Young Thongor Read online

  He knew also that it was a ghost-thing, that demon of the snows. For there poured from it a freezing cold, inhuman and magical. The sheen of perspiration on his bronze limbs froze like a thin sheath of glass upon his body. The icy breath of those fanged jaws panted in his face and he felt it go dead and numb as if he wore a mask of snow.

  A red haze thickened before his eyes, blinding him. Each breath he drew was like fire stabbing in his lungs, cold fire, black yet burning. He fought against the cold that coiled about him, swung Sarkozan high, glittering against the stars, and hewed and cut at the ghost-bear. But from each stroke he took hurt, for a wave of stunning cold went through him as the steel blade touched the lumbering monster of snow.

  He fought on, knowing death was near; flesh could not long endure such cold. His heart was a frozen thing in his breast; his very blood congealed in his veins; he could no longer breathe, for to draw in each breath was as painful as a blade of ice driven deep into his lungs. But he fought on, and would fight until he fell.

  A piercing cry cut through him from above.

  Through snow-thick lashes he peered up to see a weird and fantastic shape, black and be-winged, beating against the stars.

  He could not see it clearly—a moving blackness, blotting out the starlight—its eyes like golden fire, brighter than any star, and moonlight glittering on beak and outstretched claws.

  It fell like a thunderbolt from above, swept by him like a whirlwind, and swung down upon the white bear-thing with a scream of fury.

  The mountains shook as the two came together, and the stars were blotted out.

  Ragged black wings beat with cyclone force. Shaggy white jaws roared and crunched. Scythe-sharp black claws caught at the white breast and tore it asunder. The white thing moaned, and toppled, and came apart in chunks of broken snow.

  The black shape whirled about and glared at the boy for the space of a single heartbeat.

  And black eyes stared deep into his golden ones.

  Then the black wings spread and caught the wind and it was gone. Thongor lay gasping in the snow, the sword fallen from his nerveless hand.

  Agony lanced through him as circulation returned to his half-frozen body. Hot blood went pumping through numb flesh; he shook his head dully, trying to waken his sluggish, frozen brain.

  He had attained manhood, after all.

  He had gone up on the heights alone, and there the vision had come to him, and he had seen his totem-beast, and learned his True Name.

  And he was blest above all the warriors of his tribe since time began: for the beast of his vision was the Black Hawk of Valkarth itself, the symbol of his race. And he knew then that his destiny would be stranger and more wondrous and more terrible than that of other men.

  And he had seen a prophecy, too.

  He had seen the Black Hawk fight and slay the Snow Bear. The ghost-beasts had fought there on the windy heights near to the blazing stars, and from that fight the Black Hawk had borne away the victory.

  He drank down cold wine and rested for a time.

  Then he went on, to make the prophecy come true.

  * * * *

  It was the month of Garang in late spring, and the thaws had begun. The great snow that lay thick upon the heights and that cumbered the steep slope of the cliffs was rotten and lay loose, water trickling here and there. When he crossed over to the other side of the ridge he could look down on the valley where the tents of the Snow Bear tribe stood out black against the snow, which reddened, now, to the first shafts of dawn.

  They were weary after the long battle, the Snow Bear warriors—those of them that had survived. They had killed and killed and come away with the Black Hawk treasure of mammoth-ivory and red gold and with those of the Black Hawk women and girl-children who had not been fortunate enough to die beside their men.

  They had feasted long, drunk deep, and caroused lustily and late, the victorious Snow Bear warriors. And now they slept heavily, gorged on meat and blood and wine and womanflesh.

  From that sleep they would not awaken.

  For a long moment the boy stood, arms folded against his breast, looking down on the camp.

  His face was grim and expressionless, like a mask cast in hard bronze. He was a boy in years, but the iron of manhood had entered his soul. He knew what he must do; the spirits of the dead called to him in the windy silence, and he hearkened, and bent to the task.

  With the great sword he began to cut the snow away.

  It was not hard to do; the growing warmth of a Northlands spring had done half the job for him. The broken masses of snow began to roll down the steep, high slopes; as they came whirling down, they broke more snow loose, and each mass became a greater mass, until at last a mountain of heavy snow poured like a ponderous white river down the cliffs to collide in thunder on the floor of the valley below.

  They had put up their tents close under those cliffs, the Snow Bear warriors, to block away the wind. Now it was snow that came down upon them, not wind, and by the time the avalanche came thundering down upon the tents it weighed many tons.

  It crushed them into the earth, smothered them and their treasure and the ruined, broken, empty-eyed women they had taken captive; and in that thundering white fury not one lived.

  The tribes of Valkarth have a simple faith.

  Only those brave warriors who face the foe, and fight, and fall in battle, only their bold spirits are borne by the War Maids to the Hall of Heroes, to feast eternity away before the throne of Father Gorm.

  And what of they that die by accident in gross and drunken slumber? The shamans shrug and do not say. But they do not die the death of men, the death of warriors; the Hall of Heroes does not open to such as they. Their miserable souls slink cringing through the grey mists and cold shadows of the Underworld forever.

  The vengeance of Thongor was completed.

  5

  Red Dawn

  Morning lit the east and the stars fled, one by one, before the red shafts of dawn.

  When Thongor had made certain that not a single foe had survived the avalanche, he turned away and set his face to the sun.

  The task was accomplished and he had lived.

  Where, now, would he go? To a valley of corpses and an empty hut, whose walls would ring no more to his father’s joyous laughter and his mother’s quiet, crooning songs?

  Not there; he could not go back.

  But where, then? No other tribe would take him in, for life in the Northlands was a grim, bleak struggle for existence, and every mouth that was fed meant that another must go hungry.

  His people were extinct; there was nowhere for him to go.

  And then it was that a verse from the old warriors’ song he had sung over his father’s grave for a dirge returned to him. And he thought of the Southlands, of the Dakshina, the lush jungle-countries that lay beside the warm waters of the Gulf, beyond the Mountains of Mommur to the south.

  There, bright young cities glittered in the bold sun, with green gardens, and laughing girls. There, fiery kings and princes contended in mighty wars, and kingdoms lay ripe and ready for the taking. He thought of gold and gems, of fruit warm from the sun, of whirling battles on the green plains, of dark-eyed, barbaric women…

  And he set the great broad sword back in its scabbard, and drank deep of the red wine, watching dawn rise up over the edges of the world to fill the land with light; and he set his face towards the south, that last of the Black Hawk warriors.

  And he passed from sight, down the hill-slope, striding with long steps towards the place where the great range of purple mountains marched across the world from west to east.

  His heart lifted within him, for the night was over. And as he strode from view, he lifted his voice and sang again that warriors’ song…

  Out there, beyond the setting sun,

  Are kingdoms waiting to be won!

  And crowns, and women, gold and wine—

  Courage! And hold the battleline!

  INTRO TO T
HE CITY IN THE JEWEL

  For over two years, the youthful Thongor wanders the vastness of the Lemurian Northlands. Here the tribesmen are clannish, suspicious of strangers and a swift death is promised to anyone straying into their jealously protected domains. Thongor lives on his wits, often forced into using his fighting skills to survive, developing them, hardening himself until he has become a dangerous, fierce warrior, lion-like and elusive.

  Not yet seventeen, he moves ever southward, away from the lands of his birth, into the huge range of the Mountains of Mommur.

  THE CITY IN THE JEWEL

  1

  As the Sun Died

  The fierce tropic sun of old Lemuria had long since passed the zenith of day. Now it descended the dome of heaven to perish in its pyre of crimson vapors that lit the dim west with flame. In all this desolate land of jagged, jumbled rock, nothing lived, nor moved, but shadows.

  The level shafts of flaming light struck across the vast tableland of the plateau and drew long ink-black shadows from the circle of standing stones amidst the waste.

  Seven they were, and twice taller than a man: tapering columns of dark volcanic stone, rough-hewn, coarsely porous. They stood in a circle on the plain of broken rock, and the red rays of the sinking sun drew long tapering shadows from them. Seven long black narrow shadows…like the fingers of a monstrous groping hand.

  Glyphs were deep-cut in the ringed monoliths. Ages of slow time had all but worn them smooth. Yet still were they faintly legible, were there any eye to read them in this shadowy land of stone and silence.

  That which stood amidst the circle of standing stones caught the red rays of sunset and flashed with gem-like brilliance. It was a vast, rugged mass of crystal, cloudy, misted: a huge gem of green and sparkling silver, so large that the arms of a full-grown man could scarce encompass it.

  Into nine hundred uneven geometric facets was the glimmering crystal cut. Each facet was engraved with a curious sigil; each sigil was subtly alike each other, yet no two were precisely the same.

  As the sun died in thunderous glory on the western horizon, the faceted stone caught the last beams and burst ablaze with sparkling splendor. Amidst the shimmering radiance, the strange sigils glowed weirdly, as if sentient. Like watchful eyes, cold, alert, intent, they peered through the purpling shadows.

  No man alive on earth in all that distant age could read those carved signs on the monstrous jewel, nor spell the sense of those deep-carved and age-worn glyphs upon the seven monoliths.

  But something pulsed amidst the dazzling radiance of the stone and as it lay bathed fully in the sunset flames.

  Power!

  Vast, awesome, magical.

  And…deadly.

  2

  When Dragons Hunt

  For five hours now the boy had fled for his life, and now he had reached the very end of his strength. His numb legs would move no farther and he fell, gasping for breath, in the coarse rubble that bestrewed the plateau. His lungs were afire, his raw throat ached and thirst was like a raging torment within him. But he could flee no more.

  Against the blaze of sunset, the dragons circled. Black, horrid shapes with snaky necks and ragged, bat-like wings. They had caught the hot scent of manflesh shortly past midday and they had hunted him lazily down the high mountain pass that cleft all this mighty range, the Mountains of Mommur, and across this bleak and desolate tableland, until they had worn him to the point of exhaustion.

  Now they swung casually, wings booming like sales on the quickening breeze, cold ferocity flaring in the mindless reptilian eyes that shone through the gathering dusk like yellow coals.

  Sprawled panting amidst the broken stones, the boy glared up at them, his strange gold eyes blazing lion-like through tangled black locks. He did not fear them and would fight them to the last with every ounce of strength in his bronzed and brawny form. But he was doomed, and he knew it.

  His savage people, tribesmen of the cold north, had a saying. When dragons hunt, the boldest warriors hide.

  He was young, not yet seventeen, and nearly naked, his brown hide bare save for high-laced sandals and a rag of cloth twisted about his loins. His breast and strong arms, back, belly and shoulders were scored with old scars and white with road dust, for he had come far—halfway across the world it seemed, from that gore-drenched battlefield whereon all his people had died save he alone. Down from the wintry tundras of the frozen Northlands had he come, alone and on foot, battling savage beasts and even more savage men, and the scars of many battles marked him.

  Strapped in a worn old scabbard across his broad young shoulders, a great Valkarthan broadsword lay. It was his only weapon: and it was useless against the winged death that hovered, indolently flapping, against the sky of darkening crimson. Had he but a bow he could likely have struck down the flying horrors that had playfully, cat-like, lazily hunted him all afternoon down the bleak mountains to this desolate plateau.

  Here, in a brief scarlet flare of agony, he would die. And here his bare white bones would lie bleaching to powder under the Lemurian skies forever.

  But he knew no fear, this bronzed boy who lay helpless, panting, exhausted.

  3

  Where Horror Dares Not Pass

  Suddenly a cold hand went gliding across his hot thigh. He jerked about, nape prickling with primal night-fears, one capable fist seizing the hilt of the two-handed broadsword. Then he relaxed, chest heaving. It was a cold, black shadow that had crept across his flesh, dark and stealthy. A long, tapering shadow, like a pointing finger.

  Curious, the boy raised himself on one arm and peered about to see the source of that shadow. He threw his tangled black mane back from his face and stared with amazement. Stared at the ring of dark columns that encircled a lone cube of black stone like a rude altar. And stared at that which glittered and flashed there.

  He was looking directly into the sunset, but that roiling mass of crimson flame was less brilliant than the immense and sparkling jewel that stood amidst the monoliths.

  Cold wind swept over him in a gush.

  Fetid, hot breath blew, stinking, in his face. He flinched—ducked—as one of the scaly horrors of the upper sky swung low, snapping yellowed fangs at his flesh. The dragons were bolder, now. Or, perhaps, hungrier.

  He staggered to his feet, levering himself erect with one hand braced against a broken boulder. He would meet death face to face, standing on his two feet like a man, he thought grimly.

  They swung about far above, the twin, bat-winged horrors, circling for the kill. He glared about for a place to stand, a tall stone to set his shoulders against, and suddenly he thought of that circle of smooth lava pillars. The monoliths were set close together: the bat-winged horrors would not be able to come at him from above or behind it if he set his shoulders against one of those pillars; they could only come at him from in front, and then they would face the glittering, razor scythe of that mighty broadsword with which he and his forefathers had fought against many a foe. Perhaps he had a chance after all.

  Staggering a little, his aching legs still numb with bone-weary exhaustion, he headed for the ring of standing stones and the sparkling enigma they guarded and enclosed. He drew the great sword, Sarkozan. He set his back against the rough cold stone and took his stand. He threw back his head and shouted a challenge to the winged predators of the sky.

  They swerved and came hurtling down at him, those flapping black shapes. He could see the flaring coals of their burning eyes and the immense grinning jaws lined with yellowed fangs, the long snaky necks stretched hungrily for him, clawed bird-feet spread to cling and rip—

  Ignoring the ache of weariness in chest and arms and shoulders, the boy swung up the great sword as the flying dragons flashed for him—and swerved aside!

  Puzzled, the boy’s strange gold eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He watched through tousled black locks as the flying reptiles curved in their flight, veered away, and flapped off hesitantly, to rush down at him again.

  Again
they came swooping down. And again they veered to one side at the last moment.

  It was strange. It was more than strange, it was a little frightening. It was as if those horrid dragons of the sky—feared the circle of standing stones!

  Propped against the rough pillar, leaning weary arms on the cross-hilt of the great sword, Thongor watched as the sunset died to smoldering coals. The skies darkened as night rose on black wings up over the edges of the earth to shroud the great continent in shadow.

  The dragons hovered and circled, and, at length, flapped away and were lost in the gathering darkness. Then the boy turned to explore this peculiar ring of monoliths, where even the fanged predators of the sky dared not come near. This circle of stones, which mailed, mighty dragons dared not pass.

  4

  The City in the Jewel

  Thongor examined the seven stone pillars. They were of cold dead rock, dark, volcanic, rough and porous to the touch. With curious fingers the young barbarian traced the strange heiroglyphs inscribed upon them. He could make nothing of the curious symbols, but, then, as for that, he could neither read nor write. He had no way of guessing that those inscriptions were in a long-dead tongue whose last living speaker had perished from the earth untold aeons before…

  He next approached the low altar.

  It was a six-sided cube of black rock and it bore no carvings. On its top, the great gem flashed and twinkled. Never before had the boy seen a mass of crystal so immense. He bent over it curiously, and the cold shifting lights that moved within bathed his features in a restless glow.

  His was a strong young face, square of jaw and broad of brow and cheekbone. Scowling black brows curved over lion-like eyes. Sun and wind had burnt his face to the hue of old leather; there was strength in that face, and intelligence, and breeding. Though how a half-naked wild boy from the savage wilderness of the wintry Northlands had come by that breeding, none could say.

  He was curious about the carved sigils, which adorned the glassy surface of each of the odd-angled facets, and he stretched out his hand to trace them—

  And jerked back numb, tingling fingers with a muted cry. A cold, electric shock stabbed at him as his outstretched fingers touched the slick, glassy surface—a weird, thrilling force.