by Lin Carter
The farewells were hasty but sincerely felt. Before the morning sun had risen free of the dawn mists along the wooded hills to the east, the airboat swung up from the quays of Tarakus with Prince Thar, Shangoth and Charn Thovis aboard, and with Iothondus at the controls the floater circled and rose steeply, angling into the sun, and was off to the north, bound for Patanga.
The scout craft climbed swiftly to the fifteen-thousand-foot level and drove through the crisp air with every erg of speed the young sage could wring from her engines. It was a flight against time—a race against the rising sun—a desperate quest to save the throne of Patanga from the vengeance and the triumph of Mardanax of Zaar. No more perilous quest was ever undertaken for any prize more precious. Though the great Warrior of the West was dead and his soul lost and wandering in the Shining Fields, his heir yet lived, and Charn Thovis and Shangoth of the Jegga would fight to the last drop of blood in their veins before they would permit the traitorous Dalendus Vool to seize the throne of the City of the Flame from its rightful heir, Prince Thar.
Like a glittering arrow the sleek scout clove the skies of ancient Lemuria. Many, many leagues to the north, the bright walls and sky-tall towers of Patanga the Great rose at the head of the Gulf, where the twin rivers of Saan and Ysar mingled their waters with the waves of the main.
Could even the swiftest craft in all the flying fleets of Patanga reach the City of the Flame in time?
Could they raise the people of Patanga to rebellion before the fatal vows were sworn before the Altar of the Nineteen Gods, and the drugged and helpless mate of Thongor found herself doomed as the bride of Dalendus Vool?
Even as the airboat hurded through the skies of morning, Charn Thovis knew they could not hope to arrive in time.
But they would die trying. . . .
Chapter 20: OUT OF THE SHADOWS!
The Black Magician, at his hour
Of triumph, holds the reins of Doom . . .
Patanga lies within his power
And Thongor sleeps within the tomb . . .
—Thongor’s Saga, Stave XVIII
The day was come. Morning filled the skies with golden light. The people filled the streets and lined both sides of that mighty avenue, the Thorian Way. Banners flew from every tower and dome and spire. Bright carpets hung from balcony and wall. Bowers of rich blooms were set out and garlands were wound about column and monolith and along the façades of the great arcades. But for all the festive appearance of the city, the people were silent and somber, murmuring among themselves, restless and dispirited.
Before the ninth hour, the wedding procession came forth from the walled parks and gardens that enclosed the Palace of the Hundred Kings. Glittering chariots of precious metal studded and ornamented with rare gems rumbled through the great avenue, drawn by horned and heavy-footed zamphs. In the foremost of these rode Dalendus Vool in sumptuous robes whose wealth of decoration and jewelry could not hide his fat foolish face nor the lust in his weak red eyes.
Sumia rode beside him, magnificent in a gown of gold tissue, strands of glowing pearls woven and braided through her black silken hair. The silent and uncheering crowds that lined the pave were not close enough to see that behind the careful mask of rouge and pigments her face was white and expressionless and her eyes mirrored only emptiness.
Heralds on swift-pacing kroters rode before, sounding the salute of slender trumpets. Rich banners rolled gold and green and scarlet and indigo on the breeze. Other chariots came behind, and among the entourage the aloof and masked figure of Black Mardanax could be seen, though not one of all the thousands who watched him pass with the other nobles of the court knew him for Patanga’s greatest enemy.
Down the length of the Thorian Way the splendid procession advanced and into the Great Plaza where a thousand banners rustled in the morning breeze. Forth from the Hierarchal Palace came a procession of robed and mitred priests led by the palanquin of old Eodrym the Hierarch himself.
The two processions merged as they entered the mighty Temple of the Nineteen Gods whose spiked domes clove the fresh morning sky. Into the great hall they filed, to take their places at last before the High Altar where the towering forms of the Gods stood, carven from snowy marble and lucent alabaster. Here at this very spot mere days before, Thongor the King of the West had fallen. He rested there now in a great sarcophagus of sculpted marble that stood below the altar. Sumia’s mask-like face did not betray the slightest flicker of emotion as Dalendus Vool led her up the steps of the altar past the tomb of her beloved mate.
The Hierarch met them at the High Altar; the ceremony of marriage began.
A chain of blossoms was looped about Sumia’s lax and unresisting wrist; then it was bound about the trembling arm of Dalendus Vool.
The old Hierarch offered them water and wine, bread and meat, grain and fruit.
Guards were stationed at intervals about the tremendous hall. Sunlight streamed through the huge dome of many-colored glass that towered high above the hall. Beams of bright daylight struck gold fire from burnished helm and breastplate and spear.
Chanting began from massed ranks of priests. Father Eodrym asked the ritual questions of Dalendus Vool and of the white-faced young Queen. Her voice was steady, clear and emotionless as she made the traditional responses.
In the curtained box, the peers of the realm sat watching the ceremony. Lord Mael sat glowering and grim-faced, with his two young daughters. Fat, red-faced old Baron Selverus gnawed on the ends of his bristling mustachios, snorting from time to time in contempt of the fat, fumbling bridegroom. Prince Ald Turmis, Lord of Shembis, sat beside Prince Karm Karvus the Lord of Tsargol and Barand Thon the Lord of Thurdis who had come with his son, the Jasark Ramchan Thon. Distress and unease were visible on the faces of these royal guests.
In the shadow of a column to the rear of the box wherein the retinue of Dalendus Vool sat, the tall gaunt dark-robed figure of the Masked Magician smiled a secret smile within the shadow of his cowl. The terrific power of his will was focused on the slim, gold figure of Sumia Sarkaja. Every atom of his magical dominance was exerted upon the slim girl, and he held her will tranced and helpless in the iron control of his own. The moment of the completeness of his triumph was nigh.
The droning voice of the aged Hierarch rose and fell in the ritual statements, admonitions, and queries.
Slowly, the long ritual drew towards its close.
The penultimate rites were nearly ended.
The Hierarch raised one hand to bless the royal couple who knelt before him on jeweled cushions. His mouth opened to utter the words that would seal their union forever—
Then the dome of colored glass far above exploded into a rain of glittering shards as the prow of an airboat shattered through it!
The gaily dressed throng rose shrieking, cowering under the hail of shattered glass. Men shouted and women fainted. Sunlight blazed intolerably through the gaping hole in the huge dome. Guards, struck with falling wreckage, staggered to their knees, dazed, helmetless, spears clattering against the polished pave.
Eodrym paused, mouth open, hand raised, staring upwards in astonishment.
The airboat settled swiftly to the level of the high altar. The mooring cable swung out, the anchor-hook clattering against glistening stone as it looped and clung to one limb of a statue.
From the cabin sprang young Prince Thar, sword in hand, shouting shrilly to his mother.
After the prince, came a grim-faced Charn Thovis and Shangoth the Blue Nomad and Iothondus the Sage.
Charn Thovis lifted his blade and his roaring voice in a great ringing cry that electrified the audience.
“Seize the traitor, Dalendus Vool! Take the robed man in his entourage whose face is hidden! He is Mardanax the Archimage of Zaar, Lord and last of the Black Magicians—and he holds the Sarkaja helpless in his will!”
For a moment a frozen tableau of horror and shock held—then it shattered.
Guards sprang to the curtained box where Mardanax
stood. The private bravos of Dalendus Vool sprang to meet them with glittering swords. War-cries and challenges rang out. Steel rang against steel, and men fell in a welter of crimson gore.
Young Thar sprang down from the altar to aid his mother. As he did so, Dalendus Vool rose to his feet, wet mouth working in a frenzy of gibbering rage, spewing blasphemies. One fat white hand clawed at his girdle and tore loose from its scabbard the slim court sword that dangled there. His face distorted in a maniacal spasm of rage, the baron raised his sword to strike at Sumia’s bowed head where the coronet of Patanga flashed in ruddy sunlight.
But young Thar struck first! Quicker than thought the boy’s small sword blazed in his bronzed fist—to quench its glitter in the fat paunch of Dalendus Vool. The cursing traitor swayed drunkenly. His voice died as his face went flaccid. His sword fell from nerveless fingers to ring like a silver bell against the marble steps. His other hand fumbled feebly with the hilt of the blade that protruded from his belly. He plucked the blade forth and let it fall. Crimson gushed from the wound Thar’s strong blow had made.
He fell stone-dead at the foot of Thongor’s sepulchre.
Thar knelt and raised his pale-cheeked mother to her feet. Her eyes were wide and bewildered as they stared about at the curious spectacle of battling men and shattered dome and the airboat tethered to one leg of the stone god.
“Mother! Mother!” Thar sobbed, as his strong brown arms went around her lithe waist. “What have they done to you!”
She rubbed her brow and blinked dreamily. The bondage that had held her for so long subservient to the will of the Black Magician had suddenly snapped. She was whole again.
“Nothing,” she murmured, caressing the boy’s tear-wet cheeks. “I have been dreaming, I think . . . a long and terrible dream . . . but now it has ended, and I am awake again.”
Charn Thovis and Shangoth leaped down from the floater’s prow to come to the aid of the embattled guards with their swords. Within moments the last of Dalendus Vool’s henchmen were spitted with clean steel. But where was the gaunt figure in the hooded robe? He had vanished from the place where he had stood during the long ceremony.
A cry came from Thar—Sumia shrieked! Charn Thovis and the others turned to see the tall robed figure standing atop the High Altar. How he had come there unseen, none could say. He had melted out of thin air like some ghostly apparition. And now he confronted them all with his carven ebony Rod of Power lifted in one black-gloved hand. Slitted eyes of emerald flame blazed down at them, raging with intolerable fury and hatred.
“Lost! Lost! All—lost!” Mardanax croaked in a hoarse voice raw and choked with madness and despair. His clawlike hands shook from the intensity of his rage. The weird glyphic symbols graven on the Blasting Wand caught and held their eyes.
“All my plans . . . broken . . . come to naught!” the Magician raged, his voice panting and ragged. “But you shall not escape . . . none of you shall escape the vengeance of Mardanax of Zaar!”
Growling wrathfully, Lord Mael took a step forward, gesturing to the loyal guards—but Mardanax halted him, brandishing the wand in a terrible gesture pregnant with peril.
“Stand back, you fools! Power is still mine, yea, power enough to bring every stone of this accursed temple down upon your skulls—power enough to blast the walls of all Patanga flat, to topple her tallest towers and leave this land a black and barren wilderness devoid of life for a thousand years. Do not move a step, any of you, or the black lightnings that slumber in my wand will blast you to gory ruin where you stand!”
The incredible power of the Masked Magician’s indomitable will held them frozen with a nameless dread. Such was the superhuman menace in his cold, hissing voice, that not one of the warriors of Patanga dared step forward, although Prince Ald Turmis groaned in anguish: “The airboat! He will seize the airboat—and escape—!”
“Aye, aye,” Mardanax panted hoarsely as he clambered up from the altar to the swaying prow of the floater. “All is . . . not lost . . . if I escape alive . . . to bring doom upon you all . . . another day!”
They watched, frozen with horror and awe, as the gaunt, hooded figure climbed stiffly to the deck, still menacing them all with the lifted Rod of Power.
Guards strained forward, sweat glistening on their brows, swords wavering. Sangoth uttered a guttural prayer to his primitive gods. Mael cursed sulphurously, face black with effort. But still the unearthly power of the Black Magician held them all at bay.
Then the grating sound of stone against stone.
Startling loud in the tense, straining silence. Eyes rolled in sweating faces, seeking the source of that ominous sound of moving stone.
“Look/”
The cry was torn from the lips of Karm Karvus as he flung up one trembling, pointing hand. A thousand eyes followed his stark dramatic gesture.
With a thunderous crash, the stone lid of Thongor’s sarcophagus was hurled to the pave where it shattered to a thousand ringing shards of broken marble.
From the tomb, Thongor rose!
His grim, expressionless face was white and colorless as the marble itself.
One great hand clamped over the lip of the coffin. Thews swelled along his brawny arm as the dead king lifted himself to his feet. His eyes were closed, his face cold and dead, as if he slumbered.
They had laid him to eternal rest in the black harness of a warrior, arms crossed upon his deep chest where his hands were clasped over the great cross-hilt of his legended Valkarthan broadsword.
Now he clutched the great sword in one strong hand, as he climbed stiffly from the tomb to stand before their amazed eyes on the steps of the altar where the blood of Dalendus Vool lay in gouts of crimson.
His face flushed with life and animation. The pallor of death receded. His eyes flickered open—glaring with lionlike wrath—burning upon the ungainly figure of Mardanax at the rail of the airboat.
The magician stood motionless, thunderstruck, like one suddenly bereft of the power of movement. Behind the black visor that masked his features forever from the knowledge of men, his eyes were wide open, green wells of astonishment and unbelieving horror.
Thongor lived once more! His chest rose and fell as he drew air into his lungs. Beneath his bronze hide, his great heart beat with life and vigor. His face was a snarling mask of vengeful fury. Under scowling black brows, his strange gold eyes blazed like twin suns as he held Mardanax transfixed in his gaze.
Against his heart a small idol of green paste lay. A thong of leather secured it about his throat. For three long years had he worn that precious and tremendous amulet which was known as The Grand Negator. Three years ago he had stood thus before another and a darker altar—in Zaar of the Black Magicians, at bay before the triple-headed God of Chaos. Then, in that far land and distant day, his comrade, Shangoth of the Jegga, had struck to free him from the black altars of Zaar. As rays of magic held him frozen in their grip—as the Thing From Beyond hovered above the Valkarthan, to drink his life force and devour his eternal spirit—the sword of Shangoth had struck down Vual the Brain and the hand of Shangoth had snatched up The Grand Negator—hurling it to Thongor where a single touch of that master-talisman had insulated him from the force of magic that beat upon him.
The Grand Negator had saved his life there at the black altars of Zaar. Such was its power, that no force of magic could slay utterly him who wore it. Since that hour, Thongor of Valkarth had worn the green paste talisman against his heart.
And when, many days before, at this same altar, Mardanax in secret had hurled a prodigious blast of murderous magic power against him, the protective charm had shielded his life from the deadly spell. But so intense had been that blast of evil magic that it had driven the astral body of Thongor apart from his physical body, which fell on the instant into a tranced and deathlike state of suspended animation. As the physical body is held to the World of the Living, so the astral form, when it ventures from its envelope of flesh, seeks out the astral plane—that spi
rit-realm men call the Land of Shadows. Wizards and mystics and philosophers of every land and age have studied the science of astral projection—the uncanny discipline by which the astral counterpart of the body voluntarily quits for a time its mansion of clay, to adventure into the Shadowlands.
Thus it was that Thongor entered the Land of Shadows, neither dead nor living, as the ambiguous words of both the Dweller on the Threshold and the God Pnoth hinted at in their speech with him. And thus it came to pass that with the help of Father Gorm the far-wandering astral self of Thongor the Mighty came back from its incredible travels through time and space and between the Planes of Being, to enter again its slumbering body of flesh—to live again!
Swift as a striking lion, Thongor’s mighty arm flashed back—and hurled the great broadsword glittering through the sunlit silence—to smash into the frozen form of the terror-struck Black Magician.
In the utter stillness of the great temple, the blow was audible—a meaty smack.
The gaunt, dark-robed figure staggered under the impact.
The Blasting Wand fell from clawed fingers, to shatter against the stone steps below. Then, inexplicably, the broken pieces of ancient black wood smoldered—burst into flame. A soundless flash of intolerable brilliance lit the hall, searing the eyes of all. Then the Rod of Power was but dead ash littering the steps.
The wizard swayed at the rail. The broadsword had struck through the robes, keen steel sunk through flesh and bone. The swordhilt protruded hideously from the bony, panting breast like an ungainly fifth limb.
The Black Magician staggered—swayed—fell over the rail to the steps below. He slid and flopped down the steps to the bottom of the stair, and still the great sword ran through his body. But such was the supernatural tenacity and vigor of his life-force that still he was not dead.