by Lin Carter
Thongor made no reponse, but a low bestial growl rose unbidden from his deep chest. The Black Archdruid laughed sardonically, and guided him on through this maze of horrors.
He came at last to the very core of the manmade mountain. Here the incredible science of the Black Druids had tapped the tremendous volcanic fury that raged in the earth’s center, using it as a source of motive power. The volcanic fires were stoked and fed and trapped to turn gigantic wheels, their excess flames permitted at length to escape via the gigantic shaft that ran up through the full height of the stupendous ziggurat to its topmost tier, escaping in a scarlet plume of flaming gas from that square black chimney Thongor had seen when the winged dragon had borne him down over the metropolis of evil.
Here men in heatproof armor labored above lakes and geysers of incandescent lava, amidst corrosive fumes and poisonous vapors that would have seared their unprotected bodies to husks of ash within seconds were they mad enough to go unshielded. It was like some vision of the Ultimate Pit, the squat, inhuman forms of the suited workers stalking grotesquely amidst sheets of blinding flame and titanic jets of blazing gas! Thongor viewed the incredible scene from an airtight window of heavy heat-resistant glass, but the dazzling light of the fire-lake was unnerving. As Mardanax boasted of the feat by which the Druids had harnessed the incalculable forces that seethed and raged within the volcanic depths of the planet, Thongor grimly wondered if this fantastic marvel whereby men tampered with the gigantic forces that moved and shaped the very face of the earth itself could be in part responsible for the slow submergence of the ancient Continent of Lemura. He had seen that the land of the promontory on which the dark city reared its ziggurats and pinnacles had already begun to sink beneath the mighty sea which was held back from the metropolis only by the tremendous strength of the mighty sea wall their science had erected. It would be a grim and fitting jest if by their very scientific arts the Black Magicians of Zaar had laid the seeds of their eventual doom. . . .
Thongor never knew how long his tour of the City of a Thousand Marvels lasted, for his mind, dazed and uncomprehending beneath the weight of horrors he was shown, at length refused to witness any more. But he was left with a grim and savage certainty that this Black City must be erased from the face of the world, if men were ever to dwell in peace and safety. Despite the awesome miracles of science the Wizards of Zaar had achieved—despite their magnificent mastery of the very forces of the universe—they had bent their unearthly arts to the domination and destruction of man, not to rendering his life easy and more comfortable.
For this grim reason, then, the city must be destroyed and the sorcerers who dwelt therein wiped out to the last man. Naught could be spared, if the world was ever to draw a safe breath again throughout the fullness of time.
Deep in his soul, the bronze giant vowed to his gods that were he fortunate enough to survive the perils in which he now walked, he would strive and would not cease from strife until he had pulled down all of this magnificent city in flaming ruin—even if he were to destroy himself in the great attempt!
And with all this cunning, Thongor’s mind dwelt again on that mighty sea wall behind whose impenetrable barrier was, as yet, held back the imponderable and all-conquering fury of the Unknown Sea. Yet how could he—one man, and not a god—bring about the destruction of that gigantic wall?
In his tour of the workshops of hell, he had been shown a dull white powder refined after a thousand experiments from an unlikely combination of chemicals and elements. Within each dry granule of that innocuous-seeming powder was locked the titanic ravening fury of an earthquake. This most deadly and disruptive of all explosives was so powerful, he was told, that a mass of the whitish stuff no bigger than a man might gather into his cupped palms could demolish a ten-foot-thick wall of solid granite.
Deep within himself, Thongor pondered how he might escape the scrutiny of these sorcerers, retrace his winding passage through the labyrinthine ways of the mighty ziggurat, and gain a supply of the deadly powder wherewith to shatter the sea wall so that the overwhelming waves of the great ocean beyond might come thundering down to bury this dark city beneath their sprawling weight. . . even were he to die in the attempt!
One tremendous question repeated itself within his mind: Was this the mighty purpose for which the gods had guided him to this dark place of hell?
He thought of his beloved, whom he had not seen in many long days and empty nights. Never to hold her slim, yielding warmth within the circle of his strong arms again! Never to look down into the brave, clear eyes of his young son—to watch the lad grow and strengthen—to guide him through his youth with wisdom and courage and kingliness!
Was this what the gods had destined for Thongor the Valkarthan? Was it the will of heaven that he immolate himself on the pyre of Zaar—destroying the city, even if he must perish amidst the conflagration that consumed it? How could he know? Perhaps they were preserving him for some greater, more significant cause . . .
Yet what cause could be more urgent than the death of Zaar?
Busy with his dark thoughts, he had not been aware of the ways in which his captors led him. Now, as they stopped, he looked up at a mighty door of sheeted gold worked with flame-edged designs.
The masked magician pointed ahead.
“Now has the hour come, O Thongor of Patanga, when you must stand before the Nine Lords of Zaar in chains to receive their judgment . . . and to learn of the doom that has been set aside for thee!”
And Thongor’s blood ran cold at the unholy, gloating glee that rang through the tones of the Black Archdruid.
What doom was this, so terrible that it raised this gloating mirth? What doom did Thongor face in the Hall of the Nine Thrones?
All too soon he was to know, and to taste the bitter cup of despair. . . .
CHAPTER 15
A KNIFE IN THE DARK
For thy black reign of wizardry
Draws near the end. It is too late,
Thou proud dark city by the sea—
For Thongor stands within thy gate!
And Jegga’s Prince hath passed thy wall,
Great Zaar! He roams thy winding maze
And seeks to learn what doth befall
His friend amidst thy hidden ways.
—Thongor’s Saga, XVII, 23-24.
Shangoth swam in icy black waters, lost and totally confused in direction. Every time he tried to reach the surface of the rushing river, his hands encountered the low roof—too, low for an air-space! His great lungs burned with searing pain, starved for air. His mighty heart labored like some overladen engine on the brink of breakdown. If he did not find a way out of tills subterranean conduit—and soon—the roaring waters would bear on their frigid current a lifeless corpse.
A great portion of strength and breath had the Nomad spent in bursting the bars that blocked the way. For a long, breathless eternity he had struggled to rend the mighty shafts of iron. Scaly rust cut and tore at his horny hands. The mighty thews of a giant swelled and writhed across his broad shoulders and mighty back. At last, with a surge of furious strength that left him shaken and nigh exhausted, the prince of the Jegga had fractured one of the ancient iron bars, shattering it clear from its socket. He had swum through into a black and lightless world of icy rushing waters—but no air! And if his bursting lungs did not soon drink in good air, they would force open his tight-clamped lips to drown in the bitter black floods of this River of Hell. . .
Light!
Light ahead of and above him glimmered faintly through the black-scummed waters! With the last ounce of strength, Shangoth put all the force of his massive shoulders and deep chest muscles behind a mighty surge that brought him to the surface.
His burning lungs sobbed in great draughts of fresh air, and for a moment he came to the brink of swooning from the sheer ecstasy of breathing once again.
But soon his laboring heart and heaving chest stilled. The roaring left his ears and his dazed mind cleared. He looked a
bout him. He was at the bottom of a sheer-sided shaft some twenty feet deep, that plunged down from a barred grill into the rushing river-waters below. The sides of the shaft were beslimed with stinking refuse and nameless offal. For a moment he could not orient himself and sought vainly to understand the strange configuration of tins narrow, filth-stained shaft. Then it came to him that, with a river rushing beneath their city, the Black Magicians of Zaar must have conceived of the idea of sinking shafts from the street level down into the subterranean conduits through which the river roared—for double use as storm drains, to carry away the rainwater that ran through the gutters of the dark metropolis, and as an easy method of garbage disposal. If this theory were correct, then one of the streets of Zaar lay directly above him!
But how to ascend a vertical twenty-foot shaft? He saw no handholds, no ladder. The walls of the black well were lined with that same smooth, vitreous substance of which the city walls were built, so there were no blocks of stone with interstices between them.
He surged up out of the water and set his broad shoulders against the lip of the shaft, bracing himself against the smooth, slimy wall by jamming his booted feet against the further wall. Once he was securely set, he inched his torso up the shaft a little, sliding his tough hide against the glassy stuff. Then he lifted one booted foot higher against the opposite wall, and braced himself in the higher position. Now he was entirely out of the water. He repeated the process again, gaining another foot or two . . . and again . . . and again . . . inching up the black well like some monstrous caterpillar.
It was actually less arduous than it sounds. For Shangoth was a huge man, and his massive body quite blocked the shaft. The only difficulty was that occasionally his shoulders slipped against the glassy surface and he slid part way back down the drain-shaft until his stiffened legs halted the descent. His body was soaking wet and befouled with the scum of the river-water. The shaft itself was slippery with rotting garbage, and many times during the interminable nightmare process of inching slowly up the tall shaft, he thought to fall back into the rushing water below, and lose all that he had gained.
Eventually, he reached the grill at the top of the storm-drain, and found to his vast relief that it was not bolted nor soldered down, but was set loosely atop the mouth of the well. From the amount of light that filtered down on him through the close-set bars, he guessed that the shaft-hole was set in a dark alley or enclosed place. He could hear no footfalls over the booming roar of the waters below, so taking a chance that no one was near enough to observe him as he emerged from the well, he pried the cover up and slithered out to lie panting on the stinking muddy cobbles of the street.
But time was of the essence. He could not permit himself to lie here in blissful ease, resting his sore and aching muscles, when he was still in instant danger of discovery. He staggered to his knees and set the heavy circular grill back in its grooved setting atop the echoing shaft.
Then, rising swiftly to his feet, he peered around. The narrow winding street was deserted and lit but feebly from a curious globe of pale fire that hung mysteriously in midair at the street-corner. Glancing about, he spied the ebon mouth of a shadowed alleyway some distance away and sprinted for it, gaining the safety of its relative darkness after his exposed position there in the middle of the street.
Then he examined himself. His harness was in tatters. Its buckles and ornamental badges had been scraped or torn away and the acid waters of the dark river had eaten the gilding from the leather. Of his supplies and accouterments and weapons, only his great ax and a slim-bladed dagger were left. Outside of sore and lamed muscles, and several raw spots where the shaft wall had rubbed away his tough hide, he was unharmed, but plastered from head to foot with stinking slime.
Alone, amidst a city filled with his enemies, Shangoth of the Jegga Nomads knew that he must be wary and take great care. A single false step might betray him. And surely, should some inhabitant of the city chance to encounter him in his present state, it would arouse suspicions in his mind.
Rain dribbled thinly down from a dark sky lit with intermittent flares of blue-white lightning. Shangoth wished for a heavy downpour, so that he might cleanse his body in the deluge. But with a little searching through the crooked alley, he found a rainbarrel beneath a roof-gutter, filled to the brim with fresh water from a recent cloudburst. With this water he washed his body clean of the refuse of the river-passage.
But what of his garments? Were any of the cityfolk to recognize his tribal insignia, they would wonder that a Rmoahal warrior of the Jegga Nomads freely strode the streets of their forbidden city. He must change trappings . . . and soon!
He followed the alley to its other end, which opened on a great square lined with the towering walls of some enormous palace or mansion. Carved gargoyles leered down at the square with snarling, stone-fanged maws agape. Globes of eerie phosphorescence shed an uncanny glow over the wet cobbles . . . and by their magic illumination, Shangoth, peering from the shadowed mouth of the alleyway, saw people bustling to and fro, busied on unimaginable errands. Among these were many blank-faced Rmoahal slaves, which was a relief to the Jegga Prince, who had feared that even were he able to disguise his nation in borrowed raiment, he might rouse inquiry because of his race, which could not be concealed.
With narrow eyes he noted the comportment and garb of the Rmoahal slaves as they passed. They wore plain leather harnesses ungilded and devoid of precious stones or metals, save for the blatant insignia of their masters, badges of heraldic import which the slaves wore prominently displayed at shoulder-band, mid-chest and navel. He also observed that the Rmoahal slaves went from place to place without any interference from the Zaaryan guards posted at the entrances to the palatial buildings that lined the square. Indeed, the guards seemed hardly to notice them at all, and never in the time Shangoth covertly watched did they stop or question a single Nomad slave, nor ask to see identification or a travel-pass.
What he needed, then, Shangoth decided, was the slave-harness from one of these dead-eyed members of his race, so that he might pass amongst the men of Zaar unquestioned, while he searched out the place wherein the Lord Thongor lay prisoned. But for that, he must be patient and wait hidden in the shadows until one ventured near enough to the alley’s mouth for him to seize and drag him within the shadows.
At long last, Shangoth’s weary vigil was repaid. A tall, superbly-built Rmoahala emerged from the frontal gate of one of the palatial buildings and stalked across the nighted square toward the place where Shangoth lurked. His dull, dead eyes and features were totally devoid of expression as had been all those other slaves Shangoth had watched. The Jegga prince wondered briefly if the magicians fed their slaves some potent drug which destroyed their brains and made them mindless automatons. He noted that, even though this was but another zombie-like slave, the guards in the square paid him remarkable deference. Shangoth assumed this might mean his master was a figure of considerable importance within the Black City.
As the magnificent Rmoahal padded towards him, Shangoth scrutinized his raiment closely. It was somewhat more elaborate than the plain leathern harness worn by the others he had observed. The slave wore a voluminous green cloak, and his trappings were of thick bands of emerald-green leather emblazoned with the characters which spelt “Vual” in the Lemurian script Thongor had been at pains to teach Shangoth and his fellows among the Patangan guards. The name suggested nothing to him. Loosening his dagger in its sheath, he crept yet closer to the alley-mouth.
As the dead-faced slave drew near, Shangoth made a hissing call just loud enough to rouse the attention of the slave, but not sufficient to be heard by the guards lounging across the way.
As he had hoped, the Rmoahal stopped—and turned toward the dark alleyway. Shangoth hissed again, and stepped forward so the slave could catch a glimpse of him.
“Come here!” he called softly.
Like some mindless robot of flesh, unable to resist a direct command, the mighty figure of
the slave stalked forward into the dark mouth of the alley and vanished from sight.
He did not resist or cry out as Shangoth drove the thin blade through his heart.
Swiftly, Shangoth stripped the corpse of its harness, donning it himself, strapping his ax-belt high up between his shoulders, hidden by the cloak, and placing his worn and water-ruined trappings upon the unresisting body. Then he dragged the cadaver back down the length of the alley to the storm drain wherefrom he had emerged into the streets of Zaar. Luckily, this portion of the boulevard was totally empty. It was but the work of a moment for the powerful young prince to pry open the drain again and slide the cadaver down the shaft into the dark waters below, replacing the cover.
Then he straightened, forcing his features into the dead impassive mold of the other slaves of his race that he had observed in this city of darkness, dulling the keen luster of his eyes, and stalked off through the empty nighted street in a stiff-jointed stride that approximated the mechanical gait of the other slaves.
Now to find Thongor, wherever in this wilderness of black glass and sullen stone he was hidden. If, indeed, it could at all be done. . . .
All night Shangoth roamed the streets and tiers of Zaar. The people that he encountered paid but the slightest attention to him as he stalked through them, and that only a trifle of deference due, he assumed, to the status of his master—whoever “Vual” might be!
Although he wandered far, and loitered near many groups of men to overhear their talk, he heard but little concerning the Lord of the West. True, some of the inhabitants discussed in tones of gloating triumph the capture of Thongor the Mighty, but from all the talk Shangoth could overhear, none even mentioned the whereabouts of his imprisonment. A dozen times the Nomad wished he could engage them in seemingly innocent conversation and inquire casually if they knew where the barbarian was kept, but each time the thought crossed his mine, something kept him from it—some subtle intuition told him that Rmoahal slaves within the beetling walls of Black Zaar did not speak!
