The Mighty Warriors
Author: Robert Price; Adrian Cole; Cody Goodfellow; Milton Davis; Charles Saunders; Charles Rutledge; Ken Asamtsu; Edward Lipsett; Cliff Biggers; Paul McNamee
Date: 2018-05-13 00:30:02+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Fantasy; General
Description: In Robert E. Howard's Conan epic, "The hour of the dragon" (or Conan the Conqueror), a group of conspirators bring the ancient sorcerer Xaltotun back from the dead in a bid to usurp the throne of Conan. How we Sword- & -Sorcery fans wish we had the magic to resurrect Howard himself, not to mention other masters of the genre like Henry Kuttner and Lin Carter? Okay, we can't manage that. But you'll find our best attempt here in the anthology The mighty warriors! In these pages you will thrill to new adventures of the old heroes (Elak of Atlantis and Thongor of Lemuria), as well as of their swash
Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

CONTENTS

Thongor in the Valley of Demons

I. Hall of Heroes

II. Exiles from Tartarus

III. Hostages to Hell

IV. Priestly Prayers

V. Attack of the Damned

VI. Sword of Exorcism

VII. War in Heaven

Thongor in the Valley
of Demons

By Robert M. Price

I. Hall of Heroes

The royal dining hall of Patanga might have been compared to an earthly Valhalla and might possibly have served as the model for the Norse myth. From the high-vaulted ceiling hung the banners of the city-states that composed Thongor’s Empire of the West: Patanga, Shembis, Thurdis, and the rest. This night, as the fires roared in the gigantic hearth, the Emperor roared with laughter, sitting at the head of the long banqueting table. The merriment was shared with his nobles: Prince Dru, slender and foppish; Lord Mael whose lined and grizzled visage cracked with hilarity despite himself; Barand Thon, and others, who had joined Thongor and Sumia his queen for this special occasion. Thongor was celebrating the visit of his old comrade Shangoth, chieftain of the towering, blue-skinned Rmoahal nomads. One figure, though easily ignored and forgotten, sat unmoving, benignly watching the others like a father observing his children at play. This was Eumonius Eld, hierophant of the Nineteen Gods. One had the feeling that he enjoyed the proceedings but felt it improper to let on, preferring to maintain a pose of superior detachment. As he sat, clad in golden robes, a vermilion skull cap surmounting his hairless head, he imbibed the occasional sip of sarn wine and let go a small grin at the occasional ribald jest.

Shangoth sat at Thongor’s left, Sumia at his right as, inevitably, the two warrior kings traded, and embellished, favorite war stories. Thongor, never keen on civilized protocols, had laid his crown aside, parking it next to his huge wine goblet. Sumia dreaded the moment Thongor would reach for the wrong one, in the process spilling wine on the ancient diadem of her ancestors. She was relieved when it finally happened and was over.

His advisors had given up trying to shape Thongor, a barbarian from the snowy peaks of Valkarth, into a polished royal exemplar. It wasn’t going to work, and Thongor’s subjects would never have forgiven them if it had. He was a man of the people. Behind his high-backed chair hung two banners, one featuring the flame design of Patanga, the other emblazoned with the black lizard-hawk of Thongor’s own tribe. Casting state decorum to the wind, the Valkarthan pounded the table with his mace-like fist and clapped his visitor’s shoulder, though he had to reach high up to do so. His black mane shivered like a curtain in the wind as he shook his head in mirth or exclamation. The fire illumined his high, broad cheek bones and surprisingly white teeth. But even in ordinary sunlight his skin was bronzed, his eyes maelstroms of gold dust. His clean-shaven jaw bore a minor scar or two, reminders of battles past. He wore no ermine robes but only a tunic of common design, though cut from finely woven cloth. Sumia wore traditional royal attire, as did all the other nobles present—except for Shangoth, who was more scantily clothed than his friend the Emperor, clad mainly in a loincloth and a cloak made of exotic feathers of fantastic hues. His earlobes bore rubies set in electrum, his massive throat circled with gold and silver pendants and amulets, some carved with miniature effigies of his tribal idols. It was only with difficulty that he squeezed into the specially constructed chair that struggled and creaked to accommodate his stature.

The raucous feasting declined to a dull roar as a guard stepped up to his sovereign’s side with news. The other diners paused, knowing something serious must be afoot to justify interrupting the king’s festivities. Thongor’s demeanor changed abruptly as he listened gravely, then gestured at a second guardsman to come forward. This the young soldier did, his weapons sheathed, as he half-carried a staggering figure into the royal presence. Seeing the poor wretch’s condition, Thongor rose from his seat and helped the broken, bleeding figure to take his place. In that moment, Sumia saw crystallized the difference between Thongor and other kings: they stood on ceremony and pompous pretense to maintain their royal dignity, whereas her beloved earned respect and honor by acts of selfless concern.

“Tell me, my man, what has happened to you?” The old fellow had suffered multiple injuries, strangely varied in character. There were burns of some severity, a broken arm, numerous bruises, and just as many crudely treated flesh wounds.

“My Lord, Hell has broken loose upon my village. It has fallen, and I alone have escaped to tell you.”

Withal, he expired. Thongor looked up at the guards, then around at the faces of those at table. All had heard the brief exchange, and the face of each was identically blank with puzzlement, as if the dead man had spoken in some language unknown to them.

Thongor picked up the body and carefully handed it over to the guards with orders to provide an honorable burial. Taking his seat once more, he motioned for the rest to sit as well. Pensive for a few moments, the king looked up at the waiting faces and said, “We must assume the old fellow’s village was upheaved by a great earthquake. We all felt tremors but a few days ago. I received no reports of serious damage till now. I shall send men to investigate. But what have the rest of you to say? I value your wisdom, as I think you know.”

The high priest spoke up. “Majesty, if you will indulge me,” he said with a slight bow, “I cannot help thinking that, as awful a misfortune as this is, there is something even larger and more sinister at work here. I would suggest that whatever has transpired, it merits direct inspection by your Majesty or his appointed agents—and myself. If there is a greater danger, who knows but that it might endanger all of Lemuria if not checked right away. Call me an old fool, but…”

“Not at all, your Holiness! You are of course very wise. Tonight I shall question my guards as to the location of the disaster. On the morrow I shall depart. Any of you are welcome to join me.”

II. Exiles from Tartarus

At dawn a small party of palace guards accompanied Thongor, Shangoth, and Eumonius Eld to investigate the destruction of the small city, as it turned out, of Teloth. Prince Dru and the others, present at the feast the previous night, volunteered to join the expedition, but Thongor decided they would be of more value busy at their regular duties. After a few days ride they began noticing strange omens and collapsed structures. Corpses were scattered, the more thickly the closer to Teloth they came. Dismounting their reptilian kroters, Thongor and his men stooped down to examine several of the bodies and found the same odd mixture of wounds, bruises, and burns they had seen on that first refugee. Reaching the site of Teloth, they first thought they had gone astray, then realized the city had been completely obliterated. There was a huge, gaping rift in the ground from which mephitic vapors rose.

Eumonius Eld spoke. “This is no mere quaking of the earth, not even a terrible one.”

Mighty Shangoth replied, his tone respectful. “Wise hierophant, remember that there had been tremors, and the manner of the damage here is surely that of an earthquake, is it not?”

“It is that—and more, my friend. The upheaval was of itself a mindless convulsion of the earth, true, but I fear it has by chance led to something much worse, released something much worse.”

“And what is that, O priest?” Thongor asked.

“My Lord Thongor, would you not agree that a disturbance of the earth would not by itself produce all the injuries we have observed on the bodies of these poor victims?”

“It is true. The burns remain unaccounted for. And the bruises, the wounds. They are more naturally the result of attack by weapons. I suppose wandering marauders might have taken the earthquake as an opportunity to despoil the survivors. Still…”

“And,” Shangoth said, his blue, bald pate mirroring the noontide sky, “consider the distance at which we found the outlying bodies. With such wounds, could they have made it so far? And if they fell where attacked, why would marauders have pursued them there? Those fleeing for their lives could not have carried much to interest thieves.”

Thongor readily accepted logic when he heard it. And he had no longer a recourse to purely naturalistic explanations. “So what, good Eumonius Eld, are we likely to be facing?” As he spoke, Thongor instinctively began to draw his sword, Sarkozan, from its scabbard.

The priest met his king’s inquiring gaze, then looked off into the distance of contemplation.

“I believe, my friends, that we stand upon the verge, not only of a crevasse in the earth, but of a rift between heaven and hell. Some even among my priests think it a legend or a holy allegory, but I have always believed the old epic of a war between the Devas and the Asuras, the angels and the devils. These demons anciently defied the Nineteen Gods and were imprisoned deep in a subterranean cavern, some in their solid flesh, others incorporeal.”

“Aye,” Shangoth added, as if to second the priest’s speculation, “We tell a similar story among the Jegga Horde. I, too, believe it!”

“Now an opportune earthquake has freed them,” the priest continued. “And as the Xanthu Tablets foretold, the day has come when they will challenge the Gods anew. They have emerged from the pit of imprisonment energized by long-simmering hatred. It was they, I venture, who hunted down the inhabitants of Teloth, wielding adamantine clubs and swords and spears flaring with infernal fires.”

Thongor’s golden, lion-like eyes scanned the horizon. “Where are they now? We must be ready in case they return. There are too few of us to stand against a sudden assault. We shall spread out and climb these hills to get a better view of the land surrounding us. Then, if the way is clear, we must hasten back to Patanga to prepare for battle—military and spiritual.”

Thongor took the priest with him to one of the hilltops. From there they saw nothing. But it was not long before danger appeared, though not from the anticipated direction. The ground began to shake, and the king and the priest braced themselves. Thongor dropped to the earth and motioned for Eumonius Eld to do the same. The former was clad in warrior’s harness, the latter in hieratic robes, though less heavy and elaborate than usual. The dirtying of his splendid vestments struck the hierophant, with an inkling of irony, as emblematic of the crisis now upon them. Every vestige of a carefully crafted world might well be swept away in a brimstone avalanche. For now a demonic horde of Asuras was pouring forth from the newly made ravine.

III. Hostages to Hell

Eumonius Eld, not a young man by any standard, struggled to his knees, then to his feet with Thongor’s help. Without complaint, but with a quiet, involuntary groan, the priest made to descend the hill by his sovereign’s side, but Thongor prevented him.

“Hold there, father! You know the difference between valor and suicide! You will serve best by staying here and watching. If the Gods have decreed this to be my last day,” withal he looked down into the valley, “and it looks like they have, I will need someone to return to Patanga with a report. Now wish me luck!”

Thongor saw the rest of his men descending another of the hills and ran to reconnoiter with them. Shoulder to shoulder they would make a last stand against the charge of the demon host! Night was falling, and when Thongor greeted his fellows it was with a fatalistic shout of esprit de corps.

He expected the tidal wave of infernal warriors to break upon the shore of their upraised swords and shields in scant seconds, but instead, the demon horde, indistinct in the twilight, had halted many yards away, waiting silently on their shadow-shrouded mounts. Thongor, utterly puzzled, looked back to address his silent men. At once he saw their eyes glowing fiery red in the deepening dark. They had been possessed! Shangoth, his pigment now turned purple, wordlessly felled him with a single blow.

All this Eumonius Eld viewed with astonished horror. He returned to his knees, then to the ground, hoping to become as inconspicuous as possible. The last thing he saw was the parting of the Asura ranks to let Thongor’s possessed troops pass, carrying his supine form between them, seemingly with the care and respect to which their king had been accustomed. It did not take long for the whole silent company, silhouetted in glowing furnace smoke, to return into the unseen cavity within the rift.

The priest remained on the deserted hilltop, sleeping a bit, until the sun god’s chariot rounded the horizon. The valley below appeared to be empty, too. So the lone Patangan ventured down the hill. A look around revealed two welcome sights. One was his waiting kroter, contentedly grazing. That was a considerable relief. The other was an equally great surprise: Sarkozan, the sword of Thongor, forged by magic from a white-hot meteorite! The blade flashed with crimson dawn light, but the great jewel set in the pommel glowed with an inner radiance of its own. Eumonius Eld walked over to it, stooped down, and gingerly reached to pick it up.

He wrapped the sword, missing its scabbard, in a yard of cloth torn from his cloak, then secured it in the harness of his kroter. He wanted neither to damage the sword nor to hurt the animal. When he had, with arthritic difficulty, made it into the saddle, he noticed his pouch of provisions was missing. It was going to be a difficult journey home. And what would become of Thongor in the meantime he feared to guess.

IV. Priestly Prayers

Some days later, the council of Thongor’s trusted advisers met in grave deliberation. Thongor’s seat was occupied by his queen, Sumia. She knew the affairs of the Empire as well as her husband did. Thongor had swiftly learned to respect his queen’s intelligence and judgment and often asked her advice. Conversely, over the years of their marriage, Thongor had spent what time he could training her in combat skills. She had many times shown a natural bravery, and her voluptuous beauty promised lithe strength. She would soon be putting that strength and skill to the test.

Sarkozan lay on the table amid those assembled and, though they paid due attention to whomever was speaking, their eyes were drawn again and again to the broadsword as if all deep down sensed that, even in their monarch’s absence, the weapon held their answer—if answer there were. But just now, His Holiness Eumonius Eld held the floor, explaining the nature of the foe they faced.

“You must bear in mind, my friends, that these Asuras have no interest in the prospect of conquest or empire. Not being short-lived mortals, they feel no urgency to feign godhood by ruling as many men, as much territory, as they can. They seek not to rule but simply to destroy. The Asuras command powers we cannot hope to match. The sword Sarkozan has great power, as its very presence here attests. The devils dared not touch it. There is, in its pommel gem, some occult virtue the nature of which I cannot yet fathom. But it is only a single weapon. My studies lead me to believe that our real hope lies in a different direction. The might of our army notwithstanding, we will need powerful allies.”

Lord Mael raised a hand and interjected, “We have sent word to the Blue Nomads of Shangoth’s… abduction. A contingent of their best fighters should be here quite soon.”

“That is good, my son. Still, the apparent ease with which Shangoth himself was turned to the cause of the Devas is a daunting sign.”

Barand Thon protested. “You make him a traitor, priest!” Karm Karvus and Prince Dru fumed with indignation as well. But Eumonius Eld sought to smooth their feathers.

“Nay, my sons! Just the opposite! Shangoth would never yield to evil! He was not beguiled or persuaded, but possessed. He had neither choice in the matter nor any means to resist. If even so mighty and loyal a hero could so helplessly fall victim to the evil threatening us, what chance have we? Or the eight-foot giants who serve him? Do not underestimate our foe for fear of selling our own valor short! In such an hour we require wisdom as well as courage.”

“You paint a grim picture, holy father! What is this hope you speak of? Whence cometh our help?” asked Lord Mael, speaking for the rest.

“Our deliverance lies with Armageddon, our salvation in Ragnarok. I see you are puzzled. As I believe you are aware, we are seeing ancient myth coming alive before us. Thus I have gone to the sources to study that myth more closely. The fullest account of the primordial struggle of the Devas against the Asuras is to be found in the Upa Puranas. And in that version I have found a very important detail. The relevant passage, as in other versions, describes the long conflict between the holy Devas and the wicked Asuras. Where it differs is in its treatment of the beginning of that war. We learn that the earliest men were tested by the Nineteen Gods (though in those days, there were an even Twenty) who feared they had made men’s earthly sojourn too easy. They resolved to subject our first ancestors to a bitter trial to prove whether men were worthy to reign over the earth. The Gods had many times had to suppress the evil Asuras but, in their compassion, they disliked to destroy them. So they set them free to plague infant humanity.”

It was the queen who interrupted this time. “But how is that a test? From what you have told us, the defenseless human race could have been no match for them!”

“Indeed they were not! Even as we are not. But that was not the test. By sending upon them the scourge of the demons, the Gods sought to determine whether men were wise enough to admit it when outmatched and to acknowledge their need by seeking aid where it might be found. Men did as the Gods hoped, and the Gods rejoiced to help their children by ordering the company of the Devas into battle on their behalf. And thus began the epic contest.”

Prince Dru had followed this recital with eager ears, but suddenly he felt he must have nodded and missed some crucial point. “And what, may I ask, is in this for us?”

“Simply this, O Prince. We require the intervention of the Gods, and we will not get it until we ask for it.”

The faces around the long table seemed uniformly unimpressed.

“So that’s your plan? We should just pray?” So said Lord Mael. “I must say, I have never had much luck with that!”

“Nor I!”

“Nor I.”

“I am not surprised, my children. We cannot expect the Gods in their holy Transcendence to concern themselves with the trivial troubles of mere mortals, much less on a daily basis. Only major crises gain their notice. And this is why we have priests like myself. I serve as an ambassador to the Nineteen Gods. I may bring important matters before them, though only rarely, lest they tire of my pestering. But this is surely one of those occasions. I shall now enter the Temple and offer the customary sacrifices. I shall chant the traditional psalms of supplication. And then I shall retire to my apartment to fast and pray without ceasing and hope the Nineteen Gods will hear. The rest will be up to you. May the Gods observe your valor and judge us deserving of their aid!”

With that Eumonius Eld left the chamber, head bowed.

Queen Sumia had till this moment sat covered with a curtain-like cloak of black silk embroidered in gold thread with stylized flame designs. Now she rose to her feet, allowing the cloak to drop from her shoulders. Those present locked eyes on her, now revealed as clad in battle armor. Her arms and midriff were covered with silvered steel mail. Her proud breasts were contained in steel cups, each tipped with a purple sapphire. With one gauntleted hand she retrieved from under the table a helmet crowned with the sculpted Flame Phoenix, the emblem of Patanga, City of Fire. Setting it on her head, black hair spilling out beneath it to both shoulders, Sumia inclined forward to seize the hilt of Sarkozan and hefted it toward the ceiling.

“We shall be away within the hour! Onward for Thongor and all Lemuria!” And all shouted the same.

V. Attack of the Damned

Sumia led a small war party in the direction of ruined Teloth. Karm Karvus and Ald Turmis led two more, spreading out to determine how far the horror from the rift might have expanded. The bulk of the standing army remained in Patanga in readiness for any possible assault. The streets there were deserted as all sought shelter, fearing the worst.

As the Patangans passed through the countryside, they were troubled at the signs of devastation everywhere. Houses and barns lay in wreckage. Burnt and mutilated bodies littered the ground and swayed in the stinking wind as they hung from charred trees. Relief rivaled puzzlement, though, as the queen and her riders began to notice a peculiar disparity: there did not seem to be enough corpses to account for the necessary populace of the towns. They met no refugees dragging themselves along the roads. Where might they have fled?

The answer appeared abruptly as the company had dismounted beside a stream to refresh themselves with the modest provisions they had brought. One and then another of the companions looked up, brows knitting in concern. A ragtag group of villagers raced toward them, beginning to shout in almost bestial voice and to brandish hoes, shovels, clubs, and an occasional knife or sword. They varied in age and physical condition, some looking like they should hardly be able to walk, much less to rush headlong. The queen’s men wordlessly sprang to their feet and drew their weapons, confused at the strange spectacle. To join battle with such a mob would be cruel butchery, but one must defend oneself in any case. All looked to Sumia who appeared equally nonplussed but shrugged and settled her helmet on her head.

As their motley attackers came within striking distance, a thing even stranger became apparent. Proximity, added to the closing sunset, allowed it to be seen that the eyes of the villagers glowed eerily red. They were possessed, their very bodies having become the clothing, the vehicles, for alien spirits! As such, they constituted a genuine threat. Regretting the necessity of slaying these poor people, but knowing they had already been fatally victimized, Sumia and her men laid to with superior weaponry. The demoniac mob outmatched them in savagery but could not equal the soldiers’ prowess. Slaughtering them proved surprisingly easy work. But the brief moments the victors took to catch their breath were only the calm before the storm.

One by one, the decimated bodies of the slain began to quiver, then to convulse. Some of the Patangans shuddered with superstitious fright. All stared in amazement at the sudden agitation of the dead. But the awful motion soon ceased, at least among the corpses. At once it resumed among the same number of Sumia’s soldiers, who commenced to jerk and pitch, limbs going momentarily rigid, before retrieving their weapons and turning upon each other and their former comrades who had not become possessed. The transformed men were of course far more formidable than their predecessors, but their frenzied attack was every bit as futile since every man turned on his fellow, making no distinction between demonized friend and still-sane foe.

The pile of dead bodies was shortly twice as high. Only Sumia and a handful of others survived to set fire to the heap, quietly lamenting the loss of their heroic comrades who had perished in so bizarre and pointless a fashion.

All this Thongor witnessed with rage and horror.

VI. Sword of Exorcism

“There is nothing to be done save to press on to the grave of Teloth, to the valley of the demons,” quoth Sumia. “Courage may not save our lives, but it will guarantee a glorious death!”

The pyre of the dead illumined the night sky behind them as the Patangan riders continued their way to Teloth. There were no further attacks, but the company did now and then catch sight of winged figures or in some cases manlike forms riding on the backs of winged mounts, probably graaks, the lizard-hawks of primordial Lemuria, cousins of the pterodactyls known to modern science. They could be seen against the stars because of a sulfurous glow they emitted.

***

The hierophant of the Nineteen Great Gods of Lemuria rose from his posture of abject supplication before the altar of Father Gorm. He had already offered the precious sacrifice of a Vandar, the great black lion of the Kovian jungles. He had intoned not one but several psalms of petition. One thing remained: a sacrifice dearer even than a Vandar. To win the favor he sought from the Gods, a human sacrifice was mandated. By tradition, it ought to be the son of the reigning king, in this case Prince Thar. But Eumonius Eld could not brook that. He took the sacrificial blade from his sash and walked to the edge of the altar with its bowl for collecting the blood of the sacrifice. With a final word of prayer, he proceeded to plunge the ritual dagger into his own abdomen. As he fell forward onto the sacred table his body knocked over the great bowl, now overflowing with his own blood and bowels, which splattered on the gorgeously tiled floor. The offering was admittedly not quite orthodox, but he died with a light heart.

***

The other two parties of Thongor’s men had departed the city an hour or so after Queen Sumia’s vanguard. One was commanded by the king’s trusted comrade Ald Turmis, the other led by another of Thongor’s stalwarts from earlier days, Karm Karvus. Inspecting their men’s armaments and administering encouragement in the face of unknown danger, Ald Turmis suddenly had an inspiration and told Karm Karvus to delay things for just a moment while he sped off to the Temple. It was not the high priest he sought, but rather a couple of the trinket merchants who maintained stalls just inside the entrance. Today there were few pilgrims examining the paste amulets and scapulars devoted to the various deities and divine heroes. The merchants flinched guiltily at the approach of the warrior prince, thinking they were about to be arrested for any of several likely offenses. They were greatly relieved when Ald Turmis made his real intention known. It turned out, in fact, to be a rather profitable night for them.

***

Sumia’s few remaining soldiers sat their restless kroters and waited outside the rift of the liberated Asuras. They felt a pressure as of two great invisible walls, one of destiny, one of danger, pressing in on them.

The equilibrium was broken by the sound of hoof beats beyond the circles of their campfires. They clutched their weapons more tightly and sat up straighter in their saddles, ready at any moment to charge into battle.

But they wouldn’t have to—not yet, anyway, for from either side came the war parties of Karm Karvus and Ald Turmis. Relief gave way to rejoicing as comrades greeted and embraced one another. But even this could not dispel the abiding fog of foreboding. Somewhat distracted by looking over their shoulders, the reunited Patangans shared provisions and reports.

“Ald Turmis, Karm Karvus! Thank Gorm your numbers are undiminished. Then you were not set upon by gangs of the possessed, as we were?”

Both men started to answer, then made to defer to one another.

Laughing, their queen decided the issue: “Ald Turmis, you start!”

“Gladly, your Majesty! Though my friend here can supplement my account. Well, we did indeed have occasion to cross swords with groups of demonized villagers, poor wretches! They were easily dealt with, I’m happy to say, though we all bemoaned having to do so. They were hostages, not really enemies.”

Karm Karvus nodded, having nothing to add. Sumia was surprised at what she did not hear.

“But why did not the possessing spirits flee the bodies of those you slew and turn your own men against one another, as they did with us?”

As one, the two captains and several of the nearest soldiers reached beneath their mail shirts to reveal pendants, protective charms depicting the scowling face of Shadrazur, the Lord of Warriors.

“I had thought it superstition” Ald Turmis confessed, “but I thought it worth a try.”

“We must welcome help from any and all quarters, my friends!” the queen exclaimed. “And this is a hopeful sign! Ald Turmis and Karm Karvus have proven that the Gods are not indifferent to our plight!”

From this, Thongor, too, gained new hope.

The Patangans waited and watched, and finally made camp for the night. The great, golden moon of Lemuria sailed slowly above them, drifting in a sea of deceptive calm. But instead of its usual color, it shone scarlet as its beams were filtered through the red mists rising from the rift, now a veritable chasm, that cleft the ground where lost Teloth once flourished. Those on watch in the camp found the sight of the Valley of Demons a hypnotic magnet for their eyes and were thus in little danger of careless vigilance. They watched also for the arrival of the promised warriors of the Jegga Horde, though it looked more and more likely that events would not wait for them.

Few could sleep deeply for anxiety over what the dawn might bring. They wanted it over with, and most everyone was awake and ready when it came. First there was a rumble, the sound of a great host advancing from deep within the earth.

All at once, like a tidal wave of magma, a mighty company of red-eyed berserkers erupted from the earth. They appeared to be possessed humans, no doubt drawn from surrounding villages, now enslaved by the devilish Asuras. This was by no means unexpected; the real surprise that took away the breath of Sumia and many others, was the sight of the mounted warrior spearheading the assault: it was Thongor! His eyes, like the other possessed, flamed red. Sparks seemed to scatter from his face and the ends of his whipping mane. His features were easily recognizable but no longer handsome because of the snarling mask of pure hatred that distorted them. Sumia had never seen such a countenance, even when she’d seen him close-up in the course of battle. For a moment she felt relief for the fact that her beloved was still alive, but it passed in seconds in light of what he had become!

Sumia’s Patangans quickly suffered some losses, but the men led by Ald Turmis and Karm Karvus seemed invulnerable, irresistible. The talismans they wore proved to be amazingly effective, shielding them from possession by the demons fleeing their slain, borrowed bodies. The demoniac fighters faced additional disadvantages. Their steeds were ordinary horses, and these struggled with their infernal riders, their sulfur stench, the baking heat they radiated, and the universal sense of alarm animals feel in the presence of diabolical evil. The possessed fought with bestial fury. They were fierce predators but knew little of combat skills. All told, the battle was not going badly, but Sumia knew it was only the preliminary phase. Things had plenty of room to grow much worse.

She knew her target had to be the demoniacal Thongor. She could not bear the sight of him like this. And she knew he was the lynchpin of the enemy force of attack. If she had to kill him, and if she could, Sumia knew Thongor would command her to do it. She did not know whether she could maneuver her mount close enough to her husband’s, but as she scanned the clashing hosts between them, looking for a path of access, she saw Thongor was saving her the trouble. He was making his way, sword swinging, directly for her. The bloody blade he wielded had belonged to some one of the possessed soldiers or from one of the slain Patangans, but he wielded it with lethal skill. Sumia had neither seen nor heard of a swordsman who could match her husband’s skill. But even so, she thought her chances more than even. For she wielded mighty Sarkozan!

As the two closed in combat, Sumia found herself able to evade some of Thongor’s blows and to parry others. She felt almost as if another hand guided hers. But she knew she could not maintain this level of prowess for long. And at that moment she saw an opening and heard a distinct voice inside her head: Kill me! Slay me, Sumia--now!

Without a thought, she drove the sword home, right into the heart of her beloved enemy. The mighty form went blank-eyed and slumped over, the borrowed sword dropping from his nerveless hand. His body remained on his steed only because the straps and stirrups held him in place.

Several warriors clustered around the battling couple paused in startlement, while tears rushed unbidden to Sumia’s eyes. But then she very nearly flew from her saddle as the great jewel set into the pommel of Sarkozan flashed like a miniature sun, unleashing a tangible concussion impact. The radiance focused like a lightning bolt following the exact path Sarkozan had taken but a moment before. Thongor’s arms and head flew back like a puppet’s. His eyes, gold-flaked again, were no longer vacant. For an instant his hair stood on end. His chest wound was gone, as if welded shut. As Sumia recoiled from the shock blast, her gloved fingers involuntarily released the sword. Sarkozan arced end over end until Thongor’s enormous hand plucked it out of the air.

VII. War in Heaven

Thongor, his soul glorying in its restoration to its accustomed habitat, laid about him in the thick of the possessed host. Back to back with his heroic mate, the mighty Valkarthan thrilled to the joy of battle as a Vandar thrills to the hunt. Soon the demoniac army, small to begin with, though outnumbering the Patangans, was decimated. But through the bloody mists rising from the steaming piles of gore, Thongor beheld the unmistakable outline of the man-mountain Shangoth. It was he, Thongor’s beloved battle companion, who had, in his possessed state, struck him a traitorous blow days earlier. Housing a demon, Shangoth’s Rmoahal hide had gone from bright blue to purple.

The king of Patanga squinted to discern his old friend’s hue, for he hoped he would not have to fight the gigantic figure. But before he could determine the color, the point became moot: the fabled spear of Shangoth, larger than a weaver’s beam, shot like an arrow straight at Thongor’s head. The barbarian ducked down, simultaneously bringing Sarkozan into play, chopping the shaft asunder. The purple colossus leaped at Thongor like another arrow from the same bow. The two crashed to the ground. Several of Thongor’s men immediately rushed to their king’s assistance, but he waved them away. He never relished the prospect of being rescued by another.

Thongor disengaged himself from the Poa-like constriction of the nomad giant’s steely thews. He wanted to do as little permanent damage as possible to his bewitched friend, so he did not strike with the sword, though Sarkozan might have settled the matter quick enough. As for Shangoth, he shook off blows that might have decapitated any lesser man. Thongor quickly realized the only way to defeat his possessed foe was to kill him, and that he refused to do.

An inspiration struck him, and he got the attention of Ald Turmis, motioning him over. When the man drew near enough, Thongor reached out and yanked the talisman from around the other’s neck. Clutching it in his fist, Thongor evaded another lunge and leaped onto Shangoth’s broad back as the latter charged past him. He put a choke hold on the blue throat with one arm, then fastened the amulet’s thong around the giant’s bull neck with the other. Amazingly, it was just big enough.

Shangoth raised himself onto one knee and started to reach for the pendant, but he stopped in mid-gesture. Blinking, he looked up at Thongor, then at his own hand, which had now become blue again.

The two men, no longer surrounded by knots of struggling combatants, were about to embrace in friendship, but in another instant all eyes were riveted to a new stream of demonic troops pouring out of the crevice like wasps from a disturbed nest. These were no mere men indwelt by demon spirits. These were the Wrathful Deities themselves, the very Asuras, lusting to even the score and gain revenge on the heavenly Devas who had once banished and imprisoned them. The beings were horrible in appearance, bristling with fangs and tusks, asymmetrical faces sprouting goggle-eyes that moved randomly, nostrils and jaws breathing flames. Their hides were scaly and mottled. Some flew with their own membranous wings, while others took to the sky on dragon-like steeds.

The Asuras ignored the mortals, passing over them to join combat with rival host now making itself known from above. The celestial vault was brilliant with the pure light of the angels who serve the Nineteen Gods. They were hard for mortal men to look upon but seemed to approximate the forms of winged men brandishing javelins and swords. Or such was all the sense the human mind could make of them. The conflict now joined was echoing with crashing weapons. Sumia could not help thinking of the stories she had heard as a child explaining the rumbling of the thunder as the sound of angels and devils brawling. She now realized it was not far from the truth.

She stood by her husband’s side, marveling at what was transpiring above their heads. The queen whispered in awe, “The real hero of this day may prove to be Eumonius Eld, for it was he who summoned the Devas to take up their ancient struggle against the Asuras.” Of course she did not yet know the extent of the priest’s ultimate sacrifice.

“A good man indeed! And a true hero, as you say. But the day is not yet done, is it? Now excuse me, my love.” Withal did Thongor find and mount one of the lizard-hawks that had lost its rider and urged it on into the sky where he intended to enlist on the side of the Devas. For he, too, had a score to settle.

***

The rejoicing over the defeat of the Asura hosts was tempered with mourning for innocent villagers as well as valiant heroes who perished in the nightmare conflict. There were many funerals, and Thongor attended as many as he could. Just now, he sat, dressed for once in the traditional finery of the ancient kings, with his queen and his nobles in the front row of seats in the Temple of the Flame, the holiest shrine in Patanga. The place was filled with those gathered to honor the sacrifice of the priest Eumonius Eld, whose self-immolation, of which the Sark and Sarkaja learned upon their return to the capital, had turned the tide of battle. The hierophant of Lemuria was now seen to be the greatest champion of the conflict. Thongor was the last in a series of dignitaries eulogizing their friend and mentor. Or so it seemed until a surprise visitor mounted the dais.

The whole company gasped in astonishment and fear as the one whose sacrifice they celebrated removed his hood and commenced to speak.

“My children, I shall at once return whence I came so long ago. All your lives you have prayed to the Nineteen Gods of Lemuria and no doubt puzzled over the saying that once there had been a Twentieth God, unremembered by name, honored in neither myth nor hymn. But I am he! The memories of my former life returned when I cast off the veil of stupefying flesh.

“We Gods met in council long ages ago, planning against the day when the demon horde should trespass into man’s domain. I alone foresaw the means to turn back that tide. On that day I volunteered myself as the sacrifice required to vanquish the enemies of the Gods, and so I took on mortal flesh in the fullness of time. As a man, yes, I am dead. But weep not for me, for now I return to the glory of the Twenty Gods!”

Withal did the luminous form of him who had been Eumonius Eld dissolve into a golden mist, to the great rejoicing of all present.