Thongor at the End of Time

by Lin Carter

  Even as he had feared they broke free of the clouds at ten thousand feet and skimmed along through open air, clearly silhouetted against the bright waters of the gulf which mirrored the great full moon.

  He bent the prow towards the distant spires of Zangabal and prayed for the moon to again vanish behind the dense mists that had obscured her golden face through the earlier hours of the night. Instead, everything began to go wrong at once.

  ‘' Charn Thovis—look!”

  The boy’s sharp outcry caught his attention. And he turned to see the patrol ships breaking out of the clouds far above and behind him. And then he turned forward again to see a danger even more terrible.

  The airboats of Patanga were not unchallenged in their supremacy over the skies. For the great pterodactyls—the monster flying reptiles of the steaming fens of the lost Jurassic Era—still survived here in southern and tropic Lemuria to haunt the heavens. Lizard-hawks, the Patanganya called the dread and dragonlike predators of the skies.

  And there, outlined like monster bats against the golden face of the moon, two great lizard-hawks hung like black demons from some hellish nightmare.

  Even as Charn Thovis saw them with a thrill of cold fear, they folded their mighty bat-wings and fell towards him, cruel breaks gaping wide with the lust to kill!

  Chapter 10: IN THE DRAGONS’ GRIP

  Black wings thunder and fanged jaws gape

  As the lizard-hawks fall on their flying prey!

  From the dragon’s claws there is no escape,

  Above the waters at break of day . . .

  —Thongor’s Saga, Stave XVIII

  Changan Jal was the senior Otar in command of the two patrol craft that had chased the airboat wherein Charn Thovis and young Prince Thar fled from Patanga. Only seconds before his pilot spied the unauthorized ascent of the stolen floater from the rooftop landing stage above the mansion near the palace, he had read the alarm flags which burst from the spire of the Air Citadel near the center of the city—flags which warned of the escape of a renegade Black Dragon who had daringly kidnapped the nine-year-old prince from his palace suite.

  No agent of Dalendus Vool was Otar Changan Jal, but a loyal warrior of Patanga who had gained great honors in the service of Thongor the Mighty. But so cunningly had Dalendus Vool assumed power over the City of the Flame that even those loyal to Thongor were not aware that treachery held the royal throne and the reins of military command. Hence, as might any loyal Patangan warrior, he had bent every effort to apprehend the renegade Charn Thovis.

  Grimly had he clung to the trail of the stolen airboat, following it many leagues south over the waters of the broad gulf. Through the seething clouds he had searched for the fleeing traitor and the helpless prince, whom he imagined to be bound and captive in die hands of the traitor.

  Now his heart leaped with grim joy as he spotted the silvery dart of the airboat far below his height—only to have the cold breath of dread chill his joy a moment later when he saw the assault of the flying dragons!

  Breathless, Changan Jal and his pilot watched as the small craft below circled to elude the hurtling lizard-hawks. Black bat-wings spread suddenly to break their descent and the reptiles uttered hissing screams of rage as their helpless prey fled from the crushing grip of their talons.

  Full-grown were these two Terrors of the Skies. Forty feet from tip to tip measured the mighty expanse of their wings. The great claws which armed their feet were enough to tear through stone walls or to crumple sheets of metal. In the grip of the flying dragons even the powerful flying ships of Patanga were helpless, unless—

  “Use your lightning gun, you fool!” Changan Jal hissed between clenched teeth as he helplessly watched the floater circling and weaving desperately, seeking to evade the clutching claws of the furious reptiles.

  Even as he watched, Charn Thovis triggered the weapon mounted on his needle-prow. Dim night brightened dazzlingly as the sithurl weapon spoke. A spear of intolerable white fire flashed from the darting craft to catch one circling lizard-hawk squarely in his underbelly.

  Caught in the ravening fury of the energy beam, the dragon of the skies was torn apart. The fire-bolt clove through his mailed girth and ripped his body asunder. Fragments of the slain pterodactyl fluttered to the surface of the gulf far below, wrapped in flames.

  The second sky monster circled a moment—then struck.

  He fell upon the craft with outstretched claws, like some titanic hawk. The airboat shuddered from stem to stern with the impact of the collision. Powerful claws tightened on the needle prow and bright metal crumpled like torn paper. As the circling patrol boats far above watched breathlessly, unable to help, the weight of the lizard-hawk crushed down the nose of the flying vessel. Then it struck at the cabin with its cruel hooked beak. Glass splintered and metal struts gave way before the ferocity of the assault.

  As the crippled airboat sank under the monster’s weight toward the gliding waves far below, the sky dragon struck again and again—great battering blows with that powerful beak, shattering blows like some enormous pile-driver or battering-ram. Blows that stove in the hull and crumpled the decks of the flying boat.

  There was nothing the two Patangan patrol craft could do to help, so swiftly had the flying monsters struck, so great had been the distance between the fleeing vessel and their own boats.

  So Changan Jal and his pilot watched helplessly as the pterodactyl literally tore the airboat apart. Sparkling fragments of the urlium plating, torn away like tin foil from the structure of steel, went floating upwards into the heavens as their lifting powers, no longer borne down to perfect balance by the counterweight of the steel framework, carried them high into the air where the first beams of dawn were touching the high-piled clouds to flame.

  The framework of steel beams, ripped apart by the tearing claws, fell into the gulf below. Voicing a shattering scream of victory, the sky dragon circled once and flew away.

  Of the stolen airboat wherein Prince Thar and Charn Thovis had made their escape from the City of the Flame, there was no sign left. It had been utterly destroyed.

  Of the prince and his captor there also remained no sign. With a heavy heart, Changan Jal was forced to the conclusion that the lizard-hawk had slain and devoured both the heir to the throne of Patanga and the renegade Black Dragon warrior who had, for some unknown reason, abducted him.

  The pilot of the patrol boat turned a tense white face on his grim-jawed commander. “What shall we do now, sir?”

  The Otar shook his head sadly. “I fear there is little we can do,” he admitted. “I would order us down to the surface of the gulf to search for wreckage, but what would be the use of that? Even if Charn Thovis and Prince Thar escaped being devoured by the lizard-hawk and fell from their ship when it was torn asunder, they could not by any stretch of the imagination have survived the fall into the gulf, for their ship was more than a mile aloft when attacked. No . .. I fear there is naught we can do here. Let us return to Patanga and make our report.” His grim face tightened and his voice became dull, as he added, “I have served the House of Chond and the House of Valkarth for eleven years, first in the legions and now in the Air Guard, and never have I seen a darker hour than this, Anzan Varl. Alas, the Sarkaja—poor, sad Queen! First her lord the king taken from her, and now her only son! The news is harsh and pitiful, but we must bear it to the palace. Come, signal our companion ship and turn about to home.”

  In a few moments the two ships circled the area one more time, then dipping their prows in silent tribute to the fallen prince, they rose to the fifteen-thousand-foot level and flew off to the north where the stone walled city rose at the mouth of the Twin Rivers, bearing to the Patangan nation the sad news of the passing of Prince Thar, son of Thongor and last survivor of the ill-fated House of Valkarth.

  The morning sun rose brilliantly over the edge of the world and flooded all the land with light. Clear and undimmed were his rays, for what knew the sun of the end of dynasties or the de
ath of princes? They were all one to him in his lone splendor as he drenched the empire in dawn.

  The news of Prince Thar’s death came to Dalendus Vool and Mardanax of Zaar as they broke their morning fast on the terraces of the palace. Since assuming command of the empire as regent, Dalendus Vool had moved with all his entourage, among whom was the silent and hooded figure of Black Mardanax who rarely left the side of his tool, into sumptuous suites in the Palace of the Sarks.

  When the word came to them, borne by a military equerry, the vapid Baron of Tallan trembled with terror and spilled the wine over his robes, lifting his querulous shrill voice in a babble of questions.

  Mardanax swiftly assumed control of the scene, silencing the frightened Dalendus Vool with a cold phrase of stinging contempt, and bidding the captain withdraw and leave them.

  “Oh, by all the gods, this is a judgment upon us, Master!” Dalendus Vool gasped, mopping his streaming brow and quivering jowls. “How can I rule now as regent, with the prince gone? Where is the legality of my claim? Will not the Lords Mael and Selverus demand I step down?

  What can we do—”

  Mardanax surveyed the fat frightened noble with emerald eyes of icy disgust.

  “Be silent, babbling fool, lest you alarm the servants,” he commanded in a voice like iron. Whimpering and sobbing, Dalendus Vool gradually subsided.

  “You are right in this, at any rate,” the Black Druid said thoughtfully. “No longer can we rule Patanga in your name through the office of regent.”

  “Then let us make an end, Master, by all the gods! Let us go home to Tallan and make an end to all this—”

  “I say again, fool, silence your tongue! Assume the outward form of manhood and courage, if inwardly you possess neither. No . . . your Regency ends here. Chaos blast the child and that idiot of a hero who ‘rescued’ him! We would not have harmed the boy, just broken his mind and forced him to our bidding. As soon as it was safe to do so, Prince Thar could have abdicated in favor of yourself, then quietly died of a wasting fever, with no fuss. I abhor loose ends!”

  Mardanax rubbed his jaw as his voice purred silkily. “No, this overturns everything and breaks the careful web of all my plans. Now we must move swiftly to an alternate scheme. But I like it not. It is too sudden, too abrupt, and we have had no time to prepare for it, to lay the seeds in the minds of the court. . .”

  “What—what alternate plan, O Master?” Dalendus Vool inquired doubtfully.

  Mardanax smiled gently. “Why, you must marry the Princess Sumia, of course, and ascend the throne as true Sark of Patanga and Lord of the West,” he purred.

  The white-faced baron recoiled in astonishment. “I . . . marry ... the Sarkaja?” he whimpered. “But how could I . . . why would she . . .”

  The cold voice of the other broke ruthlessly through his babblings. “She will have no choice in the matter. My domination over her will is almost established. Soon, with further applications of the drug and further sessions of mental-probing, she will be totally subservient—even as art thou, O fat-faced fool! But it is too soon, too soon . . . I had not prepared for this exigency!”

  “Are you certain it will—work?” the other protested feebly.

  “In all candor—no, I am not certain. We have roused certain suspicions in the minds of the Sarkaja’s closest friends by keeping them apart from her. This was needful, because my power over her will is not yet complete and I dare not display her before the people, least of all before her closest advisers, who will be certain to detect in her drugged, sonnambulistic manner that something is awry. Still, we have gained certain advantages. I can prolong the regency a little while by issuing a period of royal mourning under her seal and hand, suspending all councils and other acts of state for a few days in honor of the dead prince. And, as well,” he broke into a purring laugh, “we gain a very special advantage from this unexpected turn of events! Since the fool who abducted the boy was an officer of the Black Dragons, this gives us the perfect opportunity for placing Zad Komis, the commander of the regiment, in chains. We can claim there was a treasonous plot on the part of certain high officers in the command of Zad Komis to overthrow the throne and seize power. Excellent, excellent! We shall issue the order within the hour.”

  He broke off, chuckling, turning to look at the sad-faced baron who was staring into space with fear scrawled over his sagging visage.

  “Come, my Lord Regent,” Mardanax purred, “finish your breakfast and let us get to it. We have a busy morning ahead of us—declaring an official period of mourning and imprisoning the Daotar of the Black Dragons. As for your impending marriage, we shall issue that proclamation later in the week!”

  Chapter 11: BARIM REDBEARD

  The stars are bright, the wind is cold,

  The moon is drifting free.

  We’re out to seek for pirate gold

  Across a silver sea.

  —Sea Chantey of the Pirates of Tarakus

  There were voices shouting at him and a rocking movement that swung him back and forth. One arm was locked around something but he did not bother to open his eyes to see what it was. He had trouble breathing, so he opened his mouth and the next moment was spluttering and gagging, spitting out warm salt water. Then something splashed in the water near him and again he heard the voices yelling.

  A moment later a brawny arm caught him around the throat and he heard a voice beside him telling him not to fight.

  “No fight—float—let Thangmar hold you up,” the voice said.

  He relaxed, but still clung to the object which was now moving. He could hear it gagging and spitting up water and he opened his eyes and saw that it was the boy, Thar, whom he was holding. And he saw that the rocking motion he had been dimly aware of came from the waves, for the two of them were floating in the sea.

  Then Thangmar, if that was his name, shouted for someone to throw him a rope and things went hazy for a while . . .

  The next thing Charn Thovis knew he was lying on his back with a wooden deck under him, blinking sleepily up at a vast crimson sail in whose shadow he lay.

  “Think he’s comin’ round,” a gruff voice said.

  “How about the young one?” another voice asked.

  “He’ll be fit enough, once we get all the water out of him,” another voice said in the sing-song accent of Cadorna.

  Charn Thovis levered himself up on one elbow and looked around. A circle of rough-looking men stood about him. Most were barefoot, though some wore long supple boots with flopping tops. Some were bare to the waist, long hair woven in thick braids down their backs; others wore bloused shirts of crimson silk with vests of black felt. Sashes of brightly patterned cloth were drawn tightly around their waists, and into these were thrust daggers with gold hilts. Leathern baldrics were slung across brawny, tanned chests and great swords slapped lean thighs. Broad-tipped scimitars of the East, or slim needle-sharp Tsargolian rapiers, for the most part, but he also saw notched cutlasses from the coastal cities and blunt kunwars of Chush and even some of the knob-headed, foot-long tunga throwing-sticks used by the savage tribes of jungle-clad Kovia.

  They were men of many nations. Brown-skinned, black-haired Turanians such as himself, for the most part, but he saw more than a few slim Cadornyana with tawny golden skin and amber eyes among them, and even a giant Blue Nomad from the distant plains of the remote East. They wore gold rings and glittering gems in their earlobes. Some were marked with cutlass scars and others bore the skull brand that forever labeled them as outlaws. A few were bearded, which was rare among Turanians of Charn Thovis’ race. They were a rough and savage lot, clad in tattered barbaric finery, but they seemed friendly enough and regarded Charn Thovis and Thar with eyes brightly curious and not seemingly hostile.

  Indeed, one knelt down beside him with a steaming mug, put his brawny arm around Charn Thovis’ shoulders to support him.

  “Here, drink—soon you feel better!” he said in a coarse voice. The young warrior nodded gratefully and sipped
the steaming brew—it was some kind of hot meat broth, laced with strong brandy, and tasted unspeakably delicious to one who had been drinking half the Gulf for the past three hours. He drank it slowly, feeling warmth spread through him and his mind grew clear.

  When the lizard-hawk struck the floater, Charn Thovis had seized Thar and flung himself from the cabin into empty air. He still wore the skybelt, of course, and although its power crystal was drained of energy the urlium plating on the flying harness had enough lifting power to considerably lessen the speed of their fall.

  Down through the dim air of early dawn they dropped slowly, the speed of their fall growing steadily, until they struck the briny waters of the Gulf of Patanga. Had not the flying harness reduced the weight of their bodies to a mere fraction, they could never have survived that endless fall. As it was, the impact drove them beneath the surging waves and struck young Thar unconscious. A strong swimmer, Charn Thovis dove and came up with the lad in his arms and held his face above the waves until he recovered his senses.

  The two patrol craft had been too far above the stolen floater to help when it was attacked by the lizard-hawks. Thus they were also too far away to see, among the falling wreckage torn from the hulk of the doomed craft by the avenging sky dragon, the falling bodies of the two they sought. Supporting the half-conscious prince above the blue waters, Charn Thovis watched the distant airboats dwindle in the distance towards Patanga many leagues away, and his heart sank within his breast. They were miles from either shore of the Gulf, and they could never manage to swim to land. Unless a miracle occurred, they were doomed . . . strange irony of Fate, to preserve them from the terrible fall from the wrecked floater, only to let them drown in the Gulf.