Thongor Fights the Pirates of Tarakus

by Lin Carter

  Shrieking with rage and fury, foam slavering from the chomping jaws, the zulphar turned at bay. Even though its hind-quarters were but limp weight, dragging and useless, the fighting spirit of the savage brute was undimmed. Taking aim with enormous care, Thongor hurtled the second javelin—it struck with a meaty smack that was audible in the jungle hush—and the great boar fell dead, Thongor’s javelin quivering deep in its heart.

  An hour later, gorged on delicious boar steak, Thongor settled down in the crotch of a towering jannibar tree to spend his second night in the jungles of Ptartha. His sleep was deep and refreshing, and without dreams.

  TOWARDS noon the next day, Thongor again found himself battling for his life.

  He had, this time, hacked away a few choice flank steaks from the boar’s carcass to relieve him of the tiresome chore of hunting his food afresh for every meal. Perhaps it was this, the tempting odor of fresh bloody meat, that drew the uncanny predator of the river to attack him. At any rate—without the slightest warning—his raft shuddered and side-slipped, and a great glistening head rose beside it, blunt-nosed and wedge-shaped, fanged jaws agape to freeze his blood with a terrible hissing cry.

  A pampered, city-bred child of civilization might have found himself frozen, unable to act, petrified by the sudden and terrible appearance of the ghostly poa. But years of city-dwelling had not sapped or weakened Thongor’s fighting instincts. He reacted with that hair-trigger speed centuries of life in the savage Northlands wilderness had bred deep in his ancestors, and which was stamped deep in Thongor, blood and brain and bone.

  He held in his hands a long pole, wherewith he had been navigating his passage down the river. His first such pole had been lost the previous day when the scarlet, blood-drinking bats had attacked him. Then he had dropped the pole to fight—and fell into the waves of the Amadon himself, while the lost pole was whirled away in the rushing waters.

  After eluding the horde of scarlet vampires, and before taking his rest that night, the Valkarthan had taken the precaution of cutting and trimming another such pole. This time he had selected a shaft of deep purple wood, heavy as teak, dense and strong—the young sapling of what would one day otherwise have grown into a towering jannibar tree, as the Lemurians called this species of Jurassic conifer. Thirteen feet long, two inches of solid wood thick, the great pole might have weighed as much as thirty pounds. Driven by the surging strength of his mighty thews, with all the steely strength of broad shoulders, deep chest, massive back and sinewy arms, the pole was a terrible and deadly weapon in the hands of one such as Thongor.

  Now the long pole came whistling from the rushing waters to smack the hissing poa aside. The impact of Thongor’s blow knocked the heavy head of the river dragon to one side with an audible krakk that sounded like a massive hammer smacked into cold meat. Powerful as the blow was, it did but daze the colossal reptile.

  The raft lurched, as the poa lifted a portion of its long snaky length upon the surface of the rude raft. Muscles bunched along Thongor’s broad shoulders as he swung the pole in a second terrific blow—but this time the poa snapped the pole out of his hands. Fangs sank in the tough wood and the shaft was wrenched from his grasp with a savage force that nearly sent him headlong into the water.

  The mighty Valkarthan unsheathed his great broadsword and swung to the fray. The keen edge of the whistling steel bit deep in the ropy muscles of the poa’s neck. Reeking black reptilian gore jetted forth to squirt its vileness across the warrior’s naked thighs.

  With a twist of his wrist, he tore the blade loose and swung it back—tracing an arc of gory droplets through the steamy air—for a second blow.

  But the terrible snake-head thrust forth like an arrow, darting for his face—!

  There was no help for it. A broadsword requires the use of both hands—and Thongor had no recourse but to let his sword fall while his hands flashed to seize and check the snake-head before its jaws closed upon his throat.

  The steel blade of Sarkozan flashed in the sun as it fell in the rushing river and was lost.

  With a terrific crash the raft fell apart under the threshing coils of the enraged poa. One glassy coil whipped in a shower of splattering foam to settle about his lean waist. The coil grew tight with crushing force. Locked in the grip of the poa, Thongor fell into the water amidst the wreckage of his raft and sank into the green depths, still battling.

  Another massive coil ensnared his middle, and the lashing tail of the poa slid about his ankle. He had taken a mighty breath just before the flying spray and shattering foam had closed over his head. But he was in the watery domain of the poa now, and his chances of survival were greatly lessened.

  The deadly coils constricted with mangling force, numbing his leg and all but pulping his waist. His lungs strained for air, his face blackened, his strength ebbed, but he fought on, using both hands to hold the serpent’s head at bay.

  Black blood poured from the great wound his sword had made in the reptile’s glassy hide. It stained the dim water like a cloud of ink. Locked in combat, man and giant serpent settled to the muddy floor of the jungle river.

  Thongor grimly knew he had but moments to live.

  Releasing one hand, his other arm straightened, holding the wriggling neck and clashing jaws at arms’ length, he whipped out the small needle-pointed dirk from its scabbard and drove it deep into the long wound he had made with his sword. Catching a firm grip, his blade buried in the serpent-flesh almost to the hilt, he ripped down with a burst of savage strength!

  A billowing cloud of slimy black gore swirled up from the terrible wound. Despite its tremendous strength and mad fury, the poa felt the loss of blood and the searing agony of that great slashing cut. Its vitality ebbed. No longer did it struggle to crush the flailing limbs of the puny man-thing who had dared to challenge its watery domain—coils whipping away from Thongor’s bruised and battered body, the poa sought only to escape.

  But Thongor did not relax his iron grip on the serpent’s throat. Still he ripped and sawed and tore at its vitals with that narrow dagger.

  Then, with a terrific convulsion, the poa tore loose from his grip—and the dagger was left, deep-sunken in the serpent’s coils. The wriggling lash of motion caused the reptile intense pain as the blade razored some internal organ. Mad fury drove all thought of escape from the terribly-wounded dragon, and again it hurtled itself at the warrior.

  The recoil of the dragon’s convulsion had thrust Thongor floundering some yards away across the width of the river’s floor. His naked back scraped against the sharp edge of protruding rocks that thrust out of the mud and silt that carpeted the floor of the stream. Through eyes half-blinded by the roiling silt and gore, he dimly saw the glistening length of the savage poa as it flew again at his throat.

  Thrusting out blindly with both hands to lever himself up from his prone position—his questing fingers found a familiar shape.

  It was the hilt of Sarkozan, half buried in the mud!

  With the last dregs of his strength he tore the sword loose and swung the glittering point to meet the rushing attack of the poa. The point flashed between the open jaws—sank deep in the tiny brain—and thrust out behind the base of the skull.

  The poa, in its maddened rush, had impaled itself upon the broadsword’s blade!

  Leaving the reptile to lash through its death-throes, Thongor ripped his blade free and struck out for the surface. His lungs were nigh to bursting and his face was black with effort. With one final surge of fading strength, he dragged himself out of the stream and fell face down, exhausted, in the thick grasses.

  The hilt of his Valkarthan broadsword was still clutched in his right hand.

  NOW he must go forward on foot. For this portion of the jungle was made up entirely of huge and ancient trees, whose great roots had sapped the strength of their lesser competitors until only the hoary monarchs alone remained. Thongor’s search found no saplings, nor even fallen branches of sufficient girth wherewith to construct a sec
ond raft. Henceforth, he must walk the way to the walls of the Pirate City.

  It had not taken the mighty Barbarian very long to recover from the effects of his underwater struggle with the river dragon. The strength of his magnificent physique was very great, and his stamina—his iron endurance—was even greater. A lesser man, enervated and pampered by city life, would perchance have lain exhausted for days, rendered an invalid by such a toll on his strength. Not so with Thongor.

  To live in the frozen and barren wilderness that had been his savage home is one constant and unceasing battle for survival. And in that battle only the hardiest may survive. Thus was he sprung from a line of mighty men—a hardy, pure-bred stock of warriors and hunters whose like no longer may be found in our modern world. Raised from the very cradle amidst the unending battle against hostile foes, savage beasts and the grim and wintry cold, every muscle of his mighty form had been trained to its fullest and most supple strength. Even his years of city life and kingship had not sapped his barbaric powers. His sheer animal vitality was such that an hour or two of rest sufficed to restore him to fighting trim again. A grim smile touched his impassive lips, as he cleansed the broadsword and slid it back in its worn leathern scabbard. ’Twas the luck of the gods had been with him there on the muddy floor of Amadon the Jungle River! Had he not found his lost sword—had he been forced to continue his jungle journey with empty hands—even such terrific strength and fighting courage as was his could not have protected him against the perils that lay ahead.

  All that afternoon and night he plodded along beside the margin of the river. Tirelessly he cut a path through thick underbrush, never pausing for rest or food. Time was running out, and Tarakus—although by now it must be very near—lay he knew not how much farther ahead.

  Indeed, it lay even nearer than he had dared to hope.

  By dawn the jungle thinned and his sensitive ears caught the distant boom of mighty breakers crashing against wet black rock. Here the river curved away to the West to merge with the waters of the Gulf at last. He forded the river by means of overhanging boughs, for here the outstretched arms of the woodland monarchs intertwined above the rushing stream. Once across, he pressed on through the thinning foliage.

  Suddenly he was at the edge of the jungle, and ahead, gaunt and black against the flame of morning, lay the rocky promontory at whose tip the Pirate City stood.

  He loosened his blade from its scabbard and strode forth to look upon the city of his foemen.

  And almost in the same instant, black against the flaming sky, the lithe figure of a fighting man with naked steel flashing in one hand, stepped forth to confront him—

  CHAPTER 9:

  SWORDS AGAINST PATANGA

  The night is clear, the tide is fast,

  Break out the sails once more!

  We're forth upon the sea at last

  To seek a golden shore …

  —Sea Chantey of the Pirates of Tarakus

  THE Inn of the Skull and Crossbones lay at the end of the Street of the Pawnbrokers, down near the less populated section of the waterfront. Here only vast warehouses and storage sheds rose; the houses, and by far the greater number of the other inns or wineshops, lay further up the slopes of the tiered city It was for its very seclusion that Captain Redbeard and his men had chosen the Skull and Crossbones as their base. The Pirate City was filled with watchful eyes and listening ears; spies and enemies were everywhere, and there was hardly a man in all of Tarakus who would not betray a comrade for a bit of gold. Hence the crew of the Scimitar sought the most out-of-the-way lodgings they could find, for greater privacy.

  Barim sat, this sundown, sprawled out in a great chair before a roaring fire, warming his weary legs and staring moodily into a leathern jack of ale. Across from him, in the open space between the tables and the long benches, the young Patangan warrior, Charn Thovis, prowled up and down, pacing restlessly as any caged beast might pace behind its hedge of iron bars.

  Gusty wind whooped around the low eaves of the snug little inn. Cold sleety rain swept against the stout stone walls, rattling the huge oaken door and clattering against the mullioned panes of the little windows like skeleton fingers. Barim shivered, and drew his damp cloak closer about his burly shoulders. All day he had tramped the streets of Tarakus, seeking information. He had emptied his purse, buying drinks for garrulous seamen. He had talked himself hoarse bandying conversation with old comrades. And the sum total of what he had learned was disappointingly small.

  This much they knew: Karin Karvus had indeed been held a prisoner by Kashtar the Red Wolf, Lord of Tarakus and king of the pirates. But Karm Karvus was missing. Many believed he had fallen to his death in the dark waters of that mighty subterranean cavern, for how could a man survive that fall into the cold black waves, where a mighty larth, goaded to madness by evil and age-old sorcery, roared and clamored for something to kill?

  But whether or not the Prince of Tsargol had gone to a watery grave—or perchance had vanished into the gullet of a ravenous sea dragon—his whereabouts were as unknown as the fact of his death remained unproven. The merciless guards of Kashtar had scoured the streets and houses of the Pirate City from end to end, and they had found nothing. Nor could Belshathla, for all his vaunted powers of science and sorcery, discover the whereabouts of the missing captive with all his mastery of the occult arts. It was as if Karm Karvus had vanished from the surface of Lemuria …

  Barim grunted at the mystery of it all, and, looking up, he met the pale, tense, and worried gaze of the young chanthar. The burly Redbeard dropped his eyes uncomfortably and a deep flush stained his bewhiskered cheeks. He knew what Charn Thovis was thinking, and although the young nobleman was too much the gentleman to ever give voice to his thoughts, Barim Redbeard could read them as plainly as if they were written on a page of parchment.

  Or was it his own guilt he saw mirrored in the eyes of another? For deep within him, the bluff and hearty old rogue felt the gnawing pangs of self-accusation. Perhaps it was foolish of him to blame himself for the death of the Lord of the West … no man could have foreseen the chance that the Scimitar would be attacked by one of the great sea dragons of Yashengzeb Chun. No man could have dreamed of the wild accident of fate that had carried Thongor from the deck of the corsair galley into the trackless wastes of the Patangan Gulf, helpless in the grip of the gigantic sea monster. And no man could have done more than had Barim Redbeard to search for a sign of Thongor’s survival.

  For, delaying their passage to Tarakus, the men of the Scimitar had lingered long in those waters where Thongor had gone overboard, searching the waves with keen and hopeful eyes. And even after they had lifted anchor, instead of pressing on immediately for the harbor of the Corsair Kingdom, they had turned aside to shore, searching cove and bay and endless stretches of jungled shore, before at last giving up their quest and hoisting anchor for Tarakus.

  As a matter of fact, young Charn Thovis did not in the least feel that old Redbeard was guilty of anything. Thongor had gone to his death as he had lived, facing peril with ready courage and shining steel. And, although the young warrior felt deeply the loss of his mighty king, he knew that no man had been responsible. And, in the shadow of the terrible danger that hung now, gathering like a storm, impending upon the destiny of Patanga and the Empire, even Charn Thovis was busied with more pressing worries than merely mourning a man he believed to be dead. Time enough to feel the loss of the great Barbarian when all these present dooms and dreads were past: for the moment, Patanga stood in deadly danger of imminent destruction, and Charn Thovis paced the inn restlessly, not so much from sorrow over the loss of Thongor, but from a haunting inward feeling of helplessness. For he could think of nothing that they could do to lift this doom from Patanga …

  Part of their trouble stemmed from the unfortunate fact that they did not know exactly what would have been Thongor’s plan of action. What had the Valkarthan intended to do upon reaching the Pirate City? Failing to find Karm Karvus, what would he
have done about the impending invasion? And, lacking their mighty leader, what could they do in his place? Doubtless the intrepid warrior-king would have launched into some daring scheme whereby to bring the Red Wolf of Tarakus to his knees … perhaps, Thongor would have taken action to destroy the Niangan devil-weapons, thus rendering the Tarakan corsair navy ineffectual for any fleet action against the City of the Flame.

  So it all came down to this: what, if anything, could they actually do that would help prevent the attack on Patanga?

  BUSY with their moody thoughts, neither Charn Thovis nor Barim Redbeard heard the tramp of booted feet on the wet cobbles outside, nor heavy fingers fumbling at the latch.

  Suddenly the great oaken door crashed open. The gusty wind caught it and slammed it back against the wall, with a loud crash that sent Barim Redbeard roaring to his feet, his naked blade flashing in the firelight.

  He relaxed, seeing who stood in the door.

  “Flay me, mate, you nearly had a yard of steel in your gizzard, sneaking up on us like that,” he growled, shoving the blade back in its scabbard with a clang.

  “Sorry, Cap’n,” fat old Blay wheezed, stomping in and wringing the rainwater from the hem of his patched and worn old cloak. “ ’Twas that devil-blasted wind, it was, fair snatched the door-handle from my hands, it did. Ah, gods! Is they a drop o’ wine in the shop to warm the guts of a fat old man what has been trampin’ the streets o’ Tarakus from dawn to dark, till he has nigh wore down the leather of his soles?”

  Snorting and whuffling, dripping wet, the jovial moonfaced old Kovian came slouching in, wet boots squelching noisily at every step. Heaving a lusty sigh, he sank back in a comfortable chair with a groan of relief, slowly pulled off his boots and lay back toasting his toes while young Charn Thovis brought him a cup of wine.