by Lin Carter
Hacking loose a shroud line with his dagger, he released his footing and swung through the fogs directly at the soaring column of blue flame …
THE warriors of Barim Redbeard had fought their way to the foot of the stairway that led up to the foredeck.
A chance surge of the struggling mass of men had thrust the Redbeard and Thangmar and Roegir away from the stair; hence it was not they but their comrades, Gorchak and Turan and laughing, golden-skinned Minga, who were the first to reach the foot of the ladder.
Howling like wolves, they charged up the stairs to the higher level whereon stood Kashtar and Belshathla and a host of seamen. Charn Thovis was there, too, holding three swords at bay with his own. The young chanthar, who instantly recognized the grinning faces of Barim’s men, was happy to step back and catch his breath while they flung themselves forward to engage his opponents in his place.
Suddenly the noisy air thrilled to a weird sound.
A deep-throated humming rose amid the clangor of battle, rising swiftly to a shrill scream that sent crawling terror through the tingling nerves of all who heard it. The vigor of battle faltered, and a lull came, as men turned to see the source of this eerie song.
At the controls of the Lamp of Madness stood Belshathla
He had swung the instrument about so that its terrible beam could rake the decks below.
His hand rested lightly on the throttle. As yet the deadly ray shone not from the glowing crystal globes. But the engines were engaged, and were he to thrust the throttle home—red raving madness would sweep over the warriors below.
Frozen with horror, the pirates—friend and foe alike—stood motionless. They stared up into the cold glassy eye of the Gray Death as doomed men stare at the unwinking glitter of the headsman’s axe as it hangs above their heads.
No one could move or think fast enough to avert the horror that hung over them.
Minga, Turan and Gorchak were too far away, there at the head of the stair.
Only Charn Thovis was upon the foredeck. And he was held back by a wall of swordsmen. He could never cut through them in time.
The glittering crystal eye of the Lamp of Madness glared straight at the figure of Barim Redbeard.
The hand of Belshathla tightened on the lever.
And thrust it home!
CHAPTER 17:
KASHTAR’S DOOM
When danger threatens and doom hangs
hovering on beating wings—strike
with all your strength, and trust in
the mercy of thy Gods, O Warrior!
—The Scarlet Edda
THE paralysis of horror seemed to hold them frozen for long minutes of time, but this was a trick of the mind. Actually, these things occurred in but a fraction of a second.
Thongor had already launched himself into the air, to swing across the decks to where the copper antenna of the mist machine loomed like a spire of azure flame.
In mid-flight he glimpsed the Gray Magician at the controls of the Lamp of Madness—his sharp eyes saw that the machine was trained on the midship decks where the bulk of Barim Redbeard’s crew was gathered.
It was impossible for him, at this juncture, to alter the direction of his swing. But he seized the hilt of Sarkozan and brought the great broadsword from its sheath with a squeal of rasping leather.
The great blade flashed in the misty air as he swung it with a desperate surge of strength.
The hissing blade caught Belshathla just below the ear and sheared his head off cleanly.
The wizard’s head thudded to the deck and rolled away into a corner of the deck like some great grisly fruit
Black blood spewed up in a hideous fountain from the severed stump. The headless body lurched drunkenly and fell over. In falling, one shoulder struck the central tube of the ray projector, and it swung aside with a screech of swiveling gimbals.
Now the harsh droning whine had ascended to a shrill maddening whistle. Weird luminance flickered within the hollow globes of polished crystal. From the snout of the projector a dull beam of throbbing colorless light flashed—
But Belshathla’s sprawling corpse had knocked the projector askew and the throbbing beam of madness played—not upon the decks of the Red Wolf, a-swarm with Barim Redbeard’s crew—but upon the shadowy black hulk of the next ship of the armada!
This ship, the Thurdan Maid, rode shoulder to shoulder with the flagship of Kashtar.
Only the width of a hundred yards lay between the two corsair galleys. The gray beam flashed across the stretch of cold waters and shone full on the decks of the neighboring vessel.
The crewmen and warriors of the Thurdan Maid stood shoulder to shoulder along the starboard rail. They had, some few minutes ago, been startled to hear the crunch of a ship being rammed, the clashing of swords, the hoarse cries of the fallen. Already their captain was putting about to investigate the battle that seemed to be raging aboard the flagship of the fleet. But now a beam of weird gray light played across the crowded decks—and the men of the Thurdan Maid went raving mad!
Seamen turned to seaman and cut him down with a sudden flash of unsheathed blade. Shipmate sprang snarling upon shipmate, to slash at his throat with bared teeth, to claw at his eyes with hooked fingers. In an instant the decks of the ship were a screaming maelstrom of homicidal maniacs battling each other like wild beasts.
Standing by the mast, the captain of the Thurdan Maid was caught and bathed in the lambent and colorless radiance that shone from the foredeck of the flagship. Throwing back his head, he roared out a bellow of primal fury and turned upon the bewildered sailor who stood at the wheel. With one terrific stroke of his cutlass the captain disemboweled the seaman. Then he turned away to engage another man, while the dead man slumped before the wheel.
With no hand upon the wheel, it whirled wildly, caught in the currents. The prow of the Thurdan Maid came about sharply and the heavy ram mounted in place of her figurehead came crashing through the sides of the next ship to portside. The long ram struck the next vessel below the waterline, since the prow of the Thurdan Maid had fallen low as she rode the swells. Tons of ice-cold water came thundering through the gaping hole rent in her hull and she began to founder.
The Lamp of Madness shone on, swinging on her gimbals with every pitch and toss of the deck. Her beam flashed from ship to ship, bringing murder and madness and riot to each. Five ships she bathed in the Gray Death—a dozen—and yet others.
AT the end of his swing through space, Thongor released his grip on the rope and fell crashing to the deck beside the sparkling antenna of the mist machine.
All over the ship the battle sprang to life again now that Belshathla was dead and the Ray of Madness had turned aside to bathe the other vessels in the great armada in its terrible beam.
Barim Redbeard thundered forth his war cry and his great axe clove into the chest of the pirate who stood before him. Thangmar grinned, hefted his huge scimitar, and matched him stroke for stroke. Beyond them the Blue Nomad giant, Roegir, hacked and slew with his mighty broadsword.
Karm Karvus had swung across into the midship deck of the Red Wolf and he fought side by side with the roaring pirates of the Scimitar. Now he cut his way to the foredeck and climbed up the rail to set his slim Tsargolian rapier beside the broadsword of the Valkarthan and the Patangan longsword of Charn Thovis.
But his way was opposed by a wild-eyed and half-naked giant brandishing the heft of a broken oar. The burly corsair was in a berserk frenzy and he swung the massive shaft of the oar around his head in terrible whistling strokes. Had one of them connected, it would have hurled Karm Karvus against the rail, broken bones thrusting through mangled flesh. But the Prince dodged beneath the whistling stroke of this terrible club—and, in so doing, he lost his footing in a puddle of wet blood and fell, the blade clattering to the deck from his hand. Grinning, the berserk giant brought his terrible weapon up over his head and whistling down to crush Karm Karvus—
Suddenly a slim boyish figure in t
ight breeches sprang across the fallen Prince and sent the needle point of a slender rapier flashing for the heaving chest of the giant.
The point slashed through the very heart of the berserk corsair. He stiffened like one struck by lightning, and the club went hurtling overboard from his suddenly strengthless hands. Then he fell slowly, collapsing in a welter of gore. Karm Karvus felt a small strong hand under his arm, and staggered to his feet, to look down into the face of his rescuer.
“Yian!” he gasped.
The Princess of Cadorna laughed up at him with sparkling eyes. He had sternly warned her to remain below decks on the Scimitar, but had she obeyed him he might well have feasted before Father Gorm in the Hall of Heroes ere this night had grown much older. So he did not have the heart to chastise her, but simply stood and stared down at her.
Never had she looked more beautiful. The cold wind had whipped fresh color into her cheeks. The black jewels of her almond eyes glittered with mischief. The slim rapier she held clenched in one capable fist was crimson to the hilt, and gave further proof—if further proof were needed—of the truth of her claim that she could ride and hunt and fight like any man.
With her long slender legs clad in the glove-tight breeches, and her loose white blouse stretched taut against the rise of her sharp young breasts, a scarlet kerchief twisted about the heavy black cataract of her hair—she looked very desirable.
He bent and crushed her to him, one arm closing about her slim shoulders, and he kissed her there on the corpse-strewn foredeck of the embattled galley. His lips were fierce and demanding. Her mouth was warm and soft and very sweet.
THONGOR turned to smash the mist machine, but the steely glitter of a sabre-blade flickered before him.
He turned to confront Kashtar—at last!
The Red Wolf of Tarakus was very changed. His face was a snarling mask of fury. Red murder blazed in his glaring eyes. His sallow features were slick with sweat and his brow was smeared with hot blood where a sword-point had slashed the flesh. His sleek dark hair was disarranged, and hung wetly in a tangle about his snarling face.
His upper torso was half-naked. Steel had ripped his scarlet raiment to shreds, and his sleek tawny flesh shone wetly with droplets of mist and sweat and gore.
“Dog of a Valkarthan savage!” he spat “I’ll spit your foul heart on the point of my steel!”
“Well, you are welcome to try,” Thongor smiled. “You scarlet swine from the garbage heaps of Tarakus,” he added.
Their blades met and ere long the silvery clashing music arose. The Valkarthan broadsword is long and heavy and hardly the weapon of choice for dueling. Compared to the steel needle that floated lightly in Kashtar’s hand, it was cumbersome and slow. But great thews swelled along Thongor’s arm and his thick wrist was strong where sinewy tendons were braided about solid bone. He batted the other’s light blade aside, and took a stand.
Kashtar was a master-swordsman, and his steely wrist sent the light point of the rapier flickering. But wherever it danced it rang against the heavy steel of Thongor’s blade. Again and again Kashtar sought to find some chink in the web of flying steel that Thongor’s broadsword wove in the air between the two of them. Again and again it was struck aside.
His naked chest gleamed as it rose and fell with every panting breath. Sweat stung his eyes and blood from the wound on his brow blurred his vision. Gradually, Kashtar began to weary. The lean muscles in his sword-arm ached with the effort of keeping that narrow blade dancing through the misty air.
It came to Kashtar then that perhaps he could not kill this man.
It was a novel concept, and a little frightening. For never before had the Red Wolf fought one who did not fall before his ravening steel. But, although the effort of fighting thrust needles of red pain through arm and chest and wrist, and although his breath came now in hoarse, ragged panting, and although he employed—one after the other—every trick of swordsmanship he had ever learned … he had as yet not even drawn a scarlet scratch across the flesh of his opponent.
Thongor fought silently. His chest rose and fell calmly and he did not seem to weary. Cruel amusement glinted in his strange gold eyes under the scowling black brows, as he read the desperation, the growing fury, and the fear and the frustration in the face of his opponent. Effortlessly he turned aside the flickering blade of Kashtar’s sword.
Kashtar began to feel the icy breath of terror.
His face was black with effort now, and he staggered with exhaustion. His heaving chest struggled to suck air into starved lungs. He knew now that Thongor was but playing with him, and this seared him to the very roots of his soul … for ever ere now it had been Kashtar who had played the game of cat and mouse … and he did not enjoy the reversal of the roles!
Now his eyes flashed and grew narrow with cunning. For his blurred glance had seen a pool of wetness to the left of Thongor’s wide-spread feet And he noted that the Valkarthan’s feet were bare. Could he bait Thongor into changing position slightly, then perhaps he could make him slip in that puddle. He began to sidle to his right, drawing Thongor about. Foot by foot in a half-circle he fought, until suddenly the Barbarian lurched and all but lost his balance as his left foot slid in the wetness.
With a hoarse grating laugh, Kashtar drew back his blade—to thrust it deep in Thongor’s heart.
But as he swung that needle of steel back it struck an obstacle—
Kashtar’s sword touched the copper antenna of the mist machine, which flashed and crackled with its aura of blue fire—and the Red Wolf of Tarakus stiffened as ten thousand volts of man-made lightning tore through him!
CHAPTER 18:
TO THE DEATH!
The decks ran red with reeking gore,
The dawn was loud with ringing steel,
Ships broke asunder, till the roar
Of battle made high heaven reel!
—Thongor’s Saga, Stave XIX
AS the steel rapier caught and conducted the fury of the electrical force that flowed through the copper antenna, Kashtar’s sword glowed ruby red—fiery yellow—then blinding white! Incandescent droplets of smoking metal dribbled down the hilt to his blistered hand
But Kashtar felt no pain. He was beyond pain now, for the seething fury of the lightning had struck him dead on the instant. Slowly his rigid corpse toppled to the deck and even Thongor bit his lip and turned his eyes away from the thing that had been his face.
The blast of electric fire had left nothing of his features by which he could have been recognized.
Now a sharp explosion sounded within the mechanism. White fire spat viciously from fused electrodes and oily black smoke whirled up from the red-hot coils. The whine of the force field ebbed. No longer did the crackling aura of blue flame sparkle about the copper pole. The primitive Valkarthan knew nothing of electricity—he could not know how or why the steel blade of Kashtar had created a short-circuit that had wrecked the mechanism. He only knew that the mist machine was dead and ruined beyond repair.
And that the Red Wolf of Tarakus would rove the seas no more …
About him the battle surged on, but by now Karm Karvus and Yian had gained the foredeck, aye, and Minga and Turan of Barim Redbeard’s crew. The five of them, and Charn Thovis swept the foredeck clean of the foe.
Ship after ship of the corsair fleet was turning its prow to investigate the battle that raged in undiminished fury aboard the stricken flagship. The nearer vessels could see that Kashtar’s galley had been rammed by another ship, and boat after boat came gliding across the misty waters to investigate, and to lend aid to the Pirate King whose death they could not know.
But young Charn Thovis had beheld the havoc the Lamp of Madness had worked upon many of the nearby vessels. As it swung free on its mounting, the throbbing and colorless ray probing like the burning eye of Avangra the Death God himself, brought madness and terror and red murder to ship after ship.
Now the young chanthar sprang to the controls. He swung the droning tube aroun
d and played its flickering gray fire across the nearer of the longboats. Then, as their crews went wild and boat after boat was swamped or overturned beneath the feet of maddened and battling sailors, he turned the probing beam of destruction on the ships that had sent them forth.
In no time, it seemed, half the fleet was thrown into a roiling chaos. Ships swung drunkenly in the hands of raving maniacs, to crash and ram into their neighbors. The orderly lines of the armada broke up in a twinkling, and the fleet lost way and floundered in the choppy waters.
Fires were flaring up on some of the nearer ships, as howling men ran across the decks with blazing torches, setting fire to cordage and canvas and mast. The uproar from the furious battles that seethed on the decks of the nearer vessels turned to shrieks of agony and terror as their rigging burst into a furious blaze. From his place at the death-dealing ray projector, the grim-faced chanthar could see wriggling black figures as scores of men hurled themselves into the dark waves of the Gulf rather than perish amid the roaring holocaust of flames.
His face was pale. His lips were pressed tightly together and his flesh was drawn. His eyes mirrored the horror of what he saw … but he swung the throbbing gray radiance of the humming tube from side to side, bathing ship after ship in the ray.
Sometimes the Gods are just. The horror of death and madness the corsairs would have brought down upon the hapless citizens of the City of the Flame was now turned upon their own heads. He swung the beam back and forth, again and again, until eventually he sickened of the slaughter, and thrust the lever back. Then, even as the humming died and the eerie glow faded and dulled within the sparkling crystal tube, Charn Thovis bent and seized up a fragment of broken oar and battered the Lamp of Madness into a tangle of splintered glass and twisted metal.
The machine from hell should have perished with the fall of elder and God-whelmed Nianga. It should have remained forever hidden from the knowledge of men under the dead dry sands of the Gray Barrens.
