Young Thongor (17 page)

The old mage Belshathla was a bearded, swag-bellied gnome, tenuously borne aloft on precarious spindle-shanked legs. There was little of menace, much of the burlesque about him. And yet his eyes did seem to sparkle with a peculiar vitality. A stained apron gave him more the appearance of an apothecary than that of a mighty sorcerer. Thongor held his peace, somewhat at ease now, but waiting for more evidence upon which to base a judgement on the old man.

The courtesan Zakeela embraced the squat figure as if he had been some long-lost uncle. Thongor felt more relaxed still, enough to venture a remark. “Are these the accommodations of a court magus? Forgive me, my lord, but…”

The wrinkled face split in a grin. “It is true I serve the Sark of Shembis. But I am not one of his court, nor do I seek any wealth save the riches of learning that surround me. And besides, the more tokens of favor one receives from the powerful, the more tightly their talons fasten upon one.” At this, a shadow passed over Zakeela’s pretty countenance.

“So, my dear, you have not yet told our young friend the nature of his task? Very well; allow me. Young sir, I can tell you only so much, because a crucial element of the challenge that faces us remains a mystery, even to one such as I. Still, I will tell you all I know.”

“First,” the impatient Valkarthan demanded, “what is it I am to seek?”

“A hoard of silver, that much I know, if legends tell truly. A hoard surpassing the dreams of men, a fortune amassed before the dawn of men by the very Dragon Kings themselves! You will know that our sovereign Arzang Pome, a greedy man all round, has an especial fetish for silver, prizing it even above gold and electrum.”

“Aye, his standards, banners, pennants, even the chasing of his
kroters
’ bridles gleam of silver, much to the despair of the many poor lining the streets of his city.” At these words, Zakeela’s own numerous argent trinkets, presents of her royal master, began to hang heavily upon her.

“That is indeed so, Thongor of Valkarth. And you will ask why we are concerned to aid him in gaining even more. As it stands, nothing will stop him in pursuing his obsession. But a man obsessed is a dangerous man. And we but seek to minimise the danger to which he may expose us all. For if the silver treasure truly exists, there is said to be a potent curse upon it.”

Thongor growled deep down. “I knew it had to come to that sooner or later! Of what sort is this curse? That which seeks out the despoiler after the fact and strikes him down? Or perhaps a guardian set to forestall attempts to steal the treasure?”

The wizard’s rheumy eye sparkled to observe the curt and business-like manner of the young mercenary, a good omen. “The latter, so far as I can determine, for my manuscripts tell of many over the ages who have sought the treasure and perished miserably in the attempt. Of no man is it written that he made away with riches only to be tracked down by some nemesis. But of what nature that guardian spirit may be, I know not. Only two words are told of it: ‘Silver Shadows,’ and beyond this nothing is known.”

“And the location of this great treasure? Is a long journey involved? I will need provisions…”

“Few, I should think,” mused Belshathla. “For the treasure lies buried in a cavern deep beneath the Sark’s own castle. Indeed, the old legend was the reason he chose the site.”

3

Paths of Peril

Shortly after dawn, a rested and well-fed Thongor, accoutred now in black link-mail supplied by the Sark’s largesse, embarked upon his task. He had not seen the voluptuous Zakeela since the previous night, but he hoped to see more of her whenever the present business might be over. For now, he made his way swiftly and silently down the surprisingly smooth path of a tunnel, far below the surface, below even the sewers, of ancient Shembis. Many men had passed this way, perhaps those treasure-seekers of whom legend told dolefully, perhaps simply workmen of the Sark who had done preliminary spadework to make his access easier. Here and there were signs of recent workmanship, not least the infrequent torches bracketed to the damp walls. Their wan light seemed more to smolder than to glow, dampened in some strange manner by a hidden foulness in the very air.

The Valkarthan’s equipment, by choice, was meager, for he trusted in his good right arm and in his great broadsword Sarkozan, with its strange elder-world sigils. The weapon never left his side, this mighty blade, which he had taken from the fallen corpse of his father, Thumithar, and which was said to have come down his ancestral line from Valkh, the Black Hawk, founder of the clan. Thongor held the blade firmly in his clenched fist, and it almost seemed that the engravings along its surface shone against the all-pervasive miasma of the place. But now was not the time for such musings.

As the old savant had told him, there was no lengthy journey involved, so of victuals he carried none. Slung over his shoulders were a pair of large sacks in which he might bring back specimens of the forbidden silver should he succeed in vanquishing whatever guardian might seek to prevent its theft. But the fabled loot must far exceed the capacity of a single delver; hence Thongor’s task was but to clear the way for the Sark’s more timid servants to come and bear away the rest.

Just ahead, around a bend in the tunnel, traces of voices—Thongor judged two—carried to his ears. Had other fortune-hunters, not in the Sark’s employ, sought to forestall his mission? Or was there treachery in store after all? Ready for anything, Thongor sprang into the midst of whatever scene might await him, seeking the advantage of surprise.

But it was he who was surprised, and very much so. For what filled his eyes was the familiar yet completely unexpected form of Zakeela the courtesan—spread-eagled on a set of wooden crossbeams, her sweating, naked flesh gleaming in the torchlight. Stunned only for a moment, Thongor turned, sword already raised, to face the girl’s captors.

“What in the Eleven Scarlet Hells is this?” he barked, eyes narrowing. He stayed his hand, for it was plain the two dull oafs, though well armed, intended him no harm.

One, considerably alarmed, managed to sputter, “Hold there, Black Hawk! We were sent to aid you! For a second there, I thought you the guardian of the treasure!”

“The Sark sent such as you to join the fray? And what of Zakeela? What mischief is this?” Thongor stepped to her side and undid the silken scarf that had been used to gag her.

Her eyes frantic, Zakeela gasped, “Thongor! Praise the Nineteen Gods! The Sark thought it might go better with you if he placated the guardian of the treasure with a human sacrifice. These ruffians abducted me in the middle of the night and bound me here. Arzang Pome reasoned that you might come upon the monster, whatever it may be, already busy or perhaps sated. I have passed many hours here with no sign of the guardian, but only the lewd mutterings of these base fools.”

Thongor began to unfasten her bonds. One of the Sark’s men protested, “Here, now! It’s Sark’s orders—she’s to be fed to the thing from the tunnel! You can’t…”

Thongor’s swordpoint was at his throat in an instant. “And why not offer him a pair of sacrifices, fatter ones and far more tasty? I care not for the mad reasoning of the Sark! The task is mine, and I’ll not be party to the slaying of the innocent.”

The other man, older and craftier than his partner, now spoke up. “There’s no need for bloodshed, young sir. I quite agree. But orders is orders. Still, there’s no one to know better if we three reached a bargain, eh? We take turns with her, see, and when we’ve all had our fill, we leave her to the Sark’s pet beastie!”

He looked genuinely surprised when the young outlander’s gaze only grew more fierce. The Black Hawk lifted his sword, signalling that the others should do the same, as he had evidently done with words. He would settle the issue in a more definitive way. But it was not to be.

“Thongor! He comes! The guardian!” Zakeela cried.

The others took to their heels, back the way they had come. Zakeela stared in disbelief as Thongor dropped into his combat stance. Strange sounds, as of a great weight dragging on the ground, crushing the gravel beneath it, warned of the imminent advent of some unthinkable monstrosity, but Thongor busied himself with cutting through the ropes that chafed the tender flesh of the desperate maid.

“If I am defeated, I will not have you left captive to the thing’s depredations!” So saying, he freed her, then wheeled just in time. Like a swarm of deadly jungle flies a massive form swept into view with speed seemingly impossible for such great bulk. It thrust a great limb at the raven-maned head. Thongor dropped, grazed by the blow, which he could not entirely avoid. He sought to gather his fleeing wits and to bring his sword arm into play, knowing his foe would allow him no quarter, no margin for error. Before he could strike, however, he heard an unearthly shriek from the monster. Zakeela had somehow managed, with arms still stiff from captivity, to grab one of the torches and cast it into the thing’s face.

Thongor rolled aside and regained his feet in a bound. “You’re a wonder, girl! I owe you both our lives—but begone now! I’ll fight my own battle!”

Knowing she could not hope to strike so fortuitous a blow a second time, and equally aware that the barbarian sought only to mask his concern for her under his protest of manly pride, Zakeela did as she was ordered. Thongor was alone with the guardian of the treasure.

For a moment, he and the creature stood poised facing one another, and he got his first clear glimpse of it. Filling most of the enclosure, the towering ape-like form was a living fortress of iron muscle barely contained beneath a scaly reptilian hide. The thing might well be a survivor of the vanished age of the fabled Dragon Kings whose own sorcery had ended in their doom, though shuddered rumors hinted that here and there some of their species might survive, planning the renewal of their ophidian empire.

It was a large measure of Thongor’s fighting skill that he approached each contest as a gambler approaches the table, quickly assessing and calculating the situation and its opportunities. Fear he knew to be a fatal luxury and so did not allow himself to be whelmed by its onrush. Danger and death he took for granted. They were but his opponents in the game, and he began to calculate how to beat them. He knew that the size of the creature, for all its power to intimidate, must be a tactical disadvantage in these close quarters. Whoever had conjured it here must have overlooked that, trusting to its frightful ferocity as a sufficient weapon.

He had to stay clear of the vicious talons of the thing, scythes mounted on living tree limbs, striking with the force of a battering ram. Each blow, already falling like a rain, dislodged fragments of stone from the narrow walls, with no apparent discomfort to the monster. Agility must tell the tale. Thongor dodged, feinted, dived. He swiftly realized that he could trick the guardian into sparring with his shadow in a repeated pattern, a dance, if he could pick a path between the scaly limbs, evading the mighty but clumsy blows, and then repeat it. For its part, the lumbering behemoth seemed to trust in no more than persistence and, if it could manage it, speeding up its pursuit, like a dog chasing its tail.

At first Thongor made no effort to strike with the sword, hoping to lull the dull-witted guardian into believing it was no more than a game of chase. As he circled the saurian figure, he noted with dismay that his foe bore the scars of many previous battles, many previous victories, for he could see the fragments of several sword and knife blades protruding from various spots on its broad back and tree-trunk legs. It appeared the weapons of previous opponents had simply broken off and given the monster no pause. How could he avail against such a foe?

One of the lumbering monster’s blows found its mark and hurled the young warrior through the air. His link-mail did a little to cushion the impact, but Thongor nonetheless had the wind driven from him. By willpower more than anything else, he rolled aside and narrowly avoided the brunt of the oncoming attack. He had been hurled further up the length of the subterranean hall and now found himself in position to behold at least a bit of the legendary silver hoard itself. What he actually saw, having but a moment to spare for it, was the seemingly self-generated bluish glow of the silver treasure. In this depth there could be no daylight for it to reflect, and the color was wrong for reflected lamplight. But here came the dragon-thing again.

Thongor remembered how the mage Belshathla had spent an hour or so the previous night engaged in some mummery over his young guest’s broadsword, as if he had recognized something in the faded engravings along its ancient blade. Perhaps there might be something to the old man’s superstitions. At any rate, Thongor now found that he had enough space to swing the sword without encumbrance, and with a gasp of a prayer to father Gorm, the uncouth deity of his people, he let loose a blow at the thing’s slavering head.

It met no resistance! And yet, his senses amply honed by many combats, Thongor knew he could not have missed his target. He guessed that he owed to the old savant’s spells and blessings that his sword did not shatter on impact as many others had before. His blade was useless as a weapon: he accepted that and looked for another. And surprise was always a handy weapon, so he turned on his heel and ran for the heaped treasure, a seemingly foolish gesture as it could only bring his opponent after him with increased fury. What Thongor hoped to gain by this desperate stratagem not even he knew. But every other path was closed to him. If any open door remained, it must lie in this direction.