by Lin Carter
“. . . Come, by the Words THAGLA, ARMISOR, ZALAY, GUTHAC, GUTHOR, TZAPHNIEL . . . Come, we await Thee O Lord of Ten Million Aeons . . . Khil, summon Frimost. Acorib, seize control of Axaxar. Aiaoster, over Iothoth . . . Come! Come! COME! COME!”
And then he saw It.
Far above him, in the misty heights, were shafts of dim scarlet light struck down in broad rays through the cloudy crystal dome to strive and mingle with the thick ebon gloom . . . where the air seethed and thrummed with terrific currents of sheer Mind . . . Something like a cloud of frigid blackness, taking form, a whirling funnel of darkness, black as death, cold as the deeps between the space-worlds.
A breath of that cold wind struck Thongor, chilling him to the bone, cold as the wind that blows forever between the stars, as he stared up into the whirling funnel of blackness that was growing, growing, growing huger and more solid, and drifting down towards the place whereat he stood, chained and helpless.
Then it was that Shangoth struck.
From beneath the enveloping cloak of green, he drew his great war ax—and the mighty Valkarthan broadsword which Mardanax had taken from Thongor at his capture! Shangoth had found the sword in his wanderings through the citadel of Zaar, and had borne both weapons into the Temple, hidden beneath his voluminous green cloak. Now he raised his ax and let it fall in a terrific whistling stroke that severed the enormously swollen head of Vual from his shriveled, thin neck—as a rotten fruit is struck from a twig!
Eyes still glaring with cold intensity of concentration—mouth still moving in spasms, forming unspoken words of summons and command, the hideously distended head of the dwarfed enchanter rolled to the foot of the Black Throne whereon Mardanax sat frozen—rolled to the foot of the black dais and thudded like dead meat against the marble step!
Spouting a sickly pale ichor from the raw stump of its neck, the shrunken, insignificant body slumped and fell forward, toppling from the podium before the blazing Book of Power; quivered, and lay still forever.
As if a knife-blade were drawn across a thousand shouting throats, the thunderous rhythm of the great Invocation was cut off. Silence crashed down in suffocating weight upon the awe-stricken multitude.
Roaring his deep-throated Jegga battle-cry, Shangoth sprang with a single great leap to the black altar whereon Thongor stood. The ax whistled again through the dark air, and the golden chains rang like tiny bells against the black marble as the blade clove through and severed them.
Thongor was free!
With a great booming cry of battle-lust and joy, the Lord of the West caught his own beloved broadsword as the Prince of the Jegga flung it sparkling through the air at him.
Now, with his mighty sword in his good right hand, he felt fit enough to do battle with the very Gods of Darkness.
Mardanax rose to his full height there upon the dais of the Black Chair, and extended his staff towards Shangoth. Bellowing his battle-song, the eight-foot warrior sprang to meet him—but a ray of green light shot from the tip of the staff and bathed his mighty form in a flickering nimbus of pallid, throbbing force.
The blue-skinned giant froze motionless as a statue of graven stone!
Atop the black altar, Thongor prepared himself for one last magnificent battle against his enemies. But even as the muscles bunched in his long, powerful legs—even as he gathered his strength for a great leap that would carry him to the foot of the Black Throne—he felt himself seized in the grip of an eerie force, a tingling, electric coldness that probed down like a ray of darkness from the hovering spiral cloud that hung above him.
The frigid grip of a numbing paralysis held him motionless, unable to move. The sucking, gnawing cold benumbed his brain, dulling his mind, robbing the strength from his body . . . he felt as if cold hands grasped at the very roots of his soul!
For a long, terrible, endless moment this tableau held—Mardanax upon his throne, the Rod of Power extended—Shangoth the Avenger, frozen in the grip of the green ray—Thongor, held in the paralysis of the Dark Cloud that hovered above him, ready to suck forth his immortal and imperishable soul—
And then Mardanax broke.
The staff wavered, then fell, clattering against the ringing stone. The Black Archdruid sagged weakly against his throne, as if the strain of sustaining the green ray of paralyzing force had sapped some inward source of occult strength.
Shangoth recovered, shrugging off the weird power of the paralyzing force, and took in the situation at a glance. He whirled desperately to Thongor’s aid, mind racing in a furious effort to think of some way of counteracting the dark power radiating from the Black Thing that hovered above the lone figure of the Valkarthan atop the altar.
And then his eye caught the glistening green talisman that still hung about the spouting stump of Vual’s neck. In a flash, he recalled words overheard in a council of the Nine—“The Grand Negator, you will require the protection of that greatest of all amulets, Green Brother, if you are to serve as focus and Karcist in the mighty Ritual.”
He snatched the green talisman from the corpse and hurled it through the air to Thongor in one desperate, last hope.
It caught on the Valkarthan’s outstretched arm, looping about his wrist!
Like a breath of summery warmth amid the icy chill blasts of winter, the talisman’s touch sent life and strength surging through Thongor. With stiff, still-numb arms he seized the dangling amulet and hung it about his throat where it dangled against his heart.
The paralysis of the dark ray left him. He shouted to Shangoth, and the blue-skinned giant whirled to charge the row of thrones, swinging his war ax lustily as he hurled like a human projectile among the powerful wizards who still sat stiffly, frozen with shock. Xoth the Skull went down, his gaunt skull-like head cloven to the brows before one ringing stroke. Shangoth leaped to the next throne, bringing his scarlet and dripping blade down upon the huddled, cowering gray-robed figure of Sarganeth of the Nuld, who squeaked shrilly, like a rat seized in the jaws of a cat, as the cold steel ripped deep in his vitals, and his life-force gushed from his body with the scarlet flood of hot gore. . . .
But still the black center of whirling cold hovered high in mid-air above the shrieking, stampeding throng. And as the mighty Lords of Zaar died, one by one, the Thing of Darkness grew as if it fattened on death, and was swollen and more solid with every stroke of Shangoth’s scarlet sword!
Torn between the urge to stand beside his friend, and the deeper urgency of danger from this awesome and unholy Thing that the combined force of the Magicians of Zaar had brought down from the deeps of Chaos, Thongor hovered, caught in the grip of indecision.
And then tendrils of darkness writhed down upon him, cold tentacles of shadow whose icy touch bit deep as knives . . . he was caught up, dangling in the shadowy air . . . he was being lifted into the Vortex of Darkness, and the black maw of Chaos gaped to receive him!
As consciousness faded, as strength ebbed from his body and his mind shook and wavered like a candle-flame blown in a chill gust of wind, Thongor of Valkarth summoned every waning atom of dwindling life within him, gathered it and cast it forth in one mighty, despairing and thunderous cry of supplication—
“O Gorm, aid me! Gorm! GORM—”
Then darkness came down upon him.
CHAPTER 19
BATTLE OF GODS
The very Gods do heed his call,
And battle ’midst, the storm-torn sky;
And now upon that sea-built wall
Hurl bolts of lightning from on high!
—Thongor’s Saga, XVII, 28.
—And, out of darkness, light.
He came to himself slowly. It was as if layer after layer of mind-swathing mist were gradually lifting from his consciousness. Groggily, Thongor lifted himself to his knees and stared about him.
All was shouting and tumult—priests running hither and thither in a mad, blind panic, or standing in little groups of two or three, staring at something above them with pale faces and glittering
eyes wherein awe and terror blazed.
He looked up.
Looming a hundred feet into the air, Gorm the Lord of the Stars towered above the panic-maddened throng.
The titanic form of the god was like a stupendous, cloudy pillar of dim mist. His stern, kingly visage glared down at the tiny figures that fled and scampered to and fro between the shadowy columns of his legs. White wings grew from his temples beneath the cloudy mane of flowing hair and the long beard that poured down his mountainous chest like a cataract of dim shadows. His colossal breast and shoulders and arms, rippling with the thews of a giant, were cloaked in storm; and fiery flashes of lightning played about his majestic head.
It was of such unearthly and magnificent grandeur . . . a sight to strike awe into the heart of any mortal.
As he lifted up his face to the towering, shadowy figure of his savage god, Thongors blood raced heady as wine in his veins, and he lifted his great Valkarthan broadsword in the warrior’s salute to his king.
Above the shrieking tumult of the maddened throng, Thongor’s deep-chested war-cry rose like a mighty trumpet-call. “Hai-yah! Thou Father of Gods and of Men! Hail unto thee, O Gorm, that thou didst not fail me in mine hour of deepest need!”
And in the depths of his mind, a great Voice uttered slow solemn words. “Hail to thee, O thou Child of the North. In thy dream didst I tell thee that only in moments of Ultimate Peril to the very Universe may We take action in the World of Men . . . therefore am I come unto thee.” Thongor gazed away to where the Black Thing hung, baffled and cheated of its prey, before the colossal stone image of its triple self. It hung above the earth, dense as a thunderhead, cold as the boreal pole, roiling with mysterious turbulence, and . . . somehow, incomplete. Shangoth had struck off the head of the Lord Vual before the mighty Ritual was completed, and the Shape From Chaos had not fully taken on substance and being within this plane. But even in its half-formed state, it recognized its foe, one of the Gods of the Created Universe.
The Black Thing swept upon the shadowy god! They met, and the mighty hall was shaken to its foundations with the impact of that collision. The floor buckled and heaved: tiles snapped and splintered. Men staggered and fell.
Like a monstrous vampire bat, the shape of darkness sprang at the god’s throat—
The dim, shadowy hall was flooded with blinding light, as if the noontide sun had flared into being within the arched curve of the crystal dome—as twin shafts of blazing white lightning sprang from the god’s lifted hands to shower the Blackness with utter Light.
Thunder rolled. The walls shook. The vast hall was lit with supernal flares of flaming lightning, as the Lord of Creation and the Lord of Chaos were locked in stupendous and ultimate conflict! It was a scene to stun the imagination. The air seethed with the tension of ferocious energies released by the battling divinities of Heaven and Hell. Lightning blazed and flickered; the air was filled with a burning shower of fiery sparks. Great silver lamps were overturned, spilling pools of oil whereon roaring flames fed, adding to the swirling confusion.
Amidst the fury, Thongor spied his comrade Shangoth upon the raised thrones battling for his life. The Valkarthan could see even through the whirling confusion and drifting veils of smoke and sparks the bright flash of the Rmoahal’s bronze ax as he held off an armed body of infuriated priests. As for the Lords of Zaar, they sat paralyzed with horror in their high places, looking upon the battling gods.
Thongor raced across the floor of riven tiles to lend aid to his embattled comrade. His great Valkarthan broadsword rose and fell, and rose again, its bright sheen stained now, and streaming with hot gore. Ere long had Thongor hewn a red path through the throng to Shangoth’s side, and the two warriors fought back to back against the screaming mob of frenzied druids.
Thongor’s sword cleaved skulls and lopped off limbs. Soon each stroke scattered droplets of blood on the smoky air like a crimson rain. Through the roar and thunder of battle, the shriek of the injured, the howl of the attacker, the bubbling groan of the dying, the iron music of blade on blade, his deep voice rang, chanting an old war-song of his barbaric people.
“Hot blood is wine for Father Gorm!
The War-Maids ride the wings of storm!
Our stout blades their red harvests reap
And thirsty steel at last drinks deep!”
The crimson murk of battle-lust rose to blind him with the old familiar berserk fury of war. He fought like a tireless machine, his bronze arm rising and falling, his black mane streaming in the tempest, the deep booming chant of his primal war-song ringing above the tumult and the carnage. The druids outnumbered the two warriors, but the sweeping scythe of the Rmoahal ax and the slashing fury of the Valkarthan broadsword soon eased the balance against them.
And then, quite suddenly, there were no foes about them, only the black-robed bodies of the slain heaped about. Tliongor leaned on his great sword, panting, drinking in huge lungfulls of the reeking air, as his vision cleared.
But—what of the Archwizards?
In his first, frenzied assault—it seemed long hours ago—Shangoth of the Jegga had cut down three of the Black Lords of Zaar: Vual the Brain, Sarganeth of the Nuld, and Xoth of the skull-like visage. What had become of the others? He turned, eyes searching the row of thrones, to see gross, purple-clad Pytumathon sprawled obscenely in his mighty seat, his flaccid face pallid as wax. Perhaps, in an extremity of terror before the wild spectacle of battling gods, the overtaxed heart of Pytumathon had failed him . . . perhaps a chance blast of magic force had severed the strands of his life . . . but whatever the reason, the Purple Mage lay dead in his place of power.
But scarlet, sardonic Maldruth was very much alive. He had recovered from the shock of Gorm’s manifestation, and now turned his attention to Thongor and Shangoth where they stood panting for breath amid the heaped slain. An ironic smile lifted the corners of his bearded lips and his black eyes laughed down at Thongor and the Jegga prince.
“Noble swordplay, my Lord of the West! ’Twas quite a spectacle . . . but now you face an adversary of somewhat different skills!”
Thongor eyed the tall, powerfully built figure of the Scarlet One without trepidation.
“Valkarthan steel can cut through scarlet robes as well as robes of black,” he growled. “Come, red dog of Zaar, and I will show you the truth in my words!”
“I have no doubt you speak the truth, my primitive friend,” Maldruth grinned mockingly. “But simple swordplay is so . . . crude, so . . . basic. Mine are rarer skills.”
He lifted one strong hand and a strange ring caught the flickering light and blazed full in Thongor’s frowning face. The ring of strange silvery-green metal was set with a bright gem—it was the ubiquitous sithurl, and it seemed the Black Magicians of Zaar used the mighty power-crystals as instruments in their dark sorcery even as Thongor’s realm planned to employ them in the cause of science.
A momentary numbness swept over Thongor’s nearly naked body like a chilling breeze—swept over him and was gone. Whatever the nature of the blast of magic Maldruth had hurled at the Valkarthan, it had no effect upon his iron strength. He lifted his dripping sword toward the surprised Prince of Magic and laughed harshly.
“Try again, red dog! It takes more than mere spells to halt a warrior!”
Again the sorcerous ring flashed with numbing brilliance. And yet again. Beyond a brief and passing chill, the talisman had no power over Thongor. He greeted each futile attempt with a ringing laugh, then strode grimly forth towards Maldruth with sword at the ready.
This was perhaps the first time in his bloody, cruel and supernaturally prolonged existence that Chaos Magic had failed the Scarlet One. And it shook him—more deeply than Thongor might guess. For the swaggering, bold, sardonic Lord of Zaar—behind his swarthy, handsome, heroic facade—was naught more than a cheap bully and a rank coward, when stripped of his eerie magical skills.
And now that facade cracked—badly. Globs of cold sweat glistened on his brow;
his eyes gleamed uneasily, searching from side to side like a trapped rodent. Again the Lord Maldruth raised the sithurl-studded ring to bathe the Valkarthan in a beam of magic force.
Shangoth’s deep laugh rang out. “The talisman!” he boomed, pointing to the strangely carved amulet of green jade-like stone that dangled against Thongor’s bronzed chest. The Valkarthan glanced down at it—the sigil Shangoth had torn from the headless corpse of Vual the Brain—the sigil he had slung about his neck—the Grand Negator, the Lords of Magic called it! This was the source of the magical protection that shielded him from the power of Maldruth’s ring-weapon!
And Maldruth’s eyes were drawn to the curious, all-potent talisman as well. Naked desperation flamed madly in his glaring eyes, that flashed no longer with lazy, languid and cat-like malice. He knew that he was a dead man.
Trembling with terror, he glanced madly from side to side, seeking for a way out—some means of escape from the need to face the grinning Valkarthan warrior-king with naught but cold steel alone, man to man.
But escape there was none.
Mouthing a vile oath in a voice that shook a little, the Red Prince tore his gilded rapier from its gemmy scabbard and aimed a wild blow at the blood-bedrabbled barbarian. With a deafening KLANGG of steel meeting steel, Thongor deflected the blow, and swept Maldrath staggering to one side with the force of his defense.
Now they set to it, while Shangoth watched grinning widely, leaning on his nicked and dulled ax.
Sword rang on sword like stricken gongs. Thongor’s point ripped across Maldruth’s tunic from shoulder to shoulder. The bright fabric, severed, fell away, baring the Scarlet One’s naked chest. Then Thongor gave him a slight cut on the bare flesh, almost playfully.
