Young Thongor

by Adrian Cole, Lin Carter

  4

  Thongor against Thongor!

  He saw a single, dim chance and acted more by instinct than by design. Thongor’s mind had begun to feel, as if by the acquisition of a new sense, that it could mimic some of the mental feats of the thing whose alien form he now wore. He focused his oddly distorted vision upon his own stolen form, but it remained obtuse to his probing. The entity must have taken precautions against the trick Thongor now tried. But the barbarian would not be daunted, not with his young friend’s life at stake. He focused next upon the awakening form of Tam Tavis. Thongor had a dreamlike apprehension of running, exerting himself in a race to reach some far point as soon as he might, straining every nerve. And then he was beyond the physical form he had occupied—and into that of Tam Tavis!

  Thongor knew he was taking several risks at once, not the least of which was that the boy, awakening inside the terrible, utterly non-human form of the Mind Lord, would instantly go quite mad. Already in his brief career of adventuring, Thongor had beheld a number of sights to shake the soul, though mind-transference with this awful being might have unhinged him without the shared memory-vision of the Mind Lord to make sense of the events for him. And he knew Tam Tavis had no such advantage. Gorm grant the boy would awaken with the creature’s brain-instincts as a safety net.

  For his own part, Thongor could not help rejoicing in wearing a more accustomed form, blood pumping through muscled arms and legs from a central heart (for the adepts of ancient Lemuria knew already this much of the body’s systems). He was shorter now, but his perspective was much more familiar than the strangely filtered perceptions of the thing from the planet Venus had been. There was but little sluggishness in the lad’s limbs as the adrenaline drove out the last vestiges of the alien sleep gas.

  The black-maned, golden-eyed giant facing him appeared to freeze for a moment, surprised, but quickly making sense of what had happened. It was plain he had not deemed the barbarian or his race so capable. In that moment of his foe’s hesitation, Thongor darted forward to grasp the hilt of the dagger he had earlier picked up from the fallen body of a soldier. His mighty opponent had not expected the move, just looked at the blade in Tam Tavis’ hand and smiled, raising his own great-bladed sword.

  The two men paced and circled, the younger crouching like a hunting vandar, the jungle lion of Lemuria. Both had blades ex tended, but the disparity between the two weapons daunted Thongor not. Indeed, he feared his own prowess with the blade, not daring to contrive to kill his opponent—himself! Which would prevail: his strength, or his skill?

  The first blow was that of the Mind Lord, a clumsy but powerful thrust, which Tam Tavis’ body, agile as a cricket, easily side-stepped. “Go ahead! Flee me, human! I have waited all these kalpas, and I can spare a few minutes more!” The intonation was not quite right, as if the thing inside were only beginning to get used to the human vocal apparatus.

  “Fool!” the Lemurian youth gasped with the exertion, “You have waited so long only for death!” He knew how laughable that sentiment must seem. Even if he were able to overcome the massive form whose death-dealing capacities he knew better than anyone else, it were mere foolishness to seek to kill his own body! Better to find some way to get it back—if he could evade its increasingly skilful blows!

  As he considered his next move, Thongor noticed that the amorphous body of the Mind Lord was now flailing with agitation. Plainly, the mind of Tam Tavis had awakened in its new abode and liked it not! But was the young mind also going mad? Was it as Thongor had feared? If so, here would be another innocent death charged to his account. But he dared not entertain such thoughts at the moment if he hoped at least to save the body of his young friend, to say naught of his own soul.

  He saw now that the boy’s agility exceeded his own, just as his weight was much less than Thongor’s. New stratagems suggested themselves like recruits on a parade ground. Thongor took advantage of his borrowed skills to leap upward and grasp hold of a fang-like stalactite. He hoped to gain a moment’s breathing space this way, but he had not counted on the slippery nitre and began at once to slip. So be it; he would come down on his opponent’s head. His own form stood uncertainly below, trying to spot his vanished quarry amid the dense shadows, seeing his sudden descent too late. If only the younger man might knock the older unconscious without further damage!

  But the mighty frame of Thongor of Valkarth shrugged off the blow and assumed a fighting stance once more. Thongor’s mind felt keenly the lack of his great barrel chest and ample lungs, for he could not now replenish his wind so quickly. He noticed from the corner of his eye one of his men’s shields that had been sent bouncing and rolling by the initial impact of his fall and made its way into the present chamber.

  He evaded the lunge of the larger form, which still had not grasped how to check and channel its own inertia, and he ran for the shield, grabbing it. His foeman stood foursquare once more and brought down the sword like a headsman’s axe. The uplifted shield saved him but sacrificed itself, shattering against the superior blade; nor could it prevent the raised arm beneath it from taking the edge of the sword.

  Thongor knew his time must be near. He shook his head to scatter some of the blood that had splattered into his eyes and looked toward the cylinder where the now calm form of the Mind Lord reposed. Had the mind of Tam Tavis collapsed as his body was about to? Or dared Thongor hope that he had made the adjustment, that perhaps he was discovering, as Thongor himself had, what new abilities were available to him?

  “I salute you, human! You have afforded me valuable exercise! For I must go in your form and in your name back into the world of men. With my knowledge of the science of the Children of the Fire Mist and the combined labors of your fellow humans to aid me like worker ants, I shall soon master this world and devise a means to return to my own, where I will at last gain revenge upon those who abandoned me on your primitive globe for my imagined crimes. You are indeed honored to have played a role in such a grand scheme, and I shall remember the sacrifice you are about to make.” Withal he lifted his sword for the final blow.

  And delivered it. Blood and consciousness alike began to flee the young body, and Thongor’s lone thought was that he should thus perish in the body of his friend, both murderer and victim.

  5

  Thongor Berserk!

  But in a moment he was aware again, as if someone had nudged him out of a fresh nap. He saw the same scene from a different angle, and from several feet away. The colors were distorted and the angles somehow skewed. He was back in the shroud-like form of the alien! That must mean that Tam Tavis had managed to return his mind to his own body—just in time to meet his death in Thongor’s place! Thongor had been unable to supplant the Mind Lord, but he had sensed the other had his guard up to prevent it. Tam Tavis had met no such opposition.

  Neither was the doomed lad’s heroism quite at an end, for Thongor watched in astonishment as the failing young warrior managed to grasp one of the shield fragments and throw it unerringly at the head of his towering opponent, still bent over him, gloating in his cheap triumph. Surprised fully as much as Thongor himself, the Mind Lord in his stolen body reeled with the impact of the blow, staggered, and fell oblivious.

  Thongor knew from experience that such mazing could not last long. If he were to make one last attempt it must be now. He concentrated till sweat would have poured from his brow, save that he had none. He felt again the sensation of running a desperate race, and all at once he awoke in his proper vessel, shaking off the momentary blackout.

  Meanwhile the cylinder, under the mental control of the shapeless thing within, receded into the stalactite roof and the Mind Lord began to ooze toward freedom and renewed attack. Thongor felt again an eerie suction at his very soul. But he had learned enough from his enemy to know implicitly how to cast up a barrier against such invasion. Then, exulting to dwell once again where he belonged, he fell to the combat he had so long been denied.

  He knew where to strike
a human to kill him instantly. This was different, more like cutting and hacking at whipping sailcloth. But berserker rage kept him at his task till eventually only quivering fragments of the once-threatening mass remained scattered about the uneven floor. The warrior allowed himself a deep breath and noticed that he was not, as expected, covered with splashes of blood and ichor. He could not guess how the creature had lived nor yet precisely why his blows had been able to kill it. But Thongor did know well the entity’s capacity to reintegrate itself. He used his dagger and the sharp-edged shards of the destroyed shield to tack the sundered pieces of the thing into the cavern floor and walls where thick growths of lichen and moss provided sufficient purchase.

  Finally, having contrived a rudimentary harness, he hoisted the lifeless body of the young hero Tam Tavis back to the surface and began pushing the covering of jungle foliage down into the pit it had first concealed. When this was done, he cut more from the brush and dumped it down the hole. Lighting a dead tree branch he had discovered, he cast it down into the abyss and made away as quickly as he might, carrying the body of his friend, fleeing the ascending stench of alien flesh.

  As the sun broke the horizon again, Thongor gained his bearings. It was back to Shembis, where plenty of enemies awaited him, but where none of them bore his own face.

  INTRO TO SILVER SHADOWS

  Thongor quickly tires of the constraints of military service and for two years he lives as a thief and a swashbuckling adventurer, roving the jungles and wild lands of the Dakshina. His reputation grows, as does his prowess as a fighter and he wins the chieftainship of an outlaw band. Now, at the age of nineteen, he is a formidable opponent, his name known and reviled by the same nobles of Shembis that he once served.

  SILVER SHADOWS

  1

  A Merry Company

  The golden Moon of lost Lemuria filled the skies, providing little cover for those who plied certain trades as far away as they might from the scrutiny of the law. But Zakeela the courtesan showed no particular preference for her customary shadows as she strode brazenly down the Street of Taverns in the most dubious section of the city-state of Shembis.

  Many eyes, filled with both surprise and desire, followed her as she pursued her purposeful way. She had a goal but no fixed destination, for it was a particular man she sought, without knowing where exactly, which drinking house, to find him. So her heavily shaded, smoldering eyes sought for any clue before she would give in to the inevitable and try each tap room one by one. But fortune favored her, and it was her gem-ringed ears that found what she was looking for.

  Toward the end of the street, where it ended abruptly at the city wall, one of the smoke-hung, glowing doorways gave forth a sudden clatter, as if a whirlwind had entered the place and set about its work with terrific force. One would normally avoid the source of such ominous sounds but these were not normal circumstances, and so Zakeela made for the tavern as swiftly as she could, retaining her professional composure, and grateful that the ruckus had subsided by the time she got there.

  The eyes of the men within, quickly tired of one spectacle and already seeking another, turned on rank to observe her coming, though many as quickly turned away again, realizing no doubt that they had already drunk up their funds for the night. The barkeep’s sons were busy sweeping away the debris of a struggle, shattered chairs and the like, but otherwise the scene was surprisingly placid, calm following the storm. So Zakeela’s eyes resumed their keen scouting. Almost at once she spied the man she had sought.

  He sat in the corner, one guessed for tactical reasons, and wiped his lips as he set down a foaming tankard, not likely his first. She slunk to the other side of the taproom and tried to blend in so as to observe him for a moment unseen. The young giant towered over three drinking companions who, from the looks of it, held their liquor less well than he, since all three without exception were now face down on the table. The other shook back his shoulder-length mane and wiped the sweat from his brow, his chopped bangs falling back into place.

  The face, mainly unscarred, appealed to the harlot, who saw many male faces but appreciated few of them. His eyes were clear and quick and unusual for some reason which, at this distance, she could not quite identify. His cheekbones were high and prominent, his nose slightly aquiline, his jaw strong. He had all his teeth, if her glimpse spoke truly. The burly youth wore a scarlet tunic emblazoned in black with the device of a swooping graak, the prehistoric pterodactyl which yet lingered in the skies of Lemuria. From a wall hook depended a great black cloak. Wristbands hugged his forearms, looking as if they might once have served as manacles. And now Zakeela saw that he was looking at her.

  As she crossed the crowded, reeking room she kept her eyes on his, thinking in this way to form some estimate of him before they exchanged words. He remained an enigma, and not least because of those eyes, which she could now see were miniature replicas of the great Lemurian moon above, for they were gold in color. This lent the warrior’s rugged face an incongruous hint of the ethereal. But that was scarcely the only surprise in the scene, for she could now see that the three men with him at the table were all dead, their ruined faces soaking up a pool of their own oozing blood.

  “You need more lively dining companions, young sir, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  A quiver of a smile crossed his face. “They are just tired out, poor things. A few moments ago they were quite frisky, I assure you. The fools sought to test their mettle against me, a stranger, and their junior. I sat them here to warn others. I prefer being alone.” These last words seemed, on second thought, intended for her.

  She decided to come to the point. “You are the Black Hawk of Valkarth?”

  His brow furrowed; it usually meant trouble when he was recognized. “Who seeks me? And why?” He sat up straighter, the ale forgotten.

  She looked around, aware of many eyes upon them. Seeing her discomfort, Thongor of Valkarth reached over and pushed the nearest corpse from its perch, kicked it away, and motioned for his visitor to join him. “Mind the blood. You’ll not want to stain that pretty outfit. Now, what have you to say?”

  “I serve those in high places in this kingdom. My master seeks one such as you to secure him some…lost goods. There are dangers involved, but the pay will make the risks worthwhile, I assure you.”

  “I would hear more. What is it that he seeks? His own goods, stolen from him? Or does he covet the treasure of another? And of what sort are these dangers?”

  “Are you afraid, then?”

  Thongor laughed. “Fear is a vice I gave up long ago, girl. But a man likes to know what he’s up against.”

  “Well spoken,” she said, feeling sure that her master’s choice was a sound one.

  “And who is your master? From the looks of you I can see he must pay splendidly indeed for services well rendered.”

  Her cheeks crimsoned, for the first time since she could remember, and her voice dropped. “I am sent by the Sark, Arzang Pome himself.”

  Thongor’s golden eyes widened slightly. “I can imagine my name is well enough known to him. I can imagine as well that he might want to lead me into a trap.”

  “I think you misjudge my master. He is not one to lose sleep over assassinations and thievery such as follow your name. In one such as you he sees only the commodity of a talent he may use to his advantage.”

  By this time, the young giant had arisen and secured his cloak to his shoulders, from whence it belled out like a sail as the pair quit the stale air of the drinking house and proceeded down the street, retracing the courtesan’s journey of but half an hour before. “This is not the place to bargain over the Sark’s business. Lead on.”

  His suspicions still sounded like an alarm gong, but Thongor knew that danger always presented opportunity, provided a man were quick enough. So he kept his eyes and ears open for treachery, as well as for the chance to render some of his own if needed. He had been in the world of civilized men but a short time, but his wild senses
were keen to the serpentine wiles of city folk.

  “Where are you taking me, Zakeela? The palace of Arzang Pome is to the South.”

  “We are not going there. Another will explain your mission. The Sark likes not to deal directly with…”

  “With my kind!” Thongor laughed in derision. “Well, that makes the two of us even, I guess!”

  2

  Whispered Mysteries

  “I like not the look of this place. It stinks of black sorcery!” The Valkarthan instinctively loosened his great broadsword in its scabbard, for all the good it might do him against intangible perils such as he half-anticipated.

  “Aye, that it would, young sir, for we have entered the magicians’ quarter, and this is the dwelling of Belshathla the magus,” said Zakeela, afraid now that the barbarian’s superstitious dread might be getting the better of him. “But all’s well. I swear, there is no trap.” She was about to rap upon the ponderous wooden slab. But as her small knuckles fell, they met no resistance, the door already sinking inward of its own accord.

  A cracked voice from within sounded frail greetings. “Zakeela? Is that the Black Hawk with you? Why, of course it is! Who else would it be?” A comical figure threaded his maddeningly slow way through twisted piles of strange contrivances and devices. The doors of half a dozen scroll cabinets lay open, some cock-eyed on bent hinges. Inscribed papyrus scraps and phondath-parchment leaves were universally scattered, and cabalistic charts festooned the low walls. Heaps of the debris seemed occasionally to shift as if living creatures, whether the sorcerer’s pets or experimental subjects, were given free run of the place. A couple of bracketed torches gave wan light, supplemented by the strange glow of various crystal globes in which scenes of far-away sights seemed to flicker. There was a near-inaudible hum pervading the place, as of occult energies at whose nature the uncouth barbarian could not guess. But for all that he saw, the greatest danger in the place appeared to be the low beams with which his raven-locked head nearly collided more than once.