the anchor was jarred free, and the cable which was his own path to freedom and the clean airy heights above slid from his grasp. The anchor fell across the dark garden and the Nemedis drifted away.
Slimy coils enfolded his body. But, although escape was now impossible, the Valkarthan’s fighting heart swelled with vigor. One last mighty battle before the end! With a ringing verse of the war song of the Valkarthan swordsmen on his lips, the giant barbarian turned to fight. Steel rang on cloven bone and thick reptilian gore splattered the walls as Thongor fought on—joyously, recklessly, but without hope.
CHAPTER 9
Throne of Blood
The Red Druids gradually attained to power in great Tsargol, until at last the agents of Chaos who worshipped their Triple God in his aspect as Slidith the Lord of Blood were all but supreme in the scarlet city that rose beside the thunderous shores of Yashengzeb Chun the Southern Sea…
—The Tablets of Yathlazon
Another dungeon, he thought with grim humor. I cannot seem to stay out of them!
This one was small and damp, and it stank. It stank of sewage, and man-filth, and fear. And it was as uncomfortable as most jails he had been in over the years. He lay on his back in a huddle of wet, mouldering, foul-smelling straw. But at least that was better than the cold, rough stone of the floor against his bare back. They had taken his broadsword from him, of course, but at least he was not chained. That was a small comfort, he thought, but it was something.
It would seem that the woman-headed serpents had been trained to seize, to hold, but not to kill. This, at least, had been his experience, and it was a grisly one. The clammy and smothering coils of the vile wriggling horde had finally pulled him down and imprisoned his struggling limbs. For all his giant young strength, the barbarian had found himself helpless as a babe in the embrace of those slimy coils. Their steely strength was incredible. They could easily have torn him to bits and devoured the bloody gobbets. But they did nothing.
In time the priests came and took him into captivity. The Red Druids in the scarlet-hooded robes had clamped steel shackles on his wrists and led him forth from the tower of horror into the dungeons of the priesthood. And there he had languished for the remainder of the night.
It must be dawn by now. He could not see the rising sun, buried as he was under a thousand tons of stone, but his keen barbarian senses could estimate the passage of time.
And then came the clank of spears and the shuffle of boots. Dark figures loomed before him and the barred door of his cell swung open.
“Come along, fellow,” the otar of the spearmen said. His voice was quiet, his accent cultured. Thongor glanced at him in surprise. He saw a tall, lean young man some years his own junior. The captain had an aristocratic, even a noble bearing, and his dark eyes were alert and intelligent. Thongor frowned. The man was obviously the son of a noble House. He wondered upon what evil days that House had fallen, that its young princeling was given such a servile and lowly task as captaining a squad of spearmen.
“It will do you no good to resist, chanthar,” the young otar said softly. Thongor glanced past him to see the squad he commanded. There were seven of them, and a surly-faced lot they were, with cold little eyes, unshaven jowls, wine-stained tunics. For a moment he measured the grim-faced and capable-looking men with steel-shod spears. Then, silently, he stepped from the cell. They formed a hollow square, with Thongor at the center, and marched down the arched hall. Thongor made no resistance—seven men was just the right number. A few less, and he would have fought. But against seven armed men, he had no chance. Besides, there was still Sharajsha!
They came into a great hall where many nobles in silks and furs lounged, talking softly. All fell silent as the spearmen led their prisoner to a marble platform where two thrones of gorgeously carven scarlet stone stood under a canopy of cloth-of-silver. The otar saluted twice and fell back with his men, leaving Thongor alone before the twin thrones, which were the color of blood.
“Bow to the Archdruid and the Sark, you worm!” one of the nobles said, a paunchy man with flabby jowls and jeweled, puffy hands—the Chamberlain, from his silver mace-of-office. Thongor made no reply, nor did he acknowledge the other’s remark in any way. He folded his naked arms before his chest and stood tall, feet spread.
“Such insolence!” the Chamberlain cried, and stepping forward, he struck Thongor with the mace. The young giant neither winced nor moved, but stood silently, glowering up at the occupants of the two thrones while red blood trickled down his cheek.
“That is enough, Hassib! Such pride is rare in Tsargol. Let us not try to break it,” said one of the two enthroned men. He had a thin black beard, curled and perfumed, and a languid, bored face. His lusterless eyes surveyed the Valkarthan from head to foot, slowly.
From his diadem and intricately fashioned robes, this would be the Sark of Tsargol, Drugunda Thal by name. The other, then, in the scarlet robes, was the Red Archdruid, chief of the Red Brotherhood. He was a cold, thin man with shaven pate and colorless eyes. About his thin neck, the great disc of his priestly office hung by a golden chain. It was a medallion of priceless jazite metal, glowing with opal hues and worked into a tangled wreath of serpents with eyes of uncut rubies.
“Stubbornness rather than pride, my Lord Sark,” the Archdruid murmured silkenly. “We have means to tame such stubbornness…”
The Sark smiled lazily. “Yes, my Lord Yelim Pelorvis. But look at those shoulders—that chest! Gods, but I should like to see that strength in the arena! What is your name, fellow?”
“Thongor of Valkarth.”
“How did you enter the Scarlet Tower?”
Thongor made no reply.
The Druid leaned forward. “And where is the Star Stone? What have you done with the sacred talisman of Slidith?”
Thongor remained silent. But despite his expressionless face, his mind was working rapidly. He realized that what he faced was not just death, but torture. The Red Druids would try to torture him into revealing what had become of their sacred Stone. While he was not afraid of pain, or of death for that matter, his Northlander blood seethed at the notion of torture. When he had served Phal Thurid, Sark of Thurdis, he had seen what fiendish inventions a twisted mind could conceive to wring information from the human body. His soul writhed, sick with disgust at the thought.
“Answer the Lord Archdruid, man!” the Sark said. “Where have you hidden the talisman of Slidith, the Lord of Blood? Answer, or we shall have the truth wrung out of you slowly,
drop by drop!”
Thongor was not afraid of revealing the truth. If, as he half expected, he had been betrayed by the wizard, who had flown off leaving him to die at the mercy of the slorgs, telling the truth would neither help nor harm Sharajsha. But he was determined he should not be put to the question. According to the simple, rude faith of his Northland home, Father Gorm’s War Maids only carried home to the Hall of Heroes the spirits of those who had fallen cleanly in battle. Thongor knew only too well what the red-hot hooks and clever needles of the torturers would leave of his healthy body once they had begun their monstrous play upon him. Far better to die cleanly by a spearthrust, or in the arena with steel in his hands.
Therefore he sprang, taking the spearmen off guard. From complete immobility he flashed into action. Whirling on his heel, he leaped at the first spearman, felling him with a straight-armed blow to the jaw and wrenching the long spear from his slack hands. Whirling again, he charged at the dais. A guard interposed, but Thongor ran him through the belly and the man fell, clutching with numb hands at his tumbling guts. In a flash he was up the marble steps where Drugunda Thal was rising to his feet, features working with terror. Thongor swung the steel base of the spear at his head, knocking the Sark sprawling. The diadem fell tinkling down the steps.
“Seize him! Slay him!” the Sark squealed, frothing with panic. Guards came leaping up the steps, swords out. Thongor whirled to the Druid’s blood-red throne, but Yelim Pelorvis had melted into the shadows.
Laughing, Thongor whirled to face the guards. He had the advantage of superior height, standing as he did on the top platform of the dais, and he brought it into play. One booted foot crashed into the face of the foremost guard, sending him reeling back upon his comrades’ blades, his face a bloody ruin. The steel spearshaft caught another across the nape, snapping his spine with a krak! that could be heard even above the cries and shouts of the crowd. Then he whipped the spear around and caught a third across the throat with a slashing stroke. The man’s head was nearly severed from his trunk and he went down in a shower of gore. Above the clash of steel, Thongor roared out the harsh staves of his Valkarthan war song:
“Hot blood is wine for Father Gorm!
The War Maids ride the wings of storm!
Our stout blades their red harvests reap
And thirsty steel at last drinks deep!”
He had slain five of the spearmen when the flat of a blade caught him across the back of the skull and he fell, buried beneath a grunting mass of men, the bloody spear torn from his hands.
When they wrestled him to his feet, arms twisted up behind his back, he was laughing.
“I’ll wager your flap-jawed milksop of a Sark never saw a man fight before, from the way he squeals like a maiden at the sight!” he roared. “Put me in your arena with a good sword in my hand, you gutless, virgin-hearted snake, and I’ll show you fighting that will curdle the slimy blood of Slidith himself!”
The Sark was nearly raving with blind fury. To be hurled from his own throne by a naked and unarmed prisoner—sprawling on his back, feet waving helplessly before his own nobles, and ringed about with guards! Spitting curses, he staggered over to where the guards held Thongor and struck him in the face again and again with his hand, the many gaudy rings that adorned his fingers cutting into Thongor’s face. The barbarian laughed at him.
“Yes! To the arena with this vomit of the North! We’ll see how this hero fares, pitted against our pets!” the Sark snarled.
From nowhere the Archdruid appeared, laying a slim, claw-like hand on Drugunda Thal’s arm.
“No, my Lord Sark! We must put him to the torment—we must find the Stone—”
“Who’s Sark of Tsargol, snake face?” Thongor grinned. “You—or that slime-eating old vulture? I’ll wager he tells you when to change your breeks as well!”
The Sark went livid with rage, spitting and snarling. He shook off the restraining hand of the Druid.
“Drugunda Thal rules in Tsargol, filth! And when you face my pets it is before my throne that you shall grovel, whimpering with terror!”
Thongor only laughed mockingly.
“Away to the pits with him! At noon he shall die in the arena—I swear it by all the Gods!”
Thongor was still chuckling when they dragged him away. His ruse had worked. He had not seriously hoped to escape from a roomful of armed men, armed only with a spear himself. His only chance to escape the humiliation and degradation of the Druid’s torture racks had been to enrage the Sark to the point of fury so that his thirst for revenge would goad him into overriding the objections of the Red Archdruid. Obviously, from the equal height of the twin thrones, the Archdruid was co-ruler with the Sark of Tsargol; at least he stood very near Drugunda Thal in authority, Thongor assumed. And with a barbarian’s instinctive understanding of human weaknesses, the young Valkarthan could see that Drugunda Thal—languid degenerate that he was—was usually kept well under the control of the Red Archdruid. Doubtless this was done by the simple method of pandering to and encouraging whatever passions were the peculiar weakness of the Sark. While busied with his pleasures, the Sark doubtless let the cold-blooded priest run the kingdom.
A fighting grin bared Thangor’s white teeth. He had certainly brought his scheme to success! Not only had he goaded the enraged and maddened Sark to the point of condemning him to death in the arena rather than torture under the knives of the priesthood, but it seemed as well that he had forced a breech between Druid and Sark. It was too soon to guess at the outcome of this, but it might well have repercussions which might be twisted to serve his own needs.
He was still chuckling over these matters when the guards thrust him into a cell in the pits below the arena. The spearmen had never before heard a condemned man laugh as he was locked into a cell, and they exchanged wondering glances.
But then they had never before encountered a warrior such as the giant young Valkarthan, either. And Thongor grimly vowed he would show them fighting such as they had never seen, when he was thrust forth into the blinding sun, sand crunching under his heel, the roar of thousands ringing in his ears, to face the snarling fangs of whatever monster he was destined to do battle against for his life.
These thoughts Thongor firmly put from him. The arena would come soon enough. In the meantime he was hungry. It had been many hours since he had last eaten. He resolved to face the death in the arena with a full belly, at least.
Shaking the bars and lifting his voice in a roar, he bellowed for the jailer as if calling for an innkeeper.
CHAPTER 10
The Arena of Death
White sands drank deep the reeking gore
As red steel ripped the scaly hide.
A thousand throats in one great roar
Saluted as the monster died.
—Thongor’s Saga, Stave IV
Thongor had hardly finished his rude meal of bouphar beef, bread, cheese, and sour red wine, which he had bullied out of the dim-witted old pit-keeper, before another troop of guards came up to his cell.
The barred door creaked open and the guard captain harshly commanded him to step forth.
“Gods, can’t you even give a man time to digest his meal?” Thongor grumbled.
The otar—it was another man this time, a surly-faced lout with bristling stubble on his jowls—laughed harshly. “’Twill be your last one, swine of a barbarian, so I hope you enjoyed it,” he grunted with a leering smirk.
“Aye, ’twas good enough,” Thongor said. “But the sight of your fat face may ruin my digestion.” The captain’s eyes went cold at these words, and a small ripple of laughter ran through the squadron. It stilled as the captain raked his men with mean, hard eyes.
“Come on out, you, or we’ll drag you out,” the otar growled. “Don’t keep your betters waiting for the spectacle of your death!”
He smiled. He was acquiring a reputation here in Tsargol.
He stepped out of the cell and was surprised to see a familiar face among the warriors. It was the same lean, aristocratic young otar who had summoned him forth that very morning. He looked again and saw that the young noble this time was disarmed. The red sash of office was gone from his warrior’s harness, and his wrists were bound with chains.
Thongor glanced over at the grinning face of the new otar. With one dirty hand he was fondling the red sash, now worn across his own chest. There had been something of a change in the ranks, Thongor surmised.
“Why are you here?” he asked as the spearmen led them out.
The former otar smiled quietly and said, “Because of you, Northlander. I was disgraced that my prisoner should break loose before the Sark—hurl the Sark on his royal face, in fact, while I and my men stood by gaping. So I have been stripped of rank and am to face the terrors of the arena beside you!”
“I am sorry for that. I only meant to get my hide out of the torturers’ reach and into the arena where I could expect a clean death,” Thongor muttered. “I did not mean to bring another man into trouble by my actions.”
The otar shrugged.
“Ah, well. What matter? It would have happened sooner or later. The Sark hates my family, who are a minor branch of the former ruling dynasty. His father, Sanjar Thal, seized power when the last House died out. The Druids supported him because he was inclined to this bloody Slidith-worship, while my House, the Karvus, ignored the cult. The blood-drinkers did not dare to stamp us out because of the high esteem my father had won in the Vozashpan Wars. Instead they stripped us of power and humiliated us, reducing my father from Chamberlain to a mere archivist, and myself to an otar, the mere captain of a hundred.”