Lost world of time, p.9
Lost World of Time, page 9
And the stars are blazing free.
And kings in their tall stone cities,
And lords of village and town,
Call their swordsmen near and cower in fear,
When the Hordes of the North come down!
—War Song of the Black Boghazkoy
Before the first red glare of dawn, the Hordes were on the march. The chieftains of the Three Hordes had conferred with their master, the Black God’s Son, and the plans were laid. The first wave of the assault would come from the Jahangir Horde, and the leader of the advance force would be Mingol, the chief lieutenant of the clanmaster, Kang the Cruel. Mingol would traverse the pass, seize the wall and topple it, and ring the citadel with siege. Then, at a predetermined time, the full force of the Jahangir Horde would thunder through the narrow chasm that wound between sheer wall-like cliffs, to overwhelm the defenders beneath howling thousands and break asunder the walls of this last, lone outpost of the Sacred Empire.
Then the Hordes would stream through the open Pass of Arcantyr, and flood down into the Inner Lands to burn and slaughter all. First the Jahangir Horde, and on their heels, the Red Ormslings, and at the last, the Black Boghazkoy, with Shadrazar the Warlord himself at their head.
The advance force under Mingol trooped through the great square of Sham Nar Chan and around the feet of the colossal idol of the triple-headed Lord of Chaos, Thamungazoth, the Black God. Gaunt sorcerer-priests in black and scarlet robes blessed them, swaying and chanting weird litanies in the uncouth tongue of the dark worship. Squadron by squadron, company by company, they filed past the towering colossus of dark stone whose three hideous heads leered, howled, or glared like a faceless skull down at the grim warriors. They went clattering away down the avenue of a thousand monoliths and out the Black Gate and across the barren land to where the solid wall of mist-wreathed mountains that marched across the world from east to west was broken by the black cleft that was the pass.
Alara watched them go.
They had come in the night to tear her shrieking from her uneasy, fitful slumber. They had brought her up from the slave-pits of the Black Palace unto this place, and bound her between the feet of the marble colossus, where the blood-crusted altar of sacrifice stood. Cold winds blew through the scant rags of her raiment; the wind tossed and tore at her glossy, lustrous hair among whose glistening black locks glints of dark red flickered. The iron chains that bound her to the fire-blackened stake were icy against her numb wrists. But she stood tall and proud, her calm, pure face an expressionless mask wherefrom the eyes blazed forth with bitter scorn.
The daughter of kings, she would not disgrace her high and ancient lineage. She would die bravely; but she feared the flames, and despised herself for this weakness.
The gaunt sorcerer-priests who stood about her were in a frenzy of adoration. Zeal blazed in their burning eyes, and on the lips of the younger or weaker of them, the foaming slaver dripped. Soon, howling like mad dogs, they would hurl themselves upon her, to tear the rags from her body, to defile and insult her flesh. And then the torches would be set against the oil-soaked tinder at her feet, and the tale of Alara, princess of Chalsadon, would end in a brutal and ugly death.
It would not end swiftly as Shadrazar had promised, the searing pain, the licking kiss of the flames—but it would end. And there would be peace for her and a shadowy eternity of dreamlike Elysium on the moons of Paradise.
* * * *
Dawn burned scarlet through the dull vapors that mantled the black city. The flaring moons that lit this far, dim world where the sun itself was but the brightest of the stars, slowly ascended to flush the misty skies with day. Slumped wearily against the sooty stake, Alara endured the slow hours of waiting with a patience and a courage she had never known she possessed. She thought of her home, of her cozy suite in the Phaoladrian, the House of Kings, and of her few friends. Her doddering but kindly grandfather, Zimionadus the Sacred Emperor, staunch old Sir Elidur the swordmaster, wise Lord Chesper the archivist, even that silly, babbling, empty-headed but friendly fool, Lady Parcella. She thought with warmth and affection of gallant young Prince Paramir and of Lord Choys, wondering how they fared at this moment, for even now the first assault must be raging about the frowning walls of Arcantyr Citadel.
She tried not to think of Sargon. She did not know whether he was alive or dead; her last sight of him had been to see him prone, fallen under the ambush there beside the Way of Kings, with the glittering ax of Starkon descending to shear off his head—could he have escaped from so certain a death? It did not seem possible, save through some miracle worked by the holy Azdirim. Anyway, memory of the great, tawny-maned warrior troubled at her heart, she could not say exactly why. She preferred not to think of the Lion-Hero at all, for she herself had been the cause of his death. Had it not been for her quixotic quest, he might still be alive in all the pride and splendor of his vigorous manhood.
Then, amid the throng of priests that milled about the foot of the altar, she saw Sargon’s face!
It was gone in a moment, hidden behind the cowl of a black robe, but the brief glimpse left her shaken and stunned, with wild disbelief and the dawn of a rising, impossible hope clamoring at the gates of her heart.
There could have been no mistake! Those were his fierce, blazing black eyes, that grim, expressionless face with the broad, blunt cheekbones and strong jaw, framed in the tawny mane of tangled hair. It was Sargon. He lived. And he walked the streets of Sham Nar Chan—
It was in that very instant, when dead hopes sprang to life in the young girl’s heart, that the priests came at her. She caught one swift glimpse of mad, glaring eyes and snarling faces, and then clawlike hands clutched and tore at her rags. She had hoped to face the defilement bravely, in scornful silence, but she screamed as they clustered about her like a pack of wild dogs.
In the next instant, Sargon tossed back the thick folds of his hooded cloak, and sprang up on the steps of the altar, lifting his voice in a deep, ringing war cry. In his massive fist the great Hammer gleamed in the red light. Thews tensed and writhed along his arm as he drew back and then smote with the mighty Maul. It crashed full in the face of one young priest who slavered like a mad animal and tore at the breast of her clothing. His face was crushed in as the heavy Hammer crunched through flesh and bone to burst his skull, splattering the altar with reeking brains.
Sargon’s roaring cry boomed out over the immense square where ranked warriors stood frozen in sheer astonishment. His great Maul smote left and right, and a sorcerer fell dead with every stroke. The power of the Maul in battle was terrific. Swung by all the coiled power of Sargon’s steely thews, it shattered skulls, staved in ribs, smashed arms, sent shrieking men flailing backwards, mewling and pawing feebly at the gory ruin of what had been a face.
Within seconds the circle of fanatic priests had been cleared from about the chained girl, and black-and-scarlet corpses littered the steps of the altar. Then Sargon was at her side, his fingers locked in the cold links of the chains which bound her wrists. He tugged with a surge of strength, but the iron held. Then he laid the chains flat against the massive stake and swung the Maul against them. They shattered, broken links tinkled and clattered on the stone steps, and she was free.
Sargon scooped her up and tossed her across one broad shoulder. He vaulted lightly down the steps of the altar, smashing guards aside with the great bronze Hammer, seized the foot of a mounted warrior who stood gaping astride his steed, tossed him from the saddle and sprang into the seat himself, setting Alara before him.
“Hold on, girl,” he grunted and smashed his heels in the ribs of the sangan. With a squall of rage, the beast exploded into a gallop, hurtling across the great square where thousands of Hordesmen milled and swarmed in confusion. So swift and inexplicable had been the appearance of Sargon, so rapid the whirlwind action of the past several seconds, that the wild-eyed savages had hardly begun to understand what was happening. Some stood and stared, slack-jawed with astonishment. Others roared and brandished spears and flocked towards the escaping pair. Chieftains bellowed orders, milling about in confusion.
Sargon drove straight for the twin towers of the Black Gate where they lifted against the red haze of midmoming. He came crashing like a thunderbolt into a line of charging warriors, hurling them aside with the fury of his assault. In a blink of the eye he was through them and past, racing for the gates. Arrows snickered after them. A spear slashed through the black folds of his flying cloak and was gone. Others missed widely, clattering against the stones. But a heavy contingent of guards clustered about the Black Gate. These would give him trouble, for a semblance of order reigned among them and spears lifted to block his way as spearmen knelt to brace the butts of their weapons against the pavement.
Sargon spurred the sangan to its greatest speed and flew straight for the line of kneeling spearmen.
“Hold on—and pray!” he growled to the girl. The claws of the sangan clattered across the stones. The ranked spears rose like a deadly, glittering fence before them, the grim faces of the guards visible behind the hedge of wooden shafts.
An instant before the sangan would have impaled itself on the sharp spear-points, Sargon dragged on the reins and crashed his heels into the ribs of the racing steed. With an incredible leap the hurtling beast sprang into the air and flashed above the astounded spearmen, crashing to earth again at the very mouth of the gate. It was a feat of amazing daring and skill, which wrung a gasp of awe and surprise from a thousand throats.
Although the sangan was primarily a racing steed, it was evolved from a remote ancestor resembling a kangaroo-like reptile; the power of its haunches and hind legs still permitted the sangan to make astonishing leaps, although such were rarely called for by its human masters. But in the wild jungles of his barbaric island home, Sargon had mastered the skills of remaining astride a leaping reptile, and that ability served him greatly in this hour of need.
Almost before the bewildered spearmen could realize what had happened, he was beyond them, out the gate, and flashing across the open plain towards the black cleft in the distant Wall of the World that marked the Pass of Arcantyr.
Alara clung dizzily to the horn of the saddle. A dozen conflicting emotions clamored within her. She did not know whether to laugh with joy at this astounding rescue, or to weep with relief. She clung panting, and tears stung her eyes. He was alive! With heroic daring he had somehow penetrated into the very citadel of their enemies. Through superhuman bravery and skill, and luck that seemed beyond the limits of the possible, he had rescued her from the clutches of a thousand foes. And most incredible of all, they had escaped from the Black City and were free!
But for how long? Looking back she saw a host of mounted Hordesmen pour howling through the gates and come pelting on their heels. They had, at very best, only a few seconds advantage on their pursuers. Sargon knew this well, and grimly strove to wring every bit of speed possible from the sangan.
Yet it seemed hopeless. Despite their advantage, which was slim enough, their steed was burdened with the weight of two riders, while those that came roaring after them bore but one. Nevertheless, there was nothing to do but try, and hope their incredible run of luck might continue. Sargon thought that if he could elude capture and reach the mouth of the pass ahead of the host of warriors thundering in pursuit, there might be a slim shard of hope. For the pass was narrow and winding, and when a score of furious Hordesmen tried to jam into its mouth, they would have to slow to a halt, and form into a line, thus giving Sargon and Alara a few more precious seconds’ advantage. The only real hope lay in getting all the way through the pass and out on the open plain that lay beyond, before their pursuers caught up with them.
And there, too, lay great danger. What if the advance force under Mingol held the farther mouth of the pass? They would find themselves caught between two forces, in the jaws of a trap. But leaving those worries for later, he concentrated on wringing every erg of energy and speed he could coax from the speeding sangan.
It was full morning now, although dun vapors masked the sky and the moons blazed darkly crimson through their cloudy veils. The Wall stood across the world directly in front of them, purple with the haze, dwindling to the remote horizon. The black cleft grew larger.
An arrow hissed by his shoulder. A second, and a third, to sink to the feather in the bleak sands over which they flew. But Sargon was jubilant, rather than depressed. His barbaric blood roared with joy, drunk with the wine of excitement, battle, and the thrill of the chase. Ever since he had left the Arcantyr Citadel to follow the emissary of the Black God’s Son through the winding ways of the Pass of Arcantyr, he had known there was not one chance in ten thousand for his desperate mission to prove successful. But he had grimly strode after the Hordesmen, through the pass and on to the walls of Sham Nar Chan that lay amid the plains beyond. By sheer luck and daring he had entered the Black City, scaling a low wall in the darkness, climbing with the agility of a jungle cat, a skill acquired as a boy-warrior in distant Barbaria where once, to elude the ravenous maw of a mighty thegathon, a huge and lumbering jungle dragon, he had been forced to scale the sheer wall of a great cliff, the urgency of his need driving him to find almost invisible handholds by which to ascend beyond reach of the yawning jaws that gaped to rend his flesh. This rare skill he had developed during his youth, but it never served him better than when he faced the grim battlements of Sham Nar Chan and he had to cross or die.
It passed briefly through his mind to wonder if there might not be some vagrant gleam of truth in Alara’s claim that he was the heaven-sent hero of old Zasterion’s prophecy. Did the holy Azdirim in truth watch over man from the paradisiacal moons that lit the face of Zarkandu? Had they with foresight and omniscience trained and tested him through all the perils and battles of his adventurous years for this mighty deed of destiny? He almost laughed at the thought for, like all his people, Sargon cared little for demon, specter, Azdir, or divine avatar; he respected only that whose strength was greater than his, and feared nothing on land, sea, or in the skies above. But something held back his laughter.
Then the black walls of the pass opened before them and they went flying in. Sargon wrenched, cursing, at the bridle, as the beast caromed blindly into rough walls of dark stone. They wove through the winding way at the greatest possible speed, for the foe was howling at the mouth of the pass, sangans bucking and clashing beaks at each other, milling to gain entry into the Narrow Way.
On and on they went, the Lion-Hero and the valiant princess, blundering through the twists and turns of the pass, as their panting steed stumbled over rough footing and scraped its scaly hide against ragged masses of stone that lifted around them. They could hear the pursuit whooping and screeching behind them somewhere.
Then it was that the sangan lost its footing and fell. Sargon rolled aside, scooping up the girl.
“Curse the luck!” he growled, stooping to examine the whimpering beast. “A broken leg! We must go forward on foot. Come—swiftly!” Seizing her hand and dragging her after him, the warrior plunged ahead, struggling over the broken floor of the high-walled chasm. Echoes thundered about them deafeningly. The foremost of the warriors could not be more than a hundred yards behind them. That was close, too close!
Then came the echoing blare of Jahangir war horns from before them, roaring down the pass. Sargon felt his heart turn to stone. Ahead, as battle raged about the beleaguered citadel, a rear guard heard the thunder of pursuit down the pass, and entered to investigate. Sargon and Alara were trapped between the two forces.
His burning eyes seethed with volcanic fury in the harsh bronze mask of his impassive face. A growl of bestial challenge rumbled deep in his mighty chest. For all his wit and cunning, his iron strength and fighting skill and indomitable courage, they were trapped. Helpless. Doomed.
But not quite yet! Anything to delay the inevitable hour of defeat and despair. Any stratagem to gain time, for with time another chance at success might become visible. He turned and set the girl at his back, sternly warning her to cling with all her strength to him, her slim arms wrapped about his throat. Then he clambered up the side of the pass, agile fingers nimbly seizing handholds. Up and up he went, foot by foot, yard by yard. Some of the handholds were mere cracks in sheeted stone, but he wedged his fingertips in and climbed higher and higher. Above, far over their heads, were ledges whereon they could stand—if they could reach them.
Like some great ape of the jungle, Sargon mounted the wall of sheer rock as the foe came bursting around the turn of the pass. From both ends, Hordesmen came pounding, but the fleeing pair had vanished as if into empty air! Disbelief flashed in suspicious eyes. A second later, the Hordesmen spotted Sargon clinging flat against the wall, inching his way slowly up the rock face. Hooting cries boomed up at the warrior as he ascended. Rocks clattered as half a score of the Jahangirya came after him, clambering, cursing, groping for handholds. But now indeed did Sargon have a strong advantage. He was far above them now, and his jungle heritage proved itself as two or three Hordesmen fumbled, slipped, and fell bawling with terror, to crash with sickening thuds against the sharp rocks below.
Arrows whizzed by him, to splinter against stone. Grimly, he ignored them. Useless to fret over what you cannot avoid. He climbed on, foot by foot. By now they were scores of feet above the floor of the pass. Alara could not bear to look down at the sharp rocks and roaring men far below. One slip and the shining moons of Paradise would absorb their spirits.
The archers below sought in vain to strike the figures high on the wall of rock. They were forced to shoot their shafts almost directly upwards, squinting and blinded by the glare of the sky. But some three dozen agile Hordesmen were mounting the cliff, determined to slay the outlander who had dared ravish a captive from the very heart of the Black City unscathed.
