The Sword of

THONGOR
Robert M. Price
Introduction by
Richard A. Lupoff
Surinam Turtle Press

RAMBLE HOUSE
2016
 First American trade paperback edition
C2016 Robert M. Price
Introduction C 2016 Richard A. Lupoff
This edition C 2016
Surinam Turtle Press
an imprint of
Ramble House
10329 Sheephead Drive
Vancleave MS 39565 US

www.ramblehouse.com
ISBN 13: 978-1-60543-906-8
Preparation: Robert M. Price Richard A. Lupoff
& Gavin L. O'Keefe
Front cover art & frontispiece map C 2016 Steve Lines
Back cover sculpture C Steve Dieppa
Back cover photograph C Victoria Price

Surinam Turtle Press #62

 Table of Contents

Introduction
1 The Creature in the Crypt
2 Lost Gods of Lemuria
3 Silver Shadows
4 Mind Lords of Lemuria
5 The Sword of Thongor
6 Witch-Queen of Lemuria
7 Spawn of the Fire Mist
8 Vampires of Lemuria
9 Thongor in the City of the Gods
10 The Eleventh Scarlet Hell
 Introduction
The Price of a Barbarian—an Introduction
Richard A. Lupoff
THE LATE L. Sprague de Camp once defined barbarism as a state halfway
between savagery and civilization. I was a young science fiction fan when I
heard him say that, and I was far too much in awe of the great Mr. de Camp
to ask him to define savagery and civilization. I wish I’d had the courage to
do so. When the time machine dealer in my
neighborhood gets in the new models, which he says should be here any day
now, I’ll ask if I can take one for a spin. I’ll go back some seventy-five
years or so and ask Mr. de Camp. This should lead to a lively conversation.
And there was a teacher in whose classroom I sat many years ago, who
explained that to the Greeks, anyone who spoke a language other than their
own just sounded like someone babbling, “Bar-bar—bar-bar.” Hence,
“Barbarian.” Well, an amusing theory even if a bit far—fetched.
I’m not sure who wrote the first barbarian story. The first one I know of
was Day of the Brown Horde, (1929) by Richard Tooker (1902-1988).
Immensely popular in its day, this novel details the struggle of Native
Americans living in the basin that now holds the Sea of Cortez, between
Baja California and the mainland of Mexico.
Thinking about this, though, and allowing considerable leeway with
regard to the boundaries of savagery, barbarism, and civilization, I have to
think about the two great fountainheads of our culture, the Hebrew Bible
and the Graeco— Roman mixture of history and myth.
The story of the Trojan War with its heroes and their superpowers—
Hector, Perseus, Priam, Helen and the rest—could fit quite nicely into the
imagery of sword-fighting, scheming, bonding and treachery.
As for the stories of the Bible—turn to the Book of Judges and look for
the tale of Samson and Delilah. Of course Brother Price is a real Bible
scholar and can probably call me out on this if my citation is off target.
A third source is of course the so—called “Northern thing,”
the Norse / Germanic myths and Eddas, which through the ages made their
way into the operas of Richard Wagner and the novels of J. R. R. Tolkien.
Mighty swordsmen, powerful wizards, fire-breathing dragons, magical
talismans . . . it’s all there.
Somehow the images and tropes, having come down the ages as part of
folklore and serious literature, were adopted inevitably into the popular
literature of the Twentieth Century, the pulps.
My friend Bob Price kindly sent me a list of barbarian warriors in popular
fiction. I will share it with you:

Kothar of the Magic Sword (Gardner F. Fox)

Duar the Accursed (Clifford Ball)
Simon of Gitta (Richard L. Tierney)
Kane (Karl Edward Wagner)
Garth and Thane (Archie Goodwin and Steve Ditko)
Oron (David C. Smith)
Red Sonja (Roy Thomas, David C. Smith, and Richard L.
Tierney)
Elak of Atlantis, Prince Raynor (Henry Kuttner)
King Kull, Bran Mak Morn, Conan (Robert E. Howard)
Dugar the Invincible (Don F. Glut)
lmaro (Charles Saunders)
Jirel of Joiry (C. L. Moore)
Prince Vakar (L. Sprague de Camp)
Odan the Half-God (Kenneth Bulmer)
Elric of Melnibone, Dorian Hawkmoon (Michael Moorcock)

To this list one might add such unexpected entries as Ursus of Ultima
Thule (Avram Davidson). Jongor (Robert Moore Williams). Tharn (Howard
Browne). and Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser (Fritz Leiber). But the greatest
of these is
Conan, first in Weird Tales, then in hardcover books. Mass-market
paperbacks, comic books. motion pictures.
The boundaries of barbarian fantasy are certainly fuzzy. Some years ago
in an interview with Fritz Leiber, the subject of interplanetary romance
arose. As Robert E. Howard was the undisputed monarch of barbarian
adventures, Edgar Rice Burroughs was the all-time champion of
interplanetary romance. Certainly John Carter of Mars, the Earthman
transported inexplicably to Barsoom and there to become in due course
Jeddak of Jeddaks. could easily have provided a template for Howard’s
Conan.
I’d rather expected Leiber to draw a sharp line between
barbarian fantasy and interplanetary romance, but instead he opined that
interplanetary romance was simply barbarian fantasy in a different setting.
And through the cross-pollination of the pages of Weird Tales and other
pulps, Howard almost certainly became familiar with Burroughs’s
interplanetary romances. He wrote one himself in fact—Almuric (1939).
Another influence also traceable to Weird Tales was, perhaps surprisingly.
Howard Philips Lovecraft, the greatest horror writer of the Twentieth
Century.
Combine these ingredients: the muscular, violent barbarian swordsman,
the exotic setting, elements of magic, intervention of supernatural beings
and monsters. Their world is on the cultural and physical level of Troy. The
political system is based on royalty, the rulers coming and going through
war or palace coups. Throw in a corrupt
priesthood and endless rivalry between church and state.
Oh, and there has to be at least one incredibly gorgeous
Temptress, occasionally innocent, more often wicked and sadistic.
It’s a hard formula to beat. Remember to present your narrative in mock-
archaic style.
Once more the influence of Burroughs is strong. Tarzan of the Apes is not
often considered in the barbarian
sweepstakes, but in fact he fits comfortably. Halfway between savagery and
civilization? But of course: raised by apes, thinking himself at least half
beast——but also a cultured English nobleman! Bloodthirsty when he
needs to be, only substituting a pointed dagger for the barbarian’s sword.
Many of the tales in Burroughs’s long saga involve lost cities, the most
famous being Opar (based on the Biblical Ophir). There is the temptress-
queen La, possibly based on H. Rider Haggard’s She-who-must-be-obeyed.
There are corrupt priests, degenerate beast-men, mighty battles. Yes, it’s all
there. And of course Robert E. Howard would surely have been exposed to
Burroughs’s works through the pages of the pulps, newspaper comic strips,
books, and motion pictures.
 Which brings us to my friend Lin Carter (1930-1988). Carter was a man
of high intelligence and considerable creative talent. He was also fascinated
by the pulp and post pulp era writers that so many of us grew up reading.
He was a prolific author, devoting most of his energy to the art of pastiche.
He created a seemingly endless stream of novels in imitation of Edgar
Rice Burroughs, Robert E. Howard, A. E. van Vogt, Lester Dent, and others
of their ilk. His imitation of Howard’s Conan the Barbarian was Thongor of
Valkarth. Through a series of six novels Lin Carter carried Thongor from
peril to peril, from conquest to conquest.
Imitating Robert E. Howard, Edgar Rice Burroughs, H. P. Lovecraft and
other pulp—era greats seems an irresistible temptation. I’ll confess that I’ve
done it myself. Yes, I’ve written both Burroughsian and Lovecraftian
stories. And I’ve collaborated with Howard a couple of times.
These instances were The Return of Skull-Face (1977) and Ghor Kin-
Slayer (1997). The first of those, a novella, grew from a fragment of
Howard’s, showing the influence of both Sax Rohmer and H. P. Lovecraft.
The second was a round—robin novel edited by Jonathan Bacon. An initial
chapter by Robert E. Howard passed through the hands of fifteen other
authors, each of them contributing a further chapter, before Editor Bacon
placed the accumulated manuscript in my hands. The resulting volume
lacks a great deal when it comes to coherence, but reading it can be great
fun.
But let us get back to Thongor of Valkarth and the book at hand.
Following the death of Lin Carter in 1988, control of his estate passed to
Robert M. Price. As Carter’s literary executor, aside from protecting Lin
Carter’s copyrights and perpetuating his works, Bob Price continued the
saga of Thongor of Valkarth through a cycle of ten short stories. These are
of particular interest because they not only carry Thongor from encounter to
encounter, meeting beautiful women, corrupt priests, and rival warriors.
There’s a lot more here.
Bob Price writes these stories well, but he also provides a growing back-
story of Thongor and his world. Before the ten tales are told, Thongor has
reached the mountain of the Nineteen Gods of Valkarth, has achieved
Godhood himself (at least temporarily), has plunged to the depths of a
Dantean Eleventh Scarlet Hell, and returned to a happy domesticity with his
loving wife and child.
 Somehow I doubt that Thongor will be satisfied to rule his city, his
country, or even his continent. Adventure will call. He will kiss his wife,
embrace his son, don fighting harness and raise his mighty sword, and be
off on another quest of derring-do.
But for now, reader, I’ll urge you to settle in with a flagon
of hot spiced wine, stretch your legs before a roaring fire, and let Bob Price
carry you off on another adventure with Thongor the Barbarian.

Richard A. Lupoff
Somewhere near the Pacific Ocean
Sometime in the Twenty—First Century
 1 The Creature in the Crypt

O mighty Lord who sits upon the Throne

Of Lotus leaves dyed full with blood!

Thy rolling eyes like suns and moons above—

Cause them to glance on us alone

When, from amid the woes which towards us flood,

We plead of thee a boon of father’s love.

O thou who once contested Valka’s crown

With mighty arm and well-timed blows

And whelmed the demons with resistless power,

Who crushed the skulls of foes with great renown,

Who reigns concealed from whence no mortal knows

By Vandoth’s Bolt until this present hour!

Grant us again thy valor to behold

And free thy lands from those who would despoil,

Divide, destroy, and crush our pride.

And send to us a king of courage bold

And let his foemen’s blood enrich our soil!

Cause him to wield thy blade, thy chariot ride!

The Crimson Veda, Book 68, hymn 8

To Vandoth of the Blood Lotus

THE DAY HAD been long already, and full of toil, when a young, heavily
muscled form, journeying southward from Valkarth, had noticed the first
signs of pursuit. Picking up speed, he did not waste backward looks to
confirm what his keen ears told him, that he had become the intended prey
of a pack of Talondos Hounds. These were beasts of which no fossil
evidence survives, combining features of our crocodile and wolf. They
moved with surprising stealth and speed, given their heavy armor and size,
their sense of smell hardly needed now that their victim’s form was so
clearly etched in the light of the great golden moon of elder Lemuria. There
were several of them, and once they caught up to the single human form, he
sold his blood dearly, exchanging it for two of their lives before escaping in
a burst of speed, his arrows spent and his sword abandoned, jammed in one
of their armored carcasses. His great strength necessarily waned as he still
managed to put some distance between him and his pursuers, now perhaps a
bit less eager to run him to ground, especially since the evening temperature
was rapidly falling.
The man, running now on sheer endurance, was Thongor of Valkarth. He
lived on a continent long vanished, even from the theories of ethnographers
and students of mythic lore: Lemuria, the great incubator of primal life
forms, some of which survived the eons, others not. Man was one such
successful experiment, though today’s specimens seem degenerate and
colorless by comparison. Thongor’s species developed here earlier than
anywhere else on the globe, sharing the continent with jealous competitors
including the great saurians and a few other mammalian species fit to battle
them or escape them. Jealous, too, was the great Indian Ocean, as we have
learned to call it. Its eager waves lapped at Lemuria’s shores, awaiting the
day they should be able to swallow it whole, save for a sprinkling of
surviving islands. The climate of the lost continent was a queer
combination, cold at both extremities, warm in the middle. This was
because the north was given over entirely to towering mountain cliffs whose
heights were ever shrouded in blue-white snow drifts; while, just below, the
jungle-clad plains were exposed to the fury of the equator, which declined
as one went farther south toward primal Antarctica, where legends ancient
even then whispered the lurking presence of strange pre-human
intelligences.
 Having descended the mountains of his birth, Thongor had been tracing a
horizontal course along their base, seeking occasional refuge in hillside
caves or higher eyries when his flirtations with the plainsmen grew too
dangerous. Now it was the pursuit of the Talondos Hounds that made his
golden eyes, miniature twins of the moon above, seek some sign of a
mountain-face cave. And he found one. Far enough above the level terrain
to discourage the Hounds, it would yet demand of him all his remaining
strength. The bargain mentally made, Thongor began the ascent, finding the
tiniest of jagged hand and footholds. The snapping and hissing of the pack
below grew fainter as he finally heaved himself over the lip of the ledge and
into the cave. The sleep of exhaustion overtook him at once, heedless of any
new danger the cave itself might present.
When he next awoke, a full day had come and gone, and with it, his
pursuers. The golden moon once again eerily illuminated the landscape, as
well as a bit of the interior of the cave in which Thongor found himself. By
its filtering rays he could see that what he had taken for a small hole in the
rock face was the merest antechamber of some larger, hidden structure. A
sharp turn revealed the presence, suddenly cut off by a near wall, of a
complex if crudely delineated bas-relief mural. The subject matter was not
entirely strange to the barbarian’s golden eyes, for it depicted scenes of
embattled figures, possibly representing any of the bloody sagas of his, or
of any, people. His native curiosity beckoned him to explore, especially as
the recesses might offer a more than adequate refuge from any returning
Talondos Hounds. But to see any more, he would need more light. And
unless the cave had been carved for the benefit of the blind, it seemed likely
the means for light making ought to lie near at hand. A moment’s tentative
searching confirmed his expectation. His questing hand met a rusting iron
bracket set shakily into the stone wall, while his booted foot encountered a
clay jar. He judged that it ought to be a jar of fuel oil. A quick whiff of the
gummy deposit at the bottom told him he was right. A couple more of the
brackets, and he found a dried-up reed torch, almost a brush. He scrubbed
this into the sticky bottom of one of the jars until he had enough to light.
In the first moment the torch flared too brightly, then settled down. But in
the initial flare Thongor could make out the full panorama, a cave stretching
some twenty yards, its uneven floor and stalagmite-fanged interior covered
with heaps and bins of treasure and other ancient objects. As his eyes began
to adjust to the gloom, his memory filling in the gaps of what he could no
longer so clearly see, he went deeper into the shaft, examining what he
could. An occasional oath escaped his lips.
It was a surprise, then a wonder, then something suspicious: all manner of
objects were heaped before him in disarray, implying they had been picked
through many times, yet finally left unmolested. Here and there stood
statues, apparently of various gods and totems, some of them irreverently
tilted against the walls, others carefully set in carven niches. A few were
vaguely familiar, while others seemed like more primitive versions of
conventional deities. There, for instance, was elephant-headed
Chaugganath, but his countenance was wooly and shaggy. Another was
nobly human in form, his great mane of hair seeming to merge with a storm
cloud, his beard with the cataract of rain, and he held in his mighty fist a
levin-bolt. Surely this was Father Gorm. Others had multiple arms and
faces. Thongor had heard there were nineteen gods, though he did not know
why there should be so many, but there were not nearly that number here.
Leather bags, clay pots, and metal tubs overflowed with
polished sea-shells, which might have been used by some tribe as currency,
though the very concept was new to Thongor, whose people used only
barter to meet their simple needs. Scattered feathers in profusion suggested
the long-ago decay of a supply of arrows left by the guardians of this
storage place. Occasional metal boxes which did not seem to be mere
containers sported what looked like dull gems and pointless studs, some of
them round and grooved at tiny intervals. What use these might serve, the
barbarian knew not and so passed them without further glance. His eye fell
next on the clay likeness of a fat sun—lizard. He knew what a succulent
treat its living counterpart made and wished urgently that he had one to
satisfy the hunger he suddenly felt so keenly!
He cursed in amazement as a nearby noise of disturbance betrayed the
skittering presence of the clay reptile’s living twin! Swiftly disemboweling
it with a rusty knife, he cooked it impatiently in the tarry smoke of the torch
and devoured the morsel in an instant. The taste was not bad, but the meal
seemed to lack any and all substance. He wrote it down to voracious hunger
no one tidbit could satisfy. That his wish was so quickly met he did not
pause to consider.
Thongor more and more felt he would like to leave the peculiar haven.
There was an uncanniness to the place that made him feel he was taking
some great risk simply by being there. But the night outside was cold, and
he knew predators could not be far off. It seemed easier to stay and brave
whatever might challenge him here, which was probably no more than a
fearful imagination. He continued to examine the amassed loot, laying his
hand next on a chest of gemstones of various hues, though all strangely dull
even in his torchlight. He understood enough of the ways of civilized men
to know that trinkets like these would be deemed valuable, and he at once
resolved to take with him a goodly supply on the morrow. But then he
wondered again why the treasure was still here undisturbed. Surely he could
hardly be the first to stumble upon the place.
A hoard of a very different sort next met his eyes: a great stone bin filled
to the brim with human skulls! Thongor gasped, and his small nape-hairs
began to stir. Were these the remains of previous intruders? On the other
hand, he had noticed no recent disturbance of the dusty floor, much less any
signs of struggle. He had once heard that some of the ancient kings and
priests amassed their own bones with those of their predecessors in this
fashion. Was it then a crypt?
Further scrutiny revealed a jar of leather and palmpapyrus scrolls. The
latter fell to fragments at his touch, though he instinctively knew to be
gentle. The former proved more durable, though no more helpful to the
illiterate young man. He lifted his eyes from the puzzle-like glyphs lining
the red-dyed page, only to drop the scroll in surprise as a second figure
appeared beside him, seemingly out of nowhere! He relaxed somewhat as
he beheld, not the form of a fighting man, but rather of a wizened elder, not
unlike the painted shamans of his own people. The ancient spoke not a word
but stooped to retrieve the leather book. As Thongor looked on in wonder, a
whispering voice broke the long silence of the chamber, intoning some
chant in a tongue Thongor knew not, though he fancied he recognized one
or two divine names. Interrupting the stream of what seemed to him
gibberish, Thongor made to speak to the man in his own rude language. His
words had an effect, if not the intended one, for at the first of them, the old
man fell silent and disappeared! And the scroll had vanished with him.
Again, a wish had been fulfilled for a moment, only to tease him!
Now determined to flee this cursed place, whatever dangers might await
him without, Thongor made one last sweep with his fading torch, seeking
perhaps some cloak against the cold, some weapon to make his way safer.
Surely no ghostly guardian could begrudge him these?
 But, over there, barely visible in the gloom, yet hither to unseen, was a
great throne, and him who sat upon it: a skeleton, whom examination
revealed to be wearing the rags of once-fantastic vestments, as well as an
antique crown. This last had once mounted the broad forehead but now
formed a great collar around the bone-bare neck. Every instinct bade him
flee, but Thongor lingered to gaze upon the figure and upon the weapon it
held in its rotting claws, across the arms of the throne. A great unsheathed
length of steel, it seemed to have played the role of royal sceptre as well as
of savage cleaver. It was festooned with jewels, but these blazed with the
glory earlier absent from the massed rubies and sapphires he had seen piled
in bins and baskets. Stranger still, they seemed to glow with an inner
radiance, as Thongor’s torch had now died out. The blade was brilliant
silver without a trace of rust. Thongor of Valkarth knew he must have it.
Not so much greed as a sense of destiny impelled him, for, in truth, he
feared it as much as he lusted for it.
Reluctantly, he who blanched not at the shedding of his
own blood or that of another began with disgust to peel away the flaking
fingers of the thing in the crypt. As he freed the last on the left hand, he felt.
. . resistance. Wondering and aghast at what this might mean, the young
giant stepped involuntarily back. “Gorm’s privates!” he blasphemed
unconsciously. What his widening golden eyes beheld was the sudden
bulking and rejuvenating of the desiccated form on the throne. He watched
in detached fascination as if what transpired there had nothing to do with
him, as indeed perhaps it might not. The head became a blur as its skeletal
dome began to rise from its age-long nod. And when Thongor could see it
again, the head was massive and proud, blue-skinned like the Rmoahal
nomads of the south, skull as bare as before save for a single oily black
braid. The ears were pointed and bore silver hoop-rings. The nostrils flared.
The eyes bulged slightly, and there were three of them, one perched above
the others, moving concurrently with them in his direction. The powerful
form began to rise, one arm hefting the huge sword, a second reaching out
for Thongor, and an additional pair emerging from concealment as a great
cloak swept back from them. The crown again rode his brow.
The Valkarthan reached instinctively for his scabbard, his hand closing on
empty air. The fact registered but dimly as his hair stood on end and his
breath grew short. He decided to take the first blow, if only to gauge the
giant’s strength. He allowed himself to be grasped by the shoulder and
thrown to the wall, where, as anticipated, the piles of various objects broke
the force of his impact. He rose bruised, casting about for some weapon. In
the meantime he took refuge in evasive maneuvers and inconsequential
blows which seemed to register as he dealt them but which failed to slow
down his strange opponent an iota. Thongor began to throw some of the
larger objects at his enemy. None harmed the giant, but when one or another
of the divine images found its mark, Thongor noticed how the stone or
metal seemed to cause the monster’s bluish flesh to spark and smolder in a
peculiar way. He had thought the nature of his adversary a mystery to be
pondered later, at his leisure, should he escape with his life. Now he began
to realize that the solution of the mystery would be his only effective
weapon.
With a terrible reverberation, the giant figure began to speak, though in a
tongue Thongor knew not. And none—the less he began to experience a
sense of recognition. Had he seen something like this creature’s form
depicted in the wall mural? Yes he had. More than once. Haloed deities
bowed before him, presumably a king or a god himself. If the barbarian’s
own experience were any clue, the giant must have defeated them all in
battle, proven his worthiness to be their king. And would he prove now to
be Thongor’s master, even in death? Not if the Valkarthan could help it! He
gathered his strength and leaped at his foe. His boots were apt weapons: the
giant fell backwards, though at once he rose up, none the worse for wear.
Frustration lent new fury and power to the few blows Thongor managed to
launch while not avoiding the arcs of the great silver sword. He fought with
renewed energy, if no more effect. He judged that the creature before him
was truly flesh, had become flesh, but was somehow more. Alien flesh
absorbed the impact of his blows, but the thing was no ghost, else
Thongor’s flailing fists had met no resistance.
As the two circled, Thongor’s eye caught something he hadn’t noticed
before: a shield. A shining relic, of little use
for offense by itself, and perhaps the twin of the sword the
giant held fast. The other saw it, too, and both dived for it.
Thongor came up with it. He knew the blue-skinned behemoth scarcely
required it to fend off his blows, so there must be some other advantage in
possessing it——or perhaps an advantage to him in Thongor’s not having
it.
 Stepping away from the creature, Thongor hefted the shining disk so that
he might behold the approaching form of his foeman over his shoulder. It
seemed insanely foolish, but in that moment, he had found the crucial
weapon that had thus far eluded him: knowledge. For now he understood
the true nature of his enemy. In the reflective silver, that metal celebrated
for canceling every spell, Thongor saw but an animated lattice of ancient
bones, some of them trailing cobwebs and bits of desiccated gristle. Alien,
antehuman, preternatural it was, but it was finally a rotten tree of bones,
and, laughing, Thongor swept them aside with a wave of the shield. They
sprayed across the chamber, many of them collapsing into the omnipresent
dust. Struggling against his own fears, he had at last prevailed with the aid
of a moment’s thought.
The great sword fell with an almost musical ringing clang. Holding the
shield fast, Thongor bent down to retrieve its partner. He made to leave the
treasure shaft forever. But on second thought, he stooped and stared about
again, looking for the fallen crown of the phantom god-king. He found it,
twirled it around an index finger, and toyed with the momentary temptation
to place it on his own brow in a pantomime inauguration. The empty throne
was just behind him, as if he had freshly risen from it. As he stood there, the
awful fatigue of the last two days” exertions fell upon his shoulders. How
good it would feel to take a rest upon the dusty throne! Perhaps a healing
nap of an hour or so before going on his way. Without him noticing any
passage of the threshold of sleep, dreams nonetheless began to fill his head,
and he saw himself reigning from that throne as Sark of all Lemuria! Just as
this vanquished being had once reigned in his heyday of the remote past?
And of a sudden Thongor beheld his own likeness displayed in the mirror
face of the shield: it had become one with the blue-skinned, three-eyed
visage of his fallen opponent! Casting both sword and shield from him like
a pair of hungry vipers, Thongor, destined perhaps one day to be king, but
not this day, sprang from the throne as from a well-laid trap and made his
way down along the shaft to the welcome freshness of the night air.
There was neither sight nor scent of his recent pursuers. Pausing a
moment, Thongor took the risk of retracing his running steps till he came
upon the bleeding heap from which he had earlier dared not stop to retrieve
his sword. Now he braced one foot on the stoney ribcage and yanked
the Valkarthan blade free, wiping the blade of the creature’s foul blood with
a handful of leaves. Resuming his southward course, Thongor"s steady
stride devoured the miles. At length he stood still, and in the light of the
golden moon he gazed again at his reflection, this time in the mirror-face of
his own familiar sword. Thankfully, it was his natural face. He knew not
what destiny awaited him; surely it had been foolish to entertain the thought
of his one day sitting upon a throne. He laughed aloud now. But he knew
his path lay south, and it was time to be on his way.
 2 Lost Gods of Lemuria

i. The Unblinking Eye

FOR A SINGLE moment, the great golden moon of old Lemuria appeared
to blink like an eye. Or so it seemed to the young Valkarthan, who
dismissed the improbable omen as the effect of too much sarn wine. Still, it
was possible, he remarked to himself, that the Eye of the Night had closed
to shut out the vision of some black fate that advanced even now upon the
horizon, something the gods, from their celestial point of vantage, could see
that mortals like himself could not. What it might be, he knew not, and
burping an acid burp from the wine, he shrugged off the brooding moment
with but a slight moonlight chill. He would soon have reason to think of it
again, however.
It was at any rate true that the great tropical moon looked down on a great
many things that no man since has seen or suspected. It saw a steamy jungle
continent, yet with snowy peaks to the north, whence sprang Thongor the
Mighty. It was a world in which advanced mammals such as himself had
evolved in the blanketing shadows of still-surviving saurians Whose tread
shook the earth with the tremors that would cause those men who found
their bones so many centuries later to dub them “thunder lizards.” But
savants of so—called science in later eons could not know that man had
been created out of time by his superiors among the dinosaurs: the Dragon
Kings, as an experiment that quickly got out of hand. And where once the
men of science had rediscovered the existence of ancient Lemuria, further
speculations caused them to dismiss it as a phantom, a failed theory. And so
none ever applied the spade to excavate the artifacts of Lemuria, sleeping
even now far below the placid waves of the Indian Ocean. If they ever do so
dive and delve, mayhap they will uncover the massive palaces of the great
Sarks and the immemorial redoubts of the Druids, and the crumbled temples
of the Nineteen Gods, pilgrims to the earth from the far-flung dimension of
the Primal Fire-Mist. These gods, and their servants, and their enemies have
all been long forgotten. But what if, even in their day, in their world, there
had been even earlier gods, and devils, which had been lost to the sane and
wholesome memories of men?
Thongor, himself destined one day to become Sark of Sarks in the West
of the primal continent, was, as we meet
him here, a young wanderer among the civilizations of Lemuria.
Descending from frosty Valkarth in the north, he had been surprised by
many things, not least that one’s breath was not always and everywhere
visible in the air! His animal passions, hidden like a furnace to keep him
warm against the cold of his birth-clime, blossomed as he beheld the
comparative nakedness of people, especially of women, in these warmer,
southern lands. The cities of Lemuria, the first cities of men, and already
profoundly old, stretched before his wondering yet shrewd eyes like a
heavy-laden board at a feast. Upon it were scattered tempting confections,
exotic and fire-spiced dishes of all manners, and the young barbarian meant
to avail himself of the colorful opportunities presented him. But he had
quickly learned that he must exercise fully as much craft and patience
before the prospect of pleasure as before deadly danger—mainly because
one never knew which lay concealed behind the other!
Survivors of a harsh and cruel environment live by the skill to adapt
quickly. Thongor found this savage instinct ironically useful in making a
place for himself in the strange game—like ways of civilized men. He
readily found work, and forged alliances, as a bodyguard for rich patrons, as
a mercenary soldier for petty Sarks and lesser lords. Men with bold ideas
but no boldness in their hearts would learn of him and summon him to
ventures they dared not perform themselves. Sometimes he was cheated,
sometimes took revenge, and sometimes was richly rewarded for his craft
and courage. But what he made in such dealings he quickly squandered on
wine, wenches, and gambling. Nor would he have considered any other
course to be wise. What, after all, could one hope for in such a world of
danger and rapine but present satisfactions? One’s future might be in the
stomach of a carnivorous dragon or beneath the hooves of a charging herd
of kroters—or on the end of a foe’s long sword.
Thus it was nothing too unusual for him to be masquerading as a hooded
acolyte, stooping to hide his great stature, bringing up the rear of a column
of the chanting brethren of Slidith, Lord of Blood, in the darkened halls of
their squat monastery adjacent to the Sark’s palace in the city of Thurdis.
He had been called upon to do the dirty work of druids and priests before,
and they paid well, doling out the riches bullied from their cowed
worshippers. As he tried to catch their words so he could mumble
something like them, Thongor was only puzzled at the need for such
secrecy even within the druidical precincts. His employers must have secret
needs to be kept even from their compatriots like this. But then his golden
eyes, reflecting the light of occasional torches that punctuated the dark
shafts at too great intervals for his taste, picked out a glyph he had been told
of, carved into a wooden beam. Here he quietly split off from the shuffling
column before him and headed, alone, down an adjoining passage.
Counting the doors, Thongor found the right one and opened it without a
knock. He had expected to be meeting with one single priest, or else a small
group of conspirators, but the narrow chamber was fairly filled with men.
By the looks of it, it was a neglected chapel, dust caking chipped and
cracked icons whose sacred subjects could no longer be discerned, at least
not in this light. One old vulture of a druid stood hunched at a lectern before
some dozen or fifteen of his colleagues, who looked uncomfortable, their
flabby bulks squeezed into creaking wooden pews and on tenuous old
prayer stools. They all turned to face the towering young titan, a few with
lascivious looks of degeneracy catching up the corners of their bulbous lips.
None spoke save for the standing figure. His blotched red robes testified to
the lengths to which the Slidith cultists took their devotions.
“Ah, the highly recommended Thongor of Valkarth!” the old druid
chuckled. “I would bid you be seated, but as you see . . .” A wave of his
gnarled hand indicated the obvious.
“We shall not be long in any case.”
Thongor’s baritone bore a northern accent seldom heard in these lands as
he stated what he knew and surmised. “I am, I believe, to journey to a city
called Akhenanoth some distance to the East. There I am to find and make
away with some prize. The nature of it I know not. The fee I do know. I am
willing to kill any who stand in my way. But is there any limit? How many
lives you are willing to pay?”
“Why, none, my young stalwart! None of ours anyway. Other than that,
consider your budget wide open!” The holy men present sent up a general
peal of mirth. They were the Order of Slidith the Blood Lord, after all, and
hardly squeamish. Neither was Thongor fazed. He saw no great difference
between killing foes, even if their enmity was only an accident of
allegiances, and hunting beasts.
“And what is it I am to procure?” He knew men like these often had a
strange coveting for trinkets and tubes of ill smelling potions that men of
the world would have spent nary a copper to obtain. Thus it surprised him
when the old druid, whose name he would not provide, told him the nature
of his quarry.
“There abides in that city a certain courtesan who is the greatest mistress
of the arts of pleasure who has arisen or
ever will arise during this cosmic cycle.”
“Then I am to abduct a high-priced harlot? That should be no great
challenge. Who owns her? How is she guarded? I . . .”
The vulture smiled. “No, no, my boy, nothing so dangerous. We seek but
a hand’s breadth all round of her lustrous black hair. You see, it lies in our
power, by certain arcane arts, to use each hair as something of a seed from
which a duplicate of the original may sprout. These may be raised to
maturity with magical swiftness, and if the golems we create lack the skill
of the original, there are tutors we may bring in. Her beauty is so surpassing
that she should prove a choice delight in any event. Several delights, as
there will be many of them! A new order of acolytes to service our worthy
brethren here!”
More laughter welled up, like gas from a swamp. Thongor thought there
was more of ironic malevolence than of lustful contemplation in it, but he
gave it no further thought. Who could fathom the ink well of a priest’s
heart? But he did think it likely that the women the druids planned to grow
like so many turnips would most probably wind up being offered in bloody
sacrifice to Lord Slidith. This, however, was none of his business.
“So I am now a barber!” He laughed. So did his hosts.
Something important lay unspoken in the air between them. Thongor knew
this, but he reckoned that it posed no threat to him. He knew that men of
such power could not be expected to confide more than they must to a mere
hireling like himself. He knew, and did not regret, his present place in the
scheme of things. The rest of their brief conversation concerned directions
to find the little-known place where the woman might be found.
 ii. Hell’s Orchid

Some weeks later, Thongor had approached the villages lying just outside
the walled city of Akhenanoth. The layout implied that the villagers were
little more than serfs who would flock within the walls in case of danger
from invaders. Or such it had been in a former day, for it was plain at a
glance that the walls of the city were in serious disrepair, almost in ruins.
The place was little mentioned in the city-states Thongor had explored,
spoken of in whispers alongside shadowed Nianga, as ancient sites of
blasphemy against the Nineteen Gods and smitten by their fury. Yet
Akhenanoth maintained some sort of existence, mostly self-sufficient and
without trade or diplomatic ties to the other cities of Lemuria. The place
was not so much shunned as it shunned outside contact.
The young Valkarthan had approached the place inconspicuously across
the great plain mounted on a fresh
kroter provided by his druidic masters, and he had secured stabling and
provender for the beast with a peasant farmer some distance from the city
wall. Dawn had come, and he found himself, clad in a borrowed, threadbare
cloak, waiting with a throng of artisans, farmers, and vendors, ready to enter
and take their places in the bazaar as soon as the city’s great portal should
crank slowly open. No one gave him a second look, or none was
conspicuous if they did.
The doors opened with a tangible weariness, the rust creaking of their
hinges sounding for all the world like a sigh of despair. Thongor noted the
matching weariness of the lined faces about him. Little youth was evident
anywhere; all bore the erosion of either age or oppression. But those who
entered with him set up their stalls and tables with rote efficiency, sitting
down to await many customers or few. And there were few indeed as the
morning wore on, and Thongor was at last alerted through idle chatter, most
of which he could not understand, of some great spectacle some blocks
further into the city that was leeching off the country crowds who would
ordinarily be seething among the booths of the marketplace. He knew then
that he must needs seek out the great sight, too, if he wanted to come closer
to the life pulse of the place. Only there might he assess the opportunities
for accomplishing his mission. So he walked on toward the gradually
increasing echo of many voices clashing.
He was no time in spotting the one he sought. Nor could
there be any mistaking her. Such rare beauty might indeed
arouse the congealing lifeblood of an old druid or a monastery full of them.
She stood atop a hastily cobbled scaffold standing three stories high and
plain to every eye. An odd place for a prostitute to be, he mused. The
woman, rouged, it seemed, in a mixture containing gold dust amid a darker
smudge, was a tall idol of sensuality, her statuesque torso and mighty
shoulders supporting great cones of breasts held in golden cups like those of
a grain balance. Her form was outlined by contrast with the night—black
mane of lustrous hair cascading from her bejeweled brow. Her hair seemed
almost to move with a subtle stirring of its own. She was addressing the
crowd in a local dialect of which Thongor’s masters had taught him
nothing. She pantomimed toward a shivering scarecrow of a man who was
painfully spread—eagled on a kite-like frame. He shook more violently
with every thrusting gesture she aimed at him, as if she launched bolts
invisible to the mortal eye. But anyone could see the old man’s hour had
come, and that he was either to be made an example to the cowed crowds
below, or he was to bear the brunt of their own collective outrage. Who was
he? What had he done? Thongor could not read the faces of the humble folk
gathered there. They seemed as afraid of
whatever might happen as they were eager to see it.
The barbarian fingered the hilt of his hidden sword and returned his gaze
to the man about to be executed. The sun was not high enough to blind him,
but he felt an odd flash, almost a wink in the daylight. It lasted but a second.
He could not tell whether others had noticed. And nothing, as far as he
could tell, was different. But at once, an awful sound arose as hitherto
unnoticed slaves below the framework whereupon the prisoner was bound
began to move in unison, cranking the infernal device into motion. The old
man’s screams did not last long before the machine pulled him apart like a
cooked fowl. What a way to die! thought the Valkarthan.
Much remained a mystery to Thongor, but the essential
thing had become clear enough: the woman whose hair
formed the object of his improbable quest was in charge of
this place. Harlot, priestess, Queen, whatever she might be, she was as
beautiful as a goddess, and Thongor relished the prospect of seeing her up
close. Only now he knew he had quite the challenge on his hands. She had
left the scaffolding surrounded by a train of heavily armored men. It would
be child’s play to follow them unnoticed, and his mission was basically one
of stealth. It had to be. But how could he move like a panther when he must
fight like a lion to get close to his prey? Well, first he would find some way
to penetrate the guarded dwelling of the mysterious siren and then assess
the chances of reaching her, he hoped, as she slept.

iii. All for a Lock of Hair

Entering the palace of the Lady of Akhenanoth proved no more difficult

than gaining access to the city had been. Thongor observed the place for the
better part of a day, during which time he saw a gang of laborers entering
the
building, apparently engaged in much—needed repair about the crumbling
edifice. It was a simple matter to approach their leader openly and to ask for
work. One look at his strong back and mighty thews was enough to secure
him a place in their ranks, and he walked right in, his new armload of tools
hiding his weapons more effectively than hitherto. He had confessed
himself an outlander, claiming to be a wanderer looking for work. He
learned what he could of the language by listening attentively to the bored
mutterings of the other men, as well as their occasional bawdy boastings.
These crude witticisms not infrequently involved lewd suggestions
regarding the mistress of the place. Her dazzling figure was seldom to be
seen, though Thongor caught a rare glimpse of her as she arrived to view
their repair work. He tried to study her wondrous mass of hair again before
a fellow laborer elbowed him, signaling him to avert his eyes to the ground,
like the rest of them, in her presence.
 Some days along, when his great strength had made the work go more
quickly than the foreman had anticipated, the order came from within the
palace that they should stay and finish the work on a pair of arches that very
night, since they were so close to completion anyway. What difference that
could make, Thongor did not know, chalking it up to the peculiar quirks of
the civilized. But he knew, once the work was finished, he should have no
further excuse for entering the building. Equally he knew this was his best
circumstance to elude his companions, as they would surely be eager to
leave when the time came, and none should be overly concerned to account
for every man. And it was so. Though a giant of a man, Thongor easily
managed to sneak off down a branching hallway as most of the men made
their exhausted way through the dimly lit corridors to leave the palace. This
was the moment he had waited for. A simple assignment, all told, one
requiring a short stint of construction labor and a quick flickering of a pair
of shears, and he would be making for the West again, and a fat reward.
But Abramax, eleventh of the Nineteen Gods, and Lord of Fate, had
written it otherwise, as Thongor was soon to discover. For, as if expecting
his passage, a form stepped out and loomed before him in the hallway. The
man was an armed guard. But Thongor, too, was armed, if not shielded. Yet
he had found that a swift and whirling blade was the best armor, and thus he
set to work. His limbs ached from lifting and mortaring, but swordplay was
rejuvenating, freeing muscles hitherto bound like dumb beasts of burden.
He easily out-sworded the man, whose leather—coated iron breastplate
afforded no protection at the point Thongor immediately sought, his tender
throat. Thongor looked both ways up and down the hall as he stripped the
bloody corpse and appropriated its armor, more for disguise than defense.
No one else seemed to be in sight. That was odd, if indeed his advance had
been foreseen. What of it? There was no place to go but onward.
More than anything else, it was the wafting scent of perfume that told
him which door to try. Still no pursuers. The time must not have come for
the changing of the guard. It would have to be soon. But. then the hour was
late, and he hoped to find the Lady of the place alone and asleep. He
stepped silently into the chamber. With such practiced jungle tread he
should have surprised any in the room——except that they were gathered
awaiting him, swords drawn! Ten men surrounded their liege, she who sat
up in her bed as it were a throne, with a head board higher than many a
throne’s chair back. Her bedclothes were as opulent as the courtly robes of a
Queen in their way, though they also managed to conceal precious little.
“Consider well!” Thongor barked. “I come but for a hand’s breadth of the
Lady’s hair, which simple priests back home would worship. I can still gain
that prize. If I do, all of you will die trying to prevent it. If I fail, it will cost
the blood of most of you to stop me! I ask you: is a sprig of royal hair worth
your lives? Let me depart with what I came for, and none here shall have
cause to regret it.”
The lordly woman spoke, her tones redolent of smothered thunder:
“Uncouth savage! I am Suresha! God-queen of Akhenathoth! Know you not
that your request is no less a defilement of my divine person than if you had
raped me?” He was shocked at her haughtiness and at her bluntness. His
eyes swept the cordon of guards, calculating how dearly he might sell his
life in the next, his final, moments. And all for a fool’s errand to gain a lock
of hair!
“None shall strike him down! Take him to the dungeon, where he may
contemplate the fate that awaits him. For tomorrow the rack will pry
another apart!”

iv. Dead Man’s Gift

Thongor accompanied his guards to his stinking cell. He

somehow felt his chances for escape would be greater there, his foes mere
bars of dumb iron rather than powerful men well armed against him. Should
he be able to break away from the group and flee down the hallways of the
palace, he knew still more should await him at every turn, and he should at
last wind up in the dungeon anyway. So he walked ahead of them briskly,
nor did he flinch at spear prods and spitting.
In his hours of confinement Thongor declined to brood. He planned as
much as he could plan, finally deciding to trust to luck and the providence
of Father Gorm on the morrow. Whatever happened, he would need his rest.
And so he slept the untroubled sleep of the jungle beast.
A voice awakened him, a mere whisper. At first he thought it must be a
fellow prisoner from the adjoining cell. Only then he realized he had seen
no other prisoners, not even any other cell. And then the pale light shone, a
bubble of light, like a great pink crystal many times the size that fortune
telling Charlatans use. In it he saw the life—size form of a man. And the
man looked vaguely familiar. In a moment he had it. It was the poor wretch
he had days before witnessed being torn apart on the torture rack!
Thongor’s nape hairs stood at attention with superstitious dread as he
concluded he was seeing a ghost, the ghost of a man who had perished as he
himself was condemned to perish a few hours hence!
But the glowing hand pierced the bubble of light to touch his heavily
sinewed arm. “I am no shade!” the image said, as if to allay the younger
man’s unvoiced but obvious fears.
Gathering his courage, the Valkarthan interloper stammered, “But I saw
you drawn and quartered . . . !”
“You did not! Perhaps you noticed a flicker in the sunlight?”
“In truth, I did!” Thongor could not conceal his utter astonishment. In
those days his acquaintance with the magical arts was but slight. “It was
some trick of the light,
then? A conjurer’s illusion?”
The rasping voice chuckled. “It was a bit more than that, my boy. I have
but a short time, but I will tell you what I can. Listen closely, and grasp
what you can of it. I know who you are and whence you come, Thongor of
Valkarth. And I know what you do not know about why you have come!
You are the pawn of the degenerate priests of Slidith the sanguineous god. I
am Maladorith-Yand. I, too, am Slidith’s priest! Or I was. His cult was not
always what the heretics of the West have made it. Once we worshipped the
life-giving power of the blood, nor did we waste it upon altars and bathe in
it like stream water, as do some. It was to eschew the corruption of our holy
faith that we cut off contact with the outer world long ago, and we survived
well enough. I ruled this city with Suresha at my side. She is no prostitute,
as your masters told you. She is a sorceress made mighty by certain secrets
she and her servants unearthed during the process of rebuilding this fortress,
as you have seen. Stumbling upon a sealed vault in the unknown depths of
the castle’s crypt, where the oldest known hierophants of our Order lie in
state, her delvers came upon the relics of a forgotten cult that had flourished
ages ago, contemporary with the Dragon Kings of ill repute. There were
texts in ancient tongues that told of the worship of a god whom all Lemuria
had sought to forget——and had forgotten! It was Savitar-Negroth, the
Black Dawn.”
“Never have I heard of such a god,” Thongor said, full of
astonishment.
“As I say! He is well forgotten. His minions cherished the myth that
twain suns strive for mastery. The bright sun prevails during the day, while
the black sun vanquishes him each night. The goal of their accursed faith
was to bring about the eternal triumph of their Lord, Savitar Negroth, who
should henceforth reign in universal darkness in which no eye should again
see the light or any form or shape!”
Thongor’s golden eyes went unfocussed as he gazed into an imagined
lightless future. “I should not like to live in such a world, where never a
man might see the curves of a maid, where the treacherous sword point
should find its mark unopposed . . .”
“Nor should I, though I am happy enough, after what I have endured,
soon to enter death’s dark portal. Listen, then. Suresha has opened herself to
embody the Black Dawn. Her hair is charged with his rays, and from that
living coil does her power emanate. That is why your paymasters, a
scheming faction of Slidith’s priesthood, seek its outer corona. It will curtail
her power and may even transfer it to them. As long as it would bring them
ultimate power, they should as soon cast aside Lord Slidith for this terrible
spirit of Darkness—even if it means they should reign as his lieutenants
amid an endless sea of blindness. There are other senses, some mystical,
opening on other planes, which they prefer.”
“And to think I almost . . . I”
“Haste! I must hasten on! As you saw, I used what power remained to me
to change places with one of her guards and caused him to assume my
image, while I made away. But they had tortured me before, and my power
is mostly diminished. I will die soon in my place of concealment, but you
shall avenge me and, more important, you shall cast the Black Dawn back
into the abyss of forgetfulness, whence it may never again emerge!”
“But how? I lack even the sword I brought with me!”
The vision of the old priest replied wordlessly, handing Thongor his
beloved blade. “I am not entirely without conjurer’s tricks, young man!”
 Thongor gazed on the broadsword with wonder. In the shadows the flat
surface reflected ghostly light in the form of glyphs in an archaic language
unknown to him.
“They are sigils I might have used to protect myself had I been wise
enough to recognize the machinations set against me in time! It is enough to
say that, with these, your sword shall nullify certain magics with which the
weapons of Suresha’s guards are equipped.”
Footsteps sounded outside. Thongor braced himself for a fight in these
close quarters. But of a sudden, the wizened hand of his aged benefactor
took hold of his wrist and pulled him into the bubble of mystic illumination,
and both were gone! The echoing footsteps ceased as their owners arrived,
thrusting their torches this way and that, trying to find any trace of their
prisoner within.

v. Swords against Darkness

Thongor had expected to find himself in some safe haven alongside his
benefactor, but of him the mighty Valkarthan was to see no more. Instead he
strode from the fading, rosy luminescence onto the flawless marble flooring
stones of the throne room of the Bride of Darkness! He knew not what sign
had revealed his coming, but several soldiers were running toward him as
soon as he stood forth. He was not slow to bring his blade to his defense. He
was surprised to see an enemy sword sweep harmlessly over his head in a
strange pattern. At once, a plume of jet darkness streamed from the sword’s
tip. In another moment the dark fog had congealed into the form of a man of
towering proportions, himself armed with the shadow of a sword. Now all
the Queen’s agents were passing their blades through the air, emitting
deadly shadows of murderous evil. And as each dark form solidified, the
light in the throne room dimmed a bit more. In mere moments, the whole
space was lost in shadows. Thongor squinted his animal—keen eyes and
found that the hulking shades bearing down on him were just visible against
the slightly more vaporous black of the ambient air. He knew not what good
a sword of forged steel might do against such beings, but there was nothing
else to try, and truth be known, he was eager to unleash his Valkarthan
sword against any foeman, human or not.
But then there was light! Not much, not enough to illuminate the
chamber, but bright enough to further distinguish the monstrous forms of
jetty blackness. The light came, of course, from the magical seals
emblazoned upon his sword. They had flared forth to meet the dark magic
of Savitar-Negroth’s hosts. Thongor hacked and thrust as he would have
against any mortal foe. When he connected, he did not meet the thick
resistance of human meat but only a strange tingling sensation as each
attacker vanished in a flash. With each one dispatched, the glow of the sigils
faded a little more, until, with the disappearance of the last of the dark
minions, his sword had resumed its customary sheen of bloodied steel.
The darkness had lifted, revealing the forms of the Queen’s soldiers
renewing their attack. This time their swords behaved as swords were meant
to, seeking blood to spill and flesh to butcher. But these were men who,
despite their long training, had never faced a real foe, so isolated was their
ancient homeland. They were no match for the berserker fury of the
Valkarthan savage who spun like a tornado bristling with steel. His sword
skewered men like meat over a campfire. He neatly cleft helmeted skulls
like a man slicing a cantaloupe for dessert. He parried clumsy thrusts two
and three at a time, as if he were laying waste to a helpless crowd of
children. He hacked off limbs and seized up the gory trunks of his victims
to use as missiles against advancing replacements.
None of this escaped the eyes of Suresha, which blazed with incandescent
shadows, revealing the fury of the terrible deity she served! As Thongor’s
blood-spattered form strode toward her throne, one hand reaching for her,
the other lifting his mighty sword, she rose before him unafraid. The
barbarian paused to take in the sight of her standing, statuesque figure. Her
evil-lit face was sheer beauty for all the corruption he knew it hid. She
raised her arms, hands open, palms up. She began to chant silently the name
of her god. And her great black tresses began eerily to lift themselves into
the air around her head like dancing Medusa-snakes, mimicking the rays of
the Black Sun she served. The time had come for her last and ultimate
defense.
 As she chanted, one more form commenced to materialize. It stood some
eight feet tall against the light, as, unlike its predecessors, its presence did
not bring with it a veil of shadow. Its darkness was palpable and all the
more terrifying somehow, as if challenging the very daylight about it to
dispel it if it could. Thongor tried to see its face but could make out no
features. He did think he could see horns sprouting from an ape-like head,
many of them, making the head look like a living mace. It wore no armor
and seemed to need none. Its flesh looked like charred meat, translucent
veins channeling rivulets of living magma. As it moved closer to him,
Thongor could see that it did possess eyes of a sort, but they were deep pits
of darkness that sucked in the light. And they sought his soul.
He looked again at his sword blade, but there was no glow. The magic the
old man had imparted had been spent. Thongor spared an instant’s glance
toward the throne and was surprised to behold there a supine, enervated
form. He dared not peer long, but he knew at once that the Back Dawn
Savitar-Negroth had abandoned his priestess” mortal shell to come forth in
the visible form that now advanced upon him. It was man against god! How
could a mortal expect, nay, even hope to win against a deity? But amid his
momentary fear a whisper spoke, perhaps echoing the feeble timbre of the
aged druid Maladorith-Yand. There was some paradox here, if only he
could hit upon it.
The god, all other plans futile, had been forced to assume human form.
But why should that be his last resort? Why not his first? Unless assuming
mortal form—Thongor hacked at the grasping, massive claw that sought his
throat—made even a god vulnerable to the perils of the flesh he had
assumed! Thongor chopped again, and the claw of the god fell away!
Hissing ichor spattered upon the tiled floor and began to eat away at it,
raising a plume of acrid smoke. The avatar of darkness recoiled in shock,
grasping the stump with its remaining hand, howling with all the befouled
air in its bellows-like lungs. It gazed at Thongor with renewed fury, but
Thongor’s bloodlust, too, was renewed! As a genuine hope of victory
blazed up, all fatigue fled, and he bore joyfully in upon his enemy.
Foolishly entering upon the mortal plane, even a god could die! And
Thongor meant to make sure this one did.
 vi. Blood Money Well Earned

Slidith’s vicar in Thurdis looked from one chained and

bruised figure to another, trying to choose the best for the upcoming
sacrifice. His mind was not on the task, for it had been some weeks since he
had sent his barbarian on his errand. The old druid was now torn between
chagrin that he had ever hatched such a scheme—what if the servants of the
Black Dawn tortured a confession from the barbarian and decided to settle
the score?—and impatience to see the Valkarthan again in case he had
somehow succeeded! Then what power would be at the druid’s disposal as
the new hierophant of Savitar-Negroth!
Absently, he turned from the inspection block on which his captives stood
with vacant, hopeless stares. He shuffled listlessly down the hall and into
his spacious chamber. He had no sooner sat down than something landed
upon his lap with a heavy thud. He knew he should look up at whoever had
tossed the thing, but he could not resist picking it up and looking at it. It
was a severed head, like a bloody comet trailing long tresses of hair! He
could not bring himself to turn it around and brush the hair away from the
battered face.
He knew. And knew he had been a fool for thinking it would have any
power. Then he looked up into the face of Thongor.
He stood with sword unsheathed and dripping the blood of the druid’s
largely ceremonial guards, whose spindle-shanked forms now littered the
floor along the windowed wall through which Thongor had entered. “Old
man, I have my reward already. I found your treasury.” With this he patted a
large pouch clipped to his warrior’s harness. “But I have come now to see
that you, too, receive your due reward.”
 3 Silver Shadows

i. A Merry Company
THE GOLDEN MOON of lost Lemuria filled the skies, providing little
cover for those who plied certain trades as far away as they might from the
scrutiny of the law. But Zakeela the courtesan showed no particular
preference for her customary shadows as she strode down the midst of the
Street of Taverns in the most dubious section of the city-state of Shembis.
Many eyes, filled with both surprise and desire, followed her as she pursued
her purposeful way. She had a goal but no fixed destination, for it was a
particular man she sought, without knowing where exactly, in which
drinking house, to find him. So her heavily shaded, smoldering eyes sought
for any clue before she would give in to the inevitable and try each tap
room one by one. But fortune favored her, and it was her gem-ringed ears
that found what she was seeking to find. Toward the end of the street, where
it ended abruptly at the city wall, one of the smokily glowing doorways
gave forth a sudden clatter, as if a whirlwind had entered the place and set
about its work with terrific force. This was not precisely the sort of sound
one would seek to approach under ordinary circumstances, but these were
not such circumstances, and so Zakeela made for the tavern as swiftly as
she could, retaining her professional composure, and grateful that the
ruckus had subsided by the time she got there.
The eyes of the men within, quickly tired of one spectacle and already
seeking another, turned like a squad of trained soldiers to observe her
coming, though many as quickly turned away again, realizing no doubt that
they had already drunk up their funds for the night. The barkeep’s sons were
busy sweeping away the debris of a struggle, shattered chairs and the like,
but otherwise the scene was surprisingly placid, a calm following the storm.
So Zakeela’s eyes resumed their keen scouting. Almost at once she spied
the man she had sought.
He sat in the corner, one guessed for tactical reasons, and wiped his
clean-shaven lips as he set down a foaming
tankard, not likely his first. She slunk to the other side of the tap room and
tried to blend in so as to observe him for a moment unseen. The young giant
towered over three drinking companions who, from the looks of it, held
their liquor less well than he, since all three without exception were now
face down on the table. The other shook back his shoulder-length mane and
wiped the sweat from his brow, his chopped bangs falling back into place.
The face, mainly unscarred, appealed to the harlot who saw many male
faces but appreciated few of them. His eyes were clear and quick and
unusual for some reason which, at this distance, she could not quite identify.
His cheekbones were high and prominent, his nose slightly aquiline, his jaw
strong. He had all his teeth, if her glimpse spoke truly. The burly youth
wore a scarlet tunic emblazoned in black with the device of a swooping
graak, the otherwise long extinct pterodactyl which yet lingered in the skies
of Lemuria. From a wall hook depended a great black cloak. Wristbands
hugged the giant’s forearms, looking as if they might once have served as
manacles. And now Zakeela saw that he was looking at her.
As she crossed the crowded, reeking room she kept her
eyes on his, thinking in this way to form some estimate of him before they
exchanged words. He remained an enigma, and not least because of those
eyes, which she could now see were miniature replicas of the great
Lemurian moon above, for they were gold in color. This lent the warrior’s
rugged face an incongruous hint of the ethereal. But that was scarcely the
only surprise in the scene, for she could now see that the three men with
him at the table were all dead, their ruined faces soaking up a pool of their
own oozing blood.
“You need more lively dining companions, young sir, if you don’t mind
my saying so.”
A quiver of a smile crossed his face. “They are just tired out, poor things.
A few moments ago they were quite frisky, I assure you. The fools sought
to test their mettle against me, a stranger, and their junior. I sat them here to
warn others. I prefer being alone.” These last words seemed, on second
thought, intended for her. She decided to come to the point.
“You are the Black Hawk of Valkarth?”
His brow furrowed; it usually meant trouble to be recognized. “Who
seeks me? And why?” He sat up straighter, the ale forgotten. She looked
around, aware of many eyes upon them. Seeing her discomfort, Thongor of
Valkarth (for that was his name) reached over and pushed
the nearest corpse from its perch, kicked it away, and motioned for his
visitor to join him. “Mind the blood. You’ll
not want to stain that pretty outfit. Now say on.”
“I serve those in high places in this kingdom. My master
seeks one such as you to secure him some. . . lost goods. There are dangers
involved, but the pay will make your risks worthwhile, I assure you.”
“I would hear more. What is it that he seeks? His own goods, stolen from
him? Or does he covet the treasure of another? And of what sort are these
dangers?”
“Are you afraid, then?”
Thongor laughed. “Fear is a vice I gave up long ago, girl. But a man likes
to know what he’s up against.”
“Well spoken,” she said, feeling sure that her master’s
choice was a sound one.
“And who is your master? From the looks of you I can see he must pay
splendidly indeed for services well rendered.”
Her cheeks crimsoned for the first time since she could remember and her
voice dropped. “I am sent by the Sark,
Arzang Pome himself.”
Thongor’s golden eyes widened the slightest bit. “I can
imagine my name is well enough known to him. I can imagine as well that
he might want to lead me into a trap.”
“I think you misjudge my master. He is not one to lose sleep over
assassinations and thieveries such as follow your name. In one such as you
he sees only the commodity of a talent he may use to his advantage.”
By this time, the young giant had arisen and secured his cloak to his
shoulders, from whence it belled out like a sail
as the pair quit the stale air of the drinking house and proceeded down the
street, retracing the courtesan’s journey of but half an hour before. “This is
not the place to bargain over the Sark’s business. Lead on.”
His suspicions still sounded like an alarm gong, but Thongor knew that
danger always presented opportunity provided a man were quick enough.
So he kept his eyes and ears open for treachery, as well as for the chance to
render some of his own if needed. He had been in the world of civilized
men but a short time, but his wild senses were keen to the serpentine wiles
of city folk.
 “Where are you taking me, Zakeela? The palace of Arzang Pome lies to
the south.”
“We are not going there. Another will explain your mission. The Sark
likes not to deal directly with . . .”
“With my kind!” Thongor laughed in derision. “Well, that
makes the two of us even, I guess!”

ii. Whispered Mysteries

“I like not the look of this place. It stinks of black sorcery!” The
Valkarthan instinctively loosened his great broadsword in its scabbard, for
all the good it might do him
against intangible perils such as he half-anticipated.
“Aye, that it would, young sir, for we have entered the magicians’ quarter,
and this is the dwelling of Belshathla the magus,” quoth Zakeela, afraid
now that the barbarian’s
superstitious dread might be getting the better of him. “But
all’s well. I swear, there is no trap.” Withal she made to rap
upon the ponderous wooden slab. But as her small knuckles fell, they met
no resistance, the door already sinking inward of its own accord. A cracked
voice from within sounded frail greetings.
“Zakeela? Is that the Black Hawk with you? Why, of course it is! Who
else would it be?” A comical figure threaded his maddeningly slow way
through twisted piles of strange contrivances and devices. The doors of half
a dozen scroll cabinets lay open, some cock-eyed on bent hinges. Inscribed
papyrus scraps and phondath parchment leaves were universally scattered,
and kabbalistic charts festooned the low walls. Heaps of the debris seemed
occasionally to shift as if living creatures, whether the sorcerer’s pets or
experimental subjects, were given free run of the place. A couple of
bracketed torches gave wan light, supplemented by the strange glow of
various crystal globes in which scenes of far-away sights seemed to flicker.
There was a near inaudible hum pervading the place, as of occult energies at
whose nature the uncouth barbarian could not even guess. But for all that he
saw, the greatest danger in the place appeared to be the low beams with
which his raven—locked head nearly collided more than once.
The old mage Belshathla was a bearded, swag-bellied gnome tenuously
borne aloft on precarious spindle—shanked legs. There was little of
menace, much of the burlesque about him. And yet his eyes did seem to
sparkle with a peculiar vitality. A stained apron gave him more the
appearance of an apothecary than that of a mighty sorcerer. Thongor held
his peace, somewhat at ease now, but waiting for more evidence upon
which to base a judgment on the old man.
The courtesan Zakeela embraced the squat figure as if he had been some
long—lost uncle. Thongor felt more relaxed still, enough to venture a
remark. “Are these the accommodations of a court magus? Forgive me, my
lord, but . . .”
The wrinkled face split in a grin. “It is true I serve the Sark of Shembis.
But I am not one of his court, nor do I seek any wealth save the riches of
learning that surround me. And besides, the more tokens of favor one
receives from the powerful, the more tightly their talons fasten upon one.”
At this, a shadow passed over Zakeela’s pretty countenance.
“So, my dear, you have not yet told our young friend the nature of his
task? Very well; allow me. Young sir, I can tell you only so much, because a
crucial element of the challenge that faces us remains a mystery, even to
one such as I. Still, I will tell you all I know.”
“First,” the impatient Valkarthan demanded, “what is it I
am to seek?” “A hoard of silver, that much I know, if legends tell truly.
A hoard surpassing the dreams of men, a fortune amassed before the
dawn of men by the very Dragon Kings themselves! You will know that our
sovereign Arzang Pome, a greedy man all round, has an especial fetish for
silver, prizing it even above gold and electrum.”
“Aye, his standards, banners, pennants, even the chasing of his kroters’
bridles gleam of silver, much to the despair of the many poor lining the
streets of his city.” At these words, Zakeela’s own numerous argent.
trinkets, presents of her royal master, began to hang heavily upon her.
“That is indeed so, Thongor of Valkarth. And you will ask why we are
concerned to aid him in gaining even more. As it stands, nothing will stop
him in pursuing his obsession. But a man obsessed is a dangerous man. And
we but seek to minimize the danger to which he may expose us all. For if
the silver treasure truly exists, there is said to be a potent curse upon it.”
Thongor growled deep down. “I knew it had to come to that sooner or
later! Of what sort is this curse? That which
seeks out the despoiler after the fact and strikes him down? Or mayhap a
guardian set to forestall attempts to steal the treasure?”
The Wizard’s rheumy eye sparkled to observe the curt and business-like
manner of the young mercenary, a good omen. “The latter, so far as I can
determine, for my manuscripts tell of many over the ages who have sought
the treasure and perished miserably in the attempt. Of no man is it written
that he made away with riches only to be tracked down by some nemesis.
But of what nature that guardian spirit may be, I know not. Only two words
are told of it: “Silver Shadows,” and beyond this nothing is known.”
“And the location of this great treasure? Is a long journey involved? I will
need provisions . . .”
“Few, I should think,” mused Belshathla. “For the treasure lies buried in a
cavern deep beneath the Sark’s own castle. Indeed, the old legend was the
reason he chose the site.”

iii. Paths of Peril

Upon the morrow, a rested and well-fed Thongor, accoutered now in

black link-mail supplied by the Sark’s largesse, embarked upon his task. He
had not seen the voluptuous Zakeela since the previous night, but he hoped
to see more of her whenever the present business might be over. For now,
he made his way swiftly and silently down the surprisingly smooth path of a
tunnel far below the surface, below even the sewers, of ancient Shembis.
Many men had passed this way, perhaps those treasure-seekers of whom
legend told dolefully, perhaps simply workmen of the Sark who had done
preliminary spadework to make his access easier. Here and there were signs
of recent workmanship, not least the infrequent torches bracketed to the
damp walls. Their wan light seemed more to smolder than to glow,
dampened in some strange manner by a hidden foulness in the very air.
The Valkarthan’s equipment, by choice, was meager, for he trusted in his
good right arm and in his great broadsword with its strange elder—world
sigils. The young giant had come upon the relic many months before in a
Northern mountain cave and had won it from its ancient guardian. He
suspected that the blade was in truth enchanted, though the sheer fact of his
own victory over its previous bearer would seem to belie that. Thongor held
the blade firmly in his clenched fist, and it almost seemed that the
engravings along its surface shone against the all-pervasive miasma of the
place. But now was not the time for such musings.
As the old savant had told him, there was no lengthy journey involved, so
of victuals he carried none. Slung over his shoulders were a pair of large
sacks in which he might bring back specimens of the forbidden silver
should he succeed in vanquishing whatever guardian might seek to prevent
its theft. But the fabled loot must far exceed the capacity of a single delver;
hence Thongor’s task was but to clear the way for the Sark’s more timid
servants to come and bear away the rest.
Just ahead, around a bend in the tunnel, traces of voices—Thongor
judged three—wafted to his ears. Had other fortune-hunters, not in the
Sark’s employ, sought to forestall his mission? Or was there treachery in
store after all? Ready for anything, Thongor sprang into the midst of
whatever scene might await him, seeking the advantage of surprise.
But it was he who was surprised, and muchly so. For what filled his eyes
was the familiar yet completely unexpected form of Zakeela the courtesan
—spread-eagled on a set of wooden crossbeams, her sweating, naked flesh
gleaming in the torch light. Stunned only for a moment, Thongor turned,
sword already raised, to face the girl’s captors.
“What in the Eleven Scarlet Hells is this?” he barked, eyes narrowing. He
stayed his hand, for it was plain the two dull oafs, though well armed,
intended him no harm. One, considerably alarmed, managed to sputter,
“Hold there, Black Hawk! We were sent to aid you! For a second there, I
thought you the guardian of the treasure!” “The Sark sent such as you to
join the fray? And what of Zakeela? What mischief is this?” Thongor
stepped to her side and undid the silken scarf that had been used to gag her.
Her eyes frantic, Zakeela gasped, “Thongor! Praise the Nineteen Gods!
The Sark thought it might go better with you if he placated the guardian of
the treasure with a human sacrifice. These ruffians abducted me in the
middle of the night and bound me here. Arzang Pome reasoned that you
might come upon the monster, whatever it may be, already busy or perhaps
sated. I have passed many hours here with no sign of the guardian, but only
the lewd mutterings of these base fools.”
Thongor began to unfasten her bonds. One of the Sark’s men protested,
“Here, now! It’s Sark’s orders—she’s to be fed to the thing from the tunnel!
You can’t. . .” Thongor’s swordpoint was at his throat in an instant.
“And why not offer him a pair of sacrifices, fatter ones
and far more tasty? I care not for the mad reasonings of the Sark! The task
is mine, and I’ll not be party to the slaying of the innocent.”
The other man, older and more crafty than his partner, now spoke up.
“There’s no need for bloodshed, young sir. I quite agree. But orders is
orders. Still, there’s no one to know better if we three reached a bargain, eh?
We take turns with her, see, and when we’ve all had our fill, we leave her to
the Sark’s pet beastie!” He looked genuinely surprised when the young
outlander’s gaze only grew more fierce. The Black Hawk lifted his sword
signaling that the others should do the same, as words were done. He would
settle the issue in a more definitive way. But it was not to be.
“Thongor! He comes! The guardian!” The others took to their heels, back
the way they had come. Zakeela stared in disbelief as Thongor dropped his
combat stance. Strange sounds, as of a great weight dragging on the ground,
crushing the gravel beneath it, warned of the imminent advent of some
unthinkable monstrosity, but Thongor busied himself with cutting through
the ropes that chafed the tender flesh of the desperate maid.
“If I am defeated, I will not have you left captive to the thing’s
depredations!” So saying, he freed her, then wheeled just in time. Like a
swarm of deadly jungle flies a massive form swept into view with speed
seemingly impossible for such great bulk. It thrust a great limb at the raven-
maned head. Thongor dropped, grazed by the blow, which he could not
entirely avoid. He sought to regather his fleeing wits and to bring his sword
arm into play, knowing his foe would allow him no quarter, no margin for
error. Before he could strike, however, he heard an unearthly shriek from
the monster. Zakeela had somehow managed, with arms still stiff from
captivity, to grab one of the torches and cast it into the thing’s face.
Thongor rolled aside and regained his feet in a bound. “You’re a wonder,
girl! I owe you both our lives—but begone now! I’ll fight my own battle!”
 Knowing she could not hope to strike so fortuitous a blow a second time,
and equally aware that the barbarian sought only to mask his concern for
her under his protest of manly pride, Zakeela did as she was ordered.
Thongor was alone with the guardian of the treasure.
For a moment, he and the creature stood poised facing one another, and
he got his first clear glimpse of it. Filling most of the enclosure, the
towering apelike form was a living fortress of iron muscle barely contained
beneath a scaly reptilian hide. The thing might well be a survivor of the
vanished age of the fabled Dragon Kings whose own sorcery had
eventuated in their doom, though shuddered rumors hinted that here and
there some of their species might survive, planning the renewal of their
ophidian empery.
It was a large measure of Thongor’s fighting skill that he
approached each contest as a gambler approaches the table, quickly
assessing and calculating the situation and its opportunities. Fear he knew to
be a fatal luxury and so did not allow himself to be whelmed by its onrush.
Danger and death he took for granted. They were but his opponents in the
game, and he began to calculate how to beat them. He knew that the size of
the creature, for all its power to intimidate, must be a tactical disadvantage
in these close quarters. Whoever had conjured it here must have overlooked
that, trusting to its frightful ferocity as a sufficient weapon.
He had to stay clear of the vicious talons of the thing, scythes mounted on
living tree limbs, striking with the force of a battering ram. Each blow,
already falling like rain, dislodged fragments of stone from the narrow
walls, with no apparent discomfort to the monster. Agility must tell the tale.
Thongor dodged, feinted, dived. He swiftly realized that he could trick the
guardian into sparring with his shadow in a repeated pattern, a dance, if he
could pick a path between the scaly limbs, evading the mighty but clumsy
blows, and then repeat it. For its part, the lumbering behemoth seemed to
trust in no more than persistence and, if it could manage it, speeding up its
pursuit, like a dog chasing its tail.
At first Thongor made no effort to strike with the sword, hoping to lull
the dull-witted guardian into believing it was no more than a game of chase.
As he circled the saurian figure, he noted with dismay that his foe bore the
scars of many previous battles, many previous victories, for he could see the
fragments of several sword and knife blades
protruding from various spots on its broad back and tree—
trunk legs. It appeared the weapons of previous opponents had simply
broken off and given the monster no pause. How could he avail against such
a foe?
One of the lumbering monster’s blows found its mark and hurled the
young warrior through the air. His link-mail did a little to cushion the
impact, but Thongor nonetheless had the wind driven from him. By
willpower more than anything else, he rolled aside and narrowly avoided
the brunt of the oncoming attack. He had been hurled further up the length
of the subterranean hall and now found himself in position to behold at least
a bit of the legendary silver hoard itself. What he actually saw, having but a
moment to spare for it, was the
seemingly self-generated bluish glow of the silver treasure. In this depth
there could be no daylight for it to reflect, and the color was wrong for
reflected lamplight. But here came the dragon-thing again.
Thongor remembered how the mage Belshathla had spent an hour or so
the previous night engaged in some mummery over his young guest’s
broadsword, as if he had recognized something in the faded engravings
along its ancient blade. Perhaps there might be something to the old man’s
superstitions. At any rate, Thongor now found that he had enough space to
swing the sword without encumbrance, and with a gasp of a prayer to father
Gorm, the uncouth deity of his people, he let loose a blow at the thing’s
slavering head.
It met no resistance! And yet, his senses amply honed by many combats,
Thongor knew he could not have missed his target. He guessed that he
owed to the old savant’s spells and blessings that his sword did not shatter
on impact as many others had before. His blade was useless as a weapon: he
accepted that and looked for another. And surprise was always a handy
weapon, so he turned on his heel and ran for the heaped treasure, a
seemingly foolish gesture as it could only bring his opponent after him with
increased fury. What Thongor hoped to gain by this desperate stratagem not
even he knew. But every other path was closed to him. If any open door
remained, it must lie in this direction.
 iv. Voices from the Past

Zakeela fled down the tunnel path until she tripped over something that
lay in the shadows at her feet. It was her clothes, heaped in a pile where the
Sark’s men had left them after stripping her. No doubt they had planned to
sell the rich brocades and silks and convert the profits into heady sarn wine.
She reached mechanically for her garments and hastily donned them, as if
some instinctive female modesty overruled even the panic she felt. Arzang
Pome, he who had betrayed her, had in the days of his favor bedecked her
with various pendants and broaches of his favorite precious metal, and she
made to pocket these rather than take the time now to arrange them. But one
of them, a large silver disk polished to mirror-like clarity, caught her eye as
a glimmer of torch light seemed to kindle it into unnatural illumination. The
strange light made her feel sleepy for a split second, then she saw, or
imagined she saw, in it the wizened face of her mentor Belshathla. There
was no sound, but she felt sure she could read the old man’s lips as he spoke
to her. Was it a dream? Had she fainted in her terror?
“. . . long last discovered the riddle of the Silver Shadows! It was in the
Scarlet Edda all along, if one but had eyes to see it! I found the clue in a
glyph on the Black Hawk’s sword! Then, just now, it all made sense! My
dear, here is what you must needs do. Otherwise your champion stands no
chance...”
Moments later, Zakeela gathered her wits and plunged down the tunnel,
back in the direction of the growing sounds of struggle. She passed the
broken crossbeams upon which her former master had intended she be
sacrificed as a tidbit to sate the monster. She noticed the stone debris fallen
from the walls and marveled at the power of the demon that had dislodged
it, fearing for the safety of the young Valkarthan. Then she came into view
of the pair of combatants. Thongor’s situation, she saw, was desperate. He
picked up and threw at the creature what stones lay to hand, but none had
any effect. It was all he could do to sidestep the deadly lunges of the thing.
She was sure he might have evaded it long enough to regain the safety of
the tunnel and flee as she had done, but he had not. Apparently flight was
not in his makeup.
 Hoping not to distract him for a fatal instant, she nonetheless called out
for his attention. “Thongor! Here! Strike him with this, if you can!” And
she threw something as far as she could in his direction, hoping Thongor
would manage to reach it before his untiring foe did. He succeeded, owing
to the fact that his enemy, little more than an animated engine of
destruction, possessed not the curiosity to note the object she had thrown,
like the apple of discord, into the fray.
Stooping down to grasp the shiny object, then sidestepping another
attack, Thongor saw that Zakeela had thrown him a mere trinket and, if he
be not mistaken, one he had earlier seen her wearing. It was some manner
of broach wrought cunningly from silver in the shape of a scimitar. He was
to smite the giant reptile with a toy like this? He smiled briefly at the
devotion that must have moved her to this gesture of desperation. But as
swift as thought, here came the fist of the titan, and he instinctively made to
deflect it. He thrust forth the fist which still grasped the sword-ornament,
and to his amazement he saw it rake the reticulated hide of the beast. Where
it touched the creature, it sparked and smoked, and the thing recoiled. There
was a queer kind of flash of negative light, if such be possible, and then he
again faced the giant figure, little having visibly changed.
He cast the toy aside and drew his sword once more. Futile gesture as it
might be, he resolved to go down fighting. Heedless of the probable
outcome, Thongor swung the mighty broadsword like an ax directly into the
monster’s heaving chest—and a great bloody swath appeared! He brought
the sword down again and cleft deep into one of the pillar-like forearms. He
had passed at last from mere defense to attack, his more accustomed role,
and it felt good!
The scaly fiend now stood bewildered by pain and surprise, if Thongor
read its inhuman countenance aright. It screamed in agony as the Valkarthan
chopped again and again at its staggering form, letting loose geysers of
steaming gore and stinking reptilian blood. In mere moments, Thongor was
soaked in the noisome stuff, but in the berserk rage that possessed him, he
scarcely marked it. Long after the guardian of the treasure had ceased to be
any threat, Thongor kept at it, like a grim and remorseless butcher, till the
tunnel floor was littered with the sundered parts of the lifeless carcass.
 v. The Riddle Solved

Zakeela looked at her champion, as he turned from his

bloody work, with a mixture of horror, relief, and desire.
Some of this she thought she saw mirrored in the barbarian’s strange golden
eyes, the only part of him not drenched with gore. Thongor looked at
himself and laughed. “I’m not a pretty sight, I fear. But if it’s a pretty sight
you want to see, my princess, look yonder.” He pointed with his dripping
sword to the gleaming silver hoard. There were heaps upon heaps of
goblets, crowns, shields, breastplates, statues, as well as a number of
utensils harder to place, things that might easily have been designed for the
use of non-human anatomy, as that of the Dragon Kings.
“We’ll be rich on this stuff.” Thongor the professional thief spoke now,
all thought of the preternatural horrors of the past hour clean forgotten. “I
swear that fat bastard Arzang Pome will lay nary a bejeweled finger upon it.
Somehow we’ll get it out of here ourselves, and . . .” Withal, the Valkarthan
stooped down and sought to gather into his arms a sample of the hard—won
booty.
Quoth Zakeela: “My lord, I fear . . .”
At once Thongor found his arms empty of treasure, and
the whole subterranean hall likewise! He looked around him with outrage
and bafflement. “By the Flame Lord! What witchery is this?”
She could not suppress a laugh, hoping not to enrage him further. “It is
witchery indeed! As was that whereby you were able to slay the guardian!
As I fled, the spirit of the mage Belshathla came to me and bade me cast
you the broach. A thing of silver, it proved fatal to a creature of black
magic. It dispelled the sorcery that shielded the monster from all harm, so
that you might engage it in fair combat.”
Still confused, Thongor asked, “But how can that be? After all, it was the
guardian of a hoard of silver such as no
man ever saw!”
“That was the riddle which the mage at last deciphered. There was never
any treasure—only silver shadows, an enchantment placed there by the
Dragon Kings, or by some sorcerers at any rate, to lure greedy mortals to
their doom.”
“Then I have very nearly paid with my life for the greed of another!”
She came to him and embraced him, heedless now of the foulness with
which he was soaked, kissed him, and said, “My beloved, let us make haste
to depart the city, for Arzang Pome will soon enough learn that no treasure
is forthcoming, and he will surely believe you have made away with it.”
“As I would, if only I could, Gorm damn me!” Thongor laughed, then
swept up Zakeela in a great embrace. “Come, my princess, let us back to the
house of Belshathla. I suspect he has resources to aid two fugitives. We’ll
settle up with Arzang Pome another time.”
 4 Mind Lords of Lemuria

i. Jungle Silver

THE HANDFUL OF kroter-mounted soldiers thundered into the glade, the

intense sunlight of olden Lemuria mottling their harsh features through the
overhanging foliage. Only half their original number, these survivors were,
on the whole, neither stronger nor cannier than their late companions, just
luckier—with perhaps one exception. Command of the unit had fallen to a
young barbarian from the frozen peaks of Valkarth, a complete stranger to
these climes, but seemingly indifferent to the stings of clinging vine and
bird-sized mosquito alike. His name was Thongor, and some months earlier
he had entered the service of the fat Sark of Shembis, the tyrant Arzang
Pome. The ways of civilized men seemed no less than madness to the
strapping Valkarthan, accustomed as he was to the barest code of survival in
a hostile world. But the decadent Pome’s madness was real, even by
civilization’s standards. His madness was a greed for silver. Hushed rumor
had it that the Sark required the precious metal for some unspeakable
alchemical rites aimed at securing eternal youth. And, while believable,
these whispers might be a simple cloak for insatiable greed where the metal
was concerned. Perhaps the jowly monarch just had a liking for it. At any
rate, it was his silver lust that had sent this mixed band of palace guards and
mercenaries on what thus far had been a futile chase into unmapped jungle.
Some wandering mage had sold the Sark a wives’ tale of a lost city buried
in the depth of the lotifer forest, a rich and proud city anciently whelmed for
its overweening pride by the Nineteen Gods. Surely a city so proud must
have shared the oblivious ruler’s imprudent lust for precious metal, and so
he sought to emulate their crime, risking their doom. If, that is, there had
ever been such a place, a half-fabulous city with no name even the itinerant
storyteller could remember. But greed lets no chance go unopened, and here
they were, most of the men sick and disgusted. Their commander, a high-
ranking member of the elite guard, had already perished from snakebite,
several others from deadly fruit. Wild beasts had thus far remained at a
distance, but as the men’s numbers shrank, this might well change.
Thongor had assumed command, and no one with an objection had any
longer the strength to challenge him. He
would do his best to watch out for the men. He liked not the bargain the
Sark had struck: how many men might be spent in search of superfluous
loot that probably didn’t even exist? He decided he would press on but a bit
farther into the rank growth, far enough to justify the report that a search
had turned up nothing. Then he would turn back and take his chances as the
bearer of bad tidings. He explained his scheme to the men, and none
gainsaid him, all eager to be back in the Shembis wine shops and brothels if
they should live so long.
Such thoughts occupied him as Thongor guided the front most of the
mounts carefully through the strange terrain. It suddenly grew thicker again,
slowing them down to a maddening crawl. He congratulated himself on
having
avoided a path grown thick at the far end with spiky vines,
but as he turned left, the company raggedly following along . . .
Disaster closed like a vise! At once there was nothing underfoot. A
hunter’s trap, he thought momentarily as his stomach lurched with the
unexpected descent. But the fall continued too long, and it was just before
he crashed to the solid floor beneath that he realized he had found what he
sought. The vines and bushes of a thousand years had silently covered the
tunnel mouth leading to a great underground complex.

ii. Caverns of Madness

It was not long before consciousness returned, and thanks to his wilderness-
bred instincts, it returned like a pouncing snow-vandar. His head ached, but
Thongor’s full black mane, square-cut across his forehead, had cushioned
the blow. His silver-plated helmet was nowhere to be seen. He
rose up on one elbow, turning in every direction, trying to pierce the
shadows with his curious golden eyes, to see how his men fared, men who
had made a mistake in following him. Thongor cursed himself as he paced
across what seemed an extensive chamber, stooping over body after body,
finding a broken neck here, a fatal concussion there. All he could find were
dead, but not all were yet accounted for. Of a sudden he saw a trace of
lambence, a strangely colored light shining round a corner of the cavern
wall. Had the other survivors, and there could be no more than four, he
estimated, had they awakened before him and gone on without him, deeper
into the shaft? It seemed unlikely.
Tightening his sword belt and choosing a dagger from one of the
recumbent forms, Thongor made for the light. But before he could round
the corner, crouched in a stance anticipating attack, he was surprised by an
advancing form that seemed to throw itself upon him like a vast blanket.
Dry like a snake, yet viscously unstable like some jellyfish, the thing sought
to smother him, but he whipped his longsword from its sheath like lightning
and hacked desperately at that which held him. It bled not, nor made any
sound. But a faint buzzing, of which the barbarian had been but
subliminally aware up to now, began to heighten in pitch and urgency.
Thongor ripped and sliced, tearing with one hand as he cut with the other,
but the living wave of alien flesh began to get the better of him, attaching to
his face, cutting off his breath. For the second time in under an hour, he lost
consciousness.
This time he awoke to the buzzing, easily loud enough that he could not
ignore it. He tried to move. Frustrated in this, he next tried at least to gain
his bearings, focusing his eyes. This was difficult. He seemed to see but a
pinkish blur, though there was a hint of motion somewhere within the
roseate haze. lt registered that the hue was nothing natural, but the same as
he had seen reflected earlier on the cavern wall. It emanated from no single
source, yet it filled the very air around him, and its strength extended no
farther than mere inches beyond a great circular tube that held his immobile
form. As his eyes became accustomed to the weird haze, his peripheral
vision revealed the arrangement of four other containers, presumably like
his own, in a rough semicircle against the irregular cavern wall. At some
point in the distant past, someone or something had troubled to smooth the
rocky surface, yet without bothering to straighten the natural walls.
Thongor’s world knew a crude version of glass, though mirrors were
usually constructed of polished silver. He had never seen the like of what
held him captive now, a perfectly smooth, seemingly quite thick cylinder of
transparent shielding. And it was the same with the others. The tale of the
wandering mage had been no idle tale, then, though whatever treasure
might lurk here would seem to be far too costly to recover. Thongor thought
with grim irony that he would be a rich man to escape this place with the
treasure of his life.
He thought he could make out the blurred lines of the remaining
companions within the other tubes. Three he had not known well, but the
fourth and the easiest to recognize because of his short stature, was one Tam
Tavis, a boy too young for the dangers of this ill—fated mission, but
headstrong enough that he would not be left behind. Thongor had seen in
the strapping youth a reflection of himself in earlier years, a boy budding
into manhood quickly, with instincts and reflexes, not to mention
precocious strength, that would one day serve him well on the battlefield.
There was no school for adventure better than adventure itself, as he had
learned amply, so he had put up no real opposition when the lad had
pleaded to be taken along. Now Thongor rued his decision. He had long ago
lost count of the number of foemen’s lives he had taken. But it was a new
and distasteful thing for him to count the squandered lives of friends.
The Valkarthan’s golden eyes were brought back front and center by the
sudden appearance of that alien entity he had fought and failed to defeat.
His brow flared into a fever of rage as he traced the heavy, shifting motions
of the shapeless silhouette before him, his temperature rising even faster
with the chagrin of defeat. And for all this, his spine began at once to tingle
as he seemed to feel the creeping tendrils of a foreign consciousness
entering and mingling with his own. A rising panic abruptly ceased,
however, as his mind’s eye began to gape at vast scenes crystallizing from a
mist of seeming forgetfulness, as if he were awakening from a long sleep
and coming to himself, a self he had forgotten he possessed.
He knew it not, but Thongor”s square jaw fell slack and
drooling as his vacant eyes gazed down the centuries, through the memories
of his inhuman host. Together the unlikely pair beheld a great vista of which
discredited legends spoke: the infinitely ancient migration through the
cosmic aethyr of a legion of sentient comets. From a neighboring sphere
they came, the immemorial Children of
the Fire Mist, so designated in the forbidden Testament of Xanrhu,
ostensibly salvaged from the collapsing fanes of elder Mu. They had arrived
on the new-made earth, seeking among the myriad forms of burgeoning life
some spark of intelligence that they might fan into flame, perhaps out of
sheer benevolence, perhaps for recondite reasons of their own. The Lords of
the Fire Mist had the uncanny ability of transferring their own intellects,
incorporeal as they were, into whatever physical forms they chose, so long
as these possessed at least some malleable mind stuff. They sought by this
means to heighten the faculties of these crude beings, to hasten their
evolution to full awareness. The first objects of their attentions were the
scarcely sentient pseudopodic creatures whose likeness Thongor had lately
battled. With
these beings they eventually won great success, their mottled blue-green
rubbery forms at length evolving into the mighty blue-skinned Rmoahal
warriors of the southern plains. But these proved too mighty for the Mind
Lords to dominate. They had done their work too well. After long years
they ventured another experiment in what Thongor would have deemed
blackest sorcery. The Sons of the Fire Mist chose a species of small, tailed
mammals, bulge-eyed and bulb— fingered, tree—swingers, bug-eaters.
Thongor’s vision, which falsely seemed a memory, traced the progress of
these creatures up the ladder of apedom to nobler form and feature, and he
knew he had witnessed the very origin of his own tribe: Man.
Thongor now knew, and indeed took for granted, that the loathsome form
of the thing he had fought and which now shared his very soul was a
specimen of that earlier, long-ago age of experiment, before the furry
branch-swingers took their first involuntary steps to humanity. Here was
one of the first intelligent beings from earth’s dawn age. How long had it
bided the ages? He sensed a great anger and a greater. . . covetousness. This
one of the archaean Mind Lords of Lemuria wanted what he, unlike his
ancient colleagues, had been denied: a fully human form to inhabit. Their
ancient mission had succeeded. Wisdom had been ignited in the breasts of
earthly creatures. Had the rest of the Children of the Fire Mist abandoned
the planet again, returned to their adjacent sphere? If so, then why had they
left this one behind? Thongor found he could share none of the creature’s
memory at this point. Here the lone Mind Lord became guarded, perhaps
from ancient habit, when he needed to shield certain heretical or treasonous
thoughts from his more enlightened fellows?

iii. Alien Flesh

The Valkarthan lost consciousness again, instantly, as one

snuffed out a temple candle. When he again awakened, no sense of the
passage of dreamtime betrayed how long he had been out. He knew at once
that the paralysis had left him, and he made to flex his limbs. His initial
thought was surprise that there was no ache—until he beheld in horror
members which answered to his commands, albeit clumsily, but were not
his own! Worse yet, they were not even remotely human. Of course he
knew himself the prisoner of his rugose and monstrous host, more truly and
damnably a prisoner than he had been when paralyzed. He was back in the
clear tube, and his ungainly tentacles thrashed helplessly against the
smooth, concave surface. He found he was able to see what transpired
without, but his sight was somehow different. Nothing seemed to point in
any particular direction more than another. Relative height and width
fluctuated. Colors shimmered into and out of the familiar spectrum range.
His human form was free—and occupied! He saw the image of Thongor
of Valkarth admiring himself in a mirror, as if a man should consider a new
robe or suit of armor! Gradually, his living image drew forth its scabbarded
longsword, again belted to the hip, and made clumsy swipes with it through
the stagnant air of the cavern. But the thing that held his body hostage was
rapidly accustoming itself to the reflexes and instincts of its new home.
Thongor’s body as well as his mind had learned his martial skills, and that
made them available to the usurper.
But it appeared to work the other way, too! Thongor at once felt more in
control of the repulsive alien form he had inherited. He was for the moment
no less a captive, but he
knew that things need to change but slightly before new possibilities begin
to form. Nor was this the only change.
The Mind Lord in Thongor’s body now held the blade in
one hand and manipulated some glowing studs on a chest high metal
surface. The mist filling one of his men’s cylinders began to dissipate,
drawn back through tiny holes in the base. The man within began to shake
himself awake, lacking the paralysis Thongor had experienced. Then the
cylinder retreated into a recess in the cavern shadows above, leaving the
man free and gasping a lung full of the stale but welcome air. His eyes
visibly brightened as he recognized him whom he took for his brave
commander. Inside Thongor’s prison tube, he could hear no sounds, but he
saw that the soldier spoke pleasantly to his commander’s image, awaited a
reply, looked puzzled—then crumpled with his life’s blood jetting in a
geyser from the severed stump of his head.
The helpless mind of the captive Valkarthan raged in impotent fury as he
saw the same performance repeated by the incarnated Mind Lord, who
seemed to imagine he honed his battle skills by similarly butchering the rest
of the Sark’s dazed troops. No doubt one and all perished thinking Thongor
had betrayed and murdered them! He vowed that his foe should pay dearly
for this outrage!
But now the false Thongor made to open the prison-tube of the last of the
men, young Tam Tavis! The blue—green sheath that was his body shook
with unaccustomed—— human—fury; Thongor knew he must somehow
find a way to prevent this final atrocity.

iv. Thongor against Thongor!

He saw a single, dim chance and acted more by instinct than by design.
Thongor’s mind had begun to feel, as if by the acquisition of a new sense,
that it could mimic some of the mental feats of the thing whose alien form
he now wore. He focused his oddly distorted vision upon his own stolen
form, but it remained obtuse to his probing. The entity must have taken
precautions against the trick Thongor now tried. But the barbarian would
not be daunted, not with his young friend’s life at stake. He focused next
upon the awakening form of Tam Tavis. Thongor had a dreamlike
apprehension of running, exerting himself in a race to reach some far point
as soon as he might, straining every nerve. And then he was beyond the
physical form he had occupied—wand into that of Tam Tavis!
Thongor knew he was taking several risks at once, not the least of which
was that the boy, awakening inside the terrible, utterly non-human form of
the Mind Lord, would instantly go quite mad. Already in his brief career of
adventuring, Thongor had beheld a number of sights to shake the soul,
though mind-transference with this awful being might have unhinged him
without the shared memory-vision of the Mind Lord to make sense of the
events for him. And he knew Tam Tavis had no such advantage. Gorrn grant
the boy would awaken with the creature’s brain-instincts as a safety net.
For his own part, Thongor could not help rejoicing in wearing a more
accustomed form, blood pumping through muscled arms and legs from a
central heart (for the adepts of ancient Lemuria knew already this much of
the body’s systems). He was shorter now, but his perspective was much
more familiar than the strangely filtered perceptions of the thing from the
planet Venus had been. There was but little sluggishness in the lad’s limbs
as the adrenalin drove out the last vestiges of the alien sleep gas.
The black-maned, golden-eyed giant facing him appeared to freeze for a
moment, surprised, but quickly making sense of what had happened. It was
plain he had not deemed the barbarian or his race so capable. In that
moment of his foe’s hesitation, Thongor darted forward to grasp the hilt of
the dagger he had earlier picked up from the fallen body of a soldier. His
mighty opponent had not expected the move, just looked at the blade in
Tam Tavis’ hand and smiled, raising his own great-bladed sword.
The two men paced and circled, the younger crouching like a hunting
vandar. Both had blades extended, and the disparity between the two
weapons daunted Thongor not.
Indeed, he feared his own prowess with the blade, not daring to contrive to
kill his opponent—himself! Which would prevail: his strength, or his skill?
The first blow was that of the Mind Lord, a clumsy but powerful thrust,
which Tam Tavis" body, agile as a cricket,
easily sidestepped. “Go ahead! Flee me, human! I have waited all these
kalpas, and I can spare a few minutes more!” The intonation was not quite
right, as if the thing inside were only beginning to get used to the human
vocal apparatus.
“Fool!” the Lemurian youth gasped with the exertion, “You have waited
so long only for death!” He knew how laughable that sentiment must seem.
Even if he were able to overcome the massive form whose death-dealing
capacities he knew better than anyone else, it were mere foolishness to seek
to kill his own body! Better to find some way to get it back—if he could
evade its increasingly skillful blows!
As he considered his next move, Thongor noticed that the amorphous
body of the Mind Lord was now flailing with
agitation. Plainly, the mind of Tam Tavis had awakened in its new abode
and liked it not! But was the young mind also going mad? Was it as
Thongor had feared? If so, here would be another innocent death charged to
his account. But he dared not entertain such thoughts at the moment if he
hoped at least to save the body of his young friend, to say naught of his own
soul.
He saw now that the boy’s agility exceeded his own, just
as his weight was much less than Thongor’s. New stratagems suggested
themselves like an eager student in a classroom. Thongor took advantage of
his borrowed skills to leap upward and grasp hold of a fang-like stalactite.
He hoped to gain a moment’s breather this way, but he had not counted on
the slippery nitre and began at once to slide downward. So be it; he would
come down on his opponent’s head. His own form stood uncertainly below,
trying to spot his vanished quarry amid the dense shadows, seeing his
sudden descent too late. If only the younger man might knock the older
unconscious without further damage!
But the mighty frame of Thongor of Valkarth shrugged off the blow and
assumed a fighting stance once more.
Thongor’s mind felt keenly the lack of his great barrel chest and ample
lungs, for he could not now replenish his wind so quickly. He noticed from
the corner of his eye one of his men’s shields that had been sent bouncing
and rolling by the initial impact of his fall and made its way into the present
chamber. He evaded the lunge of the larger form, which still had not
grasped how to check and channel its own inertia, and he ran for the shield
and grabbed it up. His foeman stood foursquare once more and brought
down the sword like a headsman’s axe. The uplifted shield saved him but
sacrificed itself, shattering against the superior blade; nor could it prevent
the raised arm beneath it from taking the edge of the sword.
Thongor knew his time must be near. He shook his head to scatter some
of the blood that had sloshed into his eyes and looked toward the cylinder
where the now calm form of the Mind Lord reposed. Had the mind of Tam
Tavis
collapsed as his body was about to? Or dared Thongor hope that he had
made the adjustment, that perhaps he was discovering, as Thongor himself
had, what new abilities were available to him?
“I salute you, human! You have afforded me valuable exercise! For I
must go in your form and in your name back into the world of men. With
my knowledge of the science of the Children of the Fire Mist and the
combined labors of your fellow humans to aid me like worker ants, I shall
soon master this world and devise a means to return to my own, where I
will at last gain revenge upon those who abandoned me on your primitive
globe for my imagined crimes. You are indeed honored to have played a
role in such a grand scheme, and I shall remember the sacrifice you are
about to make.” Withal he lifted his sword for the final blow.
And delivered it. Blood and consciousness alike began to flee the young
body, and Thongor’s lone thought was that he should thus perish in the
body of his friend, both murderer and victim.

v. Thongor Berserk!

But in a moment he was aware again, as if someone had nudged him out of
a fresh nap! He saw the same scene from a different angle, and from several
feet away. The colors were distorted and the angles somehow skewed. He
was back in the shroudlike form of the alien! That meant that Tam Tavis
had managed to return his mind to his own proper body—-—just in time to
meet his death in Thongor’s place! Thongor had been unable to supplant the
Mind Lord from his own form, but he had sensed the other had his guard up
to prevent it. Tam Tavis had met no such opposition.
Neither was the doomed lad’s heroism quite at an end, for Thongor
watched in astonishment as the failing young warrior managed to grasp one
of the shield fragments and throw it unerringly at the head of his towering
opponent, still bent over him gloating in his cheap triumph. Surprised fully
as much as Thongor himself, the Mind Lord in his stolen body reeled with
the impact of the blow, staggered, and fell oblivious. Thongor knew from
experience that such mazing could not last long. If he were to make one last
attempt it must be now! He concentrated till sweat would have poured from
his brow, save that he had none. He felt again the sensation of running a
desperate race, and all at once he awoke in his proper vessel, shaking off the
momentary blackout.
Meantime the cylinder, under the mental control of the shapeless thing
within, receded into the stalactite roof and
the Mind Lord began to ooze toward freedom and renewed attack. Thongor
felt again an eerie suction at his very soul. But he had learned a thing or two
from his enemy and knew implicitly how to cast up a barrier against such
invasion. Then, exulting to dwell once again where he belonged, he fell to
the combat he had so long been denied.
He knew where to strike a human to kill him instantly. This was different,
more like cutting and hacking at whipping sailcloth. But berserker rage kept
him at the job till eventually only quivering fragments of the once-
threatening mass remained scattered about the uneven floor. The warrior
allowed himself a deep breath and noticed that he was not, as expected,
covered with splashes of blood and ichor. He could not guess how the
creature had lived nor yet precisely why his blows had been able to kill it.
But Thongor did know well the entity’s capacity to reintegrate itself. He
used his dagger and the sharp-edged shards of the destroyed shield to tack
the sundered pieces of the thing into the cavern floor and walls where thick
growths of lichen and moss provided sufficient purchase.
Finally, having contrived a rudimentary harness, he hoisted the lifeless
body of the young hero Tam Tavis back to the surface and began pushing
the covering of jungle foliage down into the pit it had first concealed. When
this was done, he cut more from the brush and dumped it down the hole.
Lighting a dead tree branch he had discovered, he cast it down into the
abyss and made away as quickly as he might, carrying the body of his
friend, fleeing the ascending stench of alien flesh. As the sun broke the
horizon again, Thongor gained his bearings. It was back to Shembis, where
plenty of enemies awaited him, but where none of them bore his own face.
 5 The Sword of Thongor

i. Well—met On the Waves

THE DECK PITCHED beneath him, but the young Valkarthan warrior
quickly recovered his natural balance, well on the way to growing a pair of
sea legs. He had only recently descended from the Mountains of Mommur
to seek his fortune among civilized men, easy pickings as he regarded them
in his predatory way. He had already advanced along the path of a
mercenary, serving Arzang Pome, corrupt Sark of Shembis, until things had
gotten too hot for him, his aims and those of his employer growing farther
and farther apart, yet clashing. Thongor the Mighty, as he would soon come
to be known, had decided to seek employment elsewhere, as far as he could
get from the Sark and his agents.
He had made it as far as the eastern coast of the Lemurian continent in
those far-off days when it still lay exposed to the rays of the sun and of the
great golden moon. And while relaxing in one of the waterfront taverns, he
heard talk of war in Parindra, a small island kingdom not far to the east.
Their old king had perished in suspicious circumstances, replaced by a
young priest, now called Prince Ubamu. As if to take advantage of the still-
inchoate situation, outside forces had taken a keen interest in the affairs of
Parindra. An invasion had commenced, and from no enemy Thongor or his
informants had heard of before. The extent of the world was little known in
those days, and the news of some formidable power amid the seas beyond
Lemuria was both
disquieting and exciting to all who now heard it, Thongor included. Poor
besieged Parindra might become a gateway, either for the invaders or for
Thongor’s own further adventures in whatever land they had come from.
With this in mind, he had resolved to apply for service in the Parindran
army as a mercenary, as a means of assessing the possibilities.
 Aboard ship he found that others had the same idea, at
least of selling their skills to the new prince. Thongor’s very appearance
intimidated some of the men, as he was a head taller than many and
powerfully muscled. His presence seemed to challenge those who deemed
themselves his equals, while repelling those who knew they were not. But
his jovial conversation soon set his fellows at ease, and before long he was
soliciting more information from any who might know more than he. He
found himself sharing a pitcher of ale in the galley with another who
seemed about his own age, though neither so tall nor so massive of build,
although with the same raven locks.
“I am called Thongor, once of the Black Hawk clan, who are no more. I
make my living with my sword—like yourself?”
The other answered, “My blade, too, is for sale, and I hear it is a seller’s
market in Parindra.”
“And your name?”
“Call me Vandos Val, if you please.”
The Valkarthan extended a powerful hand, as much to assess the other’s
strength as to seal a friendship. Perhaps the pair might end up fighting side
by side.
“Glad to meet you, Vandos Val! Now tell me what you have heard of this
Prince Ubamu and how he fares against the invaders.”
Vandos Val took another pull from his flagon to wet his whistle and
replied, “The invaders come from a mighty empire many miles to the east, a
vast continent called Mu. An odd name, to be sure. They are ruled by a
priest-king named Ra Mu, though I gather that is the title of all their rulers
from time immemorial. Rumor has it that they worship a god unknown to
us, and that their attack upon Parindra is but the first step toward the
conquest of all Lemuria.”
“That seems odd,” Thongor mused through a mouthful of bopher meat.
“If their own realm is so vast, surely they must possess resources aplenty,
and if they are far distant, such designs would seem to be more trouble than
they are worth, no?”
“Aye, that is so. Some say their goal is more religious. They seek to
spread the worship of their god and obedience to his law. They say their
deity Alrahman is the only god, and that he has ordered them to compel all
men to live by his laws.”
 Thongor possessed a canny shrewdness when it came to the affairs of
civilized men. Viewing them as an outsider, he could discern what games
were being played because he took less for granted. “Really, then, it is the
rule of this Ra Mu they seek to spread.”
The other laughed and exclaimed, “Why, yes, I suppose that is so! Gods
have a funny way of endorsing the plans of those who claim to represent
them!
“As for the prince of Parindra, I know even less, even though Parindra is
better known to us than Mu. His name would make him a foreigner, though
none can say from where, but he claims he is Parindran born and bred.
Despite such grounds for unease, his people are fiercely loyal to their new
prince. Those who have heard him report that he speaks like a god himself,
and that his fine words can sway the hardest of hearts, transforming foes
into friends.”
“And yet it seems he has been unable to sweet talk these invaders! What
do you call them again?”
“I believe the word for them is ‘Muvians.’ ”
“Well, I don’t mind telling you I am a hard sell. I do not surrender my
suspicions easily. But then I seek to lend him my aid providing the price is
right.”
Vandos Val chuckled. “You seem to have let your guard down with me
readily enough, friend Thongor!”
“I am a good judge of men. We will soon see of what sort this Ubamu
proves to be.”

ii. Swords and Surprises

War was not familiar to the island realm of Parindra, and they had perforce
to learn its ways swiftly. Harbor scuttlebutt had it that the prince had wisely
secured the services of an outlander, a seasoned warrior named Mael, to
command Parindra’s troops. This Thongor thought remarkable: a mercenary
Daotar! Most would consider such a move an open invitation to usurpation.
But the peaceful Parindrans probably had no real choice and could always
assassinate their commander once he had led them to victory, to quell any
royal ambitions. Whether any victory against the Muvians was likely was
another matter.
As Thongor and Vandos Val got their first glimpse of the
harbor city, their first plan was to rent some female companionship, then a
place to sleep. But events overtook
them. Lord Mael himself was seen in the waterfront district, along with his
lieutenants, meeting and recruiting fighting men as they disembarked. It
reminded Thongor of a slave market, though the promised pay was good.
He only hoped the tiny kingdom possessed sufficient in their treasury to
keep their pledges.
When it came his turn, Thongor eyed the commander up and down, even
as Mael scrutinized him. Thongor instantly took a liking to the graying old
warrior. He could see the Daotar hailed from Thurdis. As he would later
find out, Mael had fled that city when it was taken over by the blood-cult of
Slidith and its leader, the priest Drugunda Thal, unable in good conscience
to wield a sword in service to such a tyrant. The weary-looking man was
nonetheless vital and gave every impression of readiness for a thousand
more battles to come. His close-cropped beard looked almost bleached in
contrast to his sun-browned leathery hide. For his part, Mael saw in
Thongor a younger version of himself and rejoiced to have such a giant on
his side, praying to Father Gorm that he could use a hundred more like him.
The two comrades, along with others whom they would come to know
and fight beside in the coming days, soon departed for their makeshift
barracks. It was a long wagon ride to the capital city at the center of the
island. Thonger took the opportunity to sleep, not knowing how much of the
precious commodity he would be able to afford during the coming conflict.
When he awoke upon arrival, his new friend told him he had been lucky to
avoid a blow the sleeping Thongor had unleashed as he dozed. It seemed he
was preparing himself for battle even as he dreamed.
“Apologies, Vandos Val! I fear there are a number of harlots bearing
bruises because of me, though I never laid a fist on them when awake!”
“If you had, my friend, I doubt they should be walking around able to
complain of the bruises!”
 The men were shown their bunks, then taken to the armory, where each
was issued a bronze sword. Thongor intended to wield his own accustomed
sword forged of steel (for that art had made its appearance early in primal
Lemuria), but he was happy enough to receive this extra blade. Back in the
barracks, he asked another man, who had been there longer, “Why swords
of bronze, my man? Have they no sturdy steel?”
The other, a native Ptarthan, seemed almost reluctant to
answer him, as if feeling somehow foolish. “There are certain . . . rules of
warfare here.”
“Aye,” Thongor nodded his head, his great raven mane falling for an
instant over his forehead like the black curtain of night. “No rape, no
butchery of prisoners, and the like.”
“More than that. You see, the Parindrans do possess steel weapons:
swords, pikes and the like. But they soon realized that the Muvian invaders
used only bronze weapons, so they made to do the same.”
Thongor’s golden eyes widened in astonishment. “What
say you? Why in Gorm’s name?”
“It was Prince Ubamu’s idea. He serves as a priest of Quan, the goddess
of peace. He dislikes warfare, and he sees it more as a contest of sorts,
which naturally all war is, but he wants to, ah, level the field. He says it is
only fair to use the same weaponry as our enemies. Using steel would give
us an unfair advantage . . .” The man looked away.
“But this is madness! Utter and complete!”
“True enough, I’ll wager. But it is Prince Ubamu who is issuing our pay.”
Thongor grasped the hilt of his beloved broadsword more firmly.
“Perhaps so, but at this rate, how many of us will live to receive any?”

iii. Prince of Peace

The next morning, Thongor and Vandos Val were assigned to the same
company of fighting men, integrated with the native Parindran host. They
were soon caparisoned and armed, lined up mounted on war kroters and
eager to go into action. The battle front was no great distance away, nor
could it be on so small a landmass—mhence the urgency of their business.
Thongor leaned over to the man next to him, a Parindran or a mercenary
like himself, he could not tell. “What’s the delay?”
“The prince himself will review the troops, as he does sometimes. He
should be here shortly.”
“Not shortly enough, by Gorm!”
“Look! Here he comes! Look up there—the reviewing dais.” Thongor
did.
Prince Ubamu was tall and thin, not a fighting man, but a man of words, a
priest and a philosopher. He stood proudly, chin in the air, waiting, Thongor
supposed, for his legions to be duly impressed with the sight of his flowing
robes, which were a dignified black with gold trim. He had certainly seen
more elaborate finery hanging from the frames of Sarks and druids before.
Ubamu wore no crown. Thongor could not identify the man’s race, though
admittedly he had not yet seen all the nations and tribes of Lemuria and had
even heard of blue-skinned nomads in the far west but never seen one. This
man sported a coppery skin and wore short-clipped hair, probably a habit
retained from his priestly service and the skull-cap he would have worn in
that role. But now he was speaking.
“Men of Parindra! And foreign guests! Today you are brothers in arms in
defense of this ancient and august civilization. Today blood will be shed,
and we do not relish it. Still, the greater tragedy is the squandering of an
opportunity to rejoice in the rich diversity of colors, tongues and customs
that exist on our beloved Lemuria and, as we see now, even farther afield in
a continent whose very existence we did not suspect till her people came to
call. I pray each day that we may come to a meeting of the minds with our
adversaries and that we may study war no more. I know you agree with me.
And in that spirit of understanding, I send you off to your service and pray
that our Lady Quan may protect you from errant criminals in the field
today! And that we may soon come to understand what offense we must
have committed to provoke their justified wrath. Now go, making peace if
you can!”
With that, the company drew and raised their bronze blades in salute and
were on their way. Thongor muttered,
though loud enough to be heard, “How much closer has the enemy
advanced while we endured that sermon?” He shook his head inside his
enclosing helmet.
An hour’s ride brought the company to the top of a ridge
from which they could look down on the massed host of the Muvian
invaders. The stocky men were mounted on scaly beasts much like their
own kroters. But the Parindran army remained stone still. Thongor, urgently
impatient, his sword half drawn, asked any in earshot, “What in the Eleven
Scarlet Hells do we wait for? Fortune has granted us the advantage! Every
second we sit here we let it slip through our fingers!”
His company’s Otar sat mounted only a few men away. He looked at
Thongor and replied half-apologetically to his
new recruit whose impudence should have earned him a sharp rebuke.
“Alas, Prince Ubamu has laid it down that we may strike only in defense.
Hence we must wait for them to strike first. Ah . . . there it comes! Men!
Shields!”
A rain of arrows rose into the clear blue sky and began to descend like a
flock of inexorable predators. The Parindran army had archers of its own,
but none yet fired. What was going on here? Did these madmen not know
the difference between a battle and a game of sport? At least they were
good with the shields, umbrellas against a rain of death. Still, too many
dropped from their kroters, while others were crushed as their mounts
collapsed and rolled over on them. Many of the dead were archers, and the
aerial response was consequently skimpy. The cavalry were poised to
charge, awaiting the word. But when it came, the Otar shouted, “Remember
—no steel!” And they were off.
Swords clashed and rang. Hands and heads flew from their accustomed
perches. And many fell, the Parindran host taking most of the damage.
Thongor’s agility as both a rider and as a swordsman protected him and
spelled doom for many Muvians. Still, he chafed at the limitations placed
upon him and his comrades by the peculiar code of the prince. The chaos
rang with fanatical cries of “Alrahman is most great!”
“Death to the infidels!”
And at once Thongor felt a fog dissipate, a mist he had been unaware of
hitherto. Not over the field of battle but inside his own mind. Why was he
allowing himself to obey such foolish rules? Why put his life in danger to
no purpose? And he remembered someone’s comment about the influence
Prince Ubamu could exert over a crowd. There was no other explanation for
the quiescent willingness of strong men of war to hamper their own prowess
in a death struggle. Thongor at once cast the bronze blade away and drew
his steel broadsword, wielding it with decisive effect. He became a cyclone
of violence, cutting through the ranks of his foes like a tornado through a
waving wheat field. Some of his fellows, seeing this, seemed to shake off
the spell which had bound them and fought with redoubled zeal. But few of
them had brought steel weapons to the fray, and their newfound spirit did
them little good.
Thongor breathed thanks to Father Gorm with every skull-splitting
stroke, wiping the splashing blood from his face and out of his eyes
whenever he dared spare a moment. The Muvians were more heavily
armored than the Parindrans, and this both hindered their freedom of motion
and gave them greater protection. Thongor noticed his foemen were no less
ferocious for being short of stature. But now he saw a face and a bare arm
for the first time once he had chopped them off their possessors, splitting
the metal encasing them. The Muvians were wiry and slender, tightly
muscled and copper of skin tone. Of their features he could gain no certain
impression, as they were obscured by flowing gore. No matter.
Then it registered: most of these men were armored in steel. Many of
their swords, too, were steel, though as many were softer bronze or brittle
iron. Prince Ubamu’s strange orders had put his own men at a fatal
disadvantage. Had he known? What was really going on here? Thongor had
but little time to ponder the matter before he heard a death-cry very near at
hand. Vandos Val had struck a Muvian with the only sword he had, one of
the bronze weapons. It broke against the man’s fortified shield, and the
opponent returned the blow with a shaft of steel. Vandos Val tumbled from
his kroter, a heap of inert flesh. A proper sword would have given him an
even chance.
Thongor’s eyes widened in fury, his brow knotted, and he aimed a mighty
blow at his friend’s killer, knocking the scimitar from the Muvian’s hand
and penetrating the man’s
breastplate to the sternum. With redoubled fury, the Valkarthan set to
butchery. Muvians retreated from him in all directions, backing into squalls
of fighting, bumping their fellows from their horses and opening themselves
to enemy thrusts from behind.
 No peace was made that day, but no real victory either. Finally, as if at
some silent signal, both hosts began to edge away from each other, as if a
game had ended.

iv. Fleet of Fire

As many soldiers returned as had departed, though only about half of them
were still alive. Crowds lined the streets, but their response to the slow
parade of glum warriors was subdued, to say the least. The indecisive
outcome was apparent to all. Thongor’s valor had been noted, no doubt of
that. But his only recognition came from a party of armed men, bearing
steel swords, who appeared in his barracks in the wee hours. He awoke at
their approach and thought briefly of laying into them, but his curiosity got
the better of him, and he went with them without resistance. He expected to
be led before someone in authority, perhaps even the prince himself, though
he could not guess why. These were strange circumstances in which a battle
hero should receive honors. But in fact the armed guards merely led him to
a barred cell. There was nothing for it but to wait for the next developments.
Thongor had been in plenty of similar fixes before, and he had little doubt
he would be able to deal with whatever came.
What did finally come, or rather, who, was Lord Mael. Accompanied by
no guards, the grizzled veteran held his own torch aloft and leaned in to
make sure the occupant of
the darkened cell was indeed Thongor. Once certain of his
identity, the Daotar produced a key, then entered the cell. Thongor rose
from the lop-sided stool, the only stick of furniture in the place, and
directed the older man to take the seat, while he squatted on the dirt floor.
“You did well, today, Thongor of Valkarth. You inspired the men to do
well. So what are you doing in confinement? It is hard to explain, for I
understand precious little myself. Certainly I had nothing to do with your
imprisonment. I learned of it only an hour ago.”
 The barbarian took advantage of a moment’s silence to ask, “My lord, am
I to understand I am being punished for my actions on the field of battle?”
“It is mad, but, yes. Yes, you are. Our Prince, you see,
does not seek victory. He says he seeks “resolution.” His goal is “balance.”
Our enemies seem to know this. It is all some kind of mad game, and,
though nominally in command of the army, I am not privy to it. But it is
shaping up as a game I have no interest in playing. I would simply take my
leave some night, but it remains true that these Muvians present a real and
serious danger to all of Lemuria. I believe we must, whatever our confused
prince wants, turn back the Muvian aggression. And we must repel it so
decisively that those who sent these troops will learn their lesson and
remain on their own continent.”
“What can we do, we two?”
“We are two outweighing many on the scale, my young friend. And I do
have a plan. Now come with me.”
The halls were curiously empty of sentries, except for one or two who
nodded at the two cloaked figures passing them. Two kroters awaited them
outside the stockade, and Thongor gratefully noticed his confiscated
broadsword resting in a new scabbard hanging from the beast’s saddle. He
followed Lord Mael at a steady clip until they were beyond the lights of the
city. Once they entered the edge of a wood, Thongor beheld a small
company heavily armed, he guessed, with steel swords smuggled out of the
armory. All were outlander mercenaries like himself. As Mael quickly
explained, they carried weaponry of a very different sort as well.
From the roadside woods, it was but little distance to the
camp of the Muvians. There were a few watch-fires but only a couple of
posted sentries. It appeared that they understood the army of Prince Ubamu
posed no danger until the middle of the next day, like two teams resting up
before the next scheduled match. Swift arrows would have dispatched both
guards easily, but the small host did not intend a direct assault on the camp,
at least not yet. The mounted company made their way silently around the
periphery of the camp and continued down the road toward the eastern
shore.
Dawn was not far off when they and their weary mounts reached their
goal. Before them stretched another city of tents, much larger than the one
they had bypassed, and lined up behind them on shore was the Muvian
invasion fleet. Their proud hulls were painted with creatures of an
unfamiliar mythology, though little could be seen distinctly in the pre-dawn
dimness, given the scant illumination offered by the campfires. Again, there
were few sentries, and most of them were occupied with dice and wine. As
Mael’s archers crept nearer, Thongor and a few of the huskier men
unpacked pieces of some mechanism and set about assembling it, or rather
them, under Lord Mael’s direction. These were small catapults of an
unaccustomed design. Still other soldiers began to mix an incendiary
chemical. It was not long before their assault began.
The archers let fly, first, deadly arrows that felled all the oblivious guards
with a single volley. Then they aimed higher and shot flaming missiles at
the hulls of the ship, followed by larger fiery projectiles from the catapults.
The roaring inferno roused the Muvians who spilled out of their
tents like ants from their hill. They were barely dressed, much less armed
and prepared, and as they swarmed toward their burning ships, they cried
out to their god in helpless despair and confusion. Thongor, Mael, and the
rest set upon them from the rear, as unsportsmanlike as this might have
seemed to some, especially the poor Muvians. The archers set many of the
wretches ablaze, while Thongor and the rest hacked and chopped,
harvesting the lives of the would-be invaders like wheat in the autumn. The
plan was to trap the invasion force on the island, cutting off contact with
distant Mu. The near-extermination of the disoriented troops was an
unexpected bonus. When the carnage was finished, Thongor and Mael, both
blackened with soot and slick with the blood of their foes, shook hands in
victory.

v. Prince Ubamu

The mercenaries embarked on a more roundabout path back toward

Parindra City. They found a spot sufficiently concealed to provide security
for a much-needed night of sleep, planning to enter the city the next day as
the bearers of good news. With the first rays of dawn, all were startled
awake by the cries of a watcher who had been posted some distance away,
down the road. “Clouds rise from the road! An army approaches! I cannot
yet tell what banner they fly, but they approach from Parindra!”
Thongor, buckling his harness as he ran, crossed the encampment to
reach Lord Mael’s tent. Mael, also girding on his weapons, met him at the
threshold. He clapped the young Valkarthan on his mighty shoulder and
quipped, “I doubt it is a welcoming committee!”
“But how did they know where to find us? And why do they attack?”
“I know not, but I think all shall soon become clear. The prince must have
sent them, outraged at our clandestine maneuver. Who can have told him,
and so quickly, I know not. Likely some priestly sorcery. At any rate, I feel
sure we can hold them. I will need you to make your way to the city and to
the palace. Many will be arrayed against you, but I can think of no one with
a better chance to succeed. Gorm be with you, my son!”
The Parindran troops had come into sight, but the mercenary force, all
seasoned fighters, were not caught flatfooted. They were ready to meet their
enemies. While some rode boldly forth to meet the kroter-mounted soldiers
of Prince Ubamu, other ensconced themselves in the overhanging boughs of
the forest in which they had taken overnight refuge. From these perches
they could rain death upon the hapless Parindrans below them. This time
the Parindran army wielded steel weapons, but the mercenaries wielded
them, too, plus fire. Thongor beheld all this and satisfied himself that Mael
was right. They did not need him here. So he rode for the city, picking off
rearguard soldiers with swinging sword strokes as he met them. None dared
follow him, a lone warrior in flight, as it appeared, as the noises of battle
summoned them in the opposite direction.
Hours passed as Thongor tested the limits of his steed, grateful that the
beast, like him, had enjoyed a good night of rest. He met no further
resistance till he entered the capital. The army must be stretched very thin.
He went directly to the palace of Prince Ubamu. No one guarded the steps.
No one stood at the guard house. Thongor tied the kroter by a water trough
and went in, cat—like senses alert.

As he expected, there were sentries outside the throne room, but they
appeared surprised at the sight of him. The arrogance of their prince had
rubbed off on them, and they had certainly supposed him dead at the site of
the ambush. Now they looked nonplussed, slowly bringing their swords into
play. Thongor noticed at once that their weapons were of soft bronze! They
were doomed. With a few swift strokes, the Valkarthan had broken their
play-swords and taken the head off the one man, spilled the guts of the
other. He kicked open the door to the throne room and strode in.
The Prince stood before his dais expecting him. His eyes did not waver,
and he spoke to Thongor by name. Thongor missed the man’s first words,
distracted by his appearance. Prince Ubamu’s complexion was the same
distinctive hue as the Muvian invaders! He began to understand.
“O Prince, I think you are not a servant of peaceful Quan after all!”
The tall, slender man spoke again, and his words seemed to resonate not
in the throne room but in Thongor’s skull.
“The name matters not, but I am a servant of peace. Mine is the religion
of peace. That peace will prevail when Alrahman prevails and all men
submit to him and his sacred laws. And soon all of Lemuria will share the
faith of Mu.”
For an instant, these words sounded thoroughly cogent to Thongor! An
end to bloody conflict! All men and women living together as a family
united by a single way of thinking and acting! Perhaps freedom was a
dangerous contagion that only enflamed the basest instincts of man.

~~~~~

The battle had continued for many hours now. Lord Mael’s force was
greatly outnumbered—until the Parindran foes suddenly staggered and fell
where they fought. Some were unconscious, others merely dazed. Mael
sharply called out to his men to give them quarter. He could see none of
them had the heart to continue. They looked like puppets whose strings had
been cut. He ordered his men to bind their own wounds and those of their
erstwhile foes.

~~~~~

Dawn came again, and Mael’s men rejoiced at the sight of Thongor riding
into their camp, accompanied by the rest of the mercenaries who had
remained behind in the city when the prince dispatched his native troops to
ambush Mael’s force. The men cheered as Thongor dismounted. He agreed
to take a bit of food, water, and rest before what came next.
 ~~~~~

The Muvian troops whose camp Thongor and Mael had earlier avoided
had advanced to the site of the battle of two days previous, expecting to find
their opponents arrayed for the next round. They were surprised to find no
one there. So they decided to march on to the city of Parindra, thinking to
fight a final battle there. The Muvians disdained the roads and instead cut
across open country. They approached the shade of a forest at the margin of
the field they were traversing when the banks of leaves shook as with a
Windstorm. Saplings snapped and the forest seemed to part like a curtain as
a combined host of Parindrans and mercenaries crashed forth. arrows
launching and swords swinging like scythes. And at the point of the
advancing tide of muscle and steel rode Thongor, holding aloft as his battle
standard a spear with the bloodied head of Prince Ubamu impaled upon it.
 6 Witch-Queen of Lemuria

i. In the Forest of Death

FAR ABOVE THE rank foliage of the Kovian Jungle the great golden
moon of Lemuria gazed like a cat’s eye, as if tensing to leap upon the whole
world as its prey. Far below, shut off from that illumination, one might have
glimpsed tiny counterparts to the unblinking moon peering forth from
between gigantic ferns and fronds. They were in fact predator’s eyes,
equally golden, equally cold with malevolence. Their owner poised stony-
still as he waited. In a moment, a great bank of leaves and branches shook
to announce the presence of a second figure, one who no doubt thought
himself an expert woodsman whose passing could not be detected. He was
self-deceived, and that deception was a fatal one. For here he came into the
dusky clearing, looking rapidly around him for any sign of the recent
passage of his intended quarry. But before he knew it, a limb behind him
echoed with a sound like that of a sprung longbow as its occupant hurled
himself off it and onto his doomed pursuer. The second man’s eyes bulged
as a new nose emerged between them, in fact the point of the knife with
which Thongor of Valkarth had skewered his skull like a melon from
behind.
Thongor, his full height and breadth revealed for anyone
who might have been present to see him, now looked around for any more
pursuers. He might have miscounted, but no. It appeared he had been
successful in picking them off one by one during the previous hours. The
huge man possessed both the power and the cool patience, not to mention
the flowing black mane, of the jungle Vandar, the black lion of ancient
Lemuria. His enemies, agents of Arzang Pome, petty tyrant of Shembis, had
underestimated, gauging his powers by their familiar standards based on the
prowess of civilized men. And the civilized soldier, even the city ruffian,
was no match for the barbarian from beyond the Mountains of Mommur,
new these years to the cities of the East Lemurian plains since the massacre
of his people—and the massacre he himself had staged in revenge.
Some of the men he had now slain had served under his own command
when he rode in the service of the Sark of Shembis, running his errands
until he had no more the stomach for it and joined the rebels against him.
He was, ironically, all that remained of their band. As for his old
companions, soldiers of Arzang Pome, Thongor felt the slightest pang at
having to kill them, but his more serious dismay sprang from the fact that
he had not trained them better. They died too easily, not that he felt like
complaining much about it now. This man was the captain and had held out
the longest. He also had the best arms of the whole troop, and Thongor
paused long enough to appropriate his silver pummeled broadsword. He
knew he would soon be needing it, for there were predators hiding in this
jungle who were far more fierce than himself, and whose malevolence
toward him came from a purer, more elemental source: ceaseless hunger.
Legend had it that there had long ago been a thriving city somewhere in
these jungles, but that some natural disaster had deprived the most
voracious of the wild beasts of their accustomed game, leading them to seek
out tasty human prey in unprecedented numbers. And for some unknown
reason, the armed men of the city had proven too weak to drive back their
threat. The fittest had survived, and it could not have been long till the
jungle, spreading as fast as mold in this tropical humidity, engulfed the
territory the men of the city had briefly borrowed from it. So completely
had the old city, whose very name had been forgotten, disappeared, that no
one now knew for sure where it had lain, or if it were even more than myth
in the first place. Thongor did not seek it now, for he knew a fool’s errand
for a luxury too expensive
when time and resources were so precious. But he was aware of a
growingly urgent need to be out of here and farther away from the insane
vengeance-lust of the peevish Arzang Pome, whom Thongor had played the
fool once too often.
Hours had gone by now, hours in which the giant Valkarthan found
himself no more hunted by human foes, but by every manner of jungle
beast. The sword he had taken proved a valuable ally, and soon it had tasted
the blood of more than one species of crafty snake, posing quietly as
hanging vines until a victim drew close enough. Once he failed to recognize
the true nature of one of these until it had made a first strike. A reptile had
raked his skin with no apparent effect, no immediate effect anyway.
Leaving the result in the hands of Father Gorm, his stormy Northern totem,
he pressed on. It occurred to him that he might be the first to explore this
particular expanse of the great Kovian rain forest, or that if anyone else held
that honor, he had not survived to relate his discoveries.
More hours passed, he knew not how many, though he knew sunset could
not be far off. He stopped and rubbed his eyes, fearing that he was the
victim of a mirage, perhaps the result of a poison delirium. He thought he
saw, not too far ahead, the outlines of a city, whether inhabited or a ruin, he
could not tell at this distance. It seemed unlikely, because certainly its
presence should be known. The unpleasant suspicion returned: perhaps it
had been discovered before, but its discoverer never lived to return. But all
such thoughts were fleeting, at once replaced by more urgent business.
His instincts, dulled by fatigue, failed to warn Thongor of
the approach of an enemy, now repeating his own ambush
earlier in the day. For out of the bush exploded a hurtling man-like form,
attaching itself to Thongor like an iron slave
collar. As the two massive forms struggled, turning, twisting, each closing a
limb of the other in an adamantine lock whenever he got the chance,
Thongor could get a better idea of who—or what—was trying to kill him. It
was a great man-beast, his own brother-species, one of the most ancient
Lemurian root—races. These creatures had for ages been losing ground to
the more vigorous and intelligent nations of man and of the blue Rmoahal
nomads. Now they were confined to the thickest recesses of the jungle as
nature devolved them into ever closer conformity to their bestial brethren
whom they more and more resembled. This particular creature, massively
muscled in its torso and long arms, possessed a deadly set of clashing jaws
which snarled to reveal rows of uneven, spiky tusks. It was covered with a
mangy pelt of greenish brown, striped and mottled for camouflage. When
he could face the thing, he saw that, like its brethren, the man-beast
possessed a cranium larger than the common ape, and that its eyes were
filled with a fury not lacking a glimmer of twisted intelligence of which its
simian cousins were innocent. Ordinary apes were, of course, peaceful
creatures; it took a dose of humanity to supply sadistic cruelty.
Once or twice, the Valkarthan managed to free himself for a moment, but
he was tiring after endless hours of survival against man and animal. Again
and again his foe would grip him in the vice of his deadly arms. Realizing,
as a good tactician, that he could not match the strength of the beast-man,
he looked around desperately for an opportunity to bring other advantages
into play. Glancing up, he saw it. In the crashing advance of his attacker, the
simian juggernaut had broken off more than one limb jaggedly. Thongor’s
aim was still keen, and he knew his legs were longer and stronger than
those of the ape-man, whose strength was all concentrated in its upper body.
So, once the straining foes found themselves momentarily upright in their
death struggle, Thongor braced his feet foursquare beneath him, then
crouched and sprang, carrying the two mighty forms upward with a
sickening crunch, as the apish skull cracked open, impaled upon the jutting
stave of its own inadvertent creation.
Both bodies fell to the ground. Thongor rebounded and, leaving the inert
form of his defeated enemy to whatever carrion might fancy it, he turned in
the direction of the city he had seen. If it were a mirage, it was a persistent
one, for he saw it still. Dead tired now, he knew his only chance for
surviving the night was to gain any sort of shelter amid the ruins, for such
he now assumed them to be. But he over—estimated his stamina. He took
but a few plodding steps toward his goal, then collapsed heavily on the
matted jungle floor.

ii. City of Ghosts

Thongor of Valkarth awakened amid surroundings fully as alien to him as

the steaming jungle had been, for now he was surrounded with silk and
ivory in a chamber that looked to be fitted out for royalty. So close to the
feral was his vitality that he passed at once into full alertness, though his
head pounded like a slave galley drum. Unknown caring hands had cleansed
him of the mire of sweat and jungle muck, not to mention the blood of a
score of men and near-men. His shredded rags were gone, replaced by a
new, or at least newly cleaned, tunic. He saw a pair of boots polished and
ready, propped against the wall, his sword carefully set at their toes. This
told him he was not a prisoner, but a guest. He was fortunate indeed,
though, as time would show, perhaps not quite so fortunate as he thought.
He rose to a sitting position, the bed beneath him creaking. As Thongor
sat, waiting for the drumming in his head to subside a bit, a figure
superimposed itself against the doorway and entered. Having decided he
was in no danger, the Valkarthan made no defensive move but merely gazed
upon his host, if such he was, with curiosity. It was an old man, really a
tottering skeleton of a man, who held out a foaming goblet to him.
“Drink, my friend! It should soothe your brow. You have been with me
some days since I chanced upon you close to the edge of the city and
brought you here.” Given the size difference between the two men, as well
as their respective ages, that could have been no easy task, thought
Thongor. The old one continued, “I ventured a little further into the jungle
and saw your handiwork with the accursed ape-man. This told me both that
you deserved mercy and that you might in turn be able to help me. No, you
mustn’t try to speak now. Time enough for that later. Regather your strength
first. Let me just tell you this: what brought you down was not the exertion
of your battle, which astonishes me all the more, I confess. Rather it was the
venom of some reptile you received somewhere along the way. Luckily, I
knew how to treat it. You have been sleeping now for four days, and I think
you will soon be fine. Now go back to sleep for a bit, young friend.”
Thongor made to speak, both to thank his benefactor and to ask the first
of a thousand questions. But he found himself already spinning backwards
into slumber. The medicinal drink the old man had given him must have
been a sleeping potion as well . . .
When Thongor next awoke, his pain was gone, and he felt marvelously
refreshed. Tentatively he rose from the bed with its unaccustomed comfort
and found that he was free of any wooziness. So he strode over to the
curtained window and drew back the drape, though only just a little. He
knew not what sight awaited him, nor that someone might not be watching
him. But his first glimpse revealed nothing untoward. What he saw was a
street two floors below him. At this hour, which he judged from the
direction of the shadows, the wide avenues should have been busy with
commerce and running messengers. It was not that the streets were empty,
though. They were alive with the games of children, none that he saw being
much over seven or eight years old. Then there were a few very old men
and women sitting quietly upon benches, which seemed about all any of
them had strength to do. But where were the younger adults? The middle-
aged? None were in evidence. Thongor turned at the sound of someone
entering behind him. It was the old man.
“I see you are better! That is good!”
“I owe you much, old man! How can I repay you? You might easily have
left me to the beasts.”
“I suspect they would have gotten to you before I did had you not already
furnished them with ample carrion! As for me, I am Fendris Val, steward of
our Sarkaja, the fair Bathoris.”
Thongor glanced toward the window, saying, “She rules a strange city. It
seems populated only by the very young and the very old!”
“Nay,” the other replied, “all ages are represented here,
though it is not at first obvious.” These words seemed to promise an
explanation, but none was forthcoming. “The city is named Xuthandis. You
are in the royal palace, in my care, though your presence here is known only
to myself and my most loyal slaves.”
“I am in danger, then?”
“I fear that you are, or will soon be. I shall explain the nature of your
peril, but I think you had best see for yourself, or you may not believe me.”
He beckoned, and Thongor followed him out of the room, pausing only to
don the boots and to sheathe his sword. The two men, their shadows
expanding and distorting crazily in the light of bracketed torches, padded
silently down a long corridor along which slaves and armed men were
posted, all quietly signaling or saluting the old steward. Soon they came to a
halt before a faded, very ancient tapestry. On it were depicted the outlines
of a white woman in golden robes gesturing welcome to a shadowy form,
whose obscurity seemed not merely the result of fading. This the old man
drew aside and motioned for Thongor to follow him into the secret
passageway.
Here the smell of dampness and moldy fetor was choking, and the
mounted lights struggled to dispel the gloom. Thongor thought he could
make out a number of weapons, old swords, long and short, pikes, and
others indistinguishable in the shadowy recess. They were piled, he
surmised, against the need for sudden rebellion. Thongor was beginning to
find the first pieces of a puzzle, but he had not yet sufficient to figure out
the whole.
 At length, his guide signaled to stop, and they stood before an odd
contraption jutting from the wall. Tilted at odd angles were several highly
polished silver mirrors, arranged in such a way that, provided the light in
the room below were ample, one could see a reflection of what transpired in
the Sarkaja’s throne room. Thongor gazed in the mirror set at eye level. The
image was far from perfect, but he could see the seated form of the
sumptuously robed Sarkaja, and even from this distance her beauty was as
unmistakable as her age
seemed strangely indeterminate. She seemed to be awaiting someone’s
entrance. As her image seemed to perk up, so did Thongor.
Now her eyes passed swiftly among a line of captives brought in by
strangely gaunt-looking guards. Thongor attributed the captives” meekness
to some drugged state, and he wondered if they had been captured by some
such
subterfuge as well, because none of the grotesquely armored scarecrows
visible below could have bested a single one of the chained men in fair
combat.
The Sarkaja rose from her seat and casually inspected the line of men
before her. In a moment she chose one and motioned for the guards to
march the rest back out. As they turned to go, Thongor could get a better
look at their harness and insignia, for only their weapons had been removed.
With a start he recognized that these men belonged to the elite guard of
Arzang Pome! He had, then, dispatched another party of searchers to find
him when the first did not return with his head. Perhaps these men had
better tracking skills than he had given them credit for, for all the good it
had done them. Or perhaps they had just been set upon by the guardians of
this place.
The old man was whispering to him: “Watch carefully, and do not cry out
for surprise.”
Below, a strange spectacle began to take shape. The Shemban soldier
stood motionless, no doubt enchanted in
some way, and the Sarkaja Bathoris dropped her robes in a heap, all in one
motion, like a woman letting fall her bath
towel. Thongor could hear the music of drums and flutes, the first savage
and driving, the second eerily delicate and
periodically fading. He knew the Sarkaja’s musicians must
be located in some alcove he could not see. But he could plainly see her
fluid, serpentine motions as she danced the steps of some forgotten mating
rite, tracing out designs on the bare stone floor underfoot and all around the
unmoving man. None of this was completely unfamiliar to the Valkarthan;
he had seen similar scenes in taverns, and even in the banquet halls of
Shembis, when flute girls would execute exotic dances to please their
drunken male
audiences. But to see the Sarkaja, a royal personage, occupied in such an act
seemed disturbing and degrading.
Thongor sneered involuntarily, even though he could no
more help feeling aroused by what he saw. Thongor looked away and to the
steward, but the latter directed him by a sharp gesture to keep watching, so
he did. Now the Sarkaja had grabbed hold of the passive figure and started
pulling his clothes off to match her own red-flushed nakedness. A robed
figure, its true outline indiscernible, approached and wordlessly handed the
Sarkaja a chip of powdery chalk. With this she proceeded to draw great
hieroglyphic figures upon the blank canvas of her body. Then she cast the
chalk away and clasped the man in a tight embrace, rubbing her body
against his so as to transfer the mirror images of the signs decorating her
own form. After this, a second robed form handed her a foaming goblet.
She parted the soldier’s lips with her fingers and began pouring what she
could of the liquid down his throat. After a moment or two, she seemed to
tap at the back of his head in a peculiar way, and the befuddled man spat the
liquid back into a cup. Bathoris proceeded to drink from it.
And at this moment, Thongor concluded the weak light reflecting off
warped mirror metal must be deceiving his eyes. For all of a sudden, down
below, Arzang Pome’s man collapsed to the stone floor, where he continued
to . . . change. In a moment, he had somehow lost all bodily mass. He lay
there like one of the scarecrows who had earlier marched him in. He was a
living mummy, skin and bones. It was a moment before Thongor could
wrest his eyes from the sight, horrified though he was by it. Glancing at the
Sarkaja, reclining again upon her throne, the young barbarian was
astonished to see that her form, too, had changed. Before he had been
unsure of her age. She seemed a grand dame, full of regal hauteur, but her
visage had seemed somehow uncertain to his eyes. Now she could be seen
in much sharper relief, and her beauty was truly breathtaking. Nor could
there be the least doubt of her vibrant youth. And she appreciated it most of
all, as could be seen by her admiring examination of a hand mirror given
her by one of the robed figures.
“We have seen enough,” said Fendris Val.

iii. Undying Princess office Night

“She has battened upon our city and fed off our nation for untold ages,” the
old steward continued, having sat down again with Thongor in the latter’s
quarters. “As a child I heard the whispered tales, but I dismissed them as
legends, stories to scare children into their beds. Even then there were
perilously few young and strong past a certain age, but no adult would
discuss the matter, and I assumed there was some disease at fault. As the
tale has it, and I no longer doubt it, the Sarkaja Bathoris long ago learned
from her scribes that they had discovered a set of hieroglyphs on the
foundation walls of the temple when it was being refurbished. These glyphs
seemed to tell of some god interdicted already in ancient times. Further
digging and removal of whitewash disclosed more ritual texts, and in the
end, the Sarkaja forced the chief priest to conduct a blasphemous rite of
invocation. It was not fruitless, and the entity took the Sarkaja as his
favorite. From that black bargain stems the shadow that smothers our city.
She has but to draw renewed vitality from the young and vibrant, and her
own youth and beauty are renewed.”
Thongor had listened quietly. What he heard was outlandish, but he
accepted it readily, pragmatist that his survival instinct forced him to be.
After all, it solved a riddle, and that made it rational. “Thus the lack of able
—bodied men from your streets. I had guessed the women were all
sequestered, as is the manner of some cities. But now I understand. And
your Sarkaja has grown thirsty indeed, I see.”
“Yes, and long, long ago. It is with great difficulty that her advisers
restrain her at all. She had depleted our strength already long centuries ago,
if the legends are true. It is said that once the city Xuthandis stood upon a
different site but that, when the beasts of the jungle began to close in, we
lacked the strength to repel them. So instead, those with any remaining
gumption fled and refounded the city here. And now we face the same
danger, as the jungle has inexorably spread. But most likely it will never
come to that, as Bathoris herself will sooner be the death of all of us. Each
infusion of new life she takes rejuvenates her for a shorter and shorter
period. And the younger the lives she siphons away, still less does each
avail her. Our days are few.”
Thongor mused. “She has fallen prey to a cruel addiction indeed, both for
her part and for her victims.”
“It is true, Thongor of Valkarth. I wish I could believe it all to be the
fancy that it must sound to you!”
“But how much of the saga have you witnessed, Fendris
Val? You appear to be among the oldest of her counselors, for all that she
has resisted your voice of reason.” Thongor spoke with the warmth of
friendship, but also with the respect he would have accorded to any of his
own tribal elders. But Fendris Val started with surprise, then laughed a
phlegmy chuckle.
“Nay, nay! It is a good jest, though it is a joke on myself!
I was once the consort of Bathoris! And not long ago! Why, I am little older
than you! I think you can guess how I found the proof of the old legends.”
A chill descended Thongor’s spine. “And that was the day you began to
plan her destruction? To take vengeance?”
“Not vengeance. Not really. More than that, I only wish that the children
of Xuthandis might have a future. And this
is where I think we might help each other. The Sarkaja knows you are
somewhere in the city, thanks to her interrogation of the troops from
Shembis who, as you surmised, came searching for you when their
compatriots did not return. She has begun to feast upon their life—force,
but it is you she is most interested in. I doubt not that you could escape her
notice and return to the jungle. You could survive its dangers, as I have seen
for myself. But I am hoping you might see fit to stay and find a way to rid
us of this witch. We have a few men, what is left of them, and a few rusty
swords, though I fear the men are rustier! Perhaps we might enlist the aid of
the Shemban soldiers.
Thongor was momentarily silent, then: “Indeed I might have struck out
into the jungle and left your city to its doom. But now you have as good as
challenged me, and it would be dishonorable not to lend my aid. Consider
me your ally, my friend!”
As Fendris Val extended his hand to clasp Thongor’s, the bolted door
splintered. Suddenly, sword and pike blades gathered out of nowhere at the
two surprised throats, wielded not by the spindle-shanked minions of the
Sarkaj a, but by the mesmerized troops of Arzang Pome who apparently
continued their quest for Thongor’s hide, only now in the forced service of
Bathoris.
Throwing off his momentary surprise as if it were a cast dagger to be
dodged, Thongor lunged backward, bringing up his arms, fist to fist, so as
to scatter the weapons clustered in his face. His bronze wrist bands took
some of the blade-edges, while droplets of blood sprayed off nicks and
gouges he could not avoid. Back against the wall, he hoisted up the
bedstead and used it as a shield as he drove the attacking party across the
narrow confines of the chamber and against the opposite wall. Ready to
leap through the open door, he turned to see how Fendris Val had fared,
only to see one of the soldiers with a dagger against the old man’s throat.
“Flee if you will, Thongor of Valkarth, but your senile friend will die.”
Still fairly confident he could escape, with so few able—bodied opponents
to be found, Thongor mentally agreed to defer his flight until he could see
to the safety of Fendris Val. He owed him at least that much. His foemen
were now pulling themselves together and recovering from their
undignified defeat. In a moment, they motioned him and Fendris Val to fall
in line and accompany them.
Thongor scanned the features of his captors for familiar
faces. Had he once commanded, at least served with, any of these men?
Soon he was sure that he had shared a barracks with two or three of them. It
probably meant that Arzang Pome had felt the need to send more
experienced men after him once the first group failed.
“Chovis Than! Baktor Ganth! What are you doing, slaves to this witch?
Don’t you see? After me, you’ll be next! Fools! Didn’t you see what
happened to your captain? You, Zad Zarvus! Don’t you remember me?” He
could not tell whether they were all magically stupefied, puppets under
Bathoris’ complete control, or simply too scared to appear civil with the
enemy of their new mistress. Soon they were down the long case of wide,
stone steps and turning into the throne room.
 Thongor had expected to be kept waiting for the leisurely arrival of the
monarch of this city of dwindling mannikins. But she was already seated on
the throne before him, and with no pretense of royal dignity. There she sat,
half-robed in the sheerest gauze, legs open at eye level as she sat above him
on an upraised dais. The dais seemed to depict the likenesses of storm-
crowned gods whose multiple hands supported the seated royalty. No doubt
these were members of the abandoned pantheon of old Xuthandis. How
they must chafe, Thongor imagined, at having to bear the burden of such a
blasphemer as this witch-queen Bathoris! As for the Sarkaja herself, her
flesh glistened with oil amp the lush red of her body, charged with surging
vitality—~and sexuality. He suspected there was more than one way in
which she might drain the life from her hapless victims. Her eyes were
slightly tilted, her cheekbones high. Her hair was raven black, her form
voluptuous though tiny. She wore a tall tiara of solid electrum, towering to a
fragile point high in the air above. Intricate golden rings depended from her
earlobes, and a flashing jewel was set above and between her brows,
symbolizing, he knew, the open Third Eye of esoteric science. And no one
could deny that she had at any rate mastered knowledge unknown to the run
of mankind.

iv. Slaves of the Witch-Queen

“Come to me!” said a disembodied voice inside Thongor’s mind. The

rich lips of the goddess upon the throne before him did not move, as if
fearing to disturb the perfect beauty of the mouth. “Come join with me, in
body and soul! Am I not beautiful beyond dreaming?” And though he did
not move a muscle, he seemed to be sitting beside her, though he could
have sworn there was but a single seat upon the dais.
Thongor saw her delicate finger reach up and touch him
on the forehead, between the brows, where her own jewel
nested. Her touch was as soft as a dream. He felt that a new organ of sense,
of vision, had opened. And from it a ray streamed out and scanned the
world. She was showing him a vision of what was to come, of what might
be if he leagued himself with her. He saw them riding Victoriously side by
side in the cab of an advancing chariot, receiving the homage of nation after
nation, as each poured its treasures at the feet of Thongor and Bathoris,
Sark and Sarkaja of the whole of Lemuria. After this, they would seek out
other continents; then, with the aid of the science of an elder world whose
black deity they served, other worlds would be their toys. Thongor felt the
heady thrill of acclamations rising from tens of thousands of their subjects.
He was dazzled by the sun reflecting off the helms and upraised swords of a
million troops whose ranks went on and on farther than the eye could see.
And upon his mighty shoulder rested the hand of a woman of unearthly
beauty, the promise of fleshly delights more exalted than the spiritual flights
of the yogis of the Lemurian forests. He said to her, “My love, I have
conquered the world for you, and now I lay it at your feet! I trade it all for
your kiss!”
A voice cried out, “Thongor!”
He awoke abruptly, shocked to see that he had climbed
most of the steps to the dais and was about to kneel before Bathoris, all
without conscious volition! What woke him was the strangled cry of an
aged throat, the panic-cry of old Fendris Val. “Be not deceived! With such
spells she enthralls all her victims! I know!” The sickening crack of a fist
cut short the warning, but it had done its job. Thongor wheeled about,
stunned, almost fell to the throne room floor as the guards raced toward
him, albeit with some seeming intimidation. This fact was not lost on the
Sarkaj a. Her voice, ringing with rage and frustration, called out barbarous
syllables that made the ears pop like a mountain climber’s, as if she were
bringing present another dimension and an atmosphere of near-tangible evil.
She pointed a sceptre in the direction of one of the Shemban soldiers. He
flinched as if struck, while Thongor stood still and watched.
The man’s outlines seemed to blur and bloat for a moment, as if
something inside him were gestating at impossible speed and sought a
bloody exit. His eyes widened, then bulged. Thongor felt his gorge rising at
the eerie sight. But then the man stopped his shuddering. Thongor’s nape
hairs tingled, his golden eyes widened, as he beheld the already masculine
form of the warrior take on added bulk, height, and power. And this
transformation was accompanied by others, less astonishing only because
Thongor had just recently seen their like: the other men of Shembis shrank
like grapes becoming raisins in the sun. It was as if the first soldier was the
receptacle for the stolen vitality of the rest. Thongor knew well what he
must do next.
Leaping the remaining steps to the flagged floor, he seized the nearest
frightened guard and deprived him of his sword, a blade of familiar
Shembis work and heft. He rushed the newly—created champion of the
Sarkaja, designed to be his nemesis, he knew, and hoped to seize the
advantage. But the man, despite the inevitable confusion of the moment,
nicely parried Thongor’s thrust. It meant that the fellow had absorbed what
fighting instincts his compatriots possessed along with their physical
strength. He would, then, be a real challenge.
For a time both men circled, first one, then the other, lunging in with a
terrific stroke of the sword, each evading the death blow. They were well
matched, and one could see how much the Sarkaja appreciated the fact as
her admiring eyes drank in Thongor’s power and skill. As old Fendris Val
witnessed the struggle, he looked over to the throne, where his Queen and
onetime lover Bathoris hunched over with a lust and expectation that he
knew too well had nothing to do with sexual passion.
Finally, Thongor’s man overreached himself with a
powerful launch that Thongor dodged, twisting as he did so, and pushing
the hurtling figure to accelerate its onward
plunge. The man crashed to the floor stunned, and Thongor kicked his
clattering sword away. As his opponent raised himself, showing formidable
powers of recovery, Thongor delivered a vicious kick to the jaw and
rendered him unconscious. He disliked to kill the man, since he was but an
unwilling minion of the demon Sarkaja. To be sure, he had been sent to
capture Thongor, but the Valkarthan harbored little doubt that, once freed of
Bathoris” baneful influence, the man should be glad to fight alongside
Thongor. And with luck, it might yet come to that.
Catching his breath and willing it to return to normal, Thongor now
turned to the throne to see the Sarkaja’s next move, for there had to be one.
From the vision she had caused him to see, he knew what her real intention
was, as cleverly as she had sought to disguise it. She knew that for fresh
vitality to sustain her, she must amass a force capable of pushing out of the
half-ruined city of Xuthandis, through the Kovian Jungle, and then to sweep
over Shembis, then Thurdis, Patanga, and eventually all of Lemuria. As
mad a plan as it was, she was certainly determined not to let it all end here.
She was fairly sputtering with rage now. “No mere man withstands me!”
Thongor knew she was by no means used to having her advances, her
temptations, spurned. And that by “man” she meant not “male” but
“mortal.” She raved again in some language unknown to him, gesturing in
peculiar patterns. The very air in the room appeared to waver as from heat
distortion, though the temperature did not change appreciably. Thongor
sensed that Bathoris was acting in desperation, that her last chance had
come. She would risk all here and now for the sake of her mad scheme, a
scheme that required his barbarian vitality as the spark to ignite a wildfire
that should consume the world. Such fancies were idle as far as he was
concerned. Whatever happened to him, the Sarkaja would soon be defeated
by her own overweening greed that consumed every resource before it
could be used. The Valkarthan harbored no grandiose thought that he might
save a world. No, but the prize in the strange contest before him was
precious enough: his own life!
Behind him he heard the stirring of his defeated opponent, the rasping of
his battle harness on the floor as he rose. Thongor wheeled about to behold
something far different from the massive figure he had bested by a lucky
move or two. Now the figure was that of a titan, both taller and more
massive than Thongor, indeed, nearly twice his size! Greater in stature even
than the fabled eight-foot high Rmoahal giants of the western plains! And
his eyes were filled with an alien malevolence that nonetheless seemed
somehow familiar. And then he knew it for the fury he had seen in Bathoris’
blazing eyes only moments before! He knew not what sort of trick this was,
but that puzzle was moot. One thing mattered.
Victory? Nay, survival!
It took training for men to be able to employ such muscular bulk for
added speed; otherwise it served only to weigh a man down. But this giant
moved like a Vandar! His right hand shot out and sent Thongor sprawling
with only a back—handed blow. Striving to regather his wits before they
scattered too far away, the Valkarthan ran forward to launch a flying kick to
the other’s abdomen. It knocked his foe back but did not seem even to wind
him, such great protection did the mighty abdominal muscles provide.
Thongor managed narrowly to avoid the next two blows his foe tried to
hammer home. He very much doubted whether his skull could withstand the
concussion of a single blow should those anvil-like fists land true. Next
Thongor sprang on top of his foe and rode his shoulders like a bull’s. He
covered the man’s eyes, but could not bring himself to gouge them, a
shameful tactic contrary to his rude code of honor. Deprived of sight in the
meantime, the titan careened about the throne room seeking to dislodge the
pest atop him. Crashing into the finely appointed furniture of the place, the
pair of combatants reduced it mostly to matchwood, with the remaining
attendants of the Sarkaja retreating like frightened rabbits. Their own
frames were after all not even as sturdy as the splintering chairs and tables.
Thongor leaped from the great shoulders toward a ruined table, where he
grabbed hold of a substantial-looking fragment, a leg crafted with much
bulbous ornamentation. Climbing onto another table to gain height, he
leaped toward his antagonist and brought the club down on his skull with as
much force as he could muster. His expectation that the cranium should be
crushed like a nut was confuted as shockingly as if the sun had neglected to
rise in the morning. The sheer surprise struck him like a blow. He had
succeeded only in opening up the scalp. The worst he had done was to
cause the man-monster to pause and wipe the bloody sweat from his eyes.
And Thongor took the moment to look around him for a better weapon.
There had to be a sword within his reach! And he was right. In the
confusion, more than one had been dropped here and there. He ran for one
of these, aware from the corner of his eye that his nemesis was already in
pursuit. Despite the weight of the long blade, Thongor was able to hurl it
like a knife straight for the heart of his pursuer. The latter wore no armor
capable of turning the projectile aside, but instead, he deflected the missile
with a swipe of his arm. The sword clattered upon the floor.
A familiar voice called to him. “Thongor!” It was once again Fendris Val.
Thongor risked turning his head in the old man’s direction. He had
succeeded in overwhelming the man who guarded him, both of them little
better than fragile stick figures. And now he tossed Thongor the man’s
sword. Withal he shouted, “Here he comes! But he is not your foe!”
He certainly looked like Thongor’s foe, as he rushed at him with blood-
lust filling his huge and scowling face. The barbarian had learned quickly to
dodge the charge of animals in the arena, and the same skills now bought
him a few more moments of life. The man was already braking his speed
and turning about. As he sought to plan his next maneuver,
 Thongor recalled his friend’s words: “He is not your enemy!” He tried to
banish them as a distraction, but then his next movement brought him in
visual line with the throne of the devil-queen. With a start, Thongor beheld
an astonishing sight! The Sarkaja, if this were indeed she, sagged listlessly
on her throne, which now seemed positively to dwarf her proportions. Her
eyelids were half lowered. More than this, her face was a mass of cracked
wrinkles, her hair, once a perfumed mass of raven tresses, now resembled a
rat’s nest of yellowed white tufts. Of course! She had temporarily projected
her stolen vitality into the fallen form of her champion. Thongor had
managed to defeat him even when he was supplied with the strength of the
men of Shembis.
But she sought to augment that strength manifold by lending him her own
reservoir of life—force. Thongor bolted for the dais, the giant following on
his heels. But Thongor had too much of a head start. He overshadowed the
frail and cringing form of the Sarkaja Bathoris and swept her head away
with one clean stroke of the sword. The blood did not so much spurt as
bubble from the stump, and Thongor could have sworn it was not
wholesome red but muddy brown in color. But he had no time to study such
details in case his antagonist should seek at once to avenge his mistress’s
death. He hopped to the floor again, behind the throne so as to put it
between himself and his attacker. But when he faced in his direction, he saw
that the great form had collapsed to the floor.

v. Revenge off the Beast-Men

Upon close examination, Thongor could see that another miracle had
occurred; or rather the first had been undone. With the long-deferred death
of Bathoris, the spells by which she had ravished the strength of her
subjects had come to an end, too. While nothing would restore the dead of
many ages of her treachery, those who remained subsisting as animated
scarecrows now returned to whatever vigor they had once possessed.
Thongor had the strange feeling he had been suddenly whisked away amid
an entirely different set of individuals, for now, where once mere shadows
of men shuffled fearfully, able-bodied men of youth and middle age faced
him. All were possessed of the same wonder, for they had never thought to
become themselves again. After a few moments of stunned silence, clean
and joyful laughter filled the room, setting loose echoes of a kind not heard
there for centuries. There were not many men left in Xuthandis, and most of
those stood here, the remaining minions of the tyrant. The surviving
soldiers of Shembis gratefully looked over their accustomed forms in happy
disbelief. One was not so fortunate: the man whose strength had been twice
magically augmented to fight against Thongor. He now lay dead in a pool of
blood, his wounds having proven fatal once he returned to normal. This
Thongor regretted, though it was not himself but the dead Sarkaja he
blamed.
A stranger approached him. “Well done, Thongor of Valkarth!”
Thongor looked at him with puzzlement. “I confess I know you not,
friend . . . ?”
“I am not surprised! My name is known to you, though. I am Fendris
Val!” The fleeting thought occurred to Thongor that the man standing
before him might be the grandson of
his benefactor; then he realized what had happened and pumped the hand,
no longer veined and bony, with the great affection he had come to feel for
the other. “You see, my friend, I was not lying after all!” Both laughed great
gales. Meanwhile the rest of the men had formed a circle about them.
Thongor could see that the men of Arzang Pome bore him no more enmity.
Someone noted the absence from the company of a couple of the native
Xuthandians and asked if anyone knew what had become of them. Another
said, “They went to summon our women and children! Gods, I can hardly
wait to see my wife’s youthful form once more!”
At once a commotion was heard from the street outside.
As the men ran toward the closest door, they all but stumbled into several
women and children, some of them bloodied from an attack. More streamed
in after them, mostly fine looking women in threadbare, shapeless smocks,
one or two carrying babies or tripping over youngsters huddling close in
fear. Thongor turned to Fendris Val. “Who could be attacking?”
As they rushed through the door, the Xuthandian pointed, saying, “Who
—"or what?” It was the brutish ape—men of the jungle! They bore but the
crudest weapons, sharp stakes and blunt rocks, but these made effective
enough missiles as long as they struck home. And the instinct of the
predator saw to it that most did. Thongor recognized these as belonging to
the same type he had fought a few days before: they were striped and
mottled with greenish body fur. The strange sight of them mounting an
attack made Thongor think at once of the old stories of how the city had
yielded to the depredations of jungle enemies. History, it seemed, was
repeating itself before his eyes. But there was something a good deal
stranger than that—the man-apes manifested a collective cleverness akin to
strategy, and one hesitated to give them this much credit.
Thongor closed with one of the stinking, hirsute invaders and ran it
through without difficulty. And before the simian eyes glazed over in death,
the Valkarthan was sure he saw something . . . alien in the eyes. They
looked sharply different from those of its kinsman whom Thongor had slain
in the jungle. What they lacked in elemental fury they more than made up
for in a kind of cold light that, while still not human, appeared to be
somehow familiar. As he evaded the mad rush of another apish opponent,
Thongor looked in his gimlet eyes and saw the same impossible spark of
evil intelligence. And this time he knew where he had seen it: in the eyes of
the Sarkaja!
The beast-men were not particularly difficult to kill as long as one had
weapons. But there were so many of them advancing tirelessly! Thongor
was now fighting beside the restored Fendris Val, the pair of them using a
mounting heap of the reeking ape-carcasses for a measure of protection.
Thongor noted how his friend fought without fatigue, as if so many years of
unnatural enervation had been labor from which he now rejoiced to be
freed. His muscles sang like the steel he wielded.
“Thongor! Does it seem to you there is more method in this attack than
the poor brains of these things could concoct? As if some outside agency
were hurling them against us?”
“Aye, but who? The enchantments of the Sarkaja would
have disappeared with her death, would it not?” said Thongor, punctuating
his sentences with the screams of those he butchered so methodically.
“I am starting to suspect that Bathoris herself may have been a puppet of
another! Mayhap of that ancient devil—god she supplicated! I think it
knows its servants have been vanquished, and that it lies in danger of
retreating to the forgotten oblivion from which Bathoris rescued it!” Having
caught his breath, Fendris Val resumed his own chopping, spitting out the
rank blood and brains that spattered him more and more.
Thongor took advantage of a momentary lull as the simian forces
regrouped. He made a quick count of the fallen defenders. They could
afford precious few losses, but they had acquitted themselves surprisingly
well for those just returned to the effective use of arms. Thongor thought for
a moment and said to his comrade, “There must still be some tangible token
of the demon’s presence enabling it to survive the death of its priestess, at
least for a while. The tide may soon turn against us. I am going to find the
god. Gorm be with you!”

vi. The Lair off the God

Thongor made for the throne room of the palace he had lately quitted, easily
identifiable as it loomed above the common buildings. It was there the
greedy Bathoris performed her conjurations, so it was there he would
commence his search. The place was empty, save for the drifting dust of
Bathoris herself. Thongor glanced about, then spotted a door behind the
throne, the one no doubt through which Bathoris would have made her
entrances, though she had already been seated when he was led before her.
It lay open, and Thongor lost no time entering it once he had appropriated
one of the torches ringing the chamber.
The torch light, leaping and jumping thanks to the cool, subterranean
breeze that drifted through the tunnels, reflected in Thongor’s golden eyes,
causing them to seem to alternately blaze up and sink down. He slowed in
his progress, despite the urgency of his task, once he noticed how the walls
displayed a series of ambitious murals depicting both the previous history
of the Sarkaja’s vile deeds and the projection of her next ambitions. He felt
his scalp prickle as he saw a stylized figure undeniably reminiscent of
himself, even the very clothes he wore, aiding the Queen in her planned
conquests! But he dismissed this madness with a shake of his maned head
and went on.
At last he made his way to an inner chamber, attracted by the echoes of
drum and shrill flute he had earlier heard in the throne room. The musicians
were nowhere in evidence, but their weird strains were nonetheless audible.
The huge room contained no furniture, apparently because no one was
intended to linger here. There were more murals here, too, but something
warned the barbarian not to look at them if he were to retain his sanity. At
the far end, something jutted up from the floor, something made of huge
chunks of onyx. As he approached it, he swore the music became louder,
proceeding from no visible source. He expected some design to manifest
itself as he circled the thing, but it was the image of nothing he had ever
seen or imagined. The towering form lacked all symmetry. It did not even
quite seem stable, though he was sure it must be solid. And deep within its
ebon confines there seemed to be the illusion of a pulsing red light. As he
tentatively held the torch away from the thing, the red spark became more
definite. And something else: his mind began to fill with visions like those
which possessed him momentarily back in the presence of Bathoris, dreams
of his own future glory, of the splendor of his future reign over all men, of
the great debt he should owe to this beneficent deity whose apostle he
should become, in whose name he should spill oceans of blood, on whose
altars he should smash the skulls of women and infants . . .
But here the sinister force inhabiting the black idol had miscalculated,
despite its free run of Thongor’s mind. He was no creature of blind and
ruthless ambition as the Sarkaja had been. There was perhaps more nobility
in the human breast than this loathsome entity could understand. And so
Thongor turned away, shaking his pounding head to clear it of these
nightmares. He looked at the base of the statue to see that it was merely
resting flat on the ground and not set into the stones of the floor. Then he
threw all his weight against it, not stopping even when he felt a queer cold,
electric numbness beginning to spread from his shoulder toward his heart.
Redoubling his efforts, he finally succeeded in toppling the heavy effigy,
springing away as it shattered into fragments. The inner light of it had
extinguished in that moment, as had the creeping paralysis he felt.
The ground beneath the Valkarthan began perceptibly to shake! He
looked again at the inert fragments of the thing, confirming his memory that
it had not been a weight—bearing pillar, had not even reached as far as the
roof above. But somehow its collapse was unsettling the integrity of the
place. He knew he had to move swiftly if he was to escape this last
lingering vestige of the vengeance of the witch—queen and her shadow—
god. The light from his torch whipped itself to extinction as he ran as fast as
his legs would carry him, retracing his path to the surface. He was spurred
on by the sounds of crashing masonry behind him. Regaining the portal to
the throne room, he leaped through it just in time to avoid the fall of the
tunnel’s ceiling. His charge toward the gate of the palace carried him
through the ashen remains of the dead Sarkaja, and when he gulped in the
clean air outside the structure, he paused to shake this charnel dust from his
boot soles.
Thongor could see the last escaping humans, both of Xuthandis and of
Shembis, hastening over and around the
scattered heaps of beast-men. Of these last, none living were to be seen. He
guessed the last of them had broken and run a few minutes before, when the
image of the ancient god had been destroyed, severing their link to the
intelligence indwelling it. Thongor caught up with the shivering band of
escapees near the fringe of the jungle just beyond the edge of the city,
which was now rapidly becoming a heap of uninhabitable rubble as the
collapse of the central palace set loose a general cascade of destruction.
That night the band of refugees sat feasting on a large stock of game the
men had hunted in the jungle. The fires
kept predators away, and the beast-men were smart enough to know not to
trouble them again. Thongor, speaking around a mouthful of salty lizard
flesh, asked the ranking officer of the party from Shembis what he thought
best to do next. The man was an old compatriot of his, Zad Zarvus, who
replied, “I’ve been talking with my men and with Fendris Val. Seems more
women than men survive from Xuthandis, and none of us have wives back
in Shembis, none that we care to return to anyway. Besides, we daren’t
show our faces there again, without your head on a pike, anyway. So we’ve
decided to cast our lots together, maybe look for some quiet village to settle
in, where we’ll never hear another word of conquest.
Mayhap we’ll start a settlement of our own! You’d be welcome to join us!”
Thongor reached over to clap the man on the shoulder. “You honor me,
friend, but it is not time for me to settle anywhere. There is more of the
world for me to see. And, who knows? Perhaps I may yet leave my mark
upon it!”
 7 Spawn of the Fire Mist

I am a being of violet fire

I am the object of God’s desire
Lemurian Book of the Dead

i. A Woman ’s Honor
YOUNG THONGOR OF Valkarth, newly arrived in the cities of the South,
far from his ice—cragged homeland, was getting his first look at
civilization, and he did not much like what he saw. Though the men of the
towns he had visited regarded him as little more than some beast of burden,
it had quickly become clear to him that the real savagery resided in palaces
and clad itself in silken finery. Isolated from nature, civilized men gave free
rein to their bestial instincts. Unlike Thongor’s clan of the Black Hawk,
who knew they must safeguard each other’s welfare if their kind was to
survive, these complacent men of the Southern climes cared for no one but
themselves.
And right now, in a tavern on the outskirts of Kathool, the Valkarthan felt
intense disgust at the latest demonstration of “civilized” culture: three
soldiers had cornered a serving wench and were about to have their way
with her. The tavern keeper was aware of the situation yet seemed afraid to
interfere. But Thongor was not so sophisticated as these fine gentlemen. As
he arose from his table and tossed aside a flagon of Lemurian sarn-wine, he
approached the knot of lustful predators. Only the predators had now
become the prey. Thongor looked forward to killing them, regretting only
that the wench would no doubt be showered in the blood of his victims. He
thought briefly of shouting a warning, but, really, why bother?
He first withdrew a long dagger he had won at a game of chance a week
before in an establishment almost identical to this one. He buried it at the
base of the skull of the first soldier, closest to him, impatiently waiting his
turn. The second man, already in the process of unlimbering his erect
member in anticipation, saw his comrade drop like a felled lotifer, but by
then he knew it was too late to avoid the same fate. Thongor sliced down
with the bloodied dagger, emasculating the second man who plainly could
not be trusted with the weapon he had been about to wield. The third
soldier, already in the act, Thongor grabbed by the hair, pulling him away
from the screaming servant girl. The vicious fool’s sword belt lay on the
ground where he had dropped his kilt. Thongor, figuring that the blade
would soon be in need of a new master anyway, grabbed it up and, in a
single, curving motion, brought it up, then down, cleaving the rapist’s head
to the palate. He kicked the corpse aside and lifted up the shaking form of
the barmaid.
“I hope you have another garment somewhere, girl!” She knew not
whether the towering youth had truly rescued her or if he meant only to
snatch her from her attackers and seize her as his own prize. Her eyes held
fear that she could not disguise. Seeing this, the Valkarthan sought to
reassure her.
“I need not force myself on women, my girl. Nor am I so
civilized as these men. You have naught to fear from me. Go and clean
yourself up.” Withal, he turned away. But the
woman touched his arm to prevent him.
“I . . . am grateful, my lord! I am not used to any man lending his aid.” At
this, she cast a contemptuous eye in the direction of her employer who
sought to slink away and escape her gaze. “Let me thank you properly, will
you?”
Thongor, supposing that she meant to offer herself to him, waved her off.
“I will not take advantage of you. That is little better than rape. No thanks
are necessary.”
The serving maid, more impressed than ever by the unselfconscious
chivalry of the outlander, answered him, “No, that is not what I would offer
you. Here, take this!” She yanked a grimy, mounted gem from around her
neck. “It is said to be a protective amulet, but that is all the wizard told me.
It is no doubt worthless, as it certainly afforded me no protection, as you
see! Unless,” she only half jested, “it summoned you to help me!”
“Fair enough!” Thongor chuckled as he received the trinket from her
hand. After all, it might be worth a meal or a drink in trade. He placed it in
his pouch and took his leave. The tavern master was already trying to
dispose of the corpses, muttering in fear should the dead soldiers’ comrades
come seeking them. A couple of his servant lads were busy mopping up the
blood, though none of the patrons seemed to think the mess worth their
notice.

ii. Purple Hell

His back pained him, but he was gradually getting used to the bumpy gait of
the reptilian kroter. He had helped himself to one of the beasts belonging to
the soldiers he had slain. It was a mount quite common to the lands of the
South, but still new to him after his descent from the icy mountains of the
glacial North. Thongor was hungry to boot, and that only compounded the
stirring nausea he felt. But all such complaints receded as he began to
become aware of strange sensations ahead.
First he began to discern a phantasmagorical purple tinge to all things
around him. It reminded him a bit of the familiar aurora of his homeland’s
night skies, but this was neither the time nor the place for such a celestial
display. Besides, there was nothing untoward above him to cast the
illumination. In another moment he felt a peculiar sense not exactly of heat
but of some kindred radiance unknown to him.
His kroter began to fail and to stumble, so the barbarian dismounted and
led his beast to a nearby spot shaded by palm fronds and refreshed by a
pond. Maybe the animal was simply exhausted and, like himself, famished.
He hoped it was nothing worse. He patted its flank, then jogged on ahead
till he found a great boulder, then climbed it to get a better view of what lay
ahead, for surely something did.
As the tall, sun-bronzed youth stood poised on the uneven surface, he was
very nearly knocked off his perch by a sudden wave of the odd warmth. The
queerly tinted light intensified as well, making it difficult to focus his
golden eyes. Thongor could now see in the distance a great wall—or was it
more like a cloud?—of purple flame consuming the flimsy structures of a
doomed village. Several speck—like forms were fleeing in his direction,
barely managing to stay ahead of the advancing flame. He saw some fall
and succumb. He imagined that he might have glimpsed other forms, also
human in basic shape, moving freely amid the fire curtain without harm.
But it was impossible to be sure, and it went against all logic.
lnstinctively, Thongor jumped off the rock and started running toward the
refugees. He knew that he had but moments before he, too, should have to
turn and make his
own run for safety, but he somehow felt his chances of surviving the
firestorm might improve if he could get some idea of what was happening.
Surely one of those fleeing knew more about it than he did. The most
quickly reached,
far out ahead of the others, and presumably having gotten an earlier start,
were a spry old man and a young, well-formed woman—a granddaughter,
Thongor guessed, or perhaps a slave.
The oldster, now held under one of Thongor’s brawny arms, with the girl
under the other, huffed and puffed, gesticulating to the Northwest. Thongor
followed his pointing hand. The old man finally croaked out, “The cave!”
Thongor saw it, and that it opened out from the outcropping of boulders
upon which he had climbed only moments before. Adjusting his grip on the
two limp, exhausted forms, he ran as if unburdened into the cave mouth,
wondering what protection it could possibly afford the trio. The purple
flames seemed to be spreading behind them, though he did not dare to slow
down to look back as yet.
Penetrating as far as the capacity of the horizontal pit allowed, Thongor
lay down his charges as gently as he could, then turned to look back to the
cave mouth. The mist violet radiance was becoming stronger. He realized
there was no way to prevent its filling the enclosure, but he decided he
might as well get a look at his inevitable doom before it arrived in full fury.
As he strode fatalistically toward the opening, the old man’s whimperings
followed him: “No! No! The fire! You cannot . . . l”
Poised at the threshold of the cave, Thongor looked out,
not bothering to hide his presence. Automatically he lifted the sword he had
inherited from one of the would-be rapists he had killed in the tavern. For
the sight that greeted him was a party of men running in his direction,
surrounded by a veil of violet fog. They bore no weapons but the eerie
witch-fire which they carried like the plague. The Valkarthan strode into
their midst, knowing he was stepping into the maw of flaming death.
 iii. Forbidden Worlds

But he did not die.

His golden eyes widened with doubled astonishment. He was pleasantly
amazed to see that he still lived, and he
likewise marveled at the sight of the figures that thrived in the flame, now
that he could see them clearly. They were completely human in form,
naked, though translucent and oddly wavering. They rushed toward him,
seemingly surprised he had not at once perished. Thongor wasted no
time lunging with the iron sword, more by instinct than considered strategy.
He had not consciously expected it but was not surprised when, not only did
the blade pass harmlessly through his foes, but when it liquefied on contact
with the purple ghosts! He realized continued effort in this direction was
useless and so turned to find the readiest path of egress.
He saw that his struggles inside the flame cloud had not carried him far
from the cave mouth. Luckily, the purple stuff had not made its
unpredictable way into the tunnel. Nor did the purple specters seem
interested in following him. There was little to burn here besides scant,
brittle undergrowth which vaporized at the touch of the unearthly fire.
Thongor leaped into the cave and rushed to rejoin the
old man and the girl, who greeted him with blank stares.
Without a word, the shaken youth opened and emptied his belt pouch,
hoping he might have left a few crumbs of stale bread in it. He hoped to
find enough to share. The old man, shivering with both fear and cold,
watched him closely until his bearded lips cried out in exclamation. He
pointed a trembling digit at the amulet the serving girl had earlier given to
her rescuer.
“Nineteen Gods! Where did you get that gem, my boy?”
“This?” Thongor was surprised the trinket was sufficiently intriguing to
incite even mild curiosity. “It was a present from a wench I helped in a
tavern near Kathool. Do you think it worth anything?”
“I should say it is! For you owe your very life to it! That amulet is what
rendered you invulnerable to the fire mist just now! No wonder you
ventured fearlessly!”
Thongor, having discovered no fragments of leftover victuals in the bag,
closed it up again, except for the gem, which he took to polishing with spit,
rubbing the gem against the cloth of his garment. “I had forgotten about it.
But I knew nothing of its powers. How do you know of them, old father?”
The girl, hitherto silent, spoke up. “My grandfather is a great philosopher,
barbarian. He knows of the stone’s properties as he knows many secret
things. It was he who
gave it to the woman who must have passed it on to you. She is my sister.”
The old man and his granddaughter were but thinly clad in indoor
clothing, and there was nothing to hand from which a fire might be made,
so Thongor bade them huddle with him under the tent-like cloak he had
worn since disrobing one of the corpses in the tavern.
“Tell me, old wizard, what you know of the flame and the amulet, and to
what use it might be put.” He did not notice, but the girl, whose name was
Talua, gazed at him with eyes full of admiration—and more. But now her
grandfather spoke, this time in steadier tones.
“There are mentions of it in ancient scrolls I possessed until they were
lost along with everything else in the fire. The Tractate of Rangoth calls it
the Eye of Thog, while in the Glyphs of Nianga it is known as the Black
Chakra. I dare not tell you from whom I obtained it, or at what price.
Against certain forces its power is great. I should say that its presence on
your person is what prevents the entry of the Fire Mist here.” “Fine, fine,”
grunted the barbarian. “But what is this fire that the amulet turns away? I
have never seen the likes of it. Have you?”
“You must be patient, my boy, for this will be difficult. My name, by the
way, is Olidorus, and some call me a sorcerer, though I prefer to consider
myself a scientist. I have learned many strange things, some of which I
rather wish I hadn’t. And the Purple Flame is one of them.
“Let me begin this way: this world you see is not altogether what it
seems. For one thing, it is a round ball. For another, it is but one link in a
long chain of worlds that overlap ours, though on different planes. Think of
the way in which men deem themselves the masters of the world, while
their animals think it is theirs, with men as mere interlopers. Insects, from
their viewpoint, are the real kings, while the fish know only of the sea with
no idea of our adjacent lands—~until we haul them, gasping, onto our
shores.
“The worlds of which I speak are like pearls along a string. The souls of
the dead pass from one of these worlds to the next, reborn in bodily form
appropriate to their new home. The Fire Mist is the stuff of Sfanomoé, the
world adjacent to our own. These creatures you have just seen are the spirits
of those who died in our world and migrated there.”
Thongor’s mind was quite astute, albeit untutored, and he was quick to
grasp the old savant’s revelations, fantastic as they seemed. He asked the
obvious question: “But what are they doing back here? Are they vengeful
spirits visiting doom upon those who killed them?”
Olidorus shaded his eyes in shame. “No, they are not. At least I do not
think so. It is all my doing, my foolish delving. You see that I am advanced
in years. My dear wife and sons died years ago. I have dreaded ever to join
them in death. In my fear I sought but to gain a glimpse of what might await
me on the other side. Were the old beliefs correct, or mere superstition? At
length I stumbled upon the means to open a portal to Sfanomoé, where I
should, as the old tales tell, next incarnate. I found out that the legends are
true, all right, too true. And I had unwittingly opened an unlawful path
whereby one might actually pass between the worlds without dying. You
see the results. The ghosts mean no harm; it is their unnatural dislocation
which issues in the disasters you have seen. Nor have you seen the worst of
it!”
Thongor rose to his feet and paced the hard, uneven floor as grandfather
and granddaughter huddled closer together. The youth pondered the matter.
“From what I saw, even this amulet,” which he raised to his eyes to
contemplate, “possessed no value as a weapon against the denizens of the
Fire Mist. Wizard, do you know a way to extend the field of its protection?”
“No, my son. If only we had a much larger stone of the same kind, that
might work, but as far as I know, no such exists. And yet there may be a
solution to our problem, though the risk is very great. I told you the worst
was yet to come. It poses a terrible danger to all Lemuria, but what I have in
mind may be more dangerous still. Yet I suppose we must risk it.”
 iv. Ymir ’s Tusk

Olidorus continued, with Thongor’s rapt attention. The maid Talua listened,
too, but she had heard it before, and most of her attention was fixed upon
Thongor, his wide, high cheekbones and straight, chiseled nose illumined
by a soft glow now emanating from the amulet. His golden eyes seemed to
glow with their own inner light.
“The trespassing spirits you have seen are not all that passed from that
world to this. There is a terrible master entity whom the old texts call
Yamath, Lord of Flame.
Certain degenerate cults still worship him. He has found a place in a once-
extinct volcano not far from here. It is there you must strike, friend
Thongor, if there is to be any chance of turning back the threat that it poses.
For I have learned that, now aware of the access to our world, and to others
along the dimensional chain, the Flame Lord has hatched the scheme of
drawing all the worlds into its own dimension, for some dark purpose I
cannot fathom, though I know its success would surely spell doom for us
all.”
“This is only sounding worse, not better, my lord Olidorus. What is the
hope you spoke of?”
“It is but the beginning of a hope, my young friend. As I told you, I have
acquired the means of opening the forbidden gates between the worlds, and
of passing alive between them. What we need must be retrieved from
another of these hidden realms, the farthest away on the chain of worlds, a
sphere called Yuggoth, a planet of black ice, of frozen rivers of solid tar, of
eternal darkness. Resting there, upon a slab of ebon glaciations, is a weapon
once venerated by the now extinct with my own eyes across the illimitable
void of dimensional space. Thus I believe I can open a portal between us
and that very spot. If you could grasp that great sword and return with it, I
think we could strike a blow, cold against heat, and banish Yamath and his
spectral fire.”
Thongor did not hesitate. “I am ready! How do we proceed, O mage?”
 Olidorus fell silent. Then, his eyes not meeting Thongor’s, he said, “Here
is the puzzle that still baffles me. We can pass a living man onto an alien
plane, but in such a case he cannot adjust to the conditions obtaining there.
Yuggoth is deadly, deeply cold. It lacks even air to breathe. I doubt even
you could survive the attempt.”
At this the girl’s brow knotted with worry, but she stayed her tongue.
Thongor mused a moment and replied, “You forget, I am
a creature of the North. I have bathed in icy streams since I was a babe. I
have dived into unplumbed gulfs with lungs like bellows. I will risk it
gladly. And besides, who else can do it?”
It was decided. None spoke further. All sought sleep, their bodies
kindling warmth as they huddled beneath the great cloak. Talua clung
especially tight to Thongor’s manly frame.

v. Thongor Alone

The Valkarthan slept deeply and awoke suddenly, only to find himself quite
alone. He looked about him, seeing neither the old man nor the young
maiden. Had their foes stolen in during the night and made away with
them? Then why leave him? Standing erect, Thongor headed for the cave
mouth, but before he could get there, his way was suddenly barred by a slim
form appearing out of nowhere. He sprang back, but when he saw there was
no further motion, he crouched and examined the prone figure before him.
It was a female. Grasping her shoulder, he flipped her over. Her skin was
biting cold to his touch. Because of the concealing shadows, it took his keen
eyes a moment to see that her skin was deep blue. Thongor had heard of the
blue nomads called Rmoahals, who roamed the far Western steppes, but
they were reputed to be giants. All this coursed through his puzzled mind in
a moment, until he recognized the face of the dead woman. It was Talua.
Her flesh burned his own with the sting of intolerable cold.
 It took him a few moments to notice two other differences in the girl
since he had seen her the previous night. Her solid-frozen fingers grasped
the hilt of a rough-hewn sword, if one could call it that. It appeared to be
cloudily translucent but petrified. An eerie bluish radiance throbbed within
the blade, and it looked more like diamond than ice.
And then he noticed the amulet frozen to her chest. Instinctively he
clutched at his own throat, only to find the pendant missing. It all fell into
place. She had slipped the gem from his sleeping form and, no doubt with
her grandfather’s aid, she had made the transit between the planes and onto
the nighted surface of no longer distant Yuggoth. The amulet must have
shielded her from the cold
vacuum for long enough to allow her to seize the great blade and pitch
herself back through the fading portal. Thongor had not even thought of the
amulet’s possible protection!
Why had she sacrificed her young life for him? Did she love him? Or did
she simply realize he must survive to make use of the sword if she could get
it for him? And where had Olidorus gone? He dislodged the amulet and
donned it again, feeling its benign aura spreading over him. Then he
ventured to grasp the Sword of Ymir, a god he knew from the pantheon of
his Northern clan’s primitive faith. The girl’s fingers were frozen to the haft,
and with a grimace of disgust Thongor crushed them and brushed the
broken fragments away. As he had hoped, the gem he wore protected him
from the terrible cold of the weapon. How long it could insulate him from
it, he did not know.
He left the cave.
An hour’s walk (his poor kroz‘er must have been reduced to purplish ash
by now) brought him to the great crater. Not that there were many of them
to choose from, but there could be no mistaking this as the one he sought:
weird blue-violet ribbons of smoke rose from its rim. At first Thongor
hesitated to sling the unearthly weapon over his shoulder, but he tried it and
was considerably relieved to find that the amulet still protected him. It
seemed more powerful than before, but there was no telling when whatever
occult energy that charged it might run out. He scanned the ascending rock
face to calculate the best path of ascent—until a group of the fire-ghosts
appeared through impossibly tight clefts and cracks amid the rock!
Thongor whipped out the Sword of Ymir and set to work. He knew not
whether the blade would somehow meet substance when he swung at a foe
but was about to find out.
The Valkarthan’s black mane sprayed out behind him like a horse’s in full
gallop as he threw everything into his blow. His foeman was reaching for
him, not to strike, but merely to touch his flesh, to set it afire. He would be
disappointed when his touch had no effect, no doubt thanks to the amulet
Thongor wore. But the barbarian’s sword-stroke met no resistance, instead
propelling him comically through the air and onto the ground. He looked up
and saw that his sword had reached its mark after all: the flame-wraith had
completely vanished away, either into final oblivion or back to its
interrupted sojourn in the unpronounceable Sfanomoé.
But here came another, and more besides. Thongor sprang up to meet them.
He wanted to be done with this, and besides, there was no real fighting
here. So he waited for them to surround him and start to close in,
whereupon he extended the frostily shimmering blade and spun about in a
circle. As before, the merest touch was sufficient to dispatch the spirits. Yet
more appeared, wave after wave of them. It was plain to him that some
guiding intelligence was at work here, trying to prevent his entrance to the
volcano shell. But equally it was clear that whoever it was had not counted
on the charmed amulet, much less the glacial sword he wielded with such
effect.
The onslaught, thus far easily met, was beginning to tire
the barbarian’s mighty thews. He surmised that the Thing in the volcano
had by now come to understand what was going on and sought no longer to
incinerate the mortal but to wear down his defenses. And it seemed to be
working! Thongor could tell that the sword blade’s radiance was growing
dimmer. So had the subtler glow of his amulet.
But suddenly there were no more fire—phantoms. The way was clear.
Any fool could see it was a trap, but what alternative had he? He must go
on. Breathing an inarticulate appeal to Father Gorm, chief of Lemuria’s
gods, he harnessed the sword on his back and commenced the climb.

vi. The Monster in the Magma

The heat was stifling, the fumes mephitic, as Thongor crouched atop a
boulder forming part of a natural, irregular
crenellation along the volcano’s rim. His bronze skin had begun to tingle
and singe, signaling that his supernatural protection was indeed now
waning. He must act quickly. He rubbed his eyes and peered down into the
heart of the furnace. He wanted to locate the unknown physical form of
the trespassing Yamath, Lord of Flame. From what the old savant had told
him the previous night, Thongor inferred that his best chance would be to
aim the freezing sword at the center of the vast form and hope the effect
would be the same that it had on the god’s minions. But as he hefted the
sword to balance it for a throw, he was alarmed to find that it was scarcely
colder than any earthly blade! He looked down at the amulet and found it to
be dull and dark. A sense of enveloping doom settled upon him—he had
failed!
Suddenly a familiar voice spoke to him—from the blade!
“Fear not, Thongor of Valkarth! It is I, Olidorus! Last night I knew my
death was near, closer than I had previously expected. I knew nothing of my
granddaughter’s plan to secure the sword for you until I found her frozen
body. My broken heart was the weapon of my death. But in the last
moments, as I crawled off to hide myself in the farther reaches of the cave, I
spoke the formula from the Book of the Dead and chose the path my
departing spirit would take. I sent my essence into the sword for which my
beloved Talua had sacrificed herself.
“Here is what you shall do, my son. Let your mind go blank and make
way for my spirit to guide you. With your mighty hands I shall trace a
lattice in the ambient air, opening a portal around the volcano’s maw. When
you come to yourself again, that will be the moment to drop the sword.
Together we shall banish the Lord of the Fire Mist, not to his own realm,
but to Yuggoth, a prison of eternal cold and
darkness. From there he will never depart.”
As Thongor regained control over his wits, he heard an awful
commotion: the glowing lava below him, like a living, conscious thing and
yet like stew bubbling in a pot, belched forth echoing roars of defiance and
agony, knowing what was in store. The nightmare sounds threatened to
unhinge the Valkarthan but only lent him greater urgency as he cast the
Sword of Ymir into the roiling pit. below.

~~~~~

Thongor had not really expected to survive the explosion he thought to

ignite, but all that happened was something like a massive bubble popping,
restoring the natural daylight and dispelling an unnatural pressure that had
choked the air inside the volcano crater. He was not harmed, though his ears
and nose bled a little. His face bore minor blistering, but all told, he was
sound. After his climb back down the crater he found a place to sleep off his
exhaustion. Upon awakening, he thought much about the philosopher
Olidorus and shuddered at the prospect of his soul, re—embodied upon
hellish Yuggoth and stranded with the raging Lord of Flame.
As Thongor walked, he thought long upon the girl Talua and her sacrifice
for him. And then he remembered her sister, whose name he did not even
know, but who had also saved his life by giving him the amulet. He felt for
it, not having given it a thought since escaping the volcano, and found it
gone again, no doubt carried away in the final
collision of dimensions.
He paused a moment to gain his bearings, then started in the direction of
Kathool. It was too late to pay his debts to Olidorus and Talua, but he
resolved to make things right for the sister. He would find her and free her
from the deg-radation and squalor into which she had somehow fallen. He
would, by hook or by crook, help to establish her in a better life, one
befitting the nobility of her kin. There are many kinds of battles; as her
grandfather and sister had aided him in his, he would, by Gorm, aid her in
hers.
 8 Vampires of Lemuria

i. Fangs in the Darkness

THERE WAS NO moon overhead. Old nurses were whispering to their

young and wide-eyed charges how the golden sphere had been devoured by
Vritra, Father of Dragons, but that in a few nights, Father Gorm should
make him disgorge it.
Thongor of Valkarth, who reigned as Sark of the West, stirred in his sleep
in his great canopied bed in his palace in Patanga, the City of Flame.
Silence held sway in the halls and chambers of the castle, but it did not
partake of restful slumber. Rather did it seem to be as one’s breath held in
anticipation of mortal danger.
Thongor awoke, stirred by some primal instinct. A barbarian from the
glacier-locked. Northlands, he knew better than to trust in civilization’s
promises of safety and security. Those menaces against which moats and
guards might defend a king were not much to be feared. The true terrors
could sweep such feeble defenses away in a moment, so that in the final
analysis, Thongor knew he must trust to his own wits and thews, and the
ironclad decree assigned him by the Fates.
His innate defenses awakened him now. His steely fingers grasped the
throat of the shadowy form looming above him, and he thrust it away.
Bounding from the too-soft bed, he sprang to the side of the floored
assailant, a female figure, now trying to regain its feet and making hoarse
groans from a bruised windpipe. Grabbing a low-burning lamp and
thrusting it before the shadowed face, he was taken aback with shock: “By
the gods—Sumia!”
 Thongor’s first thought was of self—reproach: had his beloved meant but
to rouse him from sleep to entice him to lovemaking? It had happened
before. But never had such a gesture sparked in him such a reflex. Then she
made to speak, but her words were slow and confused. This might be the
result of her husband’s hasty grip, but she seemed somehow more
profoundly dazed. Thongor enclosed her shoulders in his mighty arm and
brought the lamp light closer still.
“My love, what is the . . .”
Sumia’s lips parted to reveal gleaming fangs! And these
she sought to bring to bear on the Sark’s throat!
The Valkarthan’s nape hair prickled as he thrust her away again, pinning
her to the ground and leaping backwards to a standing position. The thing
that had been his bride rose indefatigably and made to pursue him,
shambling unsteadily as Thongor fled the room, not afraid of her since he
knew he could slay her, but loathing this course most of all. Slamming the
heavy door behind him, he noted with alarm that no sentries stood without.
Where were they? What evil had invaded his realm, indeed his very palace?
Pulling a rope in the hall, he sounded a summoning bell,
then wondered if that had been a mistake. He decided not to wait for the
retainers he had called but instead made for the throne room. Bracketed
torches lit the halls, but Thongor could have sworn their flames struggled as
against some obscure miasma. The wide and winding halls should have
been lined with posted guards at short intervals, but not a one was in
evidence. His sense of terrible foreboding increased with every step until it
seemed a physical weight upon his mighty chest.
Gaining the arch opening on the throne room, again lacking the soldiers
who should have flanked it, he passed
through without hesitation, eager to beard the danger in its
lair, for he was sure it awaited him here. As his golden eyes adjusted to the
gloom within, the chamber being but dimly illumined by scant candles, he
was in for another surprise. A shadowed figure sat upon Thongor’s great
throne, which had been carved from the tusk of a great sea serpent. Below
the dais whereon sat the royal siege, gathered round the council table were
the peers of the realm, already present and seated: dapper Prince Dru,
grizzled Lord Mael, faithful Baron Selverus, and the rest. From the throne
arose Dravindas Vol, Druid Priest of Slidith, the Lord of Blood, whose
ancient and foul cult Thongor had expunged from the city of Tsargol years
before.
“Welcome, poor mortal!” He seemed to whisper, though it carried audibly
enough.
Thongor at once leapt onto the table, shaking it and everything on it. All
eyes fixed on him, glowing eerily in the
faint firelight, as he faced them with defiance. All began to
smile evilly, revealing their own fangs reflecting the torchlight. As
outlandish as the spectacle should have seemed, it was even more horrifying
to see how natural the animal incisors appeared in their grinning faces.
Moments passed as no one spoke. Thongor wondered how the Druid
devil had managed to gain entry and to dominate the rest (for this Thongor
knew at once—his faithful comrades would never turn against him
willingly). His eyes narrowed as he waited for the usurper to gloat and boast
of the victory he must assume he had won, but the ghastly yellow eyes of
the grinning Druid moved from Thongor’s towering form to the door behind
him, through which a detachment of soldiers now poured. Thongor wheeled
about to face them, tightening his grip on the hilt of Sarkozan, his mighty
broadsword which he had grabbed up from his bedside, knowing he would
be needing it. The armed men circled him, weapons raised, albeit with
dazed stares. Thongor knew that, as soon as their mute mouths might open,
he should see fangs clustered there as well. He waited for one of them to
make the first move.
But now Dravindas Vol spoke. “Lord Thongor. I believe your position
here is clear. It is not as it was last evening when you retired to your bed
chamber! A new order has arrived. But worry not! It is my will as Patanga’s
new ruler that you serve me as captain of my forces. Of course, first you
must swear to me the blood oath as your compatriots, even your mate, have
done. I am sure all of them would rejoice to have you among them again.
Consider well and swiftly, my friend, for your alternative is to be killed on
the spot.”
Thongor said nothing but answered with a savage grin. Leaping off the
wine-stained table into the crowd of troops,
he traced a bloody latticework in the air as he cut and hacked the dull-eyed
forms around him. Whatever transformation had taken them had also
seemingly slowed their reflexes. But it had done something more, for
Thongor saw with a shiver that mortal wounds only hindered them.
 “What devilry is this?”
Missing limbs, some staggered to their feet again, coming back for more.
But many dropped their swords and opened their drooling mouths, seeking
Thongor’s pulsing arteries. Still, the advantage was his; the Druid had not
anticipated that his henchmen’s helmets would make it difficult for them to
bite at his flesh, their jaws snapping shut in frustration just before he
knocked them aside or severed yet more limbs or stumps. Slow in their
movements, they were also slow to die! Thongor found he must virtually
chop them to pieces like cordwood to stop their ineluctable advance. And
there were too many for him to defeat them that way.
Sorry to be killing his own men, though he did not know most of these by
name, he finally seized one by the ankles and threw him into the midst of
the rest. There were no pursuers as he sprang for the great window and leapt
from it into the moat. Well did he know that in it dwelt fearsome river poas,
but he preferred to take his chances there.
Ignoring the startling cold, he made for the opposite bank. He had
covered half the distance when his luck ran out and he spied the slithering
form of the pale white, scaly monster heading swiftly toward him. He knew
no intruder had ever survived such a swim, and it would matter not that he
was swimming in the opposite direction. Nor was there any hope of evading
the great serpent. With the speed of thought, the ropy reptile wound itself
around him and began its crushing attack. Thongor’s huge muscles bulged
and strained, but they were no match for the steely cable of the poa.
Thongor struggled futilely against the encroaching blackness, striving to
make the face of Sumia his last thought.
But then the fresh memory of her fangs, so like those of
the serpent he fought, galvanized him. Even this would have availed him
naught, however, save that, as the monster pressed ever closer, it ran afoul
of his sword blade. He had no scabbard but, as he had risen from his bed,
had only slid the weapon into his wide leather belt. The close embrace of
the poa caused the sword’s edge to bite into its hide and flesh. Blood
clouded the moat’s water, and the serpent at once released its death grip and
retreated into the depths with the speed of a lightning bolt.
Thongor broke the surface and gulped in a great draught of air, as if he
had never breathed before, like a babe fresh from the womb. And indeed he
felt as if newly born, so close had he come to never breathing again.
Emerging from the moat, Thongor shook the water from
his raven mane like a wet dog and wiped more from his stinging eyes. He
paused a moment to listen with senses more acute than those of civilized
men, even in that ancient day. Did he hear faint sounds of activity? Pursuit?
Yes, he was sure he did, but there was also the clanking, irregular sound of
inefficient bumbling, and he could guess why. The absolute subservience
the blood Druid sought came with a terrible price. He must recruit ever
more servants, hoping that sheer numbers would make up for the drastic
loss in vigor and independent thought. A good leader of men did not stifle
but rather encouraged these qualities and could rely upon them.
Though he could not guess how far the vampire shadow might have
spread, it hardly mattered: it had plunged the seat of his empire into deep
darkness, striking at the very heart of the West. It took no great deliberation
for Thongor to see that his only course must be to seek the aid of his old
patron, the wizard Sharaj sha. Resting a moment to regain his strength and
to inventory his bruises, he then set out in the direction of the Kovian
jungle.

ii. Due! Of Kings

It was a long journey on foot, though Thongor was able easily to devour the
miles in a nearly untiring run. He had no mount, nor any obvious means of
obtaining one. He spent several nights in shelter begged from peasant
families in their humble quarters. Many who lived in close proximity to the
Sark’s capital knew him by sight and welcomed him with obsequious bows,
which their lord waved away in his distaste for pomposity. Not wanting to
terrorize his poor subjects, for whom he felt true fatherly affection, he
nonetheless decided he had best warn them of the creeping threat of the
blood-drinkers. He gave them what little advice he could, then moved on.
Luck was with him one hot afternoon when Thongor found himself
accosted by a masked highwayman. He lost
little time in dispatching the rogue and appropriating his mount, a sturdy
young kroter with elaborate saddle and harness, no doubt stolen from a
previous victim. With a fleeting recollection of his own early days as a
hired thief, Thongor now viewed the outlaw’s death from the other end of
the matter: as the Sark it was his duty to secure order in the realm. The rest
of his journey was short work on the strong back of the large-eyed reptile
with its springing gait. Thongor had in his time ridden many of the beasts
and had long since overcome the initial nausea most experienced as the
steed bounced along.
But his troubles were far from over. He camped out far from any
habitation and slept in the open air one night, not far from the edge of the
rain forest, only to awaken bound in ropy, thorny vines. He had traveled
without sleep for the past few days, and his exhausted slumber was so
profound as to smother his usually keen instincts. With curses of self
reproach he looked around him, half-expecting to behold a party of fanged
pursuers, though he had not thought them capable of activity during the
daylight hours.
A kick in the head and another in the ribs disclosed the identity of his
captors. Thongor looked up at the shaggy figures of a handful of Lemurian
Beast Men. He had had more than one occasion to battle their ilk, but these
looked
different to him, so different. that his curiosity muted his rage. They were
much closer to the form of true men than any he had previously
encountered. They stood erect and possessed flatter faces, less like the
tusked apes of the jungle, their probable ancestors. True men, of course, had
been created directly from the hand of Father Gorm in the dawn era when
Phondath the Firstborn whelmed the Dragon Kings. But how had these
Beast Men, now perhaps more men than beasts, evolved so far? Thongor
took it as a sign that he must not be far from the dwelling of Sharajsha, for
it seemed a thing of magic, and his old master might be the one responsible.
But he must think about that later, when he was again free.
His enemies made no further assault on him but together hoisted his
bound form and hauled him through the dense screen of giant ferns and
their shadows, into the thick humidity of the jungle of Kovia. Thongor
received numerous minor wounds as his bearers took no care to avoid the
slashing, stinging thorns and razor-like fronds of the luxuriant growths that
clustered thick on every side. Nor could it really be avoided. The Beast Men
seemed to be largely invulnerable because of their thick mat of body hair.
After an hour or so of this, the party reached a clearing, where they
dumped him unceremoniously onto the ground before a makeshift throne of
crudely bound bamboo poles,
randomly snapped off with the artless strength of the apish savages. On this
throne sat a clownish counterpart to the usurping Druid Dravindas Vol. This
creature, wearing what
must have been intended as a royal mantle made of mammal hides, began to
speak, his gaze fixed upon Thongor for the part, but now and then flitting
around the gathering circle of Beast Men, his subjects, from whom he
seemed to suspect some gesture of hostility.
The monkey king spoke with a patois cobbled together from simian
grunts and words borrowed from human captives with whom they had
parlayed. Thongor thought he could understand most of it. Roughly, it ran
as follows.
“You mighty man. Me”—and here he thumped his chest comically
—“mighty man! Me show these fools Gulchakka is king! They see me
mightier than you!” The man-ape rose from his chair as his henchmen
untied Thongor, who rubbed his stiff limbs to restore their circulation. He
was beginning to surmise what had happened. This Gulchakka must have
struck down his predecessor in cowardly betrayal, which would account for
the distrust he obviously felt from those whom he uneasily ruled. Fearing
assassination himself, he wanted to demonstrate his kingly prowess in fair
combat, something he should have done the first time.
The farther removed the Beast Men evolved from their simian forbears,
the less of their animal strength they retained. But Thongor knew his apish
opponent would not be easy to overcome. His long arms were well-muscled
and ropy with sinew. But then so were Thongor’s, whose battle savvy
should prove a match for the ape—man’s raw power. He had, after all,
defeated Beast Men before. Having learned early the pitfall of
overconfidence, he nonetheless quickly assessed the beast king and decided
that Gulchakka would go down before him—as long as it remained a fair
fight. But would it?
Thongor found himself amused rather than intimidated by the aggressive
hoots and barks of the Beast Man, and of a few of this one’s supporters in
the crowd. The Valkarthan laughed, which served only to infuriate his
enemy the more. Good: it should render him the more careless.
It was a bare-handed fight. Thongor knew not what had become of
Sarkozan, much less of his steed, though he suspected his brutish hosts had
already eaten it. The Beast Man’s fingers were curled for use as killing
tools, and were tipped with claws, and these he seemed to count his best
weapons. Indeed they were formidable and deadly enough! Under their
raking, flesh must burst into bloody furrows and eyeballs must explode. But
Thongor elected to fight taproom style and balled his fists, throwing
cannonball punches to the jaw and the midsection of his foe. These tactics
were new to the savages (though no doubt they should soon learn the skill
from his example), and Gulchakka swayed, his eyes those of a dazed
warrior, nearing the end of his resources. Thongor, circling him, could
almost see the miniature graaks, or lizard hawks, flying round the spinning
head of the ape-man. He gave no quarter, battering the simian with new
impacts from his fleshy maces. Blood flowed freely from the broad nostrils
of the king. Thongor began to move in for the kill, wondering how many
more of the tribe he should have to fight his way through.
But in a moment he saw what had become of his sword, as a Beast Man
ran up with his chimp-like gait and handed the giant blade to his Chieftain.
Apparently the new king felt entitled to any means necessary to vindicate
his “honor.” Thongor easily dodged the still-groggy Gulchakka’s lunging
blows, planting yet more of his own. The half-man could barely see through
his swollen and bloodied eyes now, so Thongor decided to put an end to the
Charade, seizing the sword out of the paws of the foeman and sending it
like an axe through the corded neck of Gulchakka. His head spun away over
the heads of the crowd, raining blood on them as it flew.
Silence held like a bubble about to burst as Thongor stood his ground
awaiting a rush from the mob. Instead, a guttural cheer rose from their
ranks! Thongor realized that they were acclaiming him their new king! He
laughed in amazed satisfaction and lowered his sword as they bowed as one
before him. Another might sit upon his throne back in Patanga, but Thongor
was again king! It was half a joke, but it might have its uses.
 iii. Lair of Sorcery

Thongor, now chief of at least one small clan of the jungle. Beast Men,
pounded his chest as one of them. He stayed
among them for a few days, trying his best to master their rudimentary
tongue. Once he felt he knew it sufficiently, he tried to explain his quest to
his new subjects, whose primitive fears made them cooperative, eager to see
the vampire threat eradicated. Unfortunately, the same fears made them
unwilling to follow their new leader into the lair of a sorcerer. For they
knew of Sharaj shah and feared him. It was possible, Thongor remembered,
that some of these beings had been the subjects of the wizard’s experiments,
and that might explain their fear. Still, he could scarcely imagine the old
man, gentle though mighty, harming these poor creatures.
In the end, their dreads and terrors overcame their admiration for
Thongor and, wishing him success in their barely articulate way, they
watched him launch out deeper into the jungle. Only one accompanied him,
the most human looking of the Beast Men, as it happened, a mute. Thongor
wondered what secrets the bright eyes held, for intelligence smoldered
brightly in them. But his courage and loyalty seemed beyond question,
needing no verbal oaths of fealty.
The bond between the two ill-matched comrades was sealed in this wise.
Coming to another clearing and widening it with his sword, Thongor and
his nameless companion sought the most nearly smooth stretch of loamy
ground to use as bedding and slept in shifts, one always standing guard in
case of deadly predators. This plan Thongor managed to communicate more
easily than he expected by basic hand signals. Then he realized that the
hirsute fellow understood his speech, merely being unable to reproduce it.
But scarcely had Thongor begun to doze than his friend frenziedly shook
him to full alertness. And in the next moment the cause of his panic was
evident as a great black-furred vandar, the prehistoric lion of Lemuria,
sprang into their clearing, attracted perhaps by Thongor’s snoring.
The beast faced Thongor, pacing toward him, sure to lunge the rest of the
way any moment. The Beast Man, whom the vandar seemed content to
leave for a second course, jumped on the back of the black lion, locking his
powerful arms around the great neck. He must be a mere annoyance to the
predator, but it was enough of a diversion to allow Thongor to seize mighty
Sarkozan and bring it into play. The monster roared in pain as its prey sliced
off first one car, then the other, with an almost surgical skill surprising in so
massive a man. The ape-man stood by wide-eyed and even began to pity the
lion as the outcome rapidly became apparent. They ate well that night, and
Thongor marveled that his companion did not at once plunge bare hands
into the bleeding carcass but waited for him to build a fire. That was no
easy task in the humid forest, but, anticipating the need, he had brought
with him some dried bamboo for kindling.
Days passed as the two men (for that is how Thongor had begun to regard
his companion, his appearance not-withstanding) cut and ripped a path
through the jungle in the direction of the magician’s retreat. At last the
strange looking structure came into view, a framework of poles and tree
trunks tied together firmly with strong vines, thatch crowning its high-
climbing ramparts. It was a wonder of engineering, appearing much firmer
and stouter than was natural, given the fragile building materials. But of
course it was a Wizard’s dwelling, and who knew what arcane arts kept the
thing standing? Both looked upon it with recognition, not surprise, and they
paused but a moment before seeking entrance. Thongor knew Sharajsha
must be aware of their approach, gazing into his scrying crystal, as was his
manner.
They stood before the great portal, a massive thing made from the
strongest lotifer trunks. They did not bother knocking, nor was there a metal
ring to summon him who dwelt inside. He would already know who sought
him, and if he cared not to entertain a caller, he simply did not open the
door to him. Thongor was afraid he and his partner had fallen into that
category, so long did they stand there waiting, but at length the door opened
slowly. There was misty darkness within, but the tall, gaunt figure standing
before them was clearly ancient Sharajsha. Strangely and ominously, he did
not speak, nor did Thongor, his tongue
held by puzzlement. The wizard silently stepped back and retreated within,
leaving it to his callers to follow him.
Through several capacious chambers they walked, glancing at the cubbies
filled with scrolls, at the vellum codices spread open upon pedestals, and
the statues, some primitive in design, others breath-takingly sophisticated,
still others seeming to be living beings frozen in stone. There were displays
of weapons of outlandish sizes and several complex mechanisms the
purpose of which was not at all apparent. On the walls hung tapestries
depicting battles between semi-human and inhuman races, mounted heads
of slain animals, many unknown to Thongor. Laboratories were filled with
vials, alembics, and glass tubes in which percolated brightly colored liquids
or else thick, swirling vapors unable to escape into the circumambient air.
At last Sharajsha led them to a plain and modestly furnished room and
indicated two chairs, as he lowered himself into a third, none of them
particularly ostentatious. Still there came no word as to what Thongor and
his nearly-human companion might expect.
Long minutes passed, Thongor and the ape-man trading
apprehensive glances, until the wizard spoke. “My son, I know why and
whence you have come, and of the shadow
whose expanding reach you seek to escape.”
“And more, my father: to turn it back!”
The Beast Man nodded at Thongor’s words. But Sharajsha ignored them.
His speech was oddly slow and labored. Nor did he make any move to
alleviate the gloom, whether by lighting a lamp or by producing magical
illumination, a trick Thongor had seen him perform more than once. Of a
sudden, the Beast Man rose, pointing to his abdomen, and shrugged an
appeal to his host, who turned slowly to look at him and waved his
permission. Walking every bit as upright as a true man, the mute tribesman
hastened back the way they had come, as if to seek some place outside the
building to relieve himself. This left Thongor alone with his old mentor.
“I fear I can be of no help to you, Sark of Sarks. I find myself bound by
certain . . . constraints. Certain . . . thirsts I cannot rein in.” The voice,
usually so resonant, almost echoing, now sounded flat and affectless.
Thongor came to full attention and reached for Sarkozan’s sweat-stained
hilt as the old man opened wide his lips, animal fangs clearly visible behind
the overhanging whiskers. The shadow of Dravindas Vol had crept far
indeed! Unless, Thongor suddenly realized without deliberation, it had
begun here! Now he thought he knew how the Blood Druid had managed to
penetrate his palace in Patanga. The fiend had somehow deceived the old
wizard, placed him under his influence, and bidden him to transport him to
the region behind the guarded halls.
 The Valkarthan was at a loss. As with Sumia, he could not allow himself
to strike with the sword, lest he slay his old friend and counselor, moot
though it might be, given that Sharajsha was no doubt able to squash him
with a single syllable. But neither man made a move. Sharajsha’s ancient
eyes, usually so clear and alight, now clouded over like those of a man half-
blinded by cataracts. He seemed stalled, uncertain, fully as confused as
Thongor, whose living blood he had sought but moments before. But now
he began again to advance and grasped the younger man’s mighty shoulder
with an astonishingly vise-like grip. His great teeth seemed to pilot his
wizened head toward Thongor’s jugular with a will of their own.
Nearly mesmerized, like a cobra’s helpless prey, Thongor stood inert——
until his comrade burst in and uncorked a bubble—shaped jar of powder,
whose label Thongor could just make out, emptying a cloud of the
sorcerous dust into the old man’s face. The Wizard of Lemuria promptly
collapsed in a heap. Thongor, still eager for his old friend’s safety, gathered
up the gaunt form and sat him in the chair he had just vacated. Thongor had
held his breath against inhaling the dust of the Black Lotus, a powerful
narcotic. Doubtless Sharajshah now drifted through some phantasmagoric
dreamscape, momentarily free of the curse of Slidith the Blood Lord.
“We must away from here at once! Where we should try next, I confess I
know not. But let us search this place to see if there may be something we
may use to defend ourselves. Who knows when the wizard may awaken?”
His companion nodded. Thongor did not pause to note the fact that, to have
located the soporific powder, his furry comrade must be capable of reading.
The mounted weapons they had seen appeared to be in no way superior to
the broadsword Sarkozan. None sported magical runes of power. Still, the
Beast Man supplied himself with a long dagger and a mace. Neither dared
touch any magical implement, not knowing the secrets of their operation.
The Black Lotus might again prove useful, but there was no more of it.
They were about to end their search and leave when Thongor stepped into
one last room, one of the laboratories. This one he had not seen earlier, and
no wonder, for in the midst of it stood a tall and wide cylinder of perfect
crystal, in which a man-form floated, bobbing gently in some arcane
solution. It was hard to tell, given his limp passivity, if the fellow saw them
or not. Was he some unnatural homunculus created in the vats of sorcery? A
spirit drawn from an adjacent dimension and given fleshly form? Did the
wizard interrogate him for unearthly secrets? Or was he an unwilling
subject of terrible experiments which Thongor could now imagine his old
master performing?
Not knowing what trouble he might be inviting, Thongor decided that if
there was a chance the floating man was a prisoner, he must be set free. So
the Valkarthan swung his
sword like a Sledgehammer and shattered the tank. He and his companion
recoiled, trying to shield themselves from the twin sprays of glass and
sanguine fluid.
The man inside fell heavily to the stone-flagged floor but
at once seemed to rouse! Like a babe emerging from the fluids of the womb,
the man gulped air. Thongor could not help but think back to his own close
call with deadly waters, only scant weeks before.
He pounded the dripping figure on the back as the latter sputtered and
coughed. Then he looked him in the eyes. The man wiped the clinging
liquid from his eyes and nose, as if expecting the barbarian to recognize
him.
As well he might! For it proved to be none other than Karm Karvus,
Thongor’s oldest. friend and companion in battle! Both laughed with joy,
though one laughed weakly, punctuating his mirth with more coughing and
gasping.
“We dare not linger!” Thongor told the others. “We know not when the
wizard may come to himself, nor if he will send ill upon us once he does.
This may give us some small advantage,” he said as he sought out two of
the scrying balls he had noticed in his searching. Locating them once again,
he smashed them into fragments.“ ’Twould be safest to slay him, but that I
cannot bring myself to do. And besides, it may be that steel cannot harm
him anyway!”
Then, supporting the recovering Karm Karvus on their shoulders between
them, Thongor and the Beast Man made their way as swiftly as they could
out of the wooden castle and into the jungle. How they could make any
speed at this rate, with more jungle thicket to penetrate, they did not know.
But in a moment Karm Karvus gasped enough breath to say, “My lord, look
up!” At first they saw but a thin metal cord going up from one of the turrets,
connecting to something unseen above the canopy of giant ferns and vines
and scaly trunks. Thongor shaded his eyes and then exclaimed, “By the
Scarlet Hells! An airboat! Mayhap the very one aboard which Sharajsha and
I went adventuring so many years agone!”
 “The very same,” whispered Karm Karvus, as the apeman held his peace,
looking silently up but seeing nothing. With a phlegmy cough, the rescued
companion continued: “It is how Dravindas Vol reached Patanga, just as
you yourself once did, my lord, dropping down in the thick of night into the
palace!”
Thongor nodded at the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. “It floats
high above the jungle roof, yet I think we might gain it from the treetops if
we can but scale them. What do you think?” Both nodded.
First they sought to lower the vehicle by pulling on the cable, but that
proved to be of no avail, as the forces of levitude, or anti-gravity, whereby
the ship flew, exerted too strong an upward pull to be counteracted by mere
muscle. They had no choice but to attempt the precipitous ascent. It was not
easy. Poor Karm Karvus, as might be expected, had not the strength after
his ordeal (the nature of which his comrades still did not know), and fell to
the ground only a few yards up a lotifer tree. Thongor made it farther up but
in the end proved too heavy for the upper limbs to bear his weight. So he
stayed where he was while the natural simian skills of the Beast Man
enabled him to swing gracefully to the top and over the airship’s rail. From
here he tossed a rope over the side to Thongor who easily scampered up it,
then carefully threaded it through openings in the foliage to Karm Karvus,
who tied it around himself and allowed himself to be pulled up to join them.
Then Thongor, by no means a stranger to the mechanism, set the controls,
and the silvery, sleek arrow of the Nemedis, as he had long ago named the
now-aging prototype, shot off into the blue, headed west. From what Karm
Karvus told them, they made for a new destination.

iv. Among the Jegga Horde

“Hear then my tale, brothers,” said Karm Karvus, his voice much steadier
as his great natural vitality returned like a approached by Dravindas Vol,
only he could not transform me.” Here he pointed to the lacerations on his
neck where the vampire had sought his blood. “This cast great fear into
him, so he had his servants medicate and bind my wound and take me
aboard the airboat. They flew me to Sharajsha’s adytum, where, as you
know, he waited, an unwilling servant of the Druid, helpless to defy him,
but slowed in both wits and movements by the soul conflict deep inside
him. His assigned task was to discern the secret of my ability to withstand
his vampire poison. If I was immune, others might be, and Dravindas Vol, a
devil but no fool, wished to arm himself with some way of breaching such
protection as I seemed to possess.
“This new mission was so urgent that the wizard must needs leave off the
work Dravindas Vol had first assigned him. He wanted to make the Beast
Men of the forest into a
legion of ferocious near-men. These he imagined would make fierce troops
indeed! He required such, because, as I think you have seen, those under his
bloody spell lose much of their effectiveness as fighters. He sought thus to
augment his forces.”
Thongor gestured at their silent comrade, now expertly piloting the
airborne craft with a skill that seemed impossible for such a creature, as
raised above the general level of the hairy anthropoids of his species as he
might be. “Is our friend there the result of one of these experiments?”
Karm Karvus shook his head but paused, as if unsure how to say what
came next. “No, my lord Thongor, he is something . . . else. In truth,
Dravindas Vol had our old friend Sharajsha working on still more loathsome
schemes, and this fellow is the product of one such. If ape-men might be
brought along toward the likeness of true men, the Druid suspected the
reverse might also be possible. Alas, he was correct. This man is one of
them.” Thongor gazed first at Karm Karvus, then over at the enigmatic
Beast Man. This was too much for his conscience, primitive though it might
have been, to accept.
“Not only that, but he is known to you,” Karm Karvus continued. “You
see at the rail the once-familiar form of Ald Turmis!”
At this, Thongor recoiled as if struck. Ald Turmis was another of his
oldest and dearest companions, a partner in
many early escapades. Like Karin Karvus, he had been a peer of the realm
but found statecraft and supervision too dull a task, venturing out on quests
and missions as often as he could. Thongor had missed them both for long
months.
“But . . . but . . . if that is so, if it is so . . . why has he said nothing? Did
they sever his vocal cords?” The ape—man, whose secret now stood
revealed, was looking back in silent misery.
“I believe they secured his silence by means of some spell of hypnosis
which only Dravindas Vol or Sharajsha himself can break. The same
conjuration palsies his hand should he try to communicate with the stylus or
the pen. Even a finger in the dust of the ground would not succeed. It is
nefarious.”
“But why bother?” demanded a still incredulous Thongor.
“Ald Turmis was their greatest success, really their only success.
Sharajsha did not wish to bother attending to a prisoner, so he set him loose
in the jungle, where his only refuge should be among the Beast Men. Had
he need of him again he knew where to find him. But he knew too much,
so, on the chance he might be emboldened to show himself to his old
friends, the wizard silenced him.”
“I see. Again, he took a more merciful path, despite the evil sway of
Dravindas Vol. He might have kept him captive easily enough had he so
desired.” Now Thongor rose to his sandaled feet and approached Ald
Turmis, embracing him. “I thought to have made a new friend, but I had
regained an old one.” The simian eyes teared and wept, an eloquent
response as he returned his comrade’s hug. Thongor sent him to sit and rest
while he took the controls. He called back to him. “I swear, Ald Turmis,
you will become yourself again. But even now you are the man you were,
and none who love you will henceforth see any difference!”
All three now fell silent, but Karm Karvus had earlier recounted the
opening chapters of his tale. While enduring the machinations of Sharaj sha,
which even now he could scarcely hold against the helpless old man, he had
pondered the matter and succeeded in piecing together the secret the wizard
and the Druid sought, though ironically he could not tell them if he wanted
to, as long as he was suspended in that tube of liquid.
Many years before, shortly after Thongor had sealed his alliance with the
blue-skinned Rmoahals of the Jegga Horde, Karm Karvus had undertaken
an adventure in the company of Thongor’s friend and his own, Shangoth the
greatest spearman among the Jeggas. It was a mission of considerable
danger, against an ambitious Rmoahal chieftain who sought to employ
scrolls of dark magic discovered in a deep cavern hitherto unknown to the
Rmoahals but dating back to the days of the Dragon Kings. With their new
knowledge they hoped to unify the blue giants and bring all Lemuria to
heel. How Karm Karvus and Shangoth removed this threat is a story for
another time, but the two companions did prevail. Great was the rejoicing
that greeted them upon their return, and rich tokens of gratitude were
heaped upon them. Among these was a sacred rite of initiation whereby
Karrn Karvus was made an honorary Jegga. At the time he thought it a mere
formality, though a great honor to be sure.
But now he came to realize that something much more serious had
happened to him. For he knew that the Jegga
shamans possessed their own hoary secrets. And these must have included
immunity from the fiend that wanders the night. So the ritual chants said,
and now he understood the reference! There was some definite protective
element whereby one might withstand the attack of the vampires, a foul
species most men thought extinct. Recent events had proven otherwise. And
so now Karm Karvus, Thongor, and the transformed Ald Turmis were
headed for the plains where the Jegga Rmoahals wandered, guiding their
meatstock from one oasis to the next.
There was one more thing, the worst of all. From what little he was able
to overhear in Sharajsha’s castle, Karm Karvus surmised that the wizard and
his sanguine master were planning a great conjuration that should shut off
the rays of the sun for good and all, shrouding the earth in an endless
darkness, leaving the vampires free to raven—and to conquer, since
Dravindas Vol’s growing armies of vampire warriors could not very well
mount their campaigns only during the dark, resting dormant during the
day, an easy target for their foes!
Not many days later, our three friends found themselves crisscrossing the
Eastern plains in search of the blue nomads. It was not easy to distinguish
one clan from another, especially at their altitude, for they did not like to
risk sinking low enough to fall within range of hostile javelins and spear-
like arrows sent aloft from the mighty bows of eight-foot tall giants. But at
length they espied the snapping banners and pole-top totems of the Jegga
Horde and sank to within visual range. The blue barbarians recognized both
Thongor and Karm Karvus, to whom they owed much and with whom they
had shared great heroics. There was feasting around the bonfire that night,
complete with juicy bopher steaks hewn from the sides of the great, slow
ceratopsians. There were songs and lays regaling ancient epics and
adventures. Huge quantities of sarn wine were guzzled, and for merry hours
all forgot their troubles and those now threatening all of primal Lemuria.
But when most had sunk into stuporous slumber, Thongor, Ald Turmis,
Karm Karvus, and Shangoth, now Chieftain of the Horde in place of his
father Jomdath, circled the dying fire to plan their strategy.

V. Light versus Darkness

Months passed while Thongor and his compatriots made ready their plans
to turn back the vampire plague. They were busy but near—mad with
frustration at the necessarily slow pace of their preparations. All the time,
they feared, the shadow of Dravindas Vol, abetted by the forced cooperation
of the mighty wizard Sharajsha, must be extending farther and farther every
night. They worried lest it overtake them there in the eastern plains before
they were ready. But this they need not have feared, for they were far from
the only ones aware of the danger and stirred to stand up to it.
Back in Patanga, a siege was in progress. Other cities and even the
savage Beast Men were determined to stamp out the vampire threat. Great
armies sat encamped about the walls of the City of Flame, where once the
fiery abominations of Yamath the Fire Lord were practiced. But things had
reached an impasse. Requiring no wholesome nourishment, the vampires
could afford to wait them out, or so they thought at first. As most
inhabitants of the city who had not fled before escape was cut off were now
thirsty vampires themselves, all within the city were increasingly both
restive and enervated. Only Dravindas Vol and his lieutenants, once
Thongor’s Queen and peers, hoarded private supplies of untainted humans
upon whose life blood they subsisted with ever shrinking rations. The Blood
Druid prayed to his patron devils that Sharajsha’s work might bear fruit, and
that a shroud of everlasting darkness might descend to cover the advance of
a new army of trained ape-men. But thus far nothing. And the siege
prevented communication with the wizard. There had been no report from
him in months. The thought of an escape by airboat occurred to Dravindas
Vol till he remembered he had sent the craft back to Sharajsha with the
captive Karrn Karvus aboard. Now he cursed that decision.
Thus things stood, the vampire encroachment having been at least
contained, when Thongor reappeared. Dravindas Vol, pacing about in the
throne room, suddenly whirled and strode to the great window. Outside a
ruckus arose. Cheers and shouts burst from thousands of throats, nor were
they the parched gullets of his wasted servants. The besiegers were hailing
the return of their rightful Sark at the head of a vast army of allies. He had
brought with him a contingent of the Blue Nomads and others gathered
from the eastern city states along the way.
Still, what real difference could it make? Did not Thongor’s troops
merely bloat the already ineffective siege
of the city? There was already enough difficulty supplying the original
besiegers with sufficient provisions. But Thongor and his comrades had
something very different in mind. Maintaining an inactive siege was much
too dull for the likes of them. Their plan was to attempt an entry into
Patanga by means of the tunnels through which guardian poas leave their
keeper’s lair to prowl the moat.
Some men, no doubt, would be lost, but none disdained that prospect. No
warrior would, though perhaps shopkeepers and poets might not be blamed
for thinking first of their own skins. The invaders would go heavily armed,
but not too heavily lest their weapons weigh them down and sink them. It
would be clumsy maneuvering under water against an agile creature born to
that environment, but during the last months these men had practiced in the
waters of the Eastern Sea.
Dravindas Vol kept watch for days, or rather for nights, desperate to
know what next should ensue. Even so he did not catch sight of the strange
spectacle of a dozen men suicidally plunging into the moat they knew was
swarming with giant serpents!
It was impossible to tell precisely how many poas had slithered out to
meet them, but Thongor thought he remembered there were only a dozen or
so, the same number, roughly, as his men. Here they came!
The moat was soon a churn with crimson froth as combat raged below the
surface. Two or three men succumbed, but Thongor’s invaders soon gained
the advantage. As expected, the massive creatures would swiftly encircle a
victim, but the men worked in teams, the captured man hacking at the
serpent if he could, while his companion chopped away, clear of the
entangling coils. If another poa approached him, he and his newly freed
fellow would switch places.
It was over after the initial clash, as it had to be, since the warriors could
hold only so much air in their lungs. Some managed to surface for a breath;
one or two others, held below, could not resist the deadly urge to inhale. A
couple of the sea serpents fled, while most sank in a sanguine cloud to the
bottom of the moat. And what men remained, too few, weary with battle,
hauled themselves, then each other, on to the stony lip of the tunnel leading
back into the palace complex. Thongor and his three friends were among
them, as a hasty roll call confirmed. This welcome but improbable outcome
gave Thongor to hope that the Nineteen Gods might be smiling upon his
endeavor, though it was too early for such self-congratulations.
Once inside the palace, Thongor removed a burden he had strapped to the
broad back of the giant Shangoth, whose huge lungs had served him well in
the sub-surface battle. Only he could have borne the extra weight without
being hampered by it. As his old friend unwrapped the heavy pouch, still
dry thanks to the Plesiosaur hide in which it was contained, mighty
Shangoth smiled his huge and toothy smile and said, “Why, I had verily
forgotten it was there!”
The sound and feel of shifting weight within betokened a
load of tightly packed powder of some sort. The preparation of such a
quantity had taken many weeks, for the substance was rare indeed. It was
none other than the compound used to smear over the flesh of Rmoahal
initiates, imparting immunity to vampirism! If ancient tradition was more
than myth, the dust would also break the vampire spell, returning the
afflicted to normal humanity. But that remained to be seen. Thongor,
Shangoth, and the rest, not already inducted as honorary Jeggas, had
recently received the treatment, and now they passed it on to their fellow
invaders.
Trusting that all available soldiers would be posted on the wall to observe
the siege, the Sark and his fellows fanned out through the palace, along
carefully mapped out paths, sprinkling the powder onto all the wall torches,
causing the substance to blossom into a pungent smoke that rapidly filled
the corridors. Smeared on their sword blades, the stuff ought to kill any
vampire soldiers they might encounter. For who knew how long the
enchanted incense might take to work, if it worked at all? Foolish to risk
one’s life patiently waiting for an attacking foe to pause and stay his hand!
Shangoth and Karrn Karvus, fighting shoulder to shoulder as in former
days, proved the wisdom of this strategy as they cut down a stream of
shambling attackers. But soon the stream dried up as it became apparent
that legends told true, and the drifting tendrils of incense did their promised
work, restoring humanity, and docility, to the victims of Dravindas Vol.
Shaking blood drops from his face and hands and sheathing Sarkozan,
Thongor made his way first to the royal bedchamber. He stood as still as if
he had collided with an invisible wall as he beheld Sumia’s pale form
stirring amid her cushions and staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. He sat at her
bedside, unafraid of any new fanged attack, till she regained her
consciousness. Her eyes still swam, but Thongor gently cupped her lovely
chin and with a finger pushed her lip upward. She had no fangs. He
embraced her, careful not to break her ribs. When he was sure her step was
steady enough, he took her by the hand, and they followed the familiar path
to the throne room.
Dravindas Vol paced fretfully, receiving reports of the newly arrived
forces and the confusion in the moat. Thongor observed him from just
outside the great arch, his presence undetected by the distracted usurper.
The Valkarthan’s feral sense of smell told him that the vapor had not yet
penetrated this far. He feared it might be so, and he had planned for the
contingency. Bidding the blinking, yawning Sumia to lead him by the hand
to the throne, he explained that he hoped to avoid any defenders, mostly
because they might be his old friends, the nobles of Lemuria, and he did not
want to have to fight them. Bur neither could he wait till they regained their
proper senses. The Druid must be struck down before he might produce any
more nefarious tricks. Having said what he needed to say, Thongor reached
into his belt pouch and popped into his mouth a set of false vampire fangs
he
had made from the teeth of the slain vandar months before. They ought to
do the trick!
As Thongor hoped, the Druid was startled but delighted to see him, given
the state Thongor seemed to be in—a convert to the cause! He took the bait,
inferring that Sumia had bitten him during a rash attempt to rescue her.
 “Slidith be praised! My friend, and now you are my friend, the
providence of my god has surely brought you to
my throne in our direst hour!” Thongor tried to look simultaneously torpid
yet attentive. The agitated Druid was in any case much too distraught to
know the difference. “Let me tell you how you may serve me and be the
salvation of us all! You shall mount the wall of the city and exclaim to the
besiegers that their foes have been defeated and that the troops may all go
home. They will trust you, not being aware of your recent. . .enlightenment.
You can do this for me, can you not?” The spindle- shanked villain looked
pathetic, Thongor thought, like a child pleading for some treat.
Thongor, with surprising wit in his voice, agreed that, yes, it was a good
idea, then spat out the fangs. As the Druid’s countenance abruptly fell, the
man he thought his slave unlimbered his sword, gleaming with bluish
unguent, and disemboweled the usurper on the spot. Dravindas Vol
recoiled, clutching the wound, but only for the merest moment. For upon
contact with the unguent, the vampire flesh began to bloat, then to rot,
falling to the ground not with the wet impact of living viscera, but with a
shower of dust. How ancient must he have been?
Just then, the courtiers, having begun to advance to the throne to defend
the usurper as best they could, began to reel as the mist reached them at last.
They fell to the floor, and Thongor dreaded that his old comrades should
fall to pieces as their ghoulish master had. But his fears proved happily
groundless. All began to stir as if fighting their way out of a nightmare-
laden sleep, just like Sumia. Thongor and Sumia helped Mael, Dru,
Selverus and the others to their feet and walked them to their accustomed
chairs around the long table. Once they had collected their thoughts,
Thongor explained briefly the major events transpiring while they had
languished in the stupor of possession. Disgusted at the fact of having
imbibed human blood, two or three vomited, while there were none who did
not shudder with loathing. But the call of duty was enough for them to
forget their troubles and regrets, even if only momentarily, as Thongor told
them what he needed them to do. In fact it was precisely what Dravindas
Vol had asked Thongor to do.
They made their way to the city wall and addressed the thousands
gathered there in anticipation. Only this time it was no ruse. Thongor,
flanked by the others, shouted the news that the vampires had been
vanquished, the Patangans who survived returning to normality. Soon there
would be widespread celebration, but just now there was mostly quiet
satisfaction, as food and drink were in short supply on both sides of the
wall.
In the days that followed, Thongor received embassies from both the
Beast Men of Kovia and the newly united Rmoahal clans, who petitioned to
be added to the Golden Empire of the West, and so Thongor’s domains
expanded, to the benefit of all. Thongor rejoiced over the fealty of these
new subjects, added to his realm not by conquest but by a demonstration of
his wisdom and valor. It was victory of a kind that the likes of Dravindas
Vol, like so many tyrants, could never understand, much less achieve.
As the delegates of the ape-men and the blue nomads knelt to kiss his
proffered sword blade, the eyes of the multitude of spectators were
suddenly drawn upward at the sound of an approaching airboat. It was the
Nemedis, and Thongor laughed with joy to see astride the deck two familiar
forms. There stood a smiling Sharajsha, freed now from his psychic bonds
as soon as Dravindas Vol perished, and Ald Turmis, once again in
possession of his true human shape. His shouted greeting showed that his
tongue, formerly bound by sorcery, spoke freely once more. Thongor waved
them down, and the airboat landed on a flat expanse of the palace roof. He
rushed to embrace both men. The sun shone down brightly, for the wizard
had either never managed to work the spell of darkness or had contrived to
avoid working it. In any case, the warm rays of the sun smiled on the
liberators of Lemuria as, together, they faced the cheering crowds.
 9 Thongor in the City of the Gods

i. Vengeance Unknown

THE SUN CAST a merciless eye, or was a merciless eye, staring down
upon the unusually silent, death—paved streets of Patanga, City of Fire,
capital of ancient Lemuria. Occasionally the terrible silence was broken,
like the evening calm disturbed by canine howling, when a mother or a wife
would break into mournful cries, bewailing the death of another child or
husband. The men who lost their wives to the mysterious, symptomless
plague, bit back their grief, making a show of the stolid manliness they
knew they ought to feel—but did not feel. Nor was their beloved lord,
Thongor, Emperor of the West, stoic amid the horror. It might have been
different had his Queen, Sumia, or their son and royal heir, Prince Thar,
then been within the walls of the city. They were on a state tour of the Nine
Cities and had been gone just longer than the curse had been laying low the
once-gleaming city, whose golden brilliance now seemed dulled with death.
At first Thongor dreaded their absence as an open wound, but at once he
thanked the Nineteen Gods for what showed itself a blessing as soon as
invisible Death invaded.
But he was not without friends and counselors, old companions he daily
feared he should lose. But just now they assembled in the council chamber.
Some ten men and women sat in dismal disarray about a long table of
tropical wood, varnished yet not without sword nicks and the ancient stains
of wine and food. Prince Dru, his catlike agility drooping like the ends of
his moustache, notably unwaxed today, gazed alternately into the roaring
fire and at the great mural stretching across the ceiling, depicting the
heavenly chamber of which this was a. crude copy: the meeting hall of the
Lemurian Gods. Mighty Karm Karvus, companion in arms to the Emperor,
had both saved his comrade and been saved by him, it seemed, a thousand
times. But who, he mused, was able to save them from this? Blue-thewed
Shangoth, titan of the Rmoahal warriors, registered genuine anguish. . . and
pity? as he looked expectantly at his ally. There were feathered druids and
shamans gathered from the wilder recesses of the Empire. Wisdom was
welcome from any quarter, for all that it seemed slow in coming.
The tense quiet shattered as did one of the ritual masks adorning the
chamber wall as Thongor”s axe cleft it and sank inches deep into the
masonry. “Any foeman of flesh and form I have dared in battle, whether
from this world or another! But here I am, impotent and cowering against
an enemy who slays without wound or blemish! Who will show me how to
strike?! Strike for my people, those who are left, before I, too, am carried
off and defiled by jackals and raptors!”
“Gorm forbid, my lord! It shall never happen to you!” Thus spoke Karm
Karvus, half-drawing his blade from its sheath until the futility of the
gesture embarrassed him and
he replaced it. His voice was lost amid a general din as they all said much
the same.
Another hesitated, then ventured, “Can it be that we are smitten of the
Gods?” That one sought to return to inconspicuous invisibility, as if not
wanting to face the possible repercussions of what might be received as
disloyalty and criticism.
Thongor replied forthrightly, “I am not afraid to think it possible, loyal
Veldoran. And in truth it must be considered. But my eyes keep close watch
throughout the Nine Cities, and I am apprised of nothing so heinous as to
deserve this bane. And to accuse the Gods of punishing where no crime
appears to exist verges upon blasphemy, does it not, old Prajnahindrath?”
The ash-coated mystic nodded gravely and took a swig of bitter liquid
from his hollowed-out skull chalice. “It is even so, great lord. And then one
is forced to inquire whether we are sinned against rather than sinning. I
have lately taken to searching the astral plane for any sign of some baleful
conspiracy against us. Mayhap some old enemy who still stings from the
wounds you dealt him long ago . . .”
Shangoth let loose a quip: “There have been enough of
them!” The rare note of levity vanished as soon as spoken.
 “But none such is evident,” corrected the shaman. The forms of certain
beasts would be manifest to me, each standing for a power or agency, and
they would disclose the information if it were available. But one such
oracular beast did appear to me with tidings which I fear I only now
understand.”
“What beast?” demanded Thongor.
The old man was silent for a moment as he looked into his king’s
shimmering golden eyes. “The black hawk of Valkarth!”
The mighty form of the Emperor of the West exploded upright, knocking
his massive throne back onto the floor, causing the tiles to ring with the
impact. His shoulder-length hair fell back into place, framing a sun-bronzed
face that boasted high cheekbones, a slightly aquiline nose with flaring
nostrils, and lips like a whip that seemed equally ready to crack a smile or a
sneer. The heavy brows were twisted like serpents with a mixture of fury
and of fear. “Am I then the pariah? Are my own sins to blame?”
The spindle-shanked seer stood to his feet, too. Quoth he: “Nay, my lord!
There is something amiss on the cosmic plane, something obscure to my
scrying.”
“And mine!”
“And mine!” echoed other diviners and soothsayers present, all their
voices weighted with conflicting notes of fear, frustration, and hope. Could
an answer at last be emerging?
Prajnahindrath continued in his unwavering yet fragile tones, “The
mystery we seek, the mystery that slays us, lies concealed somehow in a
secret place that only the king, as the earthly scion of the Nineteen Gods,
can penetrate. You must, O Mahathongoya, King of Kings, ascend upon the
astral path to the City of the Gods itself! For thus it is written in the Sutra of
Vizarsh!”

He goes through many-colored flames

To that beyond all forms and names,
Let God comport with mortal flesh
Till God and man begin to mesh!
 ii. The Verge of Heaven

The Lord of the West lay supine upon a cushioned dais that instinctively
repelled his wilderness-hardened form. He clutched his broadsword,
holding its hilt against his chest as if already riding his destined funeral
pyre. Painted sigils had been traced over the seven chakras up and down his
torso. A parade of druids circled his form, chanting the syllables of the
archaic Senzar language from the Lemurian Book of the Dead. Thongor of
Valkarth chanced a quick glimpse of his situation, though warned not to,
and what he saw nearly unmanned him. Flames did in truth leap and lap
around his body as he lay there! But they were cold, he realized, as narcotic
vapors escaping from swinging censers seeped into his huge lungs. And he
thought, to his astonishment, that the strange flames partook of a whole
rainbow of hues. They rose and formed as it were a canopy of drapes
around him. And those drapes in turn became glowing screens upon whose
billowing surfaces images began to form. All sight and sound of what might
have transpired without was lost to him, but an observant spirit might
penetrate that barrier and overhear Thongor’s friends attendant upon him.
For one among them watched with second sight.
The Sark of Sarks seemed to himself to be ascending a steep slope.
Though he did not remember embarking on the climb, an echo of a whisper
suggested he was working his way up the half-mythical Mount Meru, the
central summit of the cosmos, where mortal feet did not naturally tread.
Outcroppings of bare stone were frequent, and they appeared to glow with
an inner radiance obviating any need for sunlight. Nor did the wholesome
light of that orb seem to appear, as all accustomed shadow patterns were
absent. For the same cause, Thongor had no notion what time it might be. A
distant humming permeated everything, but there were no distinct animal
noises, whether reptilian or avian. He looked down at his body and was
mildly surprised to behold his heavily muscled form clad briefly in the
loincloth and harness of the mercenary he had been—lo!—-those many
years agone. His scabbard slapped his bronzed thigh as he walked, but there
was no sword in it. He knew he trod the path of a living riddle, and that all
depended upon his unraveling it.
At once, springing from a concealment so complete that he seemed to
have launched himself from thin air, a shaggy form collided with the
weaponless warrior. Thongor first recognized the body stench of his old
foes, the Beast Men, neither wholly animal nor human, but with the keenest
predatory instincts of both! Swordless the Sark may have been, but he was
far from helpless, as many a more human foe had learned in similar
circumstances. He allowed the ape-man to grasp him in a lunging embrace,
then turned round in the not-yet-closed grip. Noting the surprise registering
in his enemy’s half-human face, Thongor brought his arms down and dug
his steely fingers into the hollow rows between the bestial ribs and began to
crack the thing’s chest open like a lobster carapace. The apish entrails
tumbled out as if the whole body were vomiting forth the rank foulness
evolution had packed into it, and it could not rid itself of its stuffing quickly
enough.
Sloughing off the meaty detritus with the sweeping backs of his hands,
Thongor sought wide fern leaves to use as rags. Little did he realize the
whole scene was the object of another’s scrutiny, not of another foe
concealed for ambush, but rather of the seer Prajnahindrath, beyond the
flames he thought hid him from all eyes. But the shaman’s second sight was
by no means so easily thwarted, and what he saw upon the screen of
Thongor’s dreams made him nod his head somberly.
Of those friends of the throne who had gathered silently around the old
shaman, Lord Mael was blustery and far from sophisticated. Yet he wore his
official dignity like the furry mantle that never left his shoulders. He now
whispered an inquiry to the painted conjure-master, “Something is not right
with the Sark’s voyaging spirit?”
Momentarily yanked from his reverie, Prajnahindrath focused his eyes
again on Mael’s concerned, red face. “I would not worry you, my friends,
but, to be sure, something is amiss, or at least puzzling to me. Most of you
have no cause to be familiar with the rite we are performing here,” he said,
motioning to the still—circling, still softly chanting druids. We are
upholding our Sark on the journey of his mighty spirit to those ethereal
realms we shamans frequent, though he is to soar higher than we are
accustomed to. He makes the ascent both outwardly and inwardly, though
ultimately there is no real difference. In the depth of dream he climbs
Mount Meru to its summit. But here, inside his sleeping form, we join with
his inmost mind to ignite the chakras, the nodes of psychic force arranged
along the spinal cord.” (Yes, the ancients of elder Lemuria and Atlantis
already knew much of the medical science again rediscovered only in our
recent history.)
“Within each such nexus of power the Nineteen Gods placed the
signature of their creative hand, for embedded in them is a great deposit of
divine power, awaiting activation. At their root, at the spine’s base, lies
coiled and sleeping the great Kundalini, a serpentine spirit of supreme
occult power. Once awakened, it slithers up the spine from one chakra to
the next until all are awake and alive, and their possessor is fully
enlightened. To awaken the chakras, a man must pass through many ordeals
of strength and character, some of them natural in origin, others voluntarily
undertaken by ritual and contemplative means. By such methods did the
divine Shahrajshah gain and hone his great powers in times long past. It was
he who gave our Lord Thongor his first training, assigning him labors and
crusades no mortal might accomplish without the divine potency awakening
within. Thus is the Sark already far advanced upon his path. He has, so to
say, appeared upon the cosmic mountainside a good two thirds of the
distance to the peak.”
Here not only Mac] but even Prince Dru and mighty Shangoth shook
their heads, daunted by the gibberish of the old sorcerer. But Karm Karvus,
who had seen many of
Thongor’s deeds with his own eyes, was no less astonished by his
comrade’s feats of arm and spirit than by the wonders of magic and
mysticism; he ventured a question. “Holy Prajnahindrath, tell us: what have
you seen? What made you suddenly grave?”
“If you are willing to accept it, young master, it is said that each of the
Gods left a token of himself in each of the chakras, doubtless a symbol for
the divine character of the deposit, much as a father leaves with the mother
some seed of his own nature, hence the resemblance between him and his
offspring. But just now I sensed that, even with new triumphs in his
dreaming, the king does not awaken the power of the Gods within, and that
because they have forsaken him. Or rather, they are not to be found. The
strengths he has always used to such good advantage are his own, but I fear
he may not find new strength awaiting him when he needs it. In defeating
one of his old foes, the apish Beast Men, Thongor has passed through an
important door. For the ape-man represented his own animal nature. But
why are the inner atmans of the Gods absent? It is indeed worrisome.”
Only half-following this lesson in mysticism, his hearers were scarcely
less baffled than before. Nor was it long before Prajnahindrath felt his
occult senses drawn back to follow his king’s progress through new
dangers.
Thongor plodded on, burdened by the uncertainty of whatever goal
awaited him, assuming any did. And at once he was startled from his
aplomb by a noise both strangely familiar and dangerously alien. Before he
saw any living thing that might be making it, he thought of the devil—trees
he had once narrowly escaped. Then the flesh-lusty vegetable monsters
were like stakes at which he and his companions were to be slowly burned
by the digestive juices of their leafy captors. But what was this? What
stalked through the ambient vegetation that clothed the mountainside like a
Vandar? As it cleared the thick foliage, Thongor’s pursuer revealed itself bit
by bit as some manner of creature he had not seen before. The resemblance
he had sensed to the devil-trees was there, all right, but it appeared the thing
had considerably evolved from the form its ancestors took in the Kovian
jungles. For this thing walked. It strode on all fours and possessed the
mighty chest of a jungle predator, with the steely limbs to match; only the
hide was covered by neither fur nor scales—but leaves! And the head!
Gorm, but it was one giant bell—shaped fly-trap. And, instantly attracted by
the gory sauce from Thongor’s Beast Man opponent that still clung to him,
the green tiger sprang at him. Instead of waiting for it and hoping for the
best, he kneeled to aim his own jump. The two clashed in midair and fell
grappling to the ground. Thongor first grasped at the leafy mane, but his
massive hands came away full of green shreds, leaving his enemy seeming
none the less enthusiastic.
He reached instinctively for his sword but instantly remembered it was
not there. Then the giant tulip of the monster’s maw came open, wide open,
and the Valkarthan could see with astonishment and delight that the thing
did not possess teeth! Thongor thought back to small, cultivated plants
whose decadent owners fed them flies and mice, and he had his plan. He
waited but a moment till the cone of green flash, dripping with acid juices,
reached its widest extent—then jumped in!
He knew the creature must rely upon crushing and dissolving its prey
simultaneously, and this fact would both
necessitate speed and make a weaponless victory possible. The acids stung
acutely where the Beast Man had dealt his worst blows, but Thongor had
learned to ignore such pain. It was simply necessary strategy, and he applied
it now. Betting that the insides of the leaf-lion must needs be softer than the
thickly-overlaid outside, Thongor began ripping away at the former with his
bare hands. The beast mounted a desperate defense, falling to the ground
and rolling over and over, as if on fire. This did not stop Thongor, who was
only encouraged by the thing’s desperation. Reaching down farther as he
held his breath with a bit of his own desperation, he grabbed handfuls of
entrails and ripped them free. It took only a few seconds for the no-longer-
hungry behemoth to disgorge its poison meal. Gasping great draughts of air,
Thongor rolled on the ground himself, trying to shed as much as he might
of the burning acid fluid. It helped that he had been coated with the
loathsome gore of the ape-man, since this had formed a preliminary barrier
of sorts against the digestive juices.
He rested but a moment, then continued stoically on his way.

iii. In the City of the Nineteen Gods

To the striding, dreaming form of Thongor of Valkarth, time seemed to hang

idle, like the tropical heat of summer in
Patanga. He moved, he breathed, he walked, he saw. But there was no way
to gauge how much time had passed or how long anything took. So he
could not have told you how long and difficult a path finally brought him to
fabled Partholon, the City of the Nineteen Gods of Lemuria. It looked to
mortal eyes as if made of lights shining up from the ground to the heavens.
Again, though Thongor had never seen it, enchanted Partholon looked as if
one might freeze the Aurora Borealis and set the magical lights down on a
mountain top. This citadel of thunderous glory looked down majestically
from the plateaued heights of Sumeru. He saw no path or steps, suspecting
that the Citadel’s inhabitants had no need for such devices, either remaining
aloof in self-contemplation as some sages thought, or hastening away, as
others imagined, in flying throne-chariots not unlike the earth-repelling
airboats of Thurdis. Thongor took in the vista with a sweeping glance, then
started uphill. The climb was not difficult, nor were there any apparent
obstacles. Could deities require defenses? Perhaps so, or so dim legends
whispered. And all the while, through a night and a day, outside the veil of
flames, the wizard Prajnahindrath kept vigil. And as best he could, he kept
the others apprised.
The summit gained, Thongor watched and listened for any signs of
occupation, not exactly knowing what sounds might be expected in such a
place. The echoes of feasting, perhaps? With what else did the Gods occupy
themselves? He started toward what looked, on analogy with his own
Patanga, like the central edifice, thinking there he might come upon the
council chamber of the Nineteen and listen to them debate verdicts of mercy
or judgment upon poor mortals below. Or did they meet to plan out the
destinies of the nations for centuries to come? And how should he expect
them to appear? He had more than once experienced dream visions of
Father Gorm, Sark of Deities, and the sight staggered him. But that was on
the Samsaric plane, the plane of Transformation. How might he react to the
sight of the Gods Themselves?
The streets beneath his feet were paved, as myth averred, with gleaming
orichalcum and electrum. Partholon’s steep and mighty walls nonetheless
seemed to waver oddly to the sight, as if kept intact by some Being’s
studied concentration, concentration that now seemed to falter. The curbs
were of gold, and the gutters ran with . . . blood? Who offered animal
sacrifices here? Thongor thought himself attentive before, but now every
sense awakened. Something had to be very wrong. And his further progress
down the celestial streets began to fill in the picture, for the farther he
padded, his empty hand aching for a blade, he heard, louder and louder, the
blood-chilling tones of devilish laughter! Surely this could not be the sound
of the Gods at leisure! However their divine manifestations might confute
the primitive imaginations of mortal men, they could not sound more bestial
than men! And this mirth did.
Thongor, who had moments before been summoning his resolve to stride
forward into the presence of his Deities, now hesitated at the titanic
diamond-gleaming arch opening onto the feasting chambers of the Nineteen
Gods. Within he heard a swirling cacophony of chittering, bleating,
groaning,
belching, shrieking, growling, and other sounds he could not supply names
for. These were no Gods, but their opposite numbers, the Asuras. Such were
the primeval opponents of the Nineteen Gods, a race of immortals who
incarnated savagery and debauchery even as Father Gorm and his pantheon
represented every virtue and righteous power. Whence they came no man
knew, though obsolete myths hinted they had been the older of the two
celestial races and had somehow been forced into defeated obscurity upon
the earth and its remote places. They held power here and there where they
could seduce and cheat naive mortals into serving them with sacrifice and
obsequious praise, humans deluded by promises of power and material
wealth, sometimes actually delivered, more often not. Their druids and
priests were the bane of oppressed populations wherever the Asuras were
invoked. Before Thongor banned and expelled their worship, Yamath the
Lord of Fire claimed the service of Patanga, while Slidith, Lord of Blood,
commanded immemorial Tsargol. Nianga farther to the East worshiped Iao-
Thaumungazoth, Lord of Black Magic, while shapeless Thog, a cloudlike
concatenation of wickedness and vampirism, dwelt among nameless ruins
far underground. And there were others, too terrible or too ancient to be
named.
The dreaming soul of Thongor the Valkarthan hastened away and down
the empty vastness of deserted halls. His soundless padding, copying the
supple Vandar, the black lion of the Kovian jungles, took him into what he
calculated must be some kind of galley or kitchen behind the banqueting
room. As in mortal kitchens, there was a pass—through, high up in the wall
between the chambers. Thongor climbed up to it with no real effort and
lingered, listening and sneaking glimpses where he might. He had seen
men’s bodies butchered in every possible way, with every possible
implement of the Scarlet Hells. He had seen and undergone tortures
unimaginable by any sane mind. But the like of this he had not seen before.
And yet the first thought that penetrated his shocked stupor was the memory
of a village circus he had seen as a child: clever trainers had contrived to
have animals assume human motion, manner, and behavior, simulating
human scenes of farming, family, and battle, holding out wooden swords or
royal scepters made of bamboo, each in paw or claw or hoof. Each barked
or yammered where a man or woman would have spoken. All who saw it
were delighted at the childish spectacle of incongruity.
But he had no inclination to laugh now, beholding wide eyed an
abhorrent collection of inhuman nightmares aping human stances about a
table designed for the humanoid form. It was a frenzied orgy of unspeakable
acts, as the diabolical revelers alternately tore chunks of living flesh (of
men or beasts or. . . ?) from quivering flanks and lay wallowing in the
clotting blood splashing amid the dented platters and trays. The awful
feasters were served by suffering, shivering human forms, most of them
male, most also elderly, frequently flinching at the prospect of callous and
undeserved blows. Whips snaked forth to trip ankles. Saurian claws kicked
falling human forms. Froglike tongues unfurled and spun the helpless
bodies of servants like giant tops. Who were these unfortunates?
All at once, one of the wretches came sailing like a projectile through the
very passage window through which Thongor surreptitiously watched. The
crashing sound of the body’s impact covered the noise of his own leap to
the food stained floor, and Thongor crouched to gather up the supine,
moaning form. It was that of an old man, not scrawny by any means, but
with signs of age and infirmity gaining rapidly upon him. His matted hair,
once golden and now tending to washed-out flax, splayed out like a spider’s
web unattached to any branch or doorway. The rheumy eyes slowly opened,
then circled unstably in their orbits, finally focusing on Thongor’s attendant
face. The old man squinted as in a moment of hopeful recognition. “My son
. . . Thongor?”
“Yes! How can you know me, grandfather? Who are you? And how do
you come to such a state?”
The old eyes closed again, but the lips opened. “My son, I am called . . .
Gorm.”
The Valkarthan reeled at this impossibility. But his barbarian instincts
prodded him to action. Someone or something must momentarily come
looking for the injured elder, if only to finish him off. Thongor must be
away to seek some refuge within the vast palace. He must do what he could
to care for the limp old man in his arms. If nothing else, he must find out
from the other exactly what had transpired here in Partholon, the City of the
Nineteen Gods.
 iv. Master of the Immortals!

As far as Thongor ever knew, no one did come seeking the twisted-limbed
old slave. Presumably, they assumed it would be no trouble to find the old
fellow next time they wanted to practice some mischief upon him. In the
meantime there were some eighteen other victims ready to hand.
With ignored and neglected supplies easily recovered, Thongor was able,
in the week that followed, to help restore his charge to some measure of
strength. The man, though still close to immobile, was at least able to
converse for long periods, and he told a tale unprecedented in saga, myth or
Edda. Still unsure if he could believe any of it, Thongor did come to
understand his informant’s account, mad delusion though it must be.
The pathetic old man maintained that he was in truth Father Gorm, King
of Gods. He and his kind had come to power, he now revealed, in
unthinkably ancient times, once they had arrived upon the earth from some
plane he called the Realm of the Fire Mist. They had wrested this world
from the corrupt dominion of the Asuras. This they had managed by taking
advantage of the dormancy of the father and god of the Asuras, the Maha-
Naga, or Vritrarajah as he was also known. He had periodically to renew his
strength in long terms of sleep brought on by great feastings upon the blood
of mankind offered him by the human dupes of his minions, the like of
Yamath and Slidith. Between them, these wicked and stupid semi-gods
could not mobilize to offer a united defense against the Sons of the Fire
Mist. Defeating the Asuras was no great chore, though in the process the
Nineteen had earned their eternal enmity.
None had imagined that the Maha-Naga could return to conscious life
without the ministrations and incantations of his servitors, and so the
monster serpent slept the ages away in a coma indistinguishable from true
death. No one even knew where he reposed.
 Until he had finally, recently, revived. He lost no time in summoning his
henchmen from the remote reaches to which Father Gorm and his brethren
had consigned them. Their conquest of the radiant Nineteen had been
childishly simple.
“They, their serpentine king, took away our ability to dream!”

~~~~~

Back in the Samsaric world, the weary Prajnahindrath made what sense
he could of the revelations he poached from the dreamer within the veil.
What he heard shocked him to the depths. Here mysteries, or blasphemies,
were revealed, secrets no mortals were meant to know. But now
he knew. How could he use what he knew to help his king?

~~~~~

Thongor knew that he had come to believe this man who claimed to be
Father Gorm when he realized he felt a daunting sense of awe whenever the
old man spoke to him, even looked at him. For his external aspect, though
not without a certain dignity, certainly was not such to call forth a feeling of
numinous fear.
“O Father Gorm, forgive me for doubting your mercy in the face of the
suffering of my people! Only now do I understand: when your enemies
gained the advantage over you, you were no longer able to hear or to
answer the supplications of your people. What mortal should ever even
consider it was possible?”
The stooped figure nodded his head in relief. “I hoped you would come to
the truth by your own path, my son. And so you have. The way things are, I
fear I may do nothing except by your strength and wits. If ever I have come
to your aid when you faced your divers menaces, the time has come for you
to return the favor.”
The barbarian bowed before his God.
“And now I need you to devise a way to save the Nineteen Gods, to
dispel the shadow of the serpent. For only you can.” And the wizened hand
of God took the sinewed hand of mortal man in a desperate grip.
 v. Dreams of Death

Prajnahindrath found himself the only one maintaining vigil—when he

awoke from involuntary slumber. The others had taken to their beds, unable
to keep their eyes open. But the old shaman started awake with an
observation that had forced its way to the surface of consciousness. It had
come to him in a dream. As he thought back to try to recover the elusive
wraith of a thought, he found it had escaped him. But that was all right. The
fact that he had dreamed it was clue enough.

~~~~~

Thongor strode into the feasting hall of the Gods, now of the Asuras, and
was amused to hear muffled silence fall like a curtain on the scene. It would
have been astonishing
enough to these superhuman entities to behold a mere mortal among them!
How had he made the journey? But more than a few recognized the face
and figure of the Sark of Sarks, for they owed much misfortune to previous
dealings with him. Was it not he who had driven them forth from golden
cities where they had been served with tasty virgins and the still—throbbing
hearts of children? The stunned silence was at once followed by a chorus of
hissing and hatred, only to die away as quickly once the mortal began to
speak.
“I am Thongor of Valkarth, Sark of the West. You have perhaps heard of
me. I am in fact rather sure some of you have. I must say that your painted
likenesses, which I have destroyed when I could, do not do you justice. You
are much uglier in person. But I do recognize many of you.
“You see I am unarmed, not that weapons could avail much against your
highnesses. I have come from the world below to offer myself in exchange
for the Nineteen Gods, for it seems possible that your hatred for me is even
greater than it blazes for them. Allow them to escape this sphere, to return
to the Fire Mist from whence they came in days long past. Or allow them to
descend to earth to live out a mortal span. You coveted their power, and
now you have it. Are you strong enough in spirit to use it benevolently
toward your new human subjects?”
The company of fiends began to discuss the man’s offer among
themselves, utterly nonplussed at both his courage and his effrontery. What
self-importance! None answered Thongor directly. It was as if no mortal’s
address to them could be taken seriously, as if a man should witness an ant
trying to speak to him. Would the human even realize that he was being
addressed, much less comprehend the tiny insect’s intent?
But a booming voice like thunder resounded through the vast hall, or
perhaps it was only within the minds of all present. At any rate the waving
and quivering of pincers, tentacles, tendrils, and roughly humanoid arms
reacted to the voice as if a jolt of electricity had coursed through them.
“Thongor of Lemuria, you are wise to abandon thoughts of resistance.
You are foolish to offer yourself up. But we are only too glad to receive you
at last!” Thongor knew the voice must be that of the Maha-Naga, the Great
Serpent, patron of the degenerate Asuras. He had never heard its like before
and did not much relish the prospect of hearing it again.
“Your terms are ludicrous; that must be obvious even to you. But I will
grant you one boon. You may choose the mighty Lord who will dispatch
you. Which will it be?”
Thongor had come prepared for this, though he thought he should have
had to engage in a bit more maneuvering to get to this point. “Of my bitter
foes, I choose the only worthy opponent, frightful Yamath, Lord of Fire! Let
him try his luck against me!”
At once, what looked like a landing meteorite arced over
one of the heavy tables and onto the floor across from Thongor. How had he
appeared as he sat at table moments before? Thongor had not distinguished
him and failed to notice. But now the god Yamath was a consuming fire,
oozing towards him on a small, moving base of viscid grease. His presence
scorched the marbled floor beneath him and the air around him. Even the
demons nearest him flinched and retreated. Thongor could feel his skin
beginning to bake and threw up a forearm to protect his face. It was the only
shield he had. But then another inhuman voice sounded forth from the
banks of dining boards, and this one had a hissing quality to it, despite its
depth and echo.
“Not so fast, brother!” It was bloody Slidith, whose cult Thongor had
stamped out in Tsargol years before, a proud city now cleansed of the stains,
literal and figurative, of the sanguine devotion of Slidith’s druidical sadists.
The Blood Lord appeared vaguely anthropoid in outline, though with
reptilian hide if one could truly discern its texture in the rare patches where
crusting blood did not completely cover it. “My complaint against this
dratted mortal is at least the equal of yours! And I am no less worthy an
opponent than you—as all here know!”
Thongor thought he heard one or two voices raised, warning the two rival
devil-gods not to fall for his ruse, turning one against the other instead of
against Thongor. It
was difficult to tell, though, not only because of the outlandish accents in
which these beings spoke, but also because of the general clashing din. But
the heedlessly violent are most often stupid, too used to following their
basest instincts and allowing reason to atrophy. So even Asuras could be
deceived and manipulated by mere men.
The pair of loathsome titans lifted weapons high and charged one another,
Thongor in the middle, like gladiators in the arenas of Shembis. Who was
their target? Each other? Or Thongor? Did each seek triumph by killing
Thongor first, or by killing each other? Thongor did not wait to find out,
springing from between their lumbering forms and leaving their clash
without cushion. The scene was not without its comedic elements as the
combatants slowly and dazedly rose to their feet again and began to circle
one another, one’s bloodied axe impatient to engage the other’s flaming
sword blade. Some present laughed, which only made the two avatars more
furious and determined to kill each other.
The ax dripped an immeasurable amount of blood, as if it were a conduit
for the stuff, and as it sank into the flaming mass that was Yamath, the latter
let loose a scream that set the place to vibrating. The Flame Lord’s three
eyes goggled randomly, out of synch, and the tusked maw stretched open
like a hippo’s mouth. The blood vaporized but also seemed to smother the
flames where it spattered. The wounded Yamath struck back with his
torchlike sword, hacking a great wound in Slidith’s side and cauterizing it
with a single blow. Their fight continued in this manner, the two trading,
and improbably surviving, the most terrible of blows. At length, both
staggered and crashed to the floor, then disappeared. Then the Valkarthan
remembered his theology lessons: both Slidith and Yamath vanished where
they fell, while the pitch-black form of Iao-Thaumungazoth appeared to
expand into an unwholesome set of misshapen triplets. Scorching Yamath,
clotting Slidith, and sorcerous Iao-Thaumungazoth were the threefold
manifestation of the Black God of Chaos.
The rest of the Asuras stared at one another in angry bafflement.

~~~~~

In the waking world of men, that which is yet less real than the realm in
which Thongor’s spirit ventured, Prajnahindrath had penetrated the flame-
cordon within which the body of Thongor lay, the paint—traced chakra
circles beginning to glow faintly. He bent over the body like
a physician in surgery, his hands grasping Thongor’s temples. Whatever
words of conjuration or command he spoke were mouthed soundlessly and
had no visible effect at all.
Thongor looked around and among the monster deities, looking out for
the first signal of renewed attack. Then his eye focused on the rising smoke
from the fallen sword of flaming Yamath, still lying on the ground. It must
be a true artifact, not a spectral manifestation of the magical essence of the
gods. He hoped it would not blister his hand as he reached for it. It did not.
None of this escaped the bulging and multifaceted eyes of the diabolical
company, many of whom now stood up in anticipation.
Their human challenger leaped upon one of the carcass heaps and jumped
from skull to chest to butt, making his rapid way from the floor to the top of
the banquet board. He stood before the cloudy presence of black Thog and
thrust the flaming sword into its unstable bulk again and again. As he did
so, the clotted darkness began to thin out into wisps of cobweblike shadow.
Apparently, flame retained an element of its purifying nature even when
designed for evil purposes.
Thongor lost no time pivoting and jumping a seat or two down toward
Aphoom Zhah, the Cold Flame: He whom, prophets averred, must one day
encase all the earth in glaciers. But the fire sword put a blasphemous end to
him as well, at least for this time and place. Alligator-snouted Mnomquah
abandoned his chair and sought to hide behind the more formidable
Putraseth, Master of Plagues. He, too, cringed in breathless panic before the
sterilizing flame—damn that Yamath! -
Collectively, they fled away, leaving Thongor alone in the chamber.

~~~~~

It is of ancient Eastern reckoning that each level of awareness one attains

is but a further layer of dream, and from it, too, one may awake, though one
seem to those outside to sink into deeper slumber. This Thongor understood
as soon as the spectacle of the dining hall of the immortals fell away from
his sight. In his new state, whether one deemed it deeper dream or keener
awareness, he beheld one thing, as if hanging in a vacuum: the gigantic
saurian form of a nine—headed cobra, multiple fanged mouths all hissing,
eighteen eyes of cold agate staring at him. This he knew, as he knew he
himself to be Thongor, was the Maha—Naga, the Great Serpent, the
Vritrarajah. Here was the entity that bore the whole company of the Asuras
as a dog bears fleas, only half aware of it till they annoy him.
Was the monster waiting for him? Or surprised to see him? Until he
should again speak in a telepathic voice, it was impossible to say. Here in
the discorporeal zone, where either the mind floated free of leaden
embodiment or the body evaporated into an illusion, Thongor floated as
pure consciousness, yet he felt sure the Maha-Naga could see him. More
importantly, things that had been less clear to him suddenly glowed in the
glory of self-evidence. He understood the impotence of the Nineteen Gods:
when they were robbed of their ability to dream, they lost their power to
command the shadows of Samsara. To lose the gift of dreaming is to forget
that one’s experience is a dream, and thus to forfeit one’s mastery of it.
Even Father Gorm had become a slave to the immediate, to circumstances
as they presented themselves. But now, having passed the tests of
compassion upon the humiliated and infirm, the no—longer great, and the
ordeal of defeating the supernatural with the sword of reason, Thongor
found himself transformed. He had passed into the Glory-Body of the Gods
—the realm of dreaming! And he could face down this nemesis of the Gods
with the weapon they had lost. But entering a battle and winning one were
two different things . . .
As he contemplated a strategy of attack without aid of a physical form,
Thongor suddenly felt an indescribable influx of energy. It thundered
through him like lightning, yet
without pain. It thrilled him and buoyed him with divine ecstasy, and he
knew that, on the waking earth, the spinal sequence of chakras now glowed
full-force with the power of the Gods. It had begun to return there first.
And as the hidden serpent of the Kundalini burst forth from him like a
dancing cobra from a charmer’s basket, Thongor had a form again, one at
least as real as the reptile-lord before him. And he had a plan, or perhaps
not, since his action came instinctively without any distance between the
planner and his strategy. Without wasting time on the cobra’s hydra-like
heads, which outnumbered his own, the Kundalini wrapped itself like a vine
crushing out the life of a tree———and squeezed. The Maha-Naga’s spine
cracked at many points like the jolting snap of a rotten branch.
Metaphysical or metaphorical it might have been, but it seemingly must
needs obey the dictates of that form. What was left of it faded like a
sublimating substance, became a vaporous wisp.

vi. The Twenty Gods

The earthly shell of Thongor lay cold upon its platform, farther than ever
from the semblance of life, and now most
of those who began as watchers had become mourners. The devastating
plague had lifted, many on the brink of death rebounding all at one
mysterious moment. The shaman Prajnahindrath knew this was because the
Immortal Nineteen had resumed their stations and once more answered
prayers. He knew also that his king’s intelligence and power had multiplied
to a degree unprecedented. The old wizard could gain some perspective on
events above and beyond this mortal plane, but he could scarcely credit
what his occult senses now told him . . .
For now Thongor strode the dome of heaven, glad in glory, multi-tiered
crown perched atop his glistening midnight mane, golden eyes radiating
power and wisdom. Clothed in light, he walked in company with the
Nineteen Gods, having become in his moment of triumph Sark-of- Gods,
God-of—Gods. The world was his to create anew, the pantheon of deities
he had once worshipped now a band of counselors like his old companions
Dru, Mael, Shangoth and the rest. But such was the greatness of dream,
which knew no limits either to reach or to realization.
The phalanx of the Twenty Gods walked the whole Zodiac and arrived at
the Great Throne. Father Gorm sought not to mount it but, with warmest
beaming love, directed his successor to take his rightful place thereupon.
But this somehow the young God had not anticipated, though it seemed
inevitable to all else. And Mahathongoya hesitated. He looked at the faces
of the Nineteen with love and admiration. Then he shifted his gaze to the
distant earth below. And his inescapable gaze took in two figures, just
returning to Patanga: the Sarkaja Sumia and her son, their son, Prince Thar.
He watched as their old friends and the ministers of state guided them, with
chosen words of explanation, to the beside of Thongor, cold flesh still
grasping Sarkozan, his rune-etched broadsword. The curtains of his ultra-
worldly ecstasy parted for a moment and allowed a glimpse of his mortal
heart. There were things, it seemed, that, despite their fleeting mortality, or
perhaps because of it, were more precious than omnipotent Godhood.
Humble, mortal things that even a God might envy. Besides, what had a
God done that Thongor had not already done as a man? Bested demigods
and monsters in battle? Toppled wizards and kingdoms? Had he not even
created life when he begat his son Thar? And could a God love mankind
one whit more than he loved his Sumia?
He took one more look at the throne of Mighty Gorm at the center of the
starry void beyond. He bowed his head and closed his eyes.
And he forgot.
And far below, the rejoicing was great throughout the Western Empire
that her Sark had returned, bringing salvation for his subjects. And the Gods
were once again Nineteen.
 10 The Eleventh Scarlet Hell

i. Schemes in the Shadows

THE SUN OF ancient Lemuria, much younger in those days, smiled

benignly down upon the red—gold walls of Patanga, the City of Flame and
capital of Thongor’s empire, her proud turrets reflecting back the brilliance
as if returning a greeting. But the brightest light begets the darkest shadow,
and deep within a subterranean chamber of what had once been the Temple
of Yamath, Lord of Fire, two robed men, one elderly, one in his thirties,
conspired. The Temple, since Thongor’s ascension to the throne, had been
rededicated to the entire pantheon of the Nineteen Gods, and Lord Thongor
had shown clemency in allowing any priests of Yamath who wished it, to
serve the Nineteen Gods instead. From what the outlander king had
observed of priests, their devotion to any particular deity was strictly
secondary to the stipend they received for serving him. So most made the
transition with little discomfort. But some of the old priests were true
devotees, even fanatics, and their zeal was only fanned into a brighter flame
of vengefulness when their god fell from power. Such were these two men.
They sought vindication for their Lord Yamath, vengeance upon the
barbarian usurper who had cast him down, and ultimately the restoration of
the Fire Lord’s dominion. If they had their way, a steady stream of human
sacrifices would once again be making their way to a restored altar.
“I have found a book,” exclaimed the younger man, a slender priest
called Phlegathos.
“Here, let me see it, my son,” quoth his elder, Vathos Val, now a humble
priest, but before that, Lesser Druid of the cult of Yamath. Taking it with
gnarled hands fairly trembling with unholy anticipation, the old man gazed
a moment upon the raised glyphs adorning the wooden board cover, then
opened the rusty iron hasps and gingerly began to turn the strangely
textured vellum pages. Before he had skimmed many of them, he loosed an
unconscious gasp of amazement.
“By the Flame Lord! Never have I laid eyes upon this tome. Never had I
even hoped to see it!” Withal, he looked
up to the bearded countenance of his junior compatriot, scarcely noticing
the subtle smirk of triumph at the corners
of Phlegathos” mouth. “Verily, it is none other than the fabled Book of the
Firedrake, the deposit of the knowledge
of the first generation of the Sons of the Fire Mist!
“My young friend,” he said with fatherly pride, “you are truly chosen of
the Lord Yamath! It is you who will bring him back to his rightful place as
divine patron of Patanga!”
Though young Phlegathos basked in his elder’s praise, he made as if to
brush it aside. “My lord Vathos Val, I had not known it for what it was but
for your patient instruction in the old tongues of the Dragon Kings. I found
it among the detritus in the forgotten catacombs beneath the city, where the
ancient Druids of Yamath lie in state. The oaf who sits the throne suspects
nothing of their existence, else he would have long since destroyed their
holy contents. But this book shall arm us against him!”
The excitement on the lined face of the other was easily read in the glow
of the flickering butter lamps that shone in
reflection on his bald pate.
“Do you then have a design already?”
“I do,” announced the young priest as he drew himself up to his full
height, full of his bloated self-esteem.
“Will you kill him, then?”
“Oh no. Something far worse.”
Both men joined in a fit of unwholesome chuckling.

ii. A King with Much to Learn

Thongor, Lord of Patanga and master of the ever-growing Empire of the
West, hailed from the mountainous heights of Valkarth, ever clothed in a
snowy mantle despite the Lemurian continent’s proximity to the equator.
His tribe of the Black Hawks had been wiped out in a savage bloodbath
perpetrated by a rival tribe, the boy Thongor alone escaping with his life.
He had descended the mountains, growing in years and in stature, his
struggle for survival hardening his thews and honing his beast-like instincts.
Various adventures and explorations among the decadent cities of old
Lemuria had quickly made him wise in the ways of so-called civilization,
enabling him to exploit them to his advantage. His inherited prowess in
combat was refined through many dealings with fools who thought him
naive and ripe for predation. He plied the trades of thief and mercenary,
puzzled at the ways of civilized men and playing at their so serious games
with an outsider’s amusement.
Eventually he had encountered a great wizard named Sharajshah, already
the subject of old legends in his own lifetime. This man recruited the
brawny barbarian for a mission of great destiny, to turn back the attempt of
man’s
saurian predecessors to regain possession of the Earth before human beings
could secure their hold upon it. When it was done, the mighty Valkarthan
had stepped from rude barbarism to staid civilization, and then to a larger
world than even the campfire myths and sagas of boyhood had described.
Once he had overthrown the Red Druids of Slidith in Tsargol, he turned
his attention to Patanga, dominated by the Yellow Druids of Yamath.
Having liberated both ancient cities and forged them into the nucleus of a
new empire, now he had entered into a period of respite, pondering his
accomplishments and considering how best to consolidate them. He knew
that it would require careful handling of his new subjects who hailed him as
hero and deliverer, but whose adulation and loyalty alike might wear off as
they reckoned with the fact that their new sovereign was not merely an
outlander, but also a fighting man with no experience at governing.
For this reason Thongor had wasted no time before surrounding himself
with tested companions like grizzled Lord Mael as well as amenable nobles
of the realm like the foppish Prince Dru. Nor did it hurt that he had wed
Princess Sumia, heiress to the Flame Throne of mighty Patanga. It was she
whom the Fire Druids had aimed to offer in sacrifice to the fiend Yamath
before Thongor put a stop to it. Sumia’s wisdom matched her bravery, and
she guided the new king in matters of courtly protocol.
And this morning, as her husband rose from their great bed and began
washing and choosing appropriate raiment for the day in court, his bride,
reluctant to see him go, inquired, “My lord, why do you submit yourself to
the prating of priests like a schoolboy who would rather be out having
adventures?”
The Valkarthan laughed, stooping down and cupping her perfect chin in
his weapon-calloused hand. “Know you not, my love, that you are wed to
an uncouth barbarian unschooled in the ways of civilization? I know how to
kill men, and beings greater and lesser than men, but of statecraft I am slow
to learn, and of religion I know less still. I know the elements of our
Nineteen Gods but cannot even name all of them. At my mother’s knee I
learned to revere Father Gorm, he who strengthens the warrior’s heart. But I
must know more for the sake of understanding my subjects. Otherwise it is
easy to offend them.
“Besides, you know that I refrained from putting all the priests and druids
of Yamath to the sword. I offered them the choice of serving more
wholesome gods. Many professed willingness, and now I seek to cement
their loyalty by requesting that they share their doctrines with me.”
Sumia did not conceal her adoration. “You are wiser than I have made
you, my husband. And you are right. If they learn to know you, they will
love you. Go, then. And learn much! Perhaps one day you shall abandon the
throne and enter the priesthood yourself!”
At this last, they both laughed uproariously with love’s levity.

iii. Catechism and Cataclysm

Thongor sat, an imposing giant dwarfing the royal throne with its back and
canopy formed into stylized leaping flames. His high cheekbones framed
his golden eyes, common to the ferocious Vandars of the Lemurian jungles,
but rare among men. Nor was this the sole reason some swore Thongor
must be part savage beast himself. His chin was angular, his jaw broad, his
skin burnt brown, and his great black mane of hair now confined by a
modest diadem of gleaming electrum. His robes were cloth of gold, more
ostentatious than he liked but demanded by Patangan tradition, and he
acceded to custom where he could.
Just now he sat, chin resting on his mighty fist, seeming bored except that
his golden eyes were intently fixed upon the young priest standing before
him. The yellow-robed man, one Phlegathos, gesticulated for emphasis as
he paced back and forth. It was clear he bad feeling for his subject and was
a natural teacher. Occasionally the king asked for clarification on some
point of doctrine which his instructor knew so well that he took it for
granted. Today’s subject was the enumeration and description of the Eleven
Scarlet Hells. Thongor had sworn by them in moments of alarm and rage, as
most men did, but he had never really apprehended the need for as many as
eleven levels of torment. And why should one circle of Hell be more
dreadful than another? Hell was Hell, no? And this was his first question.
As he asked it, he hoped it would not make him sound too ignorant.
“An apt question, Majesty! You have a naturally theological mind! The
Dark Sutras tell us that most all men
awaken to torment in one Hell or another, depending upon
the severity of their sins. No god metes out their respective punishments. It
is all the result of the ineluctable laws of Karma, to which even the gods are
subject.”
Thongor’s eyebrow lifted in puzzlement at this. Were not
the Nineteen Gods supreme in power?
“The Hells are more dreadful the deeper one sinks into them. And within
each one, the torments are appropriate to what the soul has done in life. The
first Hell, and the most thickly populated, is the Hell of Privation, where
those addicted to carnal pleasures suffer without them, with no respite.
Some wander barren plains as pretas, ghosts with great empty bellies
frustrated by pinhole mouths. Others are condemned to witness lavish
feasting upon the most sumptuous viands which they, poor wretches, shall
never share.
“The second Hell is the Hell of Black Lines, where slanderers and
perjurers are pinned spread-eagled to white hot griddles, where laughing
devils proceed to trace black lines across them, as a butcher marks up meat,
then to saw at those lines with dull blades. And there is no end to their
torments, as, once vivisected, their limbs reunite to receive the same
treatment over and over again.”
Thongor’s eyes widened, not with fear, but in astonishment at the
perverse imaginations of the sadistic clerics who had devised such terrible
fantasies. Nor did he
like the note and the look of relish on his tutor’s countenance.
“Can the Third Hell be worse, O priest?”
“I fear so, my king! For the Third is the Hell of Boiling Excrement where
blasphemers and heretics are sent to pay for their railings against the truth.”
“Stay a moment! How can any mortal know the truth of the Gods so as
never to err? Can we know more than the edges of their ways?”
“Have a care, Majesty! Let us be circumspect in our words and in our
thoughts! For it is such as they which give rise to sacrilege!”
“Go on, then.”
“Forsooth, the Fourth Hell is that in which the soul of the
lustful and the adulterer ever feeds on the bitter fruit of the
Tree of Zaqqum, from which the first sinners dared eat.
“The Fifth Hell belongs to predators upon children and to those who
force themselves upon women. Their private parts are ceaselessly struck
with clubs and pinched with red-hot tongs.
“The Sixth Hell is that of Red and Blue Chilblains which bloom like
flowers on the tender, frostbitten flesh of shivering sinners until they burst
in geysers of steaming blood, only to close again before it all repeats. These
pains are reserved unto corrupt rulers and rouged whores.”
Thongor shuddered. “Gorm! I shall redouble my resolve
to favor no man and to eschew every bribe, lest I come to
such a fate!”
“Well said, Sire! Shall we proceed to the Seventh Hell?”
“Might as well . . . ,” muttered the Sark of Patanga.
“It is not a happy picture! For this is the destination of those who spy
upon another, and who covet another’s goods, or look with desire upon a
neighbor’s wife. In it one stands, unable to flee, while scaly vultures
descend to pluck out one’s eyes.”
“And then they grow back?”
 “You catch on quickly, Lord Thongor! If there be some Hell for
inattentive students, you are safe from it!”
Was there perhaps a hint of mockery there?
“The Eighth Hell is for false oracles who tell their inquirers only what
they wish to hear. The burden they must bear is to endure repeated
evisceration, then to devour their own entrails.
“The Ninth of the Hells is the Hell of Screaming Echoes, one’s own and
others”, which never die out. It belongs to tale-bearers and gossips, and
turncoats who betray confidences and who divulge information to enemies.
“The Tenth Hell, the Hell of the Devourers, awaits all who might have
come to the aid of another, in dangers great or small, but stood idle and
indifferent. They are cast into a tossing ocean swarming with great
Behemoths whose teeth are like sharp swords and javelins. There will be no
help for them throughout eternity.”
“And the Eleventh of the Scarlet Hells?” Thongor was now, despite
himself, as eager as a child at bedtime, awaiting the outcome of some
exciting tale.
“It is, of course, the worst of all, being the lair of Yamath the keeper of all
the Hells. But let me not attempt to describe it with my poor words. Instead,
Lord Thongor, see for yourself”
Withal, the tattooed and braceleted arms of the priest whirled in an
obscure arc, finally pointing at Thongor, sending a concussive spark
invisible to the eye, but forceful enough to topple the mighty form of
Thongor of Valkarth from his dais and down the lapis-lazuli tiled steps to
the floor.
Courtiers, hitherto paying scant attention, hastened to his side while the
priest pretended alarm and offered empty conjectures on what might ail the
unresponsive king. Once Thongor’s servants took up his comatose body to
return it to his bedchamber, Phlegathos quit the throne room and made haste
to return to his chambers where old Vathos Val anxiously awaited him. Only
now did the younger man reveal the details of his plan.
“But why did you not simply slay him, my son?”
“Think a moment. He is an uncouth barbarian. His bestial nature brings
with it a kind of innocence. His hands, it is true, are full of blood, not least
the blood of our own brethren, but he slays much as a wild beast slays, with
no real malice or even ill-will. For this reason, his many savage deeds do
not accrue the karma that damns other men. Had I killed him, I suspect his
soul might have gone to the bosom of his patron Gorm, if indeed he exists.
The spell I learned from the Book of the Firedrake enabled me to send his
soul alive down to the Eleventh Scarlet Hell. And, strange to say, his body
must be safeguarded, for as soon as he might expire, his consciousness
should escape the pit of torment and pursue its natural course.”
The old druid nodded appreciatively.

iv. The Flame Rekindles

Scant weeks passed before the old order was restored. Vathos Val had
declared himself Archdruid of Yamath and
began publishing lists of those “fortunate” enough to be chosen as
sacrificial offerings to the newly regnant Yamath, Lord of Flame. He shared
power with his protege
Phlegathos, who announced himself the new Sark of Patanga. The
usurpation had gone smoothly with the aid of fearsome fire-sylphs conjured
by ancient rites preserved in the Book of the Firedrake. Bound like iron to
the will of their summoner, they carried out every command of their master
Phlegathos. Seeing this, virtually the whole priesthood of Yamath threw off
their grudging allegiance to the now absent Thongor and made ready to
resume the old regimen of ritual sacrifice. They now waited only for the
construction of a new altar to replace that destroyed by the interloper from
Valkarth.
The name of the deposed Sarkaja Sumia topped the list of intended
victims. It was judged a blasphemous slight to the deity when Thongor had,
a few years before, rescued the princess from the blazing altar at the last
moment, and the new Archdruid meant to make good on the debt owed his
god. Ironically, great care was being taken to safeguard the inert body of
Thongor, who rested, as far as any observer could tell, in a motionless
living death. Fire-priests watched over the body like soldiers guarding a
treasure, and an occasional flame-elemental passed through the chamber
where Thongor lay. The priests would at such times mutter protective
charms as they felt their skin singe and their spines chill with numinous
horror. Never had their inherited beliefs seemed so real to them.
Even before it was publicly announced, Sumia knew she
was to be slain as the first order of business. She conferred very briefly with
Lord Mael and Prince Dru, who informed her that they had not been able to
rally the populace to rise against the usurpers, all cowed at the sight, and the
feel, of the fire—wraiths. The Patangans were no cowards; it was simply
obvious that it must be suicide to confront such beings. Many would soon
be perishing in the sacrificial flames anyway; why hasten things? Like Mael
and Dru, Sumia could not blame her subjects. After all, it had taken
Thongor to break the hold of the Yamath cult over the city before, and there
was no Thongor to repeat the feat now. So she told her two friends to leave
Patanga quickly via secret ways known only to a few. They were to seek
help from other cities and, most importantly, from the mage Sharajsha, if he
could be found.
“But what of you, your Majesty? They will murder you, and soon!”
“I can take care of myself, my friends! Besides, my absence would be
marked more readily than yours, and I fear what wrath might be unleashed
against my people if the priests saw their aim to offer me to their demon
frustrated once more. Now go! May Father Gorm have mercy upon us all.”

v. In Yamath’s Lair

Thongor lifted up his eyes in Hell. Despite the harsh red glare that seemed
to come from no particular direction, he did not immediately recognize his
surroundings. There was no ubiquitous fire, no urgent agony. There was,
however, a pronounced choking stench of burning human flesh. As ambient
sulphurous smoke drifted away, he could see himself surrounded by heavily
muscled forms. No faces shone through yet, but the bodies, glimpsed more
clearly, looked grotesquely lopsided, asymmetrical. And, great Gorm and
Valka! Some possessed three or four arms! Their hides glowed orange-red,
and their clawed hands gripped the hilts of blood-crusted swords and
cleavers carved from volcanic glass.
As Thongor sought to spring to his feet, he found himself bound in iron
chains. He puzzled momentarily over why these creatures had not slain him
while he lay dormant. Of course: they meant instead to torture him. And
such prospects will lend new vigor to a man’s thews. Thongor flexed his
massive muscles and snapped the chains, to the evident surprise of the
things surrounding him. He had performed the feat before, and as he cast
them aside, he saw the chains were brittle with rust and caked blood.
He leaped into the circle of demons, for they could be nothing else,
heaving bare—knuckled punches to fanged jaws, snapping bones and
splintering tusks. His blows loosed some sort of smoking ichor which
burned him as it splashed against his skin. Their bodies radiated awful heat,
so Thongor knew he dared not allow any of them to get their arms around
him. His hands darted out like striking cobras to snatch one of the obsidian
blades and one of the jagged edged axes. These he wielded with terrible
effect. He sliced off malformed claws here, whole arms and horned heads
there. It was plain these creatures were not used to resistance from their
prey. Amid such slaughter, the barbarian could not totally avoid the acid
discharge from the butchered bodies of the demons whose mighty but futile
forms lay sublimating into the foul and smoky air. But these burns be
deemed a fair price for his victory.
Thongor stood catching his breath, coughing a bit from what he had
perforce to breathe, taking the opportunity to consider his position and how
he might escape it. It had to be Hell, but his mind was reluctant to admit the
fact for one simple reason. He looked himself over and allowed himself to
feel his burns. He had, or at least seemed to have, solid flesh. How could
that be? But perhaps it was not so strange after all: the priest Phlegathos had
made it more than clear that Hell offered endless varieties of physical pain,
though it must be the souls of the dead who woke up there. He knew the
Sarks of old times had their treasures buried with them in their tombs to
accompany them to the afterlife. Did that not mean some sort of physical
existence? He supposed it did. At any rate, it was physical enough to hurt.
 He surveyed the landscape, only to find that mists and smoke obscured
most of it. The ground beneath his booted feet (for he was still clothed, as
ghosts appear to men as clothed) was everywhere barren and scorched.
Vultures peppered the ochre skies, on their way, no doubt, to do some eye-
plucking, as was their duty in this terrible place. Screaming and groaning
formed a constant background roar, though somewhat muffled by distance.
It seemed somehow a natural component of the atmosphere.
But in a moment Thongor felt, magnified by the iron hardness of the
ground, the rumbling as of a great host advancing on him. There was
nothing to do but stand and meet them. Then through the poisonous mists
emerged a large party of the misshapen golems like those he had fought
brief moments earlier. Some were mounted upon strange beasts like none he
had seen in the world of the living. Some sported three heads on waving
stalks, others like huge men or apes loping on all fours, still others scaly
leviathans with massed tentacles where a head should be.
The Valkarthan braced for combat, grateful to feel renewed vitality
coursing through his body. By rights, he should be taxed with fatigue. But
then he realized he was benefitting from the strange laws of this realm
whereby mutilating, even dismembering wounds healed in a moment to
allow the renewal of torments. So even Hell had its favors, he chuckled to
himself, and he would not waste them. As his would-be captors closed the
distance between them, it occurred to Thongor: what if his damnation were
to be an eternity of endless battle, with never any victory or respite? Well,
he could imagine worse things. He gripped more tightly the stony hilt of the
black glass short—sword he still held.
But then there came a voice. It echoed in the foul air, seeming to emanate
from none of the hell—host who now had halted before him. Thongor
looked around him but could discern no speaker.
“Hold, shade of a Valkarthan! These are my servants. You may consider
them your escort into my presence. For I wish to talk with my illustrious
guest. Please to accompany them.”
Thongor knew whose crackling, crashing voice this must
be: King Yamath, whom myth made the first creation of the Nineteen Gods,
the first man to tread the green earth, even before Phondath whom legend
called the Firstborn. But Yamath had fallen, no priest could say why, into
awful wickedness and had tried to burn down the Gods” new—made world.
So, tearfully, they slew him, casting him into the deepest pit of the
Netherworld where, as the first man to die, he ruled Hell henceforth as Lord
of Fire, Master of Torments. Thongor had fought against his cult, unseated
his priesthood in Patanga, and even beheld epiphanies of the devil-god, but,
as a living man, he had never beheld Yamath as he was, a sight, it was said,
that no man could see and live. Curiosity bade him relax his battle poise and
accept the summons.
As they traveled through Hell’s landscape, Thongor saw
many strange things, such as a heap of human beings stacked like kindling,
with others of the damned roasting on spits, spiced by their own shrieks,
above them. This gave him to understand that some souls were sentenced to
be feasted upon by the devils who served Yamath. But even an end such as
this was to be denied them, for their torment, like all the others in this place,
must be forever repeated. These damned would be excreted, then devoured
again! Further along this line of thought, Thongor, with a shudder, did not
care to proceed.
At length (but who could estimate the progress of time here?) they
reached the palace of the Fire Lord. In shape it was a vast pyramid with a
gigantic face on each side. On the front, above the gate, the hideous
countenance was of a bloated red demon with a bulbous nose, great tusks
sprouting from a maw that could never properly shut, and three bulging
eyes set in a triangular pattern, one above the other two. There were horns,
of course, tipped with crude yet stylized skulls, and, proceeding from mouth
and flaring nostrils, veritable fountains of flame. Thongor had seen smaller
versions of this effigy among the ritual decorations in Patanga in the days of
the Fire Druids.
Without ceremony, his grim captors ushered him into the presence of
their Master. Thongor had little idea of what to expect as he entered the vast
hall whose upper recesses vanished into blackness, but he was not much
surprised when, from the seat of a huge throne carved roughly from
congealed magma, there erupted a great Pillar of Fire, like an active volcano
but issuing straight up.
Both heat and light struck Thongor like a blow, sending him to his knees.
This time there were no words such as mortal men exchange, but only
mind-borne images. Their import was clear. Thongor, a king on earth,
should henceforth sweat and strain as one more slave laborer in the service
of Hell. No doubt it was such labor gangs who had in ancient days
constructed the very pyramid-palace in which he now found himself. So not
even the dignity of endless battle was to be granted him.
The project: digging and reinforcing a vast tunnel to the surface, a great
shaft up through all the stacked Hells. Through it, in the form of a tidal
wave of lava, Yamath himself should at last spew forth, and in this manner
effect
his ancient purpose to devastate the surface world, making it all a great
Inferno which he should rule. The Nineteen Gods, senescent fools, had
given him the means to carry out his purpose after all!

vi. Wildfire!

Prince Dru and Lord Mael, pushing their agile kroters as hard as they dared,
made their way to the jungle wherein the retreat of Sharajsha was
concealed. Tying their weary mounts to a couple of Lotifer trunks, the two
Patangan
nobles threaded their way through the dense undergrowth toward the
magician’s hideaway. There were no discernable beaten paths, for Sharajsha
had less mundane ways to enter and exit the great forest. Drenched in sweat
and covered with stings from the ever-present insects with which the humid
air was thick, the companions at last stood before the imposing, distinctly
unwelcoming door. Together (for it required two men), they lifted the
massive iron ring and let it fall with a vengeance back to its resting place.
The dwelling beyond rang with heralding echoes. Mael and Dru were
surprised to hear elaborate locks unlatch and bolts slide back, as if a
servant had been standing just by the door waiting for them, or for
someone, to arrive. They were the more astonished, then, when the door
swung open upon an empty hall hung with tapestries, heavy shields, and
mounted heads of mighty beasts unknown to them.
 A voice, sounding as if from one standing close before them, spoke
pleasantly, though with a strange echoing and oddly pitched tone.
“Greetings, Lord Mael! Prince Dru! I am a protective spell placed upon this
house by Sharajsha, its lord.”
“Er, may we, ah, speak with your master, uh, O Cantrip?” The gruff old
warrior was flustered, knowing not where to direct his gaze.
“Alas, no. Just now the Lord Sharajsha rests in a profound trance from
which he cannot be awakened. Thus dormant, he travels as an astral being
to other worlds such as distant Tond and hidden Cykranosh. But please
make known your need.”
They told the empty air of the recent events, of Thongor’s coma (for,
though his friends knew it not, he, too, like his mentor, the Wizard of
Lemuria, lay in a trance visiting invisible worlds) and of the return to
dominance of the Druids of Yamath, with their fiery familiars, and of the
imminent threat to the Sarkaja. “Can anything be done, O Voice?”
“But a moment.”
There were no more words, but Mael and Dru beheld, floating through
the air from within the manse, two large, blue stones, each affixed to a
metal chain, presumably a pair of protective amulets. Prince Dru, his nape
hairs on end, reached out and took them, handing one to his friend. The
great door began to close behind them, so the two men made haste to get to
the other side of it before it swung to with a sound like saurian jaws closing
on their prey.
Their mounts easily recovered and somewhat rested, the companions lost
no time beginning to cover the many miles that would bring them back to
their home city. They now dared to entertain some hope, but their spirits
sank again, as, in village after village, they saw something they had not seen
only days before when following the same roads. To their alarmed eyes it
was apparent that the renewed worship of Yamath was spreading rapidly,
even to places that had never before entertained it. Inns bore newly carved
idols of the hideous deity. Chanting could be heard within buildings as they
passed. And, worst of all, as they traveled after sunset, they caught sight of
leaping flames reflected off the low hanging clouds.
As they came closer, they saw what they had feared to see: shabbily clad
village priests were intoning their mumbo jumbo as best they knew how,
having formerly assisted in the service of more merciful Gods. But fear now
compelled their conversion and demanded of them evil deeds in religion’s
name. And what they feared was plain to see, as flame—sylphs circled the
sacrificial rite.
The two men looked at one another, and Prince Dru spoke the thought of
both. “It seems an opportune time to test the protective powers of these
amulets!” Nodding, they spurred their kroters and covered the distance in
no time.
As the two interlopers bounded into the midst of the frightened mob, the
Patangans lifted no weapon against any of the villagers, all of whom were
fleeing anyway, but made directly for the center of the ceremonial circle
where a young girl had been tied by wrists and ankles to an upright ladder
driven into the ground. They had her free in mere moments. Dru handed her
off into Lord Mael’s brawny arms, then turned to face the descending fire-
spirits. Instinctively he lifted his sword, a steely rapier. He did not really
expect it would have any effect on them, but in the same moment he pulled
his amulet from around his neck and held it aloft. This was the real weapon,
as he’d hoped it would be, and he marveled as the blazing wraiths changed
direction so suddenly it seemed they were bouncing violently off an unseen
barrier. On second thought, Dru supposed they were!
The demons regrouped and made for Lord Mael, but his own upthrust
amulet produced the same effect. Withal, the
frustrated spirits fled Skyward, penetrated the cloud cover,
and were no more to be seen.

vii. Bedfellows Made in Hell

The tremendous chimney upon which Thongor and his fellow slaves
ceaselessly labored (no rest being necessary
thanks to the supernatural restorative properties of Hell) was already very
tall. The heights were negotiated via crisscrossing ledges and rough-cut sets
of steps. Most of the work was simple stone—breaking, swinging sledges,
dodging debris falling from above, and, occasionally, climbing back up
after
getting knocked from one’s hazardous perch, or else losing balance and
toppling over. It was tedious, monotonous beyond reason, and Thongor
knew it must sooner or later unhinge his mind, all the more since the
unnatural endurance would not afford any break to rest his body, which did
not need it, or his mind, which did. He knew he must get out of this awful
dungeon, and soon. Not only for his own sanity’s sake, but for the safety of
the world above: Yamath’s world—dooming plot must not come to fruition.
So, as Thongor worked and worked, he thought and thought. However futile
it might be, the mental exercise helped to preserve his wits.
Even in the remorseless monotony of Hell novelty sometimes intrudes. It
did when once Thongor chanced to
spy two old acquaintances, faces he had neither thought nor hoped to see
again. One was tall and goateed Drugunda Thal, tyrant of Tsargol, where
Thongor had not too long before served as a mercenary. The other was
unmistakably the corrupt Vaspas Ptol, Archdruid of Patanga’s Yamath
worship before Lord Mael had shoved him from the city wall. It was no
surprise to find either man in Hell. Drugunda Thal had been a fighting man,
but how could the spindle-shanked Druid have merited an exemption from
torture to be placed among the laborers? Perhaps, as a former servant of
Lord Yamath, he was accorded special treatment. Some reward! The
thought gave Thongor his only chuckle since his arrival.
In a strange and hostile place, any familiar face seems as good as a
friendly face, and as the endless days ground on, Thongor began
exchanging awkward greetings with these old foes. Under the
circumstances, the unhappy past seemed altogether unimportant, like a
faded nightmare. The unlikely trio eventually came to share conversations,
maddeningly slowly, word by word and phrase by phrase, all they could
manage as they chanced to pass each other on the ledges. Whatever
lingering bitterness the Sark and the Druid might have felt for Thongor was
as nothing to the hatred and rage that now consumed them, focused on their
captors. And toward their former gods who had plainly abandoned them.
But neither had for a moment entertained the mad thought of escape, that is,
until Thongor broached it. Again, they had no time in their momentary
passings for a real discussion, but Thongor thought he saw the vulture-like
Vaspas Ptol musing over something as he perforce walked away.
Some indeterminate time later, the old Druid whispered to Thongor, as
inconspicuously as possible, a few words:
“There may be a way.”
Time passed, or what passed for time here, before Vaspas Ptol accosted
Thongor with an “accidental” collision on one of the narrow ledges. In a
charade of angry gesticulations, he took the opportunity to share with
Thongor a secret he had taken to his grave: the means to summon the arch-
enemy of his old master Yamath, who had proven unappreciative of his long
services. His opposite was Aphoom Zhah, the Cold Flame, a primal god of
whom Thongor had heard whispers in his boyhood in the glacial North.
Any clash between these entities must result in the annihilation of both, a
fact Vaspas Ptol, as Yamath’s hierophant, naturally had not wanted more
widely known. Indeed, Vaspas Ptol knew it only because he had once
tortured it out of a “heretic,” a hapless priest of the Cold Flame. The old
Druid knew what to do, he said, and, just as important, what to. say, and he
would do and say these things when the moment was right. And that
depended upon Thongor, who at once began to plan.

viii. A Bitter Draught

As Prince Dru and Lord Mael made their way back toward Patanga, the
stalwarts discovered that, in one village after another, they were able to
communicate something of the hope they cherished, along with a feeling for
the terrible urgency of the crisis which soon all Lumuria should face. In the
days before Thongor’s advent the rival cults of Yamath, Lord of Flame,
Slidith, Lord of Blood, and lao-Thaumungazoth, Lord of Black Magic, had
lived in an uneasy balance of coexistence, the imperialistic aims of each
sect keeping the others in check. But now Yamath’s partisans bade fair to
explode beyond all control, heedless of the necessary implications of their
eventual victory: once the continent had been largely depopulated by mass
sacrifices, Yamath might have a wealth of souls to feast upon, but what
benefit to his servitors? What would be left for them to rule? Mustn’t they,
too, wind up in the ghastly maw of the Fire King? Yet, seemingly, none of
this had yet dawned upon them. The zeal of fanatics eschews all weighing
of consequences.
Making their case with the eloquence of facts, Mael and
Dru quickly gathered a small company of loyalists, convincing them to
seize their last chance to safeguard their wives and children. Their modest
host stood now encamped just beyond the sentinels’ range of surveillance,
in the woods outside the capital city. It was here they unveiled their secret
weapon. Having seen the effectiveness of the two amulets, they ground
them to powder which they dissolved in a drink, and passed the flagons
among their men. The hope was that the repugnant potion would fortify
them against the fiery servants of Vathos Val. Would the bare modicum of
the magical element now inside them avail? Or might it rather poison them?
But in such circumstances, such a risk seemed negligible.
No direct assault on the city gates would be necessary. Mael and Dru
knew of hidden passages the guards apparently did not. Hiding among the
crowds gathered in the great square, the conspirators were not much
surprised to find the Sarkaja of Patanga being prodded toward the biting
flames. Her friends were horrified at the sight yet relieved that she still
lingered among the living.
Suddenly Vathos Val paused in his liturgical droning. He looked up from
his scroll and scanned the audience. Something had warned him of danger.
His gaze rested upon Lord Mael, a well-known personage, and his
billowing sleeve bounced in the air as he pointed to Mael and issued some
unintelligible command. His circling fire-sylphs obeyed his direction and
shot like eagles down through the air toward the would-be rescuers.
Standing their ground as the spectators fled away in every direction, their
targets braced themselves, not bothering to draw weapons, since none could
have any effect on such foes. The test had come: would the dust of the
amulets protect them? They rejoiced as the flaming attackers vanished upon
first contact with the men, who came away with naught but small burns
where they had been but scarcely touched.
 A cry of triumph rose, only to be cut off as reinforcements appeared with
the usurper Phlegathos at their head. But these were no sorcery-spawned
menaces. Phlegathos led a party of archers, mercenaries Mael thought,
against whose deadly shafts the amulets afforded no protection. Many of the
village recruits fell where they stood, the better trained Prince Dru and Lord
Mael managing to deflect most of the arrows with their swift swords and
heavily hidebound shields. All seemed lost, Patanga apparently destined to
be reduced to a smoking ruin.

ix. Fighting Fire with Fire

While Prince Dru and Lord Mael were busy recruiting rebels to overthrow
Yamath‘s regime on the surface world, their comrade Thongor was engaged
in a similar effort deep in the Netherworld. As clandestinely as he could, he
spread the word of a coming uprising. It was easier than he had feared it
would be, which made him realize he could have taken these steps far more
quickly had he grasped the obtuseness of the quasi-physical demon foremen
and the utterly inhuman nature of the fire-sylphs’ intelligence, ill-fitted for
understanding things like human souls plotting right under their noses.
Gods are vain, else why demand worship? Their insecurity craves
constant adulation, though their worshippers be motivated only by fear of
divine reprisal. So the great god Yamath basked in the roasting heat of
whole human burnt offerings. But this was not sufficient. After all, he had
another adoring congregation in Hell. At certain intervals hard to estimate
in the eternity of that place, work and torment ceased for a ritual of servile
praise to Yamath. And this was the day Thongor, Vaspas Ptol, and
Drugunda Thal had determined to strike.
The slaves of the Abyss gathered, without their usual grumbling, and
hushed with anticipation. They had not long to wait before their malignant
god appeared before them in his dubious glory. As before, Yamath jetted
upward from his throne, a column of living flame against which his subjects
must shield their eyes. The Fire Lord was holding court, and attendance was
not optional.
As priests and acolytes filed in, Thongor lunged out of a crack in one
cavern wall to seize the last priest in the processional, a misshapen,
shambling thing with odd proportions mercifully concealed. Stabbing where
he guessed the heart would be, Thongor suddenly held only empty,
sulphurous smoke as the thing sublimated. Having torn away the robe and
three-eyed devil mask (and wondering momentarily why a devil should
mask himself as a devil), he passed it to the waiting Vaspas Ptol, who
hastened to don the costume, then ran to take up the rear of the line. He
knew from previous ceremonies that the last in line would be the celebrant.
And for that, too, he was ready. Ascending the platform in his turn, the
disguised Druid began to intone, not
the appointed words of praise, but the unfamiliar invocation to the Cold
Flame, Aphoom Zhah!
At once there commenced great cracking sounds and belches of searing
flame of different colors, not to mention screams of “Blasphemy!” and
“Sacrilege!” It was, however, clear that none of those assembled understood
what was transpiring. Ungainly demon servitors charged the platform, but
Thongor sprang up, swinging a pick-axe as well as an obsidian sword he
had taken from one of the first demons to reach him. With these in either
hand, he spun—a virtual cyclone of destruction. The demons, unused to
fighting, only to the sadistic torture of the defenseless, fell before him,
collapsing into red smoke. Thongor coughed but continued fighting,
undaunted, to protect his old foe, making sure Vaspas Ptol could get through
the whole of the summoning formula.
After a few frantic minutes of this, Thongor, together with his subhuman
attackers, was knocked off the platform by the sudden impact of a
thunderclap which erupted from a freezing radiance. This in turn clashed
with a billowing mushroom cloud of inframundane fire. The gods had
come, and with luck, they would soon be gone. Thongor felt himself
sinking, despite himself, into a maze of dream. But in his last waking
moment, he saw the terrible sight of old Vaspas Ptol collapsing in flame,
one side of him crisping, the other freezing into fragile immobility. In his
first moments of dreaming, Thongor had thought he heard the old Druid
muttering, “. . . a sacrifice had to . . .’ Perhaps, the Valkarthan thought, the
old man, once a veritable devil himself, had in some measure redeemed
himself and might now escape to a better incarnation.
Regaining full consciousness and helped to his feet by his one-time
antagonist Drugunda Thal, Thongor was surprised to see the man raise up a
black blade and cry, “Give ear, ye damned! Yamath is dead! Long live the
new Sark of Hell—Thongor of Valkarth!”
An astonished Thongor gazed first at Drugunda Thal, then out over a
seemingly endless sea of gathered souls and misshapen demons. Then a few
here and there lifted up swords and mining tools, as well as voices, to hail
their new king. In another moment the red-lit cavern rang with shouts and
cheers. Abashed, Thongor motioned for silence.
“My friends, villains and sinners all, I will not betray your faith in me!
Henceforth, though Hell remain Hell, which even I cannot change, the rule
shall be justice, not oppression! I have seen this day that even in the deepest
pit redemption is possible. But right now I have urgent business to attend to
back in the world above, if indeed it is not too late already. I thus name
Drugunda Thal as my vice regent. He will treat you fairly in my stead!”
A thunder of applause at his back, Thongor descended the stairs leading
downward behind the platform. Drugunda Thal clapped him on the shoulder
and exclaimed, “You were always a more than worthy opponent, my Lord,
and now an even better friend! Come this way, O Sark of Hell, and I will
show you what may be of help to you.”
Drugunda Thal had, over the years of his exile from the upper world, had
occasion to penetrate certain secrets of Yamath’s realm without anyone
being the wiser. And he had surmised how Thongor must have come to this
place, and thus that he was not yet truly dead. Best of all, he knew a way
that Thongor might return to the place from which he had come—*to the
place where he belonged.
“But what of you, my comrade? I cannot take you with me; that is clear .
. .”
“Do not pity me, Thongor of Valkarth! I wield power again, a hard thirst
to quench! And I have plans for this place and its denizens. Those who
slaved with us in that useless chimney, remember, were not cowering
wretches like those who could not prove their mettle against their
tormentors. I believe we may assuage their tedium by conducting
gladiatorial combats here amid the magma pits. Imagine! An eternity of
battle in which one may shrug off even the most deadly wounds! Would that
even count as Hell?
“And this realm fairly abounds with comely wenches, harlots and
adulteresses aplenty! Even a dead man may find some satisfaction there!
You do not condemn me, friend Thongor, but rather reward me!” With that,
both men
laughed, and Drugunda Thal led a grateful Thongor to the
armory.

x. City of the Singeing Flame

Queen Sumia of Patanga, bowed in apparent despair, slowly trod toward the
lip of the fire pit, prodded by lance-wielding acolytes in shining white
robes. Vathos Val gloated with an unholy glee that passed for pious zeal.
But his face abruptly went blank; then he gaped with shock as the muscular
young woman wheeled about, seized one of the goads, and impaled the old
Druid with it! With surprising strength Sumia tightened her grip on the shaft
and shoved the scrawny, knobby form into the abyss of devouring flame!
Yamath had his sacrifice all right, and the Sarkaja bitterly hoped he enjoyed
it!
The acolytes, so confident a single moment before, now
fled from the dais and the defiant woman standing atop it as she raised aloft
a sacrificial blade and shouted, “For my Lord Thongor and his city
Patanga!” It seemed a futile gesture, in truth, since there was no longer any
significant force to rally. Lord Mael and Prince Dru, joined now by a few
others, looked on Sumia’s statuesque, heroic figure and groaned in fatalistic
fury.
But then all eyes turned as, with a terrible crash, a section of the city wall
fell beneath the assault of an unexpected host that seemed to appear from
nowhere! Led by a massive form covered in black obsidian armor, a
stampede of grotesque, demonic figures, smoke rising off their
asymmetrical, heavily-muscled bodies, trampled the mercenaries of “King”
Phlegathos beneath the flaming hoofs of their saurian steeds.
The midnight-armored leader dismounted from his own beast, bounded
up the stone steps to the altar platform and doffed his helmet. He clasped
the waist of the stunned Queen, who resisted for but a moment.
“Thongor! But how. . . ‘?”
Withal, his smiling face dissolved into smoke and his empty armor
clattered to the flagstones. Moments later, a palace guard came running into
the midst of the melee of confusion. “The Sark lives! He has awakened at
last!” Once the messenger had delivered these tidings, he knelt as a familiar
figure strode up from behind him. It was Thongor, his wandering soul at last
reunited with his inert body. Vitality came rushing back so forcefully that it
had impelled him to spring to his feet and follow the sounds of excitement
coming from outside. Sumia, relieved beyond measure, ran to embrace him.
“Now!” cried Thongor. “Bring me that traitorous schoolmaster!”

~~~~~

A skinny priestling, recoiling in agony from the blistering griddle under

his knees, covered his eyes against the harsh red light. Hopping from foot to
foot, Phlegathos saw a shadowed colossus looming over him. The shape
introduced himself as one Drugunda Thal.
“Wh . . . where is my Master?” This he managed to speak in a loose chain
of barks and yowls of sharp pain.
Low chuckling. “He is dead and gone, I’m afraid. And besides, Yamath
of the fiery temper was not one to show much gratitude to the fools who
served him. Vaspas Ptol made that very clear. Do you know the name?”