Thongor in the City of Magicians

by Lin Carter

  These thoughts passed through the malignant brain of the Black Archdruid, Mardanax of Zaar, as he sat watching the flight of Thongor’s airboats, hour upon hour through the silent hours of darkness.

  Thongor of Patanga had dealt his plans crippling blows. Not the least of these had been the deaths of Thalaba the Destroyer and of Adamancus. Both of these were Great Mages of Darkness; both of these were Lords of the Council of Nine. And the Nine Wizards of Zaar formed a unit of mysterious purpose; in the Pattern of Chaos, they were irreplaceable poles of power. With two of these poles gone, the Nine were reduced to Seven . . . and by that much was their power itself weakened.

  Yet still the Seven of Zaar stood strong: Mardanax and Pytuniathon, Xoth the Skull, Maldrath, Vual the Brain, Ramadondus Voth and Sarganeth of the Nuld. Even diminished by two, the power of the Council was surely strong enough to bring about the doom of the West!

  When dawn reddened the mists of the east, the Lord of Black Magic made an end to his watchful vigil. At his command, the weird forces of the sithurls ceased. The image faded from the whirling pool of molten quicksilver, and the throbbing cone of green illumination that beat above the sunken well of the Eye stilled its eerie pulsations. The green radiance faded from the vast echoing hall of black stone. The crimson of day glowed faintly from the crystal dome far above.

  And Mardanax rose from his throne of skulls, tall and gaunt in his black robes. Step by step he descended the dais of nine steps. He crossed the hall to a distant alcove. Drawing aside the curtains of crimson velvet that shrouded the niche, he exposed to view a pedestal of lead upon which rested a weird sphere of metallic mesh.

  Behind the black visor that hid his features, the emerald eyes of Mardanax closed. His magnificent mind concentrated its tremendous mental powers upon that sparkling mesh of radium wire that stood upon the column of dully-gleaming lead.

  Magnified and focused by this instrument, his thought beamed through the City of Magicians, winging its strange message by invisible mental paths into the brains of his fellow mages.

  One by one he summoned the greatest sorcerors of all the earth:—Sarganeth of the Nuld, Ramadondus Voth, Vual the Brain, iron-thewed Maldruth, Xoth the Skull, Pytumathon—calling them from their dark tasks and grim studies . . . summoning them to a Council of the Nine Wizards . . . to encompass the doom of Thongor. . . . And in his secret heart, the Lord of the Magicians vowed that Thongor’s doom would be more hideous and terrible than any mortal man had met since Time’s First Dawn.

  CHAPTER 5

  HILLS OF THE THUNDER - CRYSTALS

  From scarlet dawn to scarlet dawn,

  They arrowed through the empty skies.

  League after league they hurtled on,

  To where the Hills of Thunder rise.

  —Thongor’s Saga, XVII, 8.

  All night the silver fleet of Patanga arrowed through the star-gemmed heavens as they hurtled league after league into the distant lands of the unknown East.

  Below their shining keels the land sped away, vanishing into the darkness far behind. Now they soared above the grim deserts of the south, where the age-old ruins of forgotten cities built in Time’s First Dawn rear the crumbling columns of shattered palaces against the cold mockery of the ageless and undimming stars . . . then the towering ramparts of Ardath loomed up before them, crowned with that stupendous monolith of black marble men name The Mountain of Doom. They flashed above the clouded heights of the mountains and now the impenetrable tangle of the jungle country flashed below them, in whose darkly emerald depths the great jungle-dragons of old Lemuria battled screaming with the ferocious deodath and the kingly, black-maned vandar for supremacy. And then, as dawn flamed in the pallid east, they flew over the endless plains of the Blue Nomads . . . countless leagues of flatland and whispering grasses where the zulphar, the fierce Lemurian boar, and the untamed herds of zamph and bouphar grazed.

  Aedir the Sungod drove his blazing chariot slowly up the azure vault of the sky and long hours were passed in rushing flight, but still the tireless engines strove and the keen-bladed rotors bit into the breeze of noon.

  As the day waned and the shadows of afternoon began to lengthen across the endless plains, a city arose on the horizon. Great cliff-like walls of gray stone, with looming towers beyond and the shadowy bulk of domes, came into view, and the silvery airboats slowed and dropped lower through the afternoon air.

  Then they flew above the awesome ruins of the age-old city. However fair and strong the walls had looked when they uprose over the horizon, a closer view revealed them in all the horror of their pitiful decay. For the ages had dealt harshly with ancient Althaar and the remorseless erosion of seven hundred centuries had thrown down the proud city into a broken, weed-grown wilderness of crumbling stone. Where once a proud and mighty nation of Time’s Dawn had risen and reigned, was now a stupendous ruin. Acre upon acre stretched the colossal wreckage. Towers reared but shattered stumps, or lay blocking whole avenues and boulevards with mountainous ruin. Domes riven beneath the weight of centuries had collapsed. Even the mighty wails in places had fallen, as if the earth had wearied with bearing up their weight after the passage of patient aeons, and had shaken their burden into hills of rubble.

  Once, ages before, this city had been the home of a brilliant civilization. But today the stately palaces and hoary temples were given over to grim savages devoid of culture, a people without a past, whose lives were devoted to endless warfare against the cruel tyranny of nature and the brutal heritage that flamed within their own hearts.

  For ages beyond numbering, the mighty Rmoahal warriors who ruled these lands had been a people dominated by weird superstition, doomed to lives of savage ignorance and unending strife. For this was the mighty and far-famed camp of the Jegga Horde, renowned in war. Life on the great eastern plains of Lemuria is one of almost constant and unceasing struggle for the rude necessities of life . . . of war against the monstrous beasts that roam the grasslands, and the equally monstrous men who share these eastern realms. For ages the history of the Jegga Nomads has been written in the scarlet inks of human blood. Here on the savage plains the hand of each man is set against the next in fierce and eternal competition for the needs of life.

  Sometimes the Jegga warriors were locked in conflict with the mighty Zodak Horde who ruled the lands to the south under their dreaded war chief, Zarthon the Terrible. Other times, war season would find them battling against the lesser hordes of Shung and of Thad, or with the horde to the west, the Karzoona tribes. For the Jegga, like any other of the Five Nations of the Rmoahal, were wild nomads who roamed forever the endless plains of whispering grasslands in their gigantic chariot caravans, but rarely making camp in the ruined cities of the First Men, preferring the open sky whose faceless and unknown gods they worshipped.

  But Thongor had come among them years before, to teach them something of a different way of life. The great chief of the horde, Jomdath of the Jegga, had been forced into exile by an ambitious, scheming shaman, together with the Prince Shangoth his son. The tribal elders of the horde, urged on by the spiteful and malignant shaman Tengri, had despised the old chief. Mighty warrior that he was, something of the gentler sentiments of civilization had somehow been born within his savage heart, and he had spoken out against the brutal fire-death and prolonged torture by which the shamans of the horde offered up their victims to the Sky-Gods. Thongor had saved the old chief and his son from a lingering and terrible death, and had overthrown the shaman, restoring the chieftainship to Jomdath and chastening the elders. Today, a new nation camped within the walls of ancient and immemorial Althaar, a people who no longer loathed and mocked the concepts of mercy and justice, kindness and love . . . a race which had at last taken the first great upward step on the stair that led from the red murk of bestial savagery towards the light of high civilization.

  Below the airboats now lay the half-wrecked central square of the ancient city, and from the floater’s cabin Thongor could see the mighty plumed wa
rriors of the Jegga waving their huge spears in welcome from rooftop and wall and ruined tower. The fleet slowed, circled, and hung hovering, rotors idling, above the rubble-choked plaza.

  A tremendous shout broke from a thousand cheering throats as Thongor clambered lithely down the rope ladder to the shattered pave, followed by Shangoth and Jugrim and Chundja and the other Jegga warriors of Thongor’s guard,

  Thongor came across the plaza, his great crimson cloak swelling on the breeze, to greet the old chief of the Jegga Horde and clasp his hand in comradeship,

  “Belarba, O Thongor,” the chieftain said, saluting his guest with kingly dignity. Thongor returned his salute, and stood aside as the fierce-eyed old warrior greeted his princely son whom he had not seen in long years. The restraint that is part of the natural dignity of the barbarian was visible in the simple greetings they exchanged. With searching eyes, the great war-chief studied every inch of his towering son from crown to heel.

  “Hast thou borne thyself as a true Jegga warrior among the men of the West, O my son?” he demanded.

  “Aye, my father,” said Shangoth humbly. Jomdath of the Jegga snorted with evident disbelief.

  “Pfaugh! I doubt not thou hast swilled down the fiery wines of the West and snored thyself into a drunken slumber like a besotted beast!” Jomdath spat, eyes blazing with pretended rage, as he sought to conceal the pride and tenderness that were all but overflowing in his mighty heart. “And hast thou still the strong arm of a true-born Son of the Sky-Gods, that canst battle untiringly in the service of thy lord, Thongor of the West? Perchance thou hast disgraced thy father’s name in battle against the Lord Thonger’s foes!”

  Thongor restrained a smile. He stepped forward and laid one hand on Shangoth’s massive shoulder as the warrior-prince stood with bowed head beneath his father’s tirade.

  “Thy son, O Lord of the Jegga, has in all ways comported himself as one worthy of his nation, and of his kingly sire,” the Valkarthan said. “In war against the legions of Tsargol the Scarlet City didst his mighty ax engage my arch-foe, Hajash Tor of Thurdis, the Lord Commander of the armies of Tsargol, and with these eyes I saw thy son hew the head of Hajash Tor from his shoulders. Aye! and with that as he cut a bloody path through the very heart of the host!”

  “Hah!” Jomdath grunted. “Fairly done, but any puling babe of the Jegga—”

  “And,” Thongor pursued further, “with these very eyes I saw thy stalwart son with a single backhanded stroke of that same great ax cut down three Tsargolian warriors and cleave asunder the pole to which was affixed the sacred war banner of the Scarlet City, toppling the proud standard into the dust at his feet.”

  “Hai!” A grin of fatherly pride split the stern and majestic mask of the old chief’s face. “Didst thou see it, in very truth, O Thongor? Then, my son, art thou welcome to thy father’s side, for I perceive that thou hast not been untrue to the name of Jegga!”

  Grinning with inarticulate joy, Jomdath clasped the burly shoulders of his son in his arms, then turned, to shout at the gathered warriors.

  “Hai-yah! O warriors of the Jegga! Give welcome to the great Lord of the West and all his warriors! And slay the beasts that thou hast penned, and bring forth ale and the skins of wine, and all manner of good things to eat. For, as the moon doth rise this very night, the Jegga Horde hold feast and festival in greeting to our friends who have come hither from the western edge of the world!”

  “Hai-YAH! Thongor!” the warriors thundered, shaking their spears against the sunset sky.

  When the great golden moon of old Lemuria lit the sky that evening, she peered down in astonishment at the mighty fires that blazed within the ruined plaza of the ancient city. There the lords of the Jegga Nomads feasted their guests and entertained them with war-dances and the thunder-music of the great sky drums. Whole bouphar-oxen were roasted in the huge fires, and sour ale and bitter beer and sweet wine flowed from a thousand wooden cups, while amidst the feasting, Thongor and his commander, Thom Pervis, discussed with the old chieftain the purpose for which they had ventured so far into the trackless plains of the distant East.

  In truth, as he had hoped, Thongor learned that Jomdath knew of a range of hills that lay midway between the lands where the Jegga Nomads ruled and those on the southern marches of their realm that the dreaded Zodak Horde dominated—hills where the mysterious power crystals might be found. The Jegga warriors had no use for the weird gems, but knew they were to be found amidst the barren outcroppings of lead-bearing stone that filled the low hills. Often, Jomdath said, a far-wandering hunter or war-scout, taking refuge amidst the hills from storm, would see the terrific lightnings of the Sky-Gods drawn down to earth by the mystic power of the crystals.

  And with the morning sun, a great expedition was launched from the broken gates of primal Althaar. While Thongor’s fleet drifted overhead, Jomdath and Shangoth and a force of Jegga warriors rode forth to assist the Patangans in securing the gems they sought.

  Thus it was that on the seventh day since the vision of the Nineteen Gods Who Rule The World came to him in his dream, Thongor rode forth with a mighty host of the Jegga for guide and escort.

  Never before had the Valkarthan seen the Jegga warriors in all their panoply. And they made a fantastic and impressive spectacle of savage splendor, these nine-foot-tall blue-skinned giants in their richly wrought and ornamented leather trappings crusted with priceless gems and glittering and flashing with badges and insignia of rare metals! Their bald and towering heads crowned with nodding plumes, draped in fabulous cloaks of scarlet and emerald and saffron velvet stiff with embroidery of gold and silver wire, bearing in their massive hands the terrible Rmoahal war spears that measured fully twenty feet from iron-shod base to keen-bladed tip, they thundered over the grassy plains in a mighty caravan. Some were mounted on gigantic triceratops-like zamphs, in jewel-encrusted saddles of intricately-worked leather; others rode the thundering chariots of gleaming steel beneath whose ponderous weight the very earth shook. An honor guard of fully one hundred gorgeously caparisoned warriors rode forth with the Lord Jomdath and his son, to guide Thongor and the air fleet to the hills. And as he viewed the gorgeous spectacle in all its barbaric might and war-like splendor, Thongor’s own savage heart thrilled at the primitive pageantry.

  Ere long they reached the Hills of the Thunder-Crystals, and Thongor’s warriors descended from the fleet to mine the coveted sithurls. This was an easy task, for the mysterious green crystals lay scattered about by the dozens, thinly buried beneath the soil or studding the mineral outcroppings of the low, rocky hills in jeweled clusters so loosely set they could be pried out with a sword-tip. Thongor bade his men select the largest and clearest stones, for from such Iothondus had said he could fashion the best weaponry.

  Digging out the crystals was easy work, but the gems were heavy as lead and it proved sweaty and exhaustive labor loading them into the great airboats that were moored close to the plain to facilitate the task. But, as the sun ascended to the zenith and a noon-meal rest period was declared, nearly three hundred of the finest stones had been loaded aboard. For this, Thongor owed thanks to the proud warriors of the Jegga Horde, for their gigantic strength made easy work of hauling the heavy loads aboard the sagging floaters.

  And then, as they sat in the shade of the flying craft to break the midday fast, disaster struck without warning.

  Falvoth Ptar, the young warrior of the Air Guard who was pilot of Thongor’s personal yacht, gagged suddenly on his food, went white of face, and fell slowly forward with a great black war-arrow quivering in his breast!

  With a warning shout, Thongor sprang to his feet, tugging his sword from its scabbard with a rasp of singing steel. Cries of rage and terror, pain and alarm rose from the Patangans and the Jegga—a deadly whistling rain of black arrows fell amongst them, striking down men by the dozen—by the score!

  The trumpets roared from the deck of the flagship, where Thom Pervis had mounted guard. Thongor’s Black Dragons and t
he mighty Jegga warriors sprang to do battle—but who was the unknown joe that struck without warning from the empty and desolate plain? Search the landscape as he did, Thongor could see nothing! Save for themselves, the plains were empty!

  CHAPTER 6

  THE NINE WIZARDS OF ZAAR

  And when the Lords of Terror learned

  That he who foiled them in the past

  Hath once more to their realm returned,

  They plan a black revenge at last.

  Met in their halls of ebon gloom,

  The death of Thongor they decree;

  And vow so terrible a doom,

  None ever suffered as shall he!

  —Thongor’s Saga, XVII, 9-10.

  The Lord Mardanax sat on a throne of black marble, his velvet robes drawn about him, his cold eyes gleaming venomously through the slits of his mask.

  The great hall of the Council of the Nine was hewn from glistening ebon marble. Its walls formed a stupendous circle, and colossal columns rose along the curving wall to vanish in echoing gloom far overhead.

  The throne of Mardanax the Lord of Zaar was one of nine great stone chairs that sat in a vast ring . . . and in the center of the Hall before the nine thrones, a mighty pit was sunken deep as a well into the marble floor. From this pit a sheet of crimson and golden flame roared up from hidden depths below, casting a shaking banner of red-gold radiance over the mighty chamber.

  The other thrones were vacant. Then a dimness grew about the throne of purple malachite. It coalesced into a dense shadow which grew opaque, folding in upon itself, and became the figure of a man. The fountain of fire thundered upward, flooding the room with scarlet light, and from some unknown source, a mighty Voice spake slow and deep, filling the Hall of the Nine with clamoring echoes: “The Lord Pytumathon, Prince of Magic, hath come!”