Young Thongor (27 page)

And failed!

Though he tore his wrists raw, the leather thongs held and the deep-driven stakes did not budge. Again and again he threw the coiled strength of back and arm and shoulder into a terrific effort to burst his bonds. His deep-chested roar of challenge made the night hideous: booming echoes bounced from rock to rock. But nothing sufficed to free him from this death trap. And step by ponderous, shuffling step the weirdly animated stone thing advanced upon him. Its blind, ghastly caricature of a face stared stonily down at him now from what seemed a tremendous height. Another instant—another slow, dragging scrape of stone against stone, and it would be upon him.

Then—somewhere behind him, beyond the edges of his vision—
riot
.

The beast-men exploded into squeals of pain. The ring of blades—the patter of many running feet. A spear went whizzing over Thongor’s prostrate form to clatter off the pitted breast of the now-immobile stone thing. Slowly, hideously, the blind featureless face of jagged rock twisted to as if to stare beyond Thongor to the source of the inexplicable interruption. Due to a trick of light and shade, the mask of stone bore a momentarily quizzical expression.

Then, from behind Thongor, a hand grabbed at his arm and a steel dagger-blade flashed downward toward his flesh.

9

Night of Hell

The flashing blade slashed through the thongs that bound his wrist. The leather snapped and his arm was free. He looked up, relief flooding his features, to see the plump, anxious face of the moon-faced Kovian, Qualb, as he bent puffing to cut free Thongor’s other arm.

“Damn your hide,” Thongor growled, “I thought you lazy dogs would never come!”

“Bless me, Cap’n, an’ we might not yet be here, lost in this cursed maze of tumbled stone, had it not been for you a-yellin’ like to wake the dead!” Qualb wheezed, chuckling, as he slashed the thongs that bound his feet. “Once ol’ Thad Novis heard that bellowing, he knew ‘twas you, and we came straight!”

Thongor staggered to his feet, grunting at the pain of circulation gnawing at his numb flesh. His hands were black and swollen, almost useless, like blunt paws. But the heavy sea-boots had protected his legs from the worst punishment, and he could stand. He turned, taking in the situation with one swift, all-encompassing glance. His stout band of rogues was cutting the shambling savages to ribbons. In another few moments, the beast-herd would break and flee for their subterranean burrows—

A screech of fury—

The gaunt wizard, his uncanny trance broken, stood on top of the great rock, glaring down at them with mad eyes of scarlet wrath. One starved, skeletal arm brandished aloft the Rod of Power. From writhing lips burst forth again that hellish litany of black sorcery.

And the stone thing moved again!

Slabs squeaked under its shifting weight as it lurched forward, heavy, clubbed arms raised threateningly. And directly in its path, Thongor’s gallant little band of buccaneers stood holding off the horde of grunting savages. A few more sliding steps and the walking idol would be among them. Feet like boulders would crush and slay, trampling the men down as a man might snuff out the lives of crawling insects under his heel.

There was no time to shout the warning—no time even to think. Thongor was triggered into a rush of instant action by some instinctive thing quicker and simpler than thought itself—the killing fury of a maddened beast. A growl of challenge burst from his lips, which writhed back from his white teeth in a fighting grin. And he exploded into action.

One fantastic, superhuman bound carried him to the crest of the towering rock where the warlock stood, arms lifted in imprecation. Thongor was upon the crazed witch-man before anyone even saw it. His hands were still numb and useless, but they were callused and hard and heavy. With the back of one he clubbed the warlock across the mouth and knocked him to his knees, spitting broken teeth and dribbling blood. With the other numb paw Thongor ripped the crystal-tipped wand from his hand—then kicked him full in the face, hurling him backwards off the rock to thud sprawling and astounded on the pavement below.

Directly in the path of the stone monster.

Dribbling blood and the foam of maniacal rage, the warlock staggered to his feet, eyes burning like hell-moons through tan gled locks. Then his fury ebbed—his swarthy features paled milky-white—his eyes goggled in unbelieving horror—for his own god was about to trample him down underfoot.

Thongor whirled, poised, and flung the
nebium
wand like a javelin. Straight and true it hurtled against the pitted breast of the walking thing it had roused to a hideous travesty of life. The flashing crystal struck the stone breast first—and exploded in a dazzle of diamond dust.

And the Black Moon died…

Swift as waking from a dream, the haunting spell of evil magic faded from the night. The uncanny, incandescent heavens dimmed—darkened. The evil Moon glowed red—then bright, pure gold again. No more did black stars blaze in an enchanted sky: now the familiar stars of old twinkled down from dark and friendly heavens once again.

There came a creak of stone rasping against stone. The lurching, dragging thing froze into immobility as the evil spell which had for a time flogged it to a ghastly semblance of life perished with the splintering of the crystal. And the stone god became…only a thing of stone.

But when the spell that had animated it was broken, it had been off-balance, lurching forward to trample Thongor’s embattled pirates. Now, like an avalanche, it came crashing down to smash asunder against the paving. The thunder of tons of stone against stone was deafening. But even above the clangor of the fallen image, as it shattered into a thousand bits against the floor of the pavement, one sharp, agonizing screech of unbelieving horror pierced the thunderclap of noise.

It was the gaunt warlock. The wizard-priest of the troglodytes had been directly in the path of his toppling god. Tons of falling rock buried him from sight and his last cry was cut short. Then the beast-men broke and fled with whimpers for their holes, while Thongor’s weary pirates rested on their crimsoned swords and watched them go, panting. The troglodytes’ spirit was broken, but then few men can endure to stand and watch the death of their god. And they were not quite men.

In the ringing silence, Thongor sagged, relaxing, and began to rub feeling back into his hurting hands. He was grey with rock-dust from brow to heel, and devilishly thirsty, but he was alive and whole. And this night of hell was over.

10

High Seas

Dawn burst flaming up over the edges of the world and drove away the shadows of the night. With dawn came a quick, freshening breeze that caught and boomed in the scarlet sails of the lean black galley. Taut rigging thrummed like a great harp in the rising wind. The deck swayed and the prow rose sharply.

Wrapped in a warm cloak, Thongor leaned against the rail, pouring cold red wine down his gullet. When he came up for air, bald, glum-faced Chelim was at his side.

“The burial-party are all aboard now,” the Zangabali grunted heavily. “Kanthar Kan sleeps with his fathers now—or drinks the morning cup in the Hall of Heroes, if the priests tell it true.”

“Aye,” Thongor nodded. “And is that why you’ve such a long face? He died like a man, writing a warning to his shipmates with his last dregs of strength. There’s naught to mourn in a brave man’s death. Pray Gorm we all meet our end so gallantly!”

The first mate rubbed stubbled cheeks, his expression sour.

“‘Tis not that, Cap’n—but this cursed voyage, come to nothing! All this way, and lose a good man, and for what? No treasure…only black jungles, stinking savages, and sorcery to boot. Perhaps we’ll greet a fat merchantman on our way home to Tarakus and lighten his cargo a mite, but I cannot help but wish it had been…”

His words trailed off. His eyes widened and a look of blank stupefaction passed over his face, giving him a singularly ludicrous expression. For without a word, face solemn, Thongor had bent and dug one hand deep in his high sea-boots, and brought up a handful of glistening ruddy pearls. And another. And another!

“The brutes surprised me at the pool, just as I was admiring their pretty pearls,” the young buccaneer explained. “I just had time to stuff a few handfuls in my boots—devilish uncomfortable things to walk about on, pearls are. But there should be enough pretties here to warm the heart of the coldest trader in the thieves’ bazaar back in Tarakus…and enough to split among the crew so that any that want can retire to a life of ease, after this voyage.”

The look of astonishment passed from Chelim’s face and was replaced by a wondering, beaming grin. “Hoy, Fulvio, lads, come here!” he boomed. “See what the Cap’n fetched back from that cursed land. Lad,” he said frankly, “my heart goes out to you: with a pack of howling savages just leapin’ on your back, you take time enough to shove a prince’s ransom down your boots before turning to fight for your life. Now
that’s
what I call thinking like a born pirate!”

Dog-tired from the night’s perils and exertions, the crew ambled over to the rail to find out why their captain and first mate were whooping with laughter in so odd a manner. Needless to say, once the cause of the hilarity was made clear to them, their hearts lifted at one glimpse of the fabulous flame pearls of Cadorna. A pirate, like a man who follows any other trade, likes to turn a tidy profit from a day’s toil. And not long thereafter, as the lordly Sun ascended the clear blue sky, the pirate galley
Black Hawk
drew up her dripping anchor, turned about into the wind, and pointed her dragon prow to the high seas and whatever new fortunes awaited her.

INTRO TO THIEVES OF ZANGABAL

Thongor’s feats among the corsairs of Tarakus become legendary until, finally, he falls foul of their King and, after a bloody duel in which Thongor slays him, the Valkarthan is forced to flee from the navy of his erstwhile companions. During the next year he battles through the jungle Southlands, enlists in the services of the Sark of Zangabal as a mercenary swordsman, then falls back on his old trade of thief.

It is the year 7007 of the Kingdoms of Man and Thongor is now twenty-five years old.

THIEVES OF ZANGABAL

1

In the Hall of Seven Gods

The priest Kaman Thuu was old and gaunt and skeletal, his lean body wrapped in a robe of crimson velvet whereon the symbols of the Seven Gods of Zangabal were worked with stiff gold thread. Jeweled rings flashed and glittered on his clawed fingers, and his eyes burned keen and sharp in his shaven, skull-like head.

“We are agreed then,” he purred. “For twenty pieces of gold you will rob the house of Athmar Phong the magician and fetch back to me the mirror of black glass you will find in his workshop. And this task you will fulfill this very night.”

“Aye,” the bronzed young giant grunted sourly, “but I do not like the task.”

“I have already explained that you have naught to fear at the hands of Athmar Phong,” the priest reminded him silkily. “This is the first day of Zamar, the first month of spring. On this night the magicians of the Grey Brotherhood, to which Athmar Phong is sworn, meet on a mountainous plateau far to the north of here for their vile and sorcerous sabbat. Thus will the magician be absent tonight, and thus you may thieve the mirror for us in utter safety.”

“So you claim,” the youth growled, “and so it may well be. But it is never wise to meddle in the affairs of wizards, and their houses go seldom unguarded. What if this Ptarthan sorcerer has left behind a demon to watch over his treasures?”

Cold amusement flickered in the cold eyes of the gaunt priest. He ran his gaze over the broad shoulders, the long and powerfully muscled bare arms, and the deep, heavy thews of the chest of the young barbarian who sat before him in the veiled antechamber of the temple. And he let his gaze linger on the massive hilt of the great two-handed Valkarthan broadsword that hung at the lean waist of the young thief in its long scabbard of dragon-leather.

“Surely you are not…
afraid
?” he suggested slyly.

The young barbarian flushed angrily. His strange gold eyes, that burned with sullen, wrathful fires under scowling black brows in his tanned face under the thick, unshorn mane of black hair, blazed with sudden temper. Then they cleared, and the youth threw back his head and laughed.

“Gorm!” he rumbled. “You sit here safe and secure in your silken nest, a pure and holy priest of the Gods of Zangabal who would never sully his sanctified fingertips with blood or crime—and pay another man to take risks and dare the perils you would shudder to face—and then taunt him with a hint of cowardice!” The burly young barbarian laughed again, and spat on the fine Pelorm carpet. “Wizards and priests! You are alike, the both of you—and I would have dealings with neither, if I had my way!”

The gaunt skull-face of Kaman Thuu tightened and his voice grew harsh and contemptuous. “Would you rather starve like a whining beggar in the back-alleys of Zangabal, barbarian? Because that you will do if you refuse the task I have set you. Remember, the Thieves’ Guild is powerful in our city: to make your living as a thief here, you must join the Guild, or fight both your brother thieves and the city guard each time you attempt a robbery. And to enter the Guild, you must pay a heavy fee in gold. For weeks, by your own account, you have fought over scraps like a half-starved animal, stealing from the bazaar, lifting a fat purse, scrabbling like an
unza
for a bare subsistence. I alone have offered you gold for a task: reject my offer, and you perish miserably either of a starved belly or at the hands of the Guild—”