by Robert M. Price
in Issue 119, December 2021
i. A Noble Visitor
Thongor of Valkarth, Sark of Sarks of the Western cities, had taken a few rare moments of rest as he sat on his high throne, playing with his son Prince Thar. But that respite, as usual, was fleeting, when a trumpet note heralded the arrival of a foreign emissary accompanied by Thongor’s old companion and advisor, Lord Mael. Mael wore a modest doublet of faded red leather. His face was lined, bearing the marks, physical and emotional, of many battles and crises. His close-trimmed beard and hair ought by rights to have been snow-white but had somehow retained their familiar hue of iron gray, symbolic of the man himself.
The Sark placed his son on the dais beside him, packing the boy off into the care of his nurse. His heir, only three years old, already possessed his royal father’s strong bones and budding muscles, his golden irises and jet black mane, and, in short, looked in all ways like a miniature of Thongor, save only that he had more of his mother’s red-gold complexion.
The Valkarthan wore an open robe of silver fabric over an unadorned tunic. This compromise with courtly etiquette was as far as he was willing to go, having spent most of his years as a mercenary and rootless adventurer. Above him curved a firmament-like vault of polished marble from which depended the disparate banners of the city-states constituting his hard-won empire: Patanga, Thurdis, Shembis, Tsargol, plus that of the Jegga Horde of the Blue Nomads, the crude banner of the hirsute Beast-men, even the ragged standard of his own Black Hawk tribe of distant Valkarth. Now he stood and addressed his old friend: “Lord Mael, as always, you are a sight most welcome! Who is your guest?”
“My Sark, may I present the General Bothon, a mighty man of valor from the Empire of the Sun in faraway Mu.” At this the Muvian nodded. His height and build were roughly equivalent to Thongor’s own. Like the Valkarthan, he was clean-shaven with shoulder-length hair, though it was fiery red. He was broad of forehead and blue-eyed.
Mael continued. “You will recall how you and I first met in that great continent some years agone in the struggle to free its people from the betrayal and tyranny of the Prince Ubamu. General Bothon had been imprisoned by that regime, freed only after your departure.”
Thongor nodded, his eyes momentarily wandering in remembrance of those days and that particular struggle.
Lord Mael was still speaking: “I have long wished to see the two of you meet.”
At this, the Muvian man of war stooped to one knee before Thongor, but his royal host would have none of it. Instead, he swiftly descended the inlaid steps of the throne platform, shucking his gleaming robe, and lifted his visitor to his feet.
“Nay, nay! We here are both warriors, man and man; we stand on equal footing,”. The two shook calloused hands, Lord Mael beaming with an almost fatherly satisfaction.
“He asks our aid to stave off the destruction of his homeland.”
“So you are in need of troops and weaponry? We can…”
For the first time, an emboldened Bothon spoke for himself: “Nay, Lord, it is something greater that I dare request: you yourself!”
Few things startled the Vandar of Valkarth anymore, but these words managed it. He was for the moment quite speechless, though Mael could be heard chuckling. Bothon resumed.
“There is sorcery involved, your highness, and your successes against evil wizards are known far and wide. It has to do with an impending war between priesthoods using their respective deities as Doomsday weapons. The acolytes of Nigguratl-Yig have set themselves against the devotees of fearsome Ghatanothoa, who dwells in, or perhaps under, the fastness of Mount Yaddith-Gho. The terror campaigns mounted by the priests have rent asunder our society in all nine provinces, but should the gods themselves somehow be introduced into the fray, Mu itself will be destroyed, perhaps even sunk! To such mad lengths does the priestly lust for power extend. They are vying for a fabled artifact, the exact nature of which is no longer known, at least not to us who are not initiates, not even to the Emperor, the great Ra Mu. And it is he who has sent me to you. Can you help us, Lord Thongor?”
“Let this be my answer, my brother,” replied the Emperor of the West as he took the other’s hand in a mutual vice-like grip. The heavy signet rings of both men clinked together like drinking goblets in a toast.
ii. Sailing a Sea of Troubles
Leaving Lord Mael in charge, Thongor and his newfound ally gathered modest equipment and arranged incognito passage on a merchant ship headed east to points beyond the Lemurian coast. In lieu of paying for passage, they passed themselves off as mercenaries seeking employment far from the authorities who, they intimated, sought them in connection with some misdeeds. They contracted to trade hard work on board for passage, and both pitched in impressively, winning the confidence of the boat’s captain. The two incognito warriors sat late into the warm nights in careful conversation with the captain, eager to hear more of the crises afflicting the great Pacific continent, and to hear it from unofficial channels, from people closer to the events on the ground than government spies. Most of the scuttlebutt was already known to Bothon. But there were unsuspected details and privileged information that might prove very valuable in the mission before them. One of these pertained to the mysterious relic of which Bothon expressed woefully incomplete information. Not only was its nature unknown but its location as well. In its absence, the lingering repute of it served as a formidable power, giving second thoughts to anyone foolish enough to venture up Mount Yaddith-Gho.
The days dragged on monotonously till the captain assured them they should soon catch sight of the Muvian coastline. But something else, and much less welcome, caught their eyes before they could make it t o port, namely a hostile vessel pulling directly in their path! The crew were quick to ready themselves for the impending battle with… whom? The ship bore no identifying marks.
“Who are they, brothers?” asked Thongor (whose identity was still unguessed by his shipmates). The captain fiddled with his spyglass a moment before replying, “Yamath take me if I know, lads!”
Bothon spoke next: “I daresay the ship is manned by one of the warring sects, though which one I cannot say! But whoever they are, they do not look very glad to see us—or any outside visitor!” So quoth he, loosening his scimitar in his belt.
“Fine by me!” laughed Thongor. “I welcome a bit of exercise!” The sword Sarkozan seemed to spring into his eager hand.
It was but few moments before the two ships were bumping aside one another and apish forms began swarming over the side. Thongor, Bothon, and their captain, who claimed the name Megbar, set to the fray, backed up by the rest of the crew. Blood geysered till a red mist permeated the air, and all combatants had to step carefully so as not to trip over the many severed limbs littering the deck. As Megbar would later inform his new comrades, their opponents might have been in the service of either faction, that of Nigguratl-Yig or of Ghatanothoa. Not priests or acolytes, the men were mostly hired ruffians and waterfront rowdies. If any survived, there would be little value in questioning them. They would know nothing but their paymasters’ promises.
Finally, all were disposed of. Too many of Megbar’s crew had been lost. There were scarcely sufficient of them to bring the ship safely into harbor. That is, if it were likely to make it that far. As Thongor and his friend stood at the rail, dumping, shoving, and kicking bodies overboard, a new peril announced itself: the attackers had set fire to the ship!
“Don’t panic, you dogs! Abandon ship! We’ll just take theirs!” The vessels were still near enough to one another that passage from the one to the other took no great agility, and the few remaining men made the jump easily.
As Thongor and Megbar examined the contents of the cabin, they came upon certain tokens revealing the allegiance of the late crew: they fought for the Mighty Mother-Father, Nigguratl-Yig. At this, Bothon, joining them, expressed surprise. “I should have thought the depraved worshippers of Ghatanothoa the more likely candidates. Their murderous zeal is fired only by their keen terror of their devil’s cruel vengeance. But I suppose cruelty creates enemies in its own image.”
iii. The Son of the Sun
Bothon and his guest bade farewell to Megbar at the docks, then secured a pair of kroters nearby. As they covered the many miles inland toward A-Lu, the great capital city of the Empire of the Sun, as Mu was officially designated, Thongor could not resist admiring, even gawking at, the wondrous sights of nature as well as of architecture. Many types of trees and of animals were completely new to him. This mighty civilization was aeons older than any known to him back in Lemuria. He beheld castles, temples, and coliseums he would have sworn had been carven each from a single, unimaginably vast gemstone. Along paved highways were strewn great images of the deities worshipped here, some divinely human in form, others asymmetrical masses with protruding feelers. Some were so titanic in size that they were easily visible at some distance well away from the road. There were crystalline waterfalls, some seemingly frozen in place by unknown arts. Never had the Valkarthan felt so acutely his barbarous origins.
On the other hand, in the evenings spent in modest inns and taverns, Thongor felt more comfortable. The Muvians he encountered were mostly of peasant stock, farmers and common laborers, whose taxes no doubt funded the construction at which he had marveled on the road. They reminded him of his own subjects, though he was perhaps more beloved in his own kingdom because its impressive palaces and temple had been built already by the previous rulers, and Thongor had found no need to tax them heavily.
The next day, bright and early, the companions made their way, without royal pomp (the same as pomposity in Thongor’s estimation) and ceremony to the massive portals of the Imperial Palace of the Sun. It was breathtaking, even to those who lived in the capital, some of whom were said to believe that every evening the sun retreated from the sky directly into the palace! Thongor himself, beholding the structure for the first time, could almost believe it himself. Though their entry attracted the admiring stares of many, no official notice was taken of them at first, all guards having been forewarned of their imminent arrival. No official came to greet them till they arrived at the throne room, whereupon two soldiers saluted General Bothon with appropriate gestures. Thongor was a stranger to them, nor did they appear to have been expecting anyone but Bothon, so secret had the mission been kept. Ordinarily they should have demanded the weapons of any visitor they did not recognize, but the Valkarthan’s obvious association with their commander obviated any need for this safety protocol. So they passed unchallenged into the dwelling of the Incarnate Sun on earth.
The throne room was a revelation to Thongor. His own audience hall in Patanga, to him always a marvel far beyond the rough accommodations of his ancestral Valkarthan chiefs, nonetheless paled into tawdry insignificance in comparison to what he now saw. Both floor and vaulted ceiling were of clear quartz, the floor transparent to active streams of magma rushing below, the ceiling invisible to the blue heavens above. The effect was to place the Imperial throne as if suspended between heaven and hell, its occupant a living God. Thongor stood still, as dazed as he had been the day he first beheld the opulence of Lemurian civilization.
At length he noticed that all present had prostrated themselves before the figure seated on the magnificent throne. Indignant whispers from several directions urged him to join in the submissive posture. But instead, he stepped unhesitating toward the golden dais and up the steps to the throne itself. The seated figure did not appear to be affronted when his visitor held forth a hand, saying, “A king does not bow to a fellow king. Your majesty, I greet you as an equal!”
The Great Ra Mu only smiled as he rose to his gold-slippered feet and offered his jewel-bedecked hand. The man-god bore no trace of hauteur or condescension but rather seemed to welcome his visitor’s frank forthrightness. He was of medium build and late middle age, his face open and smiling. Though manifestly at home amid his fantastic surroundings, the Sun-Emperor seemed to treat it all as if he was merely one more figure in his proper place in a great tapestry, which, in a sense, he was.
His wrinkled brow bore a cylindrical crown peppered with radiant jewels that seemed to emit their own dazzling rays of light. Thongor shared his era’s ready credence in the supernatural (indeed, had he himself not seen plenty of sorcery, benign as well as malignant?), but he was also shrewd enough to surmise some clever device to be at work. Still, he had momentarily fallen silent.
“No need to say it, my son: you are Thongor of Lemuria, word of whose great exploits has reached even to us here in distant Mu. It is a true honor!”
The Valkarthan merely nodded. His host waved a hand to indicate a door down on the main level. “Let us retire to the conference chamber, Lord Thongor. My counselors await us.” A pair of splendidly clad guards accompanied the two kings and the general to the designated room.
This new chamber was gorgeously appointed, though without causing mere mortals to imagine themselves transported to the empyrean realm. Shields and weapons of various designs lined the walls, together with the stuffed and mounted heads of conquered game. Several of these creatures were altogether new to the Lemurian. They were either extremely exotic or else extinct, attesting the vast age of the hall thus decorated.
The theocrat Ra Mu, setting aside for the moment his carefully constructed numinous aura, sat at the table in a high-backed chair, ornate with the sacred symbols of ancient Mu. In business-like fashion he assumed control of the meeting, demonstrating genuine involvement in the affairs of state, thus no mere ceremonial figurehead. Like a professor lecturing his students, Ra Mu set forth what was known of the situation facing his increasingly desperate people. On this or that point he turned to General Bothon for verification or correction if needed.
Both the competing deities, he explained, were by no means native to this earth but rather had arrived from the far-away world of Yuggoth, of which no Lemurian had ever heard, unless perhaps the Black Druids of Zaar, the feared and shunned City of Magicians, cherished its secrets. Nigguratl-Yig and Great Ghatanothoa had at times been worshipped together as members of the same pantheon. Conflict arose between “them” only when their respective priesthoods vied for power, and this was such a time. But hostilities on the scale of those now witnessed were unprecedented, unattested in the holy chronicles of Mu.
The Sun-Emperor then summoned a robed cleric, one T’yog, Pontifex Maximus of the divine Mother-Father, Nigguratl-Yig. Thongor and Bothon listened with keen interest to this man. Though courageous men of war, the two champions knew that warfare, while thrilling to the barbarian soul, was always to be avoided when possible, lest untold numbers of innocents be killed or maimed. If this T’yog had some scheme to cure the Mother Continent of the fever that threatened to consume them, they were eager to hear it. They would rejoice if their martial skills could thus be rendered moot.
“Great Lords, I have secured the cooperation of a few of the priests of Ghatanothoa who regret, as we do, the tragic strife that plagues us. I believe that, if our two heroes will accompany me to a meeting of the minds with these priests, and if we announce our alliance with you two, the faction of Ghatanothoa may see the futility of any further violence, knowing that those who have conquered many times before will do the same now, vanquishing the forces of the god of Mount Yaddith-Gho. Of course, I hope this threat will by itself suffice; I do not presume to ask these two warriors to undertake actual hostilities. If the priests of Ghatanothoa rebuff this overture, we will only try some different course of diplomacy. What think ye, Lords of Lemuria and royal Mu?
“But you will need time to weigh what I have said, so I and my attendants will leave you now, until you can return an answer. May the Mother-Father guide your deliberations.”
*
In silence, the hierophant T’yog, vicar of the Mother-Father, led his small entourage out of the Palace of the Sun and down the plaza, past the splendid temples of a number of Muvian deities, until they reached the jade pyramid of their own divine matron-patron. Each man genuflected, chanting the prescribed words of the sacred entrance litany, antiphonally with the posted guards, also priestlings.
Once inside, his puzzled disciples demanded to know of their master if he really meant what he had said in the meeting just past. At this, T’yog rolled his yellowed eyes and snapped at them: “Of *course* not, you idiots! My words disguised my real plans, which you apparently thought me such a fool as to reveal to our enemies!
“What I envision is this: I mean to annihilate the monster Ghatanothoa together with the heretics who worship him! And these do-gooders are going to assist me in that endeavor. They will in fact do great good, but not in any way they can now imagine! Oh, ha-ha, it is rich, I tell you!”
Like eager children wanting to hear the end of a fairy tale, the acolytes of T’yog pressed him for more. “That would be a mighty feat indeed! Pray, how will you accomplish it?”
T’yog hesitated just a moment but could not resist telling his admirers. “In the recesses of our temple I stumbled upon a metal tube such as one uses to deposit messages for transport. Despite its corrosion, I was able to twist the lid off. The inside of the cylinder was preserved clean and uncorroded, and I saw then that it was formed of the ultratelluric lagh metal, brought to earth in primordial times from distant Yuggoth on the rim, coeval with the advent of Ghatanothoa itself. Within, I discovered a powerful spell which, if one use it aright, renders one immune to the petrifying sight of the Monster on Mount Yaddith-Gho. Otherwise, the mind-blasting sight of that strayer from an alien dimension must freeze the physical form of the beholder to stony stiffness, all the while leaving his mind agonizingly active in the prison of his own immortal but useless body!”
“And Master T’yog, what is the right use of the spell?”
“It is simple, but the price is high, requiring a rare commodity: the blood, all the blood, of two kings!”
The acolytes, much impressed, clapped their hands in glee. Holy T’yog was past mere gloating: he was instead preoccupied imagining his future glory as Druid Supreme of the greatest deity of primal Mu–and the new Emperor of the Sun.
*
A few days later, the day of the peace envoy to the priests of Ghatanothoa, T’yog hurried to the imperial bed chamber, summoned by the attendants of the Great Ra Mu, who had taken ill. T’yog had the day before told them he suspected the sovereign to be suffering from some variety of blood poisoning, whether from bad food or the hand of a would-be assassin. Of this he knew more than he dared share. But regardless of the cause, the treatment was clear: the careful application of several huge vampire leeches, a species happily extinct in our day. He sedated t he already beclouded king, then distributed several of the ravenous vermin over the supine body. T’yog then explained that, given the severity of their lord’s condition, it would be needful to leave the loathsome parasites attached for a longer period than usually prescribed. Gravely nodding their tonsured heads, the attendants resigned themselves to their grim vigil. T’yog scurried away to see to other business elsewhere but promised he would be back in time to remove, really to uproot, the bloodsuckers. And this promise he was careful to keep. The results were to prove desirable or not, depending on precisely what one desired
iv. The Blood of Kings
Neither Thongor nor Bothon was free of doubt concerning the strategy of the priest T’yog. What disturbed General Bothon was the seeming vagueness of the plan. It was too nebulous and too open-ended. And could those who had gods at their disposal possibly be cowed by the threat of two flesh-and-blood swordsmen? For his part, Thongor was instinctively suspicious of any and all priests, the more highly placed, the less trustworthy. His experiences had only reinforced this attitude. And yet both men were willing to put their forebodings aside. They trusted the intentions of Ra Mu if not his wisdom in this case.
These thoughts occupied their conversation as they mounted their kroters, each caparisoned with heraldic banners featuring ancient hieratic glyphs and inscriptions in the Naacal tongue of Mu. They embarked for Mount Yaddith-Gho, located in the adjacent province of K’naa. They were to be joined by a party of Nigguratl-Yig’s acolytes at a chapel on the border of K’naa, where these devotees should have just completed some ritual of pious preparation. These men stood outside the modest building, not yet having climbed aboard their own reptilian steeds. T’yog was not among them, but one fellow motioned the two riders to enter the chapel, where, they were assured, T’yog awaited them. At this, alarms began to sound in Thongor’s head, but there was no evident reason to refuse.
Thongor’s golden eyes quickly surveyed the interior. He could not make full sense of what he saw, but it was enough to convince him he should have followed his instincts. There was no sign of the wily T’yog, damn him, and more priests were busy setting up some obscure devices atop a long table, about the length of a tall man’s body.
All this took but a second to register, and then the rest of the priests were withdrawing short-swords from their voluminous sleeves. Meanwhile, Bothon, unaware of how much Thongor had seen, yelled, “It’s a trap!” Both were quick to grasp their own familiar hilts. Priests might be dangerous and clever schemers, but they were no swordsmen, and their intended victims cut them down like wheat before a scythe.
Thongor was soon rubbing away the blood with which he was thickly spattered. Bothon stepped over to the cot-like table, examining the strange mechanism mounted upon it. Thongor, curious, joined him.
“What is this supposed to be?”
“I have seen the like before. Physicians use them. Their purpose is to collect fevered blood and to replace it. Why this one is here, I cannot guess.”
“I have in mind a purpose for it. It seems it was our blood they sought, for whatever foul reason. There is plenty of blood here; why let it go to waste? I’ve a feeling it may soon come in handy.”
“And a couple of these robes,” added Bothon, “unless I miss my guess….”
An hour’s ride brought them to the base of the basalt cliffs atop which the temple of monstrous Ghatanothoa perched vulture-like. High up but nonetheless legible ran two lines of carven text. Thongor had to ask his friend, “My Naacal is pretty rusty, I’m afraid. What does it say?”
Bothon squinted and studied the huge letters of stylized script, then translated: “Some black fate brought it here and left it for all men to fear.”
Thongor and Bothon paused to don their borrowed robes before approaching the gathered acolytes of Nigguratl-Yig. Once these latter caught sight of the pair, they welcomed them with interest, though not with recognition. Some most likely had not actually seen either man in person, but if any had, they could not see much of their faces because of the excessive dimensions of their robes’ hoods, a sign of monkish humility. Nor did their physiques give away the two outsiders, since most of the others were husky goons, not actual priests with duties at the altars. One spoke to Thongor, noticing the blood stains decorating his robe.
“Ah! Anyone can see where you’ve been, my friend, and what you’ve been doing! Do you have the sacrificial blood? Come on now. Lord T’yog grows impatient.”
The Valkarthan accompanied him to the high priest without hesitation. He bowed his head for added anonymity, then held out the crystal tube of blood. T’yog’s eyes lit up at the sight of it.
“Ah! The blood of the Lemurian Sark!”
Now it was Thongor’s eyes that widened, though in truth he had expected as much. But now T’yog continued: “Added to the life-blood of the senile Ra Mu!”
At these words both Thongor and Bothon were shaken. Each fairly ached to spring for the evil hierophant’s scrawny throat, but they knew a more opportune moment would present itself, for they possessed a particular bit of knowledge that they knew T’yog lacked.
Playing demonstratively to his adoring audience, the seemingly triumphant T’yog held both canisters aloft, their scarlet contents sloshing about like sarn wine in a bottle. “With the shed blood of two kings I shall gain immunity to the fatal sight of the monster Ghatanothoa! On the very threshold of his lair I shall offer the sacrifice to destroy him!” As his minions shouted their approval, the power-mad priest turned his face toward the obsidian cliffs, raising his eyes as if to gauge his path of ascent.
“Do you think he will attempt the climb?” Bothon asked his friend.
Thongor snorted, “That spindle-shanked weakling? Not likely! But look there!”
As if in answer to some secret signal, the broad shadow of a great graak, the lizard-hawk of the prehistoric skies descended obligingly from above. Some sorcery must have enabled the clever T’yog to tame the magnificent beast. Its master climbed aboard and grasped the reins, carrying the twin vials of blood in a side pouch. The reptile flapped its leather wings and rose gracefully from the volcanic earth. The aerial climb lasted but moments till the rider’s spry form could be seen dismounting upon the flat overhang directly before the fortress-like fane of Ghatanothoa. All eyes below followed every movement, eager to witness the decisive moment to come.
v. Yaddith-Gho
T’yog could be seen gesticulating and prancing grotesquely in some ritually prescribed manner. Thongor had to suppress a laugh at the silly-looking pantomime. He could not at this distance make out what the man was saying, but he doubted that, if he could hear it, it would render the holy antics any less comical. The air at the summit did seem to darken a shade or two, and a vague rumble could be momentarily heard, but the Valkarthan credited these mildly impressive effects to stage illusionism.
And now the tiny T’yog was entering into a gap in the rock face that had not been evident a moment before, or at least Thongor had not noticed it. Presumably the old schemer was exploring some shaft leading downward into the bowels of Yaddith-Gho and the lair of the lurker within. At the foot of the mountain, the acolytes paced nervously, or perhaps it was with eager expectancy. And Thongor and Bothon were no exceptions.
Thus did things continue for some hours on the ground as worried acolytes traded desperate speculations, to which Thongor and Bothon listened in silence—that is, till an echoing shriek sounded forth from within the mountain, galvanizing every witness. It was plain now that the plan had failed, the secret incantation, believed energized by royal blood, having come to nothing. But then the blood-chilling scream ceased as abruptly as it had begun. The crowd stood motionless for a single moment before scattering in justified terror, since legend promised that Ghatanothoa, if ever roused to wrath, must descend Yaddith-Gho like burgeoning lava, destroying or petrifying all in its path.
The two heroes, strangers to crippling fear, looked at one another in silent agreement and then began the daunting climb. For his part, Thongor, having navigated the great, snowy peaks of his Valkarthan homeland, experienced little difficulty, though the going was necessarily slow. Bothon quickly lagged behind, studying every move Thongor made in order to reduce his risks by imitation. Their borrowed robes helped shield them from the cold but were quickly shredded away by the rocks they climbed.
Inside the cliff-face aperture, it was by no means difficult to follow the path taken by the ill-fated T’yog. No one else had passed that way in what might well have been aeons, so the footprints in the archaean dust provided the clearest possible map. The place was a labyrinth, with tunnel mouths leading off in all directions. Thongor thought it best to ignore these and instead follow strictly in T’yog’s footsteps, at least for the present. By dim illumination from unknown sources down the various tunnels, the heroes paused in their search to study a very extensive mural-like bas relief depicting what looked like an alien race of an insectoid or crustacean nature. Each had several multi-jointed legs and a protective carapace from which membranous, kite-like wings spread out. There was no proper head, only a cluster of feelers. If the traditional lore was to be trusted, these figures must represent the beings from Yuggoth, those who had brought the fearsome Ghatanothoa to earth in the first place. Of course, the significance of the portrayal was, to say the least, equivocal. But it seemed to imply that these entities had transported their monster to earth in order to rid themselves of the danger it posed even to them. One panel pictured several of the Yuggoth creatures venerating a pair of closely detailed artifacts: one a capped cylinder, the other a great sword, though it could not easily have been wielded by the crustacean pincers characteristic of the race. Were these implements intended somehow to protect against the baneful aura of Ghatanothoa? Bothon thought of the common belief that a very powerful relic of some kind had long ago been lost.
How much of this had been known to old T’yog, or to Ra Mu, whom he had slain? It seemed to Bothon that his mind was prodding him to make a crucial connection. But the sensation fled away in a moment as several robed figures swarmed out from three of the tunnel openings. These must have been followers of the resident deity. Their loose clothing could not conceal the outlines of their obviously non-human anatomy. Thongor had seen many strange life-forms including furry Beastmen and reptilian Dragon Kings, but these were more disquieting. He reached out to seize the smock of one creature and ripped it away, only to gasp at the living counterparts of the things represented on the tunnel walls! He was momentarily taken aback. With servitors like these, what must their master be like? Bothon shook Thongor back to full attention. Both men had easily retained their weapons in the folds of their bloodied vestments, and now they brought them into play.
Thongor found that these huge arthropods fell quickly before the blade of his sword Sarkozan, but for some reason Bothon was not so fortunate. His fine steel sword found its mark again and again—but seemed to pass right through the unharmed bodies of his foes. They in turn struck at him, scratching and gashing with vicious pincers. Wherever they touched his tanned flesh, no blood flowed, but his skin glowed incandescent and gave off a strange, glittering vapor!
The Lemurian marveled, dismayed and baffled. Without being able to articulate the thought, he began to form a vague understanding that these creatures were so completely foreign to his own kind of existence that its familiar laws did not apply to them! That had to be why Bothon’s blade could make no physical impact upon them. In some way, they were not really there!
But then how did Thongor’s Sarkozan damage and destroy them?
Bothon, as if reading Thongor’s mind, gasped out, “Your sword! It must be forged from the lost lagh metal from their own world! Your Sarkozan must be the missing relic!”
Thongor could well believe it; no weapons maker or metallurgist had ever been able to identify the substance of the blade. This crossed his mind as he noticed the slain carcasses of the ones he had dispatched: they were fading from sight! But enough of that—he must come to the aid of his Muvian sword-brother!
The job was short work. In a moment the piles of chitinous sticks and ribs were following those of their fallen fellows into extra-dimensional oblivion.
The two humans cautiously proceeded on their way. Around a bend in the nitre-dripping shaft, they almost tripped over the kneeling corpse of the presumptuous T’yog. Always drawn and boney, the dead shaman looked already to be in an advanced state of rigor mortis. The living men gingerly stepped around the mummified villain, dreading some loathsome contagion. T’yog had served as the canary in the coal mine, as his corpse now warned that great Ghatanothoa must be dangerously near.
“We cannot turn back now, friend Bothon, for T’yog’s blunderings may have disturbed the monster, rousing it to fury!”
“But why think we will fare better than our late friend here?”
Thongor thought a moment, then replied, “I have an idea. It is the mere sight of Ghatanothoa that blasts those who gaze upon it. Granted, even a blind man caught in the mass of the thing must perish horribly. But…,” and here he held up Sarkozan, “we have a unique advantage!”
Withal, Thongor tore a wide strip from what remained of his tattered robe and bound it around his eyes. “It should not be too difficult to find our quarry. Hark! I believe I hear its disgusting noises already!” Bothon, too, sneered at the rising noises and stenches of the alien deity.
Thongor ran forward, charging blindly and swinging his sword like a scythe in a wheat field. He heard bubbling and popping, hissing and gurgling, then exploding fumaroles and spattering geysers of gore. Many times he felt the fleeting impact of hunks and globs of alien ichor, but as soon as they hit his flesh they vanished, leaving no mark, as he subsequently verified. Then he heard Bothon’s welcome voice.
“I think you can safely unmask now, my friend. The mighty Ghatanothoa is gone for good. Let him terrorize his own cursed planet if he is still able!”
*
The Sark of Lemuria was eager to return to hearth and home, where he knew his family, friends, and subjects must be worrying for him. He would make his return across the waters in grand style this time, in a brand new ship constructed especially for the newly commissioned captain in the Muvian fleet, one Megbar, former master of a leaking tub of a boat. Thongor stood beside him at the coronation of the new Incarnation of the Sun, the Great Ra Mu, until recently known as Bothon. The shadow of Ghatanothoa had retreated at the dawn of the new Sun.
©December 2021, Robert M. Price
Robert M. Price has published a series of stories featuring Lin Carter’s Thongor of Lemuria. Price is Lin Carter’s literary executor. This is his first appearance in Swords & Sorcery.