Thongor in the City of Magicians

by Lin Carter

  In that terrible battle had fallen his father and all of his bold, brave, great-hearted brothers . . . leaving Thongor to face a world of enemies alone, a boy of fifteen, friendless and kinless. He had buried his family there, digging up the black frozen earth with a broken ax, piling high the cairn of stones that would keep the wolves away. Then he had taken up the great Valkarthan sword his father had borne with so much honor, and his father before him, and countless ancestors dwindling back through time to the mighty hero Valkh the Black Hawk, seventh son of Thungarth of Nemedis, founder of Valkarth in the frigid Northlands . . . and with the great sword strapped to his side, he went forth to cut a red way through a world of savage enemies, hoping to find his place among men.

  Down through the frozen passes of Mommur had he ventured, to the sweltering jungle-lands of Chush and Kovia. For a time he had plied the trades of thief and assassin amid the splendid, barbaric young cities of the South. Then, condemned to a life of back-breaking labor in the slave-galleys of Shembis, he had broken his chains one night, strangled the brutal overseer whose lashing whip had cut long red weals across Thongor’s mighty back, and led a slave mutiny to freedom. Stealing the very ship on which they had labored, hurling the crew and guards into the benches to take their places at the shackled oars, they had struck out for the high seas—for a life of freedom and piracy. For five years Thongor had been known as Black Hawk of the Sea Rovers, and his fighting men swept the Near Seas about the Gulf of Patanga with fire and sword, looting the richly laden galleys and setting them to the torch, while they sailed home to Tarakus the Pirate City, to guzzle red wine and swagger in stolen finery through the narrow lanes of that red, roaring kingdom of corsairs . . . fine, brave days: they had been, filled with gold and glory, with blazing battle and high adventure!

  And he remembered, too, how the captains of the Sea Rovers had turned against him when he slew their chief in an hour-long duel on the slippery quays under the streaming torches—how they had driven him forth and hunted him with the corsair fleets. For his clean, barbarian-bred manhood had revolted against the sadistic cruelty and torture with which the Pirate King had sought to extract information from captured sailors—and Thongor had struck the sneering, strutting monarch of the corsairs down. He had fled by night with half the Pirate City howling at his heels, to battle his way halfway across Ptartha to the docks of Zangabal. And there, to keep body and soul together, he had stolen food and gold—and made a friend. It was the young Zangabali warrior, Ald Turmis, who had persuaded him not to resume his career of thievery. Together they had shipped across the Gulf to Thurdis the Dragon City, when Thongor’s iron strength and fighting skill had won him a place among the Guard in the scarlet leather of a mercenary.

  For seven months he had fought the battles of Phal Thurid, the mad Sark of Thurdis, among the warriors of the Fourth Cohort. But again his fierce barbarian manhood and pride had lost him a place among these city-bred men. For when a silken, pampered lordling welshed on a racing wager, Thongor promptly ducked him in a great bronze wine-bowl, and when he came up gagging, sputtering and half-drowned, Thongor set a length of clean Valkarthan steel through his guts. And he was off again, with half a city at his heels—for not only was the slaughtered lordling the scion of a princely house, heir to a title and a fortune . . . but also he was the otar, or captain, of Thongor’s own company!

  Thus had started the sequence of adventures that lifted the landless barbarian boy from frozen Valkaith to the highest throne among the Nine Cities of the West, beside the woman he loved. And if he had learned anything from his sojourn among the gorgeous cities, it was this: the simple code of manhood he had learned from the lips of his savage father was nobler, cleaner, more honorable than the laws of so-called civilization, where the whims of a foppish fool (be he of land and title) can outweigh reason, chivalry, manhood and honor.

  He shrugged and stretched and yawned. And then he raised his voice in a deep-throated bellow that sent the rats squeaking and scrabbling for cover.

  “Jailor! Ho—jailor! Gorm’s blood, man, would you starve a warrior in these dank pits? Bring me food!”

  At length his roars brought a yawning, shuffling turnkey who gaped through the close-set bars at him in walleyed astonishment. The fellow had heard pleas for mercy by the score from unfortunates locked in these cells—but never before one who raised a lusty bellow for a meal!

  “Food?” he stammered, slack-jawed with amazement. “Man, have you gone mad from fear of what awaits—have you forgotten the sacrifice?”

  Thongor laughed. “A man may die but once, friend. And, while waiting for it, a man can die of sheer hunger. Gods! It’s been days—more days than I can count—since I last had a decent meal. Bring—me—FOOD!”

  This last roar did the trick. The fat, foolish old turnkey went shuffling off into the dank dripping gloom at top speed, returning shortly with a huge wooden bowl of steaming hot stew, a slab of hard black bread and a beaker of thin sour red wine. It was hardly the spiced and princely affair Thongor was accustomed to in his own kingdom, but a hungry man cares little for frills and fancies. Thongor instantly fell too, while the turnkey gaped. He emptied wine-jug and bowl with a ravenous gusto you would not expect from one doomed to a hideous fate on the altars of Chaos—aye, and called for more!

  Hours later (or was it days? For he had lost all sense of time in this dark, lonely place) he was awakened by an unexpected sound. The rasp of boot-leather on stone, outside his cell!

  In one instant, Thongor snapped from deep sleep to icy alertness, straining every nerve to readiness. This was not the grumbling old jailor, huffing and slapping along in a jingle of keys. No. This was a surreptitious, careful step—the step of someone who does not want to be heard.

  Great muscles swelled across his broad, bronzed shoulders. Gods, but it was a terrible thing to be chained like this, helpless as a penned animal! Oh, to be free of the chains—to set his back against the wall of wet stone, with a good iron sword clenched in his hand—then let the devil-priests come and take him for their grisly rites and abominations! If they dared!

  A face appeared in the barred opening in his cell-door. Little more than a black silhouette against dimness, it peered in at him. He, in turn, strained sharp eyes to make out the vague, shadowed features of—could it be—?

  “It is I, Shangoth, lord.”

  “Shangoth!” The name was torn from him in an explosive grunt; then, dropping his tones to a hoarse growl, he said, “Gorm’s blood, man, I was afraid these black devils had worked their devilish science on you, turning you into one of these mindless slaves!”

  The blue-skinned giant grinned. “Nay, lord, my mind is my own still. I am here by a most curious trick of Tiandra.” In swift, brief words, the prince of the Jegga outlined what had occurred in the past several days. How he had entered the streets through the underground river, and how he slew one of the zombie-like Rmoahal servants, exchanging garments with him, only to find himself mistaken for the slave of the Lord Vual the Brain, of the High Council.

  “The dwarfed little fiend never deigned to actually look a slave in the face, for to the Lords of Zaar we lesser beings are but as animals,” Shangoth explained. “Hence when the guards he had sent looking for me brought me into his presence, I was able to take over the dead Rmoathal's duties without being questioned. ’Tis a stroke of good fortune, in a way, that the mind-destroying process leaves these poor brutes with no capacity for memory: otherwise, I would have been expected to remember my duties—which would have wrecked my imposture instantly! Instead, every instruction is repeated anew, and I was able to pull off the trick without discovery,” Shangoth concluded, chuckling in his deep bass tones.

  “Thanks be to the gods you are here!” Thongor rumbled. “In this cursed place, a friend or two could come in handy.”

  “Aye,” Shangoth nodded soberly. “It was the shock of a lifetime when I carried the disgusting little dwarf into the Hall of the Nine and—saw you, my lord! Gods, I almost dro
pped the little beast! And I was afraid you would give me away by a start of recognition.”

  “I, in turn, tried to catch your eye,” Thongor growled, “and when I couldn’t, I feared they had made you into such as their other slaves—mindless cattle. But now you are here, Shangoth, can you get me out?”

  Shangoth studied the door, then reluctantly shook his head. “Nay, sire, even my strength is useless. The door is shielded by black magic, and no force on earth could budge it without the key. But, hark to me for a moment. I am able to come and go as I like without question, for any that see me will recognize the insignia on my trappings and know me for a slave of The Brain, and think I am busy about some errand for my master. Hence I was able at least to find out where they had locked you away. And—since I must bear the hideous little monster in my arms everywhere it would go—I have listened to their councils and know their plans. The . . . the sacrifice is planned for tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow. . . .

  “The hour is set by astrological computations,” Shangoth whispered. “Some portentous constellation, whose stars have been far-scattered and wandering the skies for aeons, is now reforming into a potent and powerful sign emblematic of the ultimate, blasphemous rite in which they hope to render up your soul to the Chaos-Kings. But, even though I cannot get through the door to set you free, I have made a plan. It is dire and desperate, but better than nothing. . . .”

  Thongor bent near as he listened to the soft voice at the barred window as it whispered the few words that stood between life and death for him. The plan was simple. It was also risky and dangerous to the point of suicide, but what could two men do against a mighty kingdom filled with enemies, except take a long chance and strike out boldly?

  He agreed to Shangoth’s scheme, and with a whispered farewell and a heartening word, the Rmoahal slipped from the window and was gone from Thongor’s view, on careful, silent feet, leaving the Valkarthan brooding alone over the one last word that Shangoth had spoken—a word that summed up the rude, savage philosophy of Thongor’s life: “Courage!”

  CHAPTER 18

  BLACK ALTARS OF CHAOS

  The stroke of Doomsday is at hand

  For darkling Zaar beside the sea—

  Thongor has burst his bonds to stand

  With naked sword, unchained and free!

  —Thongor’s Saga, XVII, 27.

  The temple of the Black Gods was a titanic hall of black marble where stupendous pillars like stone sequoias bore a vast dome of crimson crystal ninety yards above the tiled floor. The circular walls were ringed with rising tier on tier of stone benches like some infernal amphitheater, whereon in their rustling hundreds gathered the priests of Zaar to observe the fantastic spectacle of Thongor’s doom.

  In the center of this walled and dome-roofed amphitheater a colossal idol loomed up against the crimson light. . . like some supernal and malignant giant frozen into living rock, it stood, a graven Atlas of tremendous proportions whose cliff-like shoulders bore not one but three heads.

  Beneath this triple-headed idol of Chaos was a row of nine varicolored thrones, and between the spread legs of the stone giant rose a cube of black marble ten feet high, glistening in the fiery glow of flaming lamps.

  Standing atop the marble cube of the black altar, Thongor stood, his arms stretched out and bound with chains of gold that stretched to either side of the cube.

  The Hour of Sacrifice was come!

  Bronze bells groaned and trumpets screamed like brazen-throated harpies.

  One by one, the lords and princess of Zaar took their places in the row of nine thrones.

  Slobbering, obscene Pytumathon, gross in fantastic purple. Sarganeth of the Nuld in quiet, subdued gray. Bold, black-bearded, swaggering Maldruth in blazing scarlet. Lean Zoth the Skull, eyes burning with sick fanaticism, wrapped in robes of blue. Mighty Mardanax, masked and robed in ebon black.

  And Vual the Brain, his dwarfed form and wobbling, hideously swollen head robed and hooded in emerald green, borne in the mighty arms of a dull-eyed, blank-faced Rmoahal slave that only Thongor knew as Shangoth of the Jegga.

  A dull, moaning chant rose from the crowded stone benches that circled the titanic hall. It rose and ebbed, droning and roaring like the sea. The rite was begun. . . .

  Now would come the test.

  Could Shangoth’s flimsy, desperate plan succeed?

  Through the long hours of a day and a night, that question had scorched through Thongor’s brain. Soon . . . soon! . . . would he learn the answer.

  The Lord Vual had been selected for the high honor of performing the central role in the Ritual of Summoning. At a rasping, peevish command from his master, the mighty Rmoahal slave bore The Brain from his throne amid the Nine Wizards to the great pulpit before the cube-shaped altar whereon Thongor stood chained and helpless. Depositing the dwarfed form of the Green Magician on the stone podium, the massive slave stepped back and stood behind Vual, powerful arms folded upon his breast, his tall figure wrapped in the voluminous green cloak.

  Vual made ready as all watched in an utter, breathless silence. As Karcist of the rite, it was Vual the Brain whose mind would serve as the medium by which a call should be sent from the massed thousands who lined the stone benches of the vast arena. Far, far into the lightless and unknown depths of space the mental summons would hurtle . . . beyond the very stars . . . behind the wall of curved, three-dimensional space that enclosed the mighty universe of stars like a hypersphere . . . deep, deep into the mysterious depths of the eternal and limitless Chaos-Realm that lay forever raging and impotent beyond the Walls of Creation.

  Upon the stone lectern before the dwarfed enchanter lay a mighty book, locked with nine seals of red gold set with glimmering sithurls.

  At the utterance of a potent Word, the seals snapped up and the huge tome lay open before the Kaxcist.

  The pages of this enormous book were not fashioned of paper or parchment, vellum or leather, but of thin glittering sheets of foil, made from some unknown imperishable metal. For the supra-potent sigils and talismans written in these pages would sear and disintegrate any substance less durable. From where he stood, Thongor could see the complex figures etched upon the glittering leaves in weird metallic inks of scarlet, ebon black, sulphur yellow and searing indigo . . . the metal leaves, embossed with these phosphorescent designs, shimmered with an eerie halo of colored light that glowed with uncanny radiance . . . a flickering spectrum of magic illumination! The very air about the book of metallic leaves seemed to throb and seethe with turbulence, as if the terrific and potent sigils contained, locked within their very patterns, a force so colossal that it could be confined to the page only with enormous effort.

  And Thongor knew the tome, knew those cryptic and pre-human symbols, for he had glimpsed its like once before, in the bastion of Adamancus.

  This was Sardathmazar, the Book of Power, which unhuman hands had inscribed half a million years ago in the far and terrible land of mythic Hyperborea, aeons before the First Man was molded from the dust of the earth.

  And Vual spoke, hands set upon the Book of Dreadful Wisdom, his piping, reedy voice rising shrilly through the breathless hush . . .

  “I, the Lord Vual, Prince of Magic, Lord of Zaar, Master of the Nine Sciences, do invoke and conjure Thee, O Triple King of Chaos, by the Ineffable and Terrific Name of Power—IAO-THAMUNGAZOTH, before which Name the Elements of Creation tremble, the air is shaken, the earth doth quiver in her place, the sea runneth back into her secret deeps, the fires of heaven and earth are quenched, and all the Host of Spirits Terrestrial, Celestial and Infernal do quaver! Come Thou unto me, O Unborn One, by the Power of PAUMACHIA, ANAPHEXATION, HELIOREM, PRIMEUMATON, come, I command and beseech Thee, by the Bottomless Abyss of Everlasting Torment, by the River of Fire and the River of Blood, and by the Incomprehensible and Awesome SEAL OF TRIPLE CHAOS Itself, I summon Thee! Bathol, moving to Soluzen. Abreor, coming upon Ledrion. Malphas, dominant over Shaxphar!”

  As the Lord V
ual spoke on,'repeating the terrible words of the grim Invocation, his voice weirdly seemed to change—to deepen in timbre, gathering strength and augmented power. Behind the dwarfed figure of the little enchanter, the blackrobed priests on the tiers of stone seats swayed and chanted in rhythm and unison with his words, and Thongor felt the skin of his nape and arms prickle with eerie premonition. Almost it seemed as if the mighty domed hall was filled with invisible currents of impalpable force streaming from the brains of the hundreds therein, linked and bound together by the controlling intellects of the Nine Wizards, and propelled and directed by Vual as the Karcist, or controller of the rite . . . the very air seemed to tingle with electric tension, as this mighty beam, of mental force arrowed up from the surface of the earth and shot forth in a ray of probing thought, aimed at some hidden place beyond the stars. . . .

  “Come, come, O Thou Mightier than the Gods . . . Come, by the Puissant and All-Powerful Name TOKTAH TAVARONAKH, before which Name the spirits of the dead shrink back affrighted, and the hearts of the living weaken, and the Eternal Powers are made to quail! Come Thou unto me, O King of Night and Terror, by the Potency of ABIMESH, ZIO, ABLUTOR, BALDACHIENSIS, come, I summon and conjure Thee, by the Rune of Ko and the Sign of Ygg, come by the stupendous Forces of IRION, ORAZYM, SURGAT, NADAMIEL, come by the Star of Yrimid and the Nine-Sided Sigil . . . by the Black Monolith and the Scarlet Lake do I conjure Thee! Mathon, bind Raux. Zurgatha, rushing upon Phos. Raum, follow Aleth. Phaton, obey Yarnath!”

  Now had the voice of Vual grown to superhuman depth and volume, as if the combined voices of hundreds spoke through his pale, distended lips. The monotonous, repetitive, pounding thunder of the ritual rose and rose in mind-numbing waves of sheer sound, beating against the Valkarthan where he stood atop the cube of black marble, dragging against his sanity and self-control as mounting waves of surf batter and drag against a mighty bastion of stone builded against the waves of ocean.