Young Thongor (30 page)

He fought desperately with every atom of strength in all his mighty form. Lashing out with strong legs, he sought to crush the clawed feet of his foe or entangle its legs and knock it off balance, but to no avail. The demon increased the density of its body, and thus its weight, till it stood as unmovable as a pyramid of solid stone. Thongor rammed his burly shoulders into its chest, thudded balled fists into midsection and groin—but again, to no avail.

He could not breathe. The iron strength of the howling brute was crushing the very life out of him. Strength drained from his knees; he sagged toward the floor, still battling like a titan. His vision had darkened now, so that he could barely see. His knew his face must be black from congested blood, a snarling tiger-mask of grim ferocity. The blood roared in his ears like a thousand seas plunging over the edges of the world to shatter like a thunderclap against the foundations of eternity.

He fought on, as consciousness ebbed and darkness closed around him like black rising waters. He passed into utter blackness, still fighting…

5

Ald Turmis

Thongor came awake like some great jungle cat. His savage heritage had honed his reflexes to exquisite keenness. He did not come awake through slow, foggy transitional stages, as softer, city-bred men awaken, but all at once—from total unconsciousness to full, tingling alertness, like a jungle predator whose slumbers are disturbed by the faint, distant snapping of a twig.

A dim, remote light beat about him. Cold, rough, wet stone was against his naked back and his numb wrists were stretched against the wall of rock, clamped helpless with thick bands of icy metal.

He was in a large, empty chamber cut from naked stone. This his hearing told him instantly; he could hear the faint echoes of water dripping down through the foundations of the building above. From the darkness, the moisture, the foul stench, he reasoned that he must be in some dungeon cell beneath the house of the Ptarthan wizard. His cloak was gone, his sword and other weapons and accoutrements—even the pocket-pouch at his waist, where a few lonely coins were stored against hunger.

But these things mattered little. He was surprised to find himself still alive. And alive he was, or all the myths were wrong—for surely no disembodied spirit could feel such pain as went throbbing and pulsing through every nerve in his body. He took a deep breath, and felt the red waves of pain beating against the very citadel of his mind. His body felt as if every inch of it had been beaten all over with leather clubs. But he still lived.

“I wasn’t sure whether you were alive or not,” drawled a young man’s lazy voice very close to him. Thongor felt the icy drench of shock go through him, and twisted his head about—ignoring the blaze of pain from sore, bruised muscles—to find he had a cell-mate.

His companion was a slim, dark young man, Thongor’s age or perhaps a year or two younger, who wore the simple red leather harness of a lone fighting-man unattached to the service of any house or lord. The youth wore a scruffy beard of perhaps two weeks’ growth, and was somewhat soiled and stained from the filthy dungeon.

Thongor took him in in one swift, measuring glance. The young man was well bred, with intelligent, dark eyes and a not-unpleasant smile, if a trifle dispirited and sardonic, and he had about him the trim, supple, hard-muscled look of a good fighting-man.

Thongor relaxed, grunting. “I live,” he said simply. “Why are you not bound, as I am?” he asked immediately, for his companion was secured by a single chain about his booted leg which was fastened to a ring set in the wall.

The young man grinned faintly. “Because Athmar Phong’s pet devil had no trouble in knocking me witless, in contrast to the battle
you
put up. I gather he doesn’t consider me of any particular danger. Unlike you—he must judge you a worthy opponent, even for a demon. I could hear the fight all the way down here: it must have been a magnificent brawl!”

“It was,” Thongor grunted, “but I lost it. Who are you, and why are you here?”

The dark youth cocked a quizzical brow. “For that matter—I might ask the same of you, my friend!”

The barbarian grinned. “Just so: I am Thongor, a warrior out of Valkarth in the northlands. I sought to steal a magic mirror from this Ptarthan sorcerer, but it seems I have yet a few things to learn about the profession of thievery. And you?”

His companion smiled wryly. “I am named Ald Turmis, and my city is Zangabal.
Belarba
,” he said, and Thongor returned the familiar Lemurian word of greeting. The dark young Thurdan regarded him closely.

“Our sanitary facilities are somewhat limited, but I used most of what water we have to clean you up a bit,” he said. “There is still a little, if you thirst.”

“I thirst, but also, I hunger,” Thongor admitted. “I don’t suppose there is any—wine?”

Ald Turmis laughed. “A man who has just escaped alive from a barehanded battle with a demon deserves wine aplenty! Alas, we have none. But there is a jug of ale, and some meat.”

Since the barbarian was bound in such a way that he could not use his hands, Ald Turmis had to help him eat and drink. Thongor downed the strong, sour ale in great gulps, and felt his head clear and new life spread through his battered body. The meat was cold and dry and tough, but it was meat; he ate until his hunger was appeased, then he lay back with a grunt of contentment. With a full belly, a man could face the future on its own terms.

Ald Turmis had been looking thoughtful. At last, when the barbarian had eaten, he spoke up. “I don’t suppose,” he began carefully, “that it was a certain Zangabali priest named Kaman Thuu who hired you to rob this house…”

Thongor blinked. “How did you know?”

Ald Turmis shrugged. “I, too, am down on my luck, Valkarthan. I have been travelling about the cities of the Gulf, seeking a place to sell my sword. I should have gone to Thurdis, it seems, for the new Sark of that city, Phal Thurid by name, has ambitions of conquest and empire and is hiring an enormous mercenary army. But, at any rate, I have thus far failed to find a sinecure, and turned to slavery. This same Kaman Thuu offered me gold to steal a certain mirror from the house of Athmar Phong. That was half-a-moon ago, and I have been languishing in this cell ever since.”

“Gorm’s Blood!” Thongor rumbled. “That sneaking pig of a priest! He didn’t tell me there had been others!”

Ald Turmis smiled narrowly. “If he had, you might not have followed his wishes.”

“There is truth in that,” the barbarian growled. “Why does he seek so diligently for this cursed mirror? It’s not a wench’s vanity, that’s sure; he is as ugly as a skull.”

“Oh, but it is a very famous mirror—the mirror of Zaffar, as it is called. He was a mighty wizard of Patanga in ancient days, and this magic glass holds imprisoned within it a great Demon Prince, who must obey him who holds Zaffar’s mirror. All the secrets of time and space, all the wisdom of past ages, all the cryptic lore of age-lost and legend-filled Hyperborea is his who possesses the mighty mirror. Doubtless our priestly friend seeks power, as was ever the way of priests.”

Thongor’s gold eyes blazed under black, scowling brows. They burned amber and fiery as the eyes of lions. “Well, if ever I get free of these chains, I will smash his cursed mirror over his shaven pate for not giving me warning I was walking into a trap,” he growled.

6

Naked Steel

For a time they slept, the two of them, their talk done. Food and drink and rest did much to restore the animal strength of Thongor’s battered body. When he awoke again, rested and refreshed, he tugged at his bonds restlessly. “Enough of snoring our time away,” he rumbled, nudging Ald Turmis to wakefulness with one foot. “This Ptarthan mage will return hither with dawn. It must be near that now, an hour or so hence, perhaps. If we are ever to free ourselves, we must do it soon, for once the wizard has us in his grasp, we are doomed men. Naked steel cannot battle against blasts of magic.”

“We are already doomed men,” Ald Turmis yawned. “For bare hands cannot battle naked steel, and I have long since given up trying to break my chains.”

“But I have not yet tried,” Thongor said quietly, and there was something in the level quality of his voice that made Ald Turmis feel a thrill of hope.

“You have the body of a gladiator, Thongor, and the thews of a god. But surely even you cannot burst our chains?”

There was a note of question in his voice, but Thongor merely grunted and turned to examine his bonds. His arms were spread against the stone wall at his back, and his wrists were held flat against the wall by bands of iron riveted to the stone. The position was cleverly thought out: thus bound he could only employ a portion of his strength towards freeing himself, and could use little, if any, leverage. Still, a man could try.

He took deep breaths, his massive chest swelling with power. Great ropes of sinewy muscle writhed across his naked shoulders and down his mighty arms. He set his back firmly against the wet, rough stone, and strove against the bonds. Although his face blackened with effort and the thews of his torso hardened like solid rock, the bonds held. He relaxed, breathing deeply; then he threw every ounce of surging strength in his terrific body against the bonds once more. Ald Turmis watched with growing fascination. The primal, brute-strength of this half-naked barbarian was something beyond his experience.

City-bred men are for the most part shielded against the raw world of nature—for this is the purpose of cities. Raised behind walls, guarded by armies, they but rarely are forced to pit their naked strength against the savage wild.

But Thongor was born on the wintry steppes of the most terrible wilderness on all the earth. The child of wandering hunters, born to bare rock and numb snow and howling winds, in a cruel land surrounded with merciless enemies, men, beasts and the hostile forces of nature, he was driven to battle for survival almost from the very hour of his birth. At an age when most boy-children can scarcely walk, Thongor had fought with his brothers against hungry wolves, knee-deep in frozen snow, with only a piece of rock for a weapon. Hunting the great white bear of the north, he had lived for days alone on the mighty glaciers with no nourishment but the hot blood of his kill to sustain him. The struggle for survival in the savage wilderness was brutal and fierce; the weak died swiftly and only the mightiest of men survived. Thongor had survived the cold, the harsh winds, the ferocious competition, and the cruel years of his boyhood had driven the hard iron of barbarian manhood deep within him.

The iron band—
broke
.

* * * *

Like twin shadows, Thongor and Ald Turmis prowled through the darkness of the secret passage within the walls of the wizard’s house on silent feet. They went armed with lengths of chain, since both the great Valkarthan broadsword and the Zangabali’s slim rapier had been wrested from them when they were captured. But a length of iron chain was better than no weapon at all, and in this dark house of magic and mystery a man needed a weapon in his hands.

Privately, Ald Turmis thought they were fools not to flee when they had the chance. But Thongor could be grimly stubborn: he sought his great sword, and would not leave without it.

It had been comparatively easy, with one shackle broken and one arm freed, to break loose of the other. Then, with his bare fingers, the mighty Valkarthan had pried open a link of the chain that bound Ald Turmis to the ring set in the wall. Arming themselves with lengths of the very chains that had bound them, the two young warriors stole silently from their cell and into the depths of the cellars of the house. Their first thought had naturally been of escape, for the concealed door to the network of underground tunnels still lay open. But soon they discovered the tunnels had extended directly into a secret passage within the very walls of the house itself, as well as into the basements. Thus the Valkarthan had refused to flee like a thief in the night, and insisted they use this rare opportunity to recover their weapons, at least. Ald Turmis had argued, but to no avail. To the civilized Zangabali, his sword was little more than a tool, and easily replaced. But to the grim barbarian, the mighty broadsword was like a part of his body: he had lived with it by his side too long to abandon it now through fear.

The wizard’s house had many rooms and many floors. Cleverly concealed eyeholes, hidden among the wall-decorations, permitted them to spy on the contents of these chambers.

The first room they inspected in this manner was a laboratory given over to alchemy. A great stone fireplace covered most of one wall, and upon its hearth a magic fire of yellow and purple flames crackled, heating the shimmering contents of strange glass spheres. A profusion of chemical equipment cluttered long, low tables of porcelain and steel. Glass and ceramic containers of bewildering design bore colored fluids of unimaginable nature. And strange instruments of the alchemist’s science loomed in the wavering, twilight of the mystic fire: crucibles and athanors, curcubits and aludels, and all manner of peculiar devices beyond their knowledge even to name.

The next room was given over to an even more terrible purpose. Herein stood huge vats of milky crystal, filled with thick, soupy fluids. Naked bodies lay within, immersed in the cloudy depths of these vats. They could not tell if these were the bodies of human beings or of animals—all they could see was the gleam of pallid flesh. But Thongor guessed the loathsome purpose of the equipment, and his hackles rose along his nape.