by Lin Carter
Some of the houses had two and even three storeys, although by far the greater number were low-roofed one-storey buildings. It seemed to Karm Karvus that he would have a much greater chance to hide in safety and elude detection, if he entered the upper storey of some large building. At length a choice window came to his view.
Most of the upper windows were either tightly shuttered and locked, or securely barred with cold iron. But this one, although shuttered, was open. Indeed, it was the creak and slap of the unfastened shutter that first drew his attentions to it.
In a city filled with pirates, it would seem obvious to expect an occasional thief. But the roof wherein this window was set was high and very steep, and it lifted well above the level of its nearest neighbors—hence, it would seem, the owners thereof were somewhat careless about fastening it. For what thief would be so foolish as to risk a broken neck striving to gain its sill?
Karm Karvus was no fool, but he was a desperate man—and the extremities of desperation are sometimes but a hair’s-breadth away from foolhardiness. So he climbed the roof.
He fumbled and fought for handholds with fingers numb from the cold rain and raw from rough stone and broken tiles. Three times he almost slipped and fell—and three times desperation sent a jolt of new strength surging through his exhausted body, and he caught another hold. Foot by foot, up the steep incline of slippery tiles—streaming all the while with cold rain—he inched his way to the haven of the open and unlit window. He could hardly see from the stinging rain beating at his eyes. His arms, shoulders and back were bone-weary from the strain. The icy, insubstantial fingers of the howling storm-wind plucked and tore at him, striving to claw him free from his slight fingerholds and pitch him over into the dark alley far below.
But Karm Karvus had iron self-control and infinite patience. Grimly setting his jaw and ignoring the ache in his exhausted muscles, the numbness in his cold fingers, he struggled on, foot by foot. And in time he reached the peaked spine of the roof.
Here the footing was easier. A shallow gutter ran along the peak of the roof, and it was possible to stand erect by straddling this gutter. Thus he made more rapid progress, with surer footing, the length of the roof up to the very sill of the window.
And the lights went on.
The Prince froze motionless as a horn lantern flared up behind the rain-drenched panes.
Peering in, he saw a veiled figure near the window, the lantern in its hand. A face peered out at him—a pale, blurred oval. Man or woman? Friend or foe? The Prince of Tsargol could not guess—neither could he delay. In the rainy darkness he had been careless of discovery. Here, on the peak of the roof, his body bathed in lantern-light, he could clearly be seen from the street below or from the window of a near house, if anyone happened to be looking.
Taking a deep breath, and acutely unconscious that he had nothing but his bare hands wherewith to fight, he smashed one booted foot against the diamond panes and came crashing into the room.
Before the veiled figure could move or speak, Karm Karvus had grasped it in powerful hands. One forearm was clamped across his captive’s throat—perhaps he should break his captive’s neck now, before it had a chance to cry out and give the alarm—
CHAPTER 8:
RIVER OF TERROR
This is the song that the Jungle sings,
Of dark green gloom where the bright vine swings,
And the scarlet parrots squawk and screech
And green bamboos line the sun-burnt beach;
Of yellow sky and the tangled brush
And the breathless speed of a vandar’s rush,
Where jungle blossoms are burning red
And blood-vines sway to the wild zamph’s tread;
O these are the sights that the Jungle brings,
And this is the song that the Jungle sings.
—Drum-Song of the Kodanga Tribesmen
FOR a long time he lay face-down in the wet gray sand, a sodden bundle, lacking the strength to rise.
For longer than he ever guessed, Thongor of Valkarth had fought his way through the waves. The surging undertow had torn him loose from his perilous perch astride the neck of the sea dragon many minutes after the monster had submerged; The currents had carried them apart and he had not again encountered it. Whether his swordblows had dealt the larth a killing wound or whether it had survived, he was never to know. But when his brawny shoulders clove the surface of the gulf once again, the Scimitar was no longer in sight
And he was alone and lost amidst the blue waters. For a time, the Barbarian tread water, peering about for some sign of the pirate galley. His undersea battle with the sea dragon had, it seemed, carried him farther away from the ship than he could have guessed. But there was no point in worrying about that Safety—the nearest shore—lay directly east. And so he turned into the dawn and began to swim.
Now he lay, battered and breathless and weary, in the clinging sands. Somehow he had accomplished the incredible task. Bone-deep exhaustion had robbed his limbs of all feeling and of all strength—but he had come ashore and now he could rest. For a time he slept, a deep dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion.
When he awoke, it was nearly sundown. His arms and shoulders ached with weariness, his throat was raw from salt water, but the yawning void in his middle clamored to be filled. Staggering to his feet, Thongor headed for the jungle and in an instant the green foliage had swallowed him from view.
Within the rustling green twilight he stood motionless for a few moments, gazing about. He stood in a murmuring world of shadows and mystery. Thick leaves and long grasses lay underfoot, and the rank odor of rotting vegetation, leaf mold, and the heady perfume of jungle blossoms rose to his nostrils. All about him, in the mystic emerald hush, the purple or scarlet boles of great trees rose like columns in some weird cathedral. Overhead, a matted tangle of interwoven boughs and thick leaves formed a domelike canopy of foliage through which only a few dim sunbeams found passage, to splatter the jungle floor with hot gold.
Strange blossoms blazed, clots of vivid color against glossy green-black leaves. Dangling vines hung like somnolent and sluggish serpents in the deep jade gloom. Thongor drew his mighty broadsword with a rasp of steel on leather, as he began to explore. This fantastic realm of bizarre and incredible beauty was, he knew, haunted by shapes of death and terror. Those branches far above his head might conceal the sliding coils of the dread oph, the great horned serpent of the Lemurian jungles, whose blade-ridged spine could slash manflesh to ribbons and whose pallid and glistening length could lash about a warrior and crush his limbs to pulp in instants.
Here, too, dwelt the photh, the scarlet vampire bat who was one of the terrors of the jungle. But the denizens of Ptartha most to be feared were the titanic predators, the colossal jungle dragon whose insatiable hunger made its entire life one unceasing hunt for red meat; or the kingly vandar, the jungle lion, many times larger and much more ferocious than his modern-day descendants. As well, the fierce zulphar, the massive wild Lemurian boar, might well be hidden behind any bush. And the shadows of that thicket ahead could well be the haunt of the dread deodath, the terrible dragon-cat whose mad ferocity and savage strength made its name a legend of fear …
His bow and quiver had been lost in his long battle amidst the waves, but he had had the presence of mind to thrust his mighty broadsword back into the scabbard that hung at his girdle, and so he was still armed. He must hunt swiftly, in order to make a kill before darkness rendered it impossible. Luckily, he found game almost immediately—a plump phondle at a waterhole. His sword was too cumbersome for this kind of work, but a slim dirk was scabbarded at his side. The swift, hurtling glitter of the thrown blade flashed momently in the dim green twilight of the jungle clearing, and its bright” flash was quenched in the hot scarlet of the phondle’s blood. The fat, gazelle-like little grass-eater went down kicking, and Thongor had meat.
He made a fire from dry leaves and deadwood, painstakingly scraping the steel dagger-blade a
gainst a flinty rock until the sparks caught. Hacking off one plump phondle haunch, he roasted it over the crackling fire and gorged himself on the delicious steak. When he was finished with his meal, he drank long and deeply of the pure cold waters of the waterhole, washing the blood from his hands.
Thongor was not native to these jungle coasts, but he had long since mastered the arts of survival in the green tropical brush. Once, scarce more than a boy, he had crossed a thousand leagues of the jungles of Chush on foot and alone—and he had learned to survive. That had been when he first crossed the Mountains of Mommur, leaving his frigid homeland in the North far behind, gambling his future on the glittering barbaric cities of the jungled South. He had lived. And he had learned his lessons well.
A distant, coughing roar came to his alert ears. The jungles of Ptartha are no different from the jungles of Chush, and the sound of a hunting vandar—the great black-maned lion of ancient Lemuria—is instantly recognizable as the sound of a hunting vandar. His fires were now glowing coals: he could have built a roaring blaze again, but thought to find a safer haven aloft in the trees. For the mighty vandar of the Lemurian jungle is not a tree-cat, unlike his distant cousin, the dreaded sabre-tooth.
He spent that night in the crotch of a towering jungle monarch, and woke with dawn refreshed, rested, his strength renewed. Descending from his high branch, he found the remains of last night’s kill gone. A grim smile touched his stern lips. The vandar, too, had gone to his rest with a full belly!
To break his fast on lush tropical fruits and berries was no problem. His problem lay in what he should do next. He knew not where he had come ashore, nor how distant the nearest city might lay. Zangabal was doubtless too far away; Pelorm might be much nearer, but Thongor did not know whether he had come to shore above or below that city. For all he knew, the waves had carried him further south than seemed likely, and he was only a league or so above the rocky promontory whereon was builded Tarakus. Nor, in this dense jungle, was he likely to find a landmark that would tell him his location.
But in his early years, long ere he had risen to the throne of Patanga, when the young Thongor had brawled and battled his way through half the cities of the West as bandit chieftain, mercenary sword, wandering thief and pirate captain, he had known these jungles well. Indeed, his bandit days had carried him far through these very jungles—in the days ere he had been captured and chained to the galleys of Shembis, from whence he had escaped to join the corsairs. Mayhap he would indeed come across some sign or landmark whereby he might recognize his location.
But first he must have weapons. One does not fight the monster predators of the Ptarthan jungles, armed only with a sword and a dirk. The weapons of choice are hunting spear and longbow. It was probably beyond his powers to fashion a good hunting bow, for lack of seasoned wood and the proper materials from which to devise a taut bowstring, to say nothing of the difficulties involved in making well-balanced and barbed arrows. But a spear, or at least a javelin, he could indeed make, and did.
A few hours later, with a rough quiver of five short javelins strapped to his shoulders, Thongor started off through the jungles. In lieu of steel-bladed tips for the light throwing spears, he had sharpened them with his dirk and then hardened the tips in the coals of his fire, an old trick he had once learned from the Rmoahal hordesmen of the distant Eastern plains.
By early afternoon, he reached the shores of a rushing river. This, he assumed—and correctly, as it turned out—was Amadon, the Jungle River. At least, he knew of no other river of this size in all this portion of the Ptarthan jungles. And if this was Amadon, finding it was a stroke of genuine luck. For this powerful current could carry him almost to the gates of Tarakus, since the Amadon clove its watery way through the Southern jungles, its mouth lying not far from the walls of Tarakus.
He set about building a rude raft. The fallen logs that lay nearby were deeply buried in dead leaves and had rotted, the most of them, beyond possibility of use. But the raw materials of such a raft as he envisioned grew all about him in the form of half-grown young saplings. With the keen blade of his great broadsword, Sarkozan, and the strength of his mighty thews, he felled the young trees and wove them together with springy, tough lianas. The raft was small and light and rather flimsy, but Thongor thought it would suffice.
He set forth on the rushing current, keeping clear of the banks and of occasional snags by means of a long pole he had also cut. The foaming water rushed along, and Thongor grinned with satisfaction. Soon he was making many times the speed he would otherwise have made had he attempted to slog along through the dense underbrush afoot.
TOWARD twilight—terror struck!
Poling a clear passage through the gushing waters, Thongor felt a sudden weight land on his shoulders and the sharp sting of fangs cutting his flesh. Had he not been standing with legs spread and knees slightly bent to keep his balance on the wobbling raft, he might well have been knocked off his feet into the rushing stream. As it was, the unexpected shock drove him to his knees. Reaching back he caught an armful of leathery stuff and pulled, wincing as knife-like little teeth sliced through his hide.
He held a scarlet, wriggling horror in his hands.
Its body was furred, lean and sinewy, and as big as a small cat. From its shoulders sprang huge flimsy batlike wings. Snarling and spitting it struck at his hand, eyes of blazing fury, fanged jaws gaping wide. He did not need the sight of the long, curved, terrible canine fangs to know the scarlet horror for what it was—a photh, one of the monstrous blood-drinking vampire bats that infested the southernmost jungles.
Growling a curse, he broke its back with a twist of his great hands, and flung the vile thing from him.
But they were all around him now, a shrieking cloud of the great scarlet bats—for the photh hunt in packs, and therein lies the terror of them. In his days as a bandit chieftain in these same jungles, Thongor had seen a full-grown buck kroter go down under a flapping, obscene blanket of the scarlet horrors, who sucked the hapless beast bone-dry within minutes.
He sprang to his feet, brandishing the long pole. The raft was making swift progress and, could he survive the next few minutes, the headlong rush of the current might well carry him beyond the photh pack, and out of danger. But could he survive that long?
Muscles gliding under his bronzed hide, he brandished the heavy pole swiftly. Bat after scarlet bat he knocked from the air with a meaty thunk, breaking their spines or snapping the thin bones of their delicate wings. But a fluttering crowd of the vile things hung about his battling form, snapping at his face.
One landed on his bare thigh, needle-like claws piercing the skin as it clung. He tore it off—only to feel the fangs of another gnashing at his throat as a second came to cling at his shoulder. He ripped it loose, but a third now clung on his back, well between his shoulders where he could not easily reach it. Struggling amidst the snarling, snapping cloud of flapping horrors, he first lost his pole—and then his footing.
Cold rushing water closed over his head, gushing into his eyes and ears and his open mouth. He sank like a stone for an instant, then struck out with powerful arms. His head broke water; tossing back his wet mane from his face with a savage twist of his head, he peered about through the gathering gloom.
The raft was some yards away, being carried down the river more swiftly, now that it was relieved of his weight Within moments it would be beyond his reach. But the scarlet vampire bats had fled him as he struck the water. That was a good thing to know—the photh did not like a ducking.
Sucking a deep breath into his lungs, Thongor sank under the waves and struck out for his rapidly disappearing raft. He swam with the sinuous twist and surging shoulders of a born swimmer—for all that he had learned the art first in his middle twenties. Ere long he reached his raft and powerful fingers closed on the rear of it. But still the squeaking cloud of flying horrors hovered about the raft … so Thongor wisely remained submerged until at length the vampires fell behind, weary o
f the fruitless pursuit. Then he hauled himself up on the raft again, and examined his injuries. The needle-sharp fangs of the vampire bats had slashed his flesh in a score of places, but the numbing venom of their fangs dulled what pain he might otherwise have felt. The wounds were neither deep nor serious; the cold clear waters of the Jungle River had washed them clean, and the photh’s venom was not poisonous.
But the attack of the vampire bats had been a warning. The jungles were beautiful, but deadly. Like a gilded and gorgeous trap they were, and death waited for the unwary intruder lulled by the magnificence of the scenery. Thongor resolved to remain alert, his weapons close to hand. For the jungle was home to many other dangers beside the photh …
WHEN it became near to night again, and would soon be too dark to continue his passage down the river, he poled ashore, moored his raft in a secure place, and went hunting. This time he was lucky enough to kill a zulphar—no mean feat for one armed only with slender javelins whose tips were only fire-hardened wood instead of keen bladed steel. The zulphar, the wild boar of the Lemurian jungles, is a ferocious opponent, and very frequently its wild squealing charge and chomping jaws turn hunter into hunted. But the Barbarian took to the trees, found a path worn through the underbrush where generations of beasts had come to the margin of the river to drink, and waited—waited with that impassive and feline patience that was part of his savage heritage.
At length his vigil was rewarded. Green leaves parted and the ferocious devil-mask of a full-grown zulphar emerged from the undergrowth, snorting its warning to the jungle, pig-like little red eyes peering about suspiciously, bristled jaws open to reveal the terrible yellow tusks that could crush a man’s thigh to jelly, pulverizing even the heavy bones.
Thongor could scarcely see through the dense gloom, for night was upon the jungle now. But his first javelin took the zulphar in the fatty part of the neck, just behind the ear. Only the coiled strength of Thongor’s mighty thews could have hurled his flimsy missile with such force as to penetrate the thick flesh. As it was, his first javelin did not kill the beast, but severed its spinal cord, partially paralyzing the astounded and outraged boar.
