by Lin Carter
* * * *
The airboat soared through the skies above the Mountains of Mommur. Within its small cabin, Sharajsha, Karm Karvus, and the Princess Sumia sat, tensely watching the landscape flash past beneath them.
It was less than an hour since the wizard had come down from the Mountain of Thunder, bearing the great Star Sword. Now the weapon lay sheathed in black leather across his knees, its ice-blue blade quivering with leashed power. The electric tension of a storm cloud seemed to hum within its mysterious metal blade, and a faint halo of sparks appeared and vanished about the point. The Sword was ready.
Sharajsha had been shocked and saddened to hear of Thongor’s terrible fate. But there was no time to waste on a fruitless, hopeless search for the giant barbarian. Only hours remained before the moment of conjuration. Already the afternoon sun was declining toward the west. And of what use to search out their dead friend? His broken body—or his clean-picked bones—lay in the bottom of some rocky gorge. They must speed to their desperate rendezvous with time!
Far below them the endless vom reeled past. Thanks to the wizard’s improvement on the original design, the great coiled springs drove ceaselessly. The spinning blades of the rotors bit into the thin, cold air of the heights, thrusting the Nemedis ahead, her needle-sharp prow slashing through emptiness, pointed ever east into the gradually dimming sky.
Now the great mountains fell away and the silver ribbon of a river came into view, threading its winding way through the sheer black gorges. Ahead on the very horizon, like a dull iron shield, the glistening expanse of the Inner Sea could be glimpsed. Locked in by miles of mountains, walled with sheer cliffs of smooth, solid stone, the Sea of Neol-Shendis had not been seen by a human eye in ages. What secrets, what mysterious perils hid within her mist-shrouded depths?
The three adventurers ate, rested, waited out the time. Sumia sat upon the bunk, her pale face lifted to the forward window. Before her eyes drifted pictures, visions from her memory. She remembered the bold, laughing face of Thongor. She saw again his fighting grin and heard his thundered war cry as he had held the entire ranks of Patanga at bay, there on the brazen knees of the God of Fire. She saw again his mighty broadsword whirling in a glittering arc, cutting into the snarling faces of the Druids, a crimson spray of blood-droplets flying from its blurred path. She remembered the deep chest, the powerfully moulded arms and shoulders, and the long, quick legs of the young Valkarthan adventurer. It was hard to believe that such animal vitality, such inexhaustible strength could be extinguished.
“Thongor…” As she whispered his name, she felt again that strange, unfamiliar stirring within her blood.
Now the wet gray beaches of the Inner Sea of Neol-Shendis were beneath them. Long, slow waves of cold dark water washed against the lone sands. No sea birds called along these empty strands of shore which had never felt the foot of man. No small, scuttling creatures of the sea’s edge marked the sallow, greasy foam that the sliding waves left behind as they retreated, gathering strength to assault the land again. The airboat flashed through the fog and out over the dull waters.
The westward skies were reddening between the black notches of the mountain-walls as they approached the Dragon Isles. There were four of them, bleak, wet clumps of jagged black rock, looming above the swilling waves. Clinging to the crest of the largest isle was a fantastic castle of black stone, towering into the thick mist like a giant from the Dawn Age.
The rotors died and the airboat sank silently, sliding like a ghost through the vapor, coming to rest upon a spur of glistening rock. The three clambered out, anchoring the floater securely to a sharp angle of rock. They made their way along the narrow crest of the spur and onto the main island. Hidden by the fog, they melted into the shadows below the walls of the black castle and vanished from sight.
Sumia clung to the wet rocks, stunned by the flying spray and the hollow, booming thunder of the surf. Karm Karvus set a strong hand beneath her slim arm and helped her up.
“We must be silent now,” Sharajsha cautioned, his gray robes making him almost invisible in the thick fog. They followed him along the black wall. Above them, looming to a stupendous height, the frowning wall towered. The castle was built of enormous cubes of rough-hewn black stone, each block taller than a man. This cyclopean work of masonry looked oddly wrong, as if its dizzy angles and queer curves had been designed according to some geometry of another world—the weird architecture of nightmare, curiously disquieting to the eye. A dozen yards below the ledge upon which they walked, the surf pounded, icy spray splashing about them, chilling them to the bone.
They came to a great gateway, open and unbarred, facing the eternal waves. It was unguarded—empty. Sharajsha unsheathed the magic Sword and gestured them forward. He went on first into the black maw of the portal, the naked Sword glowing in his hand.
And then—madness!
The fog suddenly writhed—boiled—congealed—and monstrous black forms loomed out of the mist toward them. Karm Karvus’ rapier sang as he whipped it from its scabbard. Sharajsha lifted the blazing blue length of the Star Sword—but out of the whirling fog a fantastic black figure appeared, eyes like sparks of living green flame burning coldly within its misshapen head. A glittering black hand clamped upon Sharajsha’s wrist with crushing force.
The Star Sword fell in a dazzling arc from his nerveless grasp. Sparkling with blue flame, it whirled out—down—and into the thundering waves. It vanished in the boiling chaos of black water and white foam.
Sharajsha, helpless in the iron grip, gave a thin, despairing cry. He raised the other hand, magic rings sparkling into life—but an uncanny force struck him and he sank unconscious.
Karm Karvus sprang, sword bared, straight at the weird black phantom figures, still veiled behind the swirling fog. From the lifted black hand of one a sizzling spark of white energy darted, seizing his sword. He stiffened at the thrilling electric shock, and crumpled unconscious on the wet stone floor.
An enormous black hand closed upon Sumia’s slim shoulder. It had seven fingers, each tipped with a black talon, and its cold hard flesh was covered with an intricate pattern of tiny, glittering scales.
From the black shadow that had struck Sharajsha down, a cold, hissing voice spoke with a weird mockery of laughter ringing in its sibilant tones:
“What fools, to think that our magic would not warn us of the approach of their flying ship! Their lives shall be spent upon the great altar amid the ring of monoliths in the hour when the stars come forth—to feed the growing power of the Lords of Chaos, Who will need such life-energy to cross the inter-cosmic gulfs. Imprison them until the appointed hour—and remove from the old sorcerer his sigils of power. We shall see their white faces again at the Hour of the Opening of Space!”
The cold, hissing voice ceased, and dark, lumbering figures stepped forth from the cold mist. But before her eyes could make out the details of those awful forms, Sumia’s proud spirit failed, and she sank into merciful unconsciousness.
CHAPTER 15
The Lords of Chaos
Lords of Chaos dark the sky:
All the Sons of Men shall die.
Dragon rune and blood of men:
Portals ope—to close again?
Naught can make the Portals fade,
Save the Sword by lightning made.
—The Scarlet Edda
The only way down was—down! Thongor turned from the edge of the grakk nest and began the unpleasant task of skinning the two infant monsters. With their scaly hide he could fashion a rope, and with its aid perhaps he could reach the narrow ledge far below.
It was hot, filthy, difficult work. With no sword or dirk, he had to rely upon the strength of his hands and the sharp points of broken bones. He wore out many, but the grakk nest was littered with many years’ accumulation of bones. He regretted the loss of his black c
loak, which he could have torn into strips in a fraction of the time it took him to rip the hide from the lizard-hawks. But there was no use bemoaning what was lost.
He skinned them in long strips, pausing from time to time to break off another bone, giving him a sharp point to work with. The fresh hides stank, and he soon became beslimed with grakk blood from chest to knee; but he grimly tightened his jaw—ignoring the stench and filth—and labored on.
When the hides were removed from the carcasses, he knotted the long strips together and fastened one end of the makeshift line around a protruding knob of rock. He tested it for strength, and when he was satisfied the line would hold his weight without slipping or breaking, he swung himself out over the edge and started down the sheer wall of rock. Dangling thousands of feet over the abyss, he resolutely bent his mind on what he was doing and did not allow himself the luxury of being afraid.
The hide-strips were wet and slippery in his hands. His chest ached where the claws of the grakklets had razored it. Howling winds rising from the gulfs below buffeted him from side to side; but slowly, steadily, he descended the sheer rock-face until his toes touched the ledge. It was only inches wide. He looked to both sides—the ledge ran both ways, and he had no way of telling which direction would lead him to the easiest descent. So he simply chose blindly and started inching along the ledge to the left, still clinging to the line.
Just as he reached the point where he had to relinquish the line, the ledge widened. He let go of the knotted length of hides and, clinging with both hands outstretched to the face of the cliff, felt his way along blindly. After a short but terrible distance, the ledge widened a bit and angled steeply downward.
Foot by foot, yard by yard, Thongor descended. Here his barbarian heritage served him well. Where a city-bred man would have faltered, would have lost his balance and perhaps fallen, Thongor continued his descent with nerves of steel. A boyhood spent clambering over the glass-slick glaciers of his icy Northland home had given him a cool head for heights and a gift for feeling out minute toeholds with infinite patience.
Just the same, it took him an hour to descend two hundred feet. But from there he would move swiftly and surely, standing erect.
* * * *
The mists were too thick for sunlight to penetrate, but from the position of the sun the last time he had seen it, he estimated the time was late afternoon. And that meant he had been traveling for hours. He was completely lost. An hour before, as he had been clambering along the skyline of the ridge of mountains, he had glimpsed the black, cloud-wrapped peak of Sharimba when the rushing winds had parted the mist-curtain. It had stood on the very horizon, many vom from where he was. The tireless wings of the mother grakk had indeed carried him far from his friends.
Sharimba was west of him, which placed the Dragon Isles somewhere east. He had turned east and continued along the skyline. Surely by now the Star Sword would have been completed and his comrades would have gone on to their rendezvous with the Dragon Kings, thinking him slain.
All afternoon he had moved swiftly over the plateau, and as the light began to wane he found an easy descent and came down into a river valley. Now he was racing with a long-legged, tireless stride along the rocky brink of the rushing stream. Thrice he had paused at the limit of his strength to bathe in the swift, cold water, drink his fill, and rest a few precious moments before continuing on toward the east. All he knew was that this river must eventually empty into the Inner Sea of Neol-Shendis, and so he followed it.
He was loping along a crumbling slope of broken stone when an ear-splitting hiss froze him into a crouch. Rising from the foaming water was a sleek saurian head with fanged jaws agape. Red eyes gleamed evilly into his.
Thongor’s hand closed futilely on his naked hip where only an empty scabbard hung. Ah—what he would have given for a sword! But there was not even a stick to defend himself with, and the rocks were either too huge to lift or too small to harm the unknown monster of the river. It rose out of the seething waters, droplets running down its long snake-neck. Foreclaws crunched and squeaked on the wet stone shelf that was the river’s brink, as it dragged its length up off the land.
Thongor ran.
Perhaps the thing could not run fast enough to follow him—but no, it had great hind legs like a gigantic hound. He did not know what the green-scaled and yellow-crested reptile was—some nameless monster of the mountain rivers—but it was hungry.
It followed him for about a vom, gradually nearing. Its size made it too big for the rocky shelf, and so it moved slower and more carefully than he. He ran. And just as he reached the black mouth of an unexpected cave, it caught up with him.
The blunt, arrow-shaped head came hissing down to him and the thick foreclaws moved toward his flesh. Thongor set his back against the smooth rock, bracing himself with his arms, and kicked out with all the strength of his legs. His feet caught the river reptile squarely in the chest—and because its heavy weight made it slip and scrabble insecurely in the loose rock, he bowled it over.
Hissing with fury, it fell into the river with a great splash of water. Thongor whirled and darted into the cave. Within seconds he was lost in pitch-blackness, but he stumbled on. He did not know what other creatures might challenge him for possession of this cave, but they could not be worse than the thing from the river.
The cavern dove steeply downward and Thongor followed it. For a time he could hear the river monster behind him, blundering into the stalagmites and squalling with rage and frustration, but eventually only silence came from behind him. Doubtless it was waiting for him to return—so he simply went on forward into the darkness.
* * * *
After some hours the cavern floor slanted upward again and he began a long, slow ascent. It must be night by now, he thought grimly. The night of destiny. Every step might very well be carrying him farther and farther from his companions. But there was nothing to do but go on.
He came out of the cave so suddenly that he clung to the edge dizzily, staring down where cold black water exploded in a fine mist of white spray against fanged black rocks. The sea—!
And when he emerged fully from the cave to look about him, he found an even greater surprise. He was not on the shore, but on a steep black rock in the center of the Inner Sea! All around him stretched dull water under a dark, cloud-covered sky. He could see the dim black bulk of the shoreline behind him, stretching off until it faded into the distance.
The cavern had run under the floor of the sea, rising to the surface of this tiny islet. Letting the cold, wet air bathe his exhausted body, Thongor stood atop the small mound of stone and gazed around. These were the Dragon Isles, beyond a doubt, for there to his left, only a few dozen yards across the water, rose a larger isle, its black heights crowned with a fantastic castle of rude ebony stone. The luck of the Gods had directed his steps.
He descended to the edge of the water and clung there for a moment before plunging in to swim to the other island. Blinding sheets of spray drenched him.
Then the cold shock of icy water on his tired flesh was equaled by another shock. He stared down into the foaming madness of the exploding water.
A sword.
The dim light caught the glittering length of its blade. It was under several inches of water, wedged sideways in the grip of the rocks. His hand itched for the familiar shape of a sword hilt. He dove in and came up with the sword in his hands, and clambered back upon his rocky spire again, squatting in the narrow cave mouth while he examined his find. The light was very dim—it was hours into the night, perhaps near midnight—but even by the faint light he could not fail to recognize that strange, jagged blade, glittering with power.
The Star Sword! The Sword of Nemedis!
“Gorm!” Thongor swore. He knew by this token that his friends had been either captured or slain, for only force could have made Sharajsha
relinquish the magic blade for whose creation they had spent so much time and faced so many dangers. His face went bleak, his eyes cold. If Sharajsha was taken, what of Karm Karvus? What of…Sumia!
He stared up at the grim black castle whose weird turrets and battlements loomed far above him into the mist, rising from the nearby island that lay only a short swim across the cold, swirling water.
Within that dark fortress his friends lay, either helpless captives or murdered corpses. Cold fire flared within his strange golden eyes and his teeth flashed in a grin that had no humor in it. He slid the Star Sword into his empty scabbard and dove from the rock into the black, icy water.
If he were too late to rescue them, he would at least be there to avenge them. The Star Sword would reach its destined place upon the fated hour, whether man, monster, or even the Dark Lords of Chaos stood to bar his way!
* * * *
For hours Sharajsha, Karm Karvus, and the Princess lay in the chill, dank darkness of a bare stone cell. Few words passed between them, for there was naught to say. Sharajsha was stripped of his magic implements and sigils, nor did any of them possess a weapon. The slow, weary hours marched past as the grim stars rose gradually to their long-awaited positions. Many times Sumia’s thoughts returned to Thongor, whom she believed slain. She could not define the strange emotion that rose within her breast when she thought of the brave young Valkarthan warrior who had saved her from a terrible death.
Karm Karvus and the old wizard talked together quietly for a time.