Young Thongor Read Online Free
Author: Lin Carter Adrian Cole
Mommur.
THE CITY IN THE JEWEL
1
As the Sun Died
The fierce tropic sun of old Lemuria had long since passed the zenith of day. Now it descended the dome of heaven to perish in its pyre of crimson vapors that lit the dim west with flame. In all this desolate land of jagged, jumbled rock, nothing lived, nor moved, but shadows.
The level shafts of flaming light struck across the vast tableland of the plateau and drew long ink-black shadows from the circle of standing stones amidst the waste.
Seven they were, and twice taller than a man: tapering columns of dark volcanic stone, rough-hewn, coarsely porous. They stood in a circle on the plain of broken rock, and the red rays of the sinking sun drew long tapering shadows from them. Seven long black narrow shadows…like the fingers of a monstrous groping hand.
Glyphs were deep-cut in the ringed monoliths. Ages of slow time had all but worn them smooth. Yet still were they faintly legible, were there any eye to read them in this shadowy land of stone and silence.
That which stood amidst the circle of standing stones caught the red rays of sunset and flashed with gem-like brilliance. It was a vast, rugged mass of crystal, cloudy, misted: a huge gem of green and sparkling silver, so large that the arms of a full-grown man could scarce encompass it.
Into nine hundred uneven geometric facets was the glimmering crystal cut. Each facet was engraved with a curious sigil; each sigil was subtly alike each other, yet no two were precisely the same.
As the sun died in thunderous glory on the western horizon, the faceted stone caught the last beams and burst ablaze with sparkling splendor. Amidst the shimmering radiance, the strange sigils glowed weirdly, as if sentient. Like watchful eyes, cold, alert, intent, they peered through the purpling shadows.
No man alive on earth in all that distant age could read those carved signs on the monstrous jewel, nor spell the sense of those deep-carved and age-worn glyphs upon the seven monoliths.
But something pulsed amidst the dazzling radiance of the stone and as it lay bathed fully in the sunset flames.
Power!
Vast, awesome, magical.
And… deadly .
2
When Dragons Hunt
For five hours now the boy had fled for his life, and now he had reached the very end of his strength. His numb legs would move no farther and he fell, gasping for breath, in the coarse rubble that bestrewed the plateau. His lungs were afire, his raw throat ached and thirst was like a raging torment within him. But he could flee no more.
Against the blaze of sunset, the dragons circled. Black, horrid shapes with snaky necks and ragged, bat-like wings. They had caught the hot scent of manflesh shortly past midday and they had hunted him lazily down the high mountain pass that cleft all this mighty range, the Mountains of Mommur, and across this bleak and desolate tableland, until they had worn him to the point of exhaustion.
Now they swung casually, wings booming like sales on the quickening breeze, cold ferocity flaring in the mindless reptilian eyes that shone through the gathering dusk like yellow coals.
Sprawled panting amidst the broken stones, the boy glared up at them, his strange gold eyes blazing lion-like through tangled black locks. He did not fear them and would fight them to the last with every ounce of strength in his bronzed and brawny form. But he was doomed, and he knew it.
His savage people, tribesmen of the cold north, had a saying . When dragons hunt, the boldest warriors hide.
He was young, not yet seventeen, and nearly naked, his brown hide bare save for high-laced sandals and a rag of cloth twisted about his loins. His breast and strong arms, back, belly and shoulders were scored with old scars and white with road dust, for he had come far—halfway across the world it seemed, from that gore-drenched battlefield whereon all his people had died save he alone. Down from the wintry tundras of the frozen Northlands had he come, alone and on foot,
THE CITY IN THE JEWEL
1
As the Sun Died
The fierce tropic sun of old Lemuria had long since passed the zenith of day. Now it descended the dome of heaven to perish in its pyre of crimson vapors that lit the dim west with flame. In all this desolate land of jagged, jumbled rock, nothing lived, nor moved, but shadows.
The level shafts of flaming light struck across the vast tableland of the plateau and drew long ink-black shadows from the circle of standing stones amidst the waste.
Seven they were, and twice taller than a man: tapering columns of dark volcanic stone, rough-hewn, coarsely porous. They stood in a circle on the plain of broken rock, and the red rays of the sinking sun drew long tapering shadows from them. Seven long black narrow shadows…like the fingers of a monstrous groping hand.
Glyphs were deep-cut in the ringed monoliths. Ages of slow time had all but worn them smooth. Yet still were they faintly legible, were there any eye to read them in this shadowy land of stone and silence.
That which stood amidst the circle of standing stones caught the red rays of sunset and flashed with gem-like brilliance. It was a vast, rugged mass of crystal, cloudy, misted: a huge gem of green and sparkling silver, so large that the arms of a full-grown man could scarce encompass it.
Into nine hundred uneven geometric facets was the glimmering crystal cut. Each facet was engraved with a curious sigil; each sigil was subtly alike each other, yet no two were precisely the same.
As the sun died in thunderous glory on the western horizon, the faceted stone caught the last beams and burst ablaze with sparkling splendor. Amidst the shimmering radiance, the strange sigils glowed weirdly, as if sentient. Like watchful eyes, cold, alert, intent, they peered through the purpling shadows.
No man alive on earth in all that distant age could read those carved signs on the monstrous jewel, nor spell the sense of those deep-carved and age-worn glyphs upon the seven monoliths.
But something pulsed amidst the dazzling radiance of the stone and as it lay bathed fully in the sunset flames.
Power!
Vast, awesome, magical.
And… deadly .
2
When Dragons Hunt
For five hours now the boy had fled for his life, and now he had reached the very end of his strength. His numb legs would move no farther and he fell, gasping for breath, in the coarse rubble that bestrewed the plateau. His lungs were afire, his raw throat ached and thirst was like a raging torment within him. But he could flee no more.
Against the blaze of sunset, the dragons circled. Black, horrid shapes with snaky necks and ragged, bat-like wings. They had caught the hot scent of manflesh shortly past midday and they had hunted him lazily down the high mountain pass that cleft all this mighty range, the Mountains of Mommur, and across this bleak and desolate tableland, until they had worn him to the point of exhaustion.
Now they swung casually, wings booming like sales on the quickening breeze, cold ferocity flaring in the mindless reptilian eyes that shone through the gathering dusk like yellow coals.
Sprawled panting amidst the broken stones, the boy glared up at them, his strange gold eyes blazing lion-like through tangled black locks. He did not fear them and would fight them to the last with every ounce of strength in his bronzed and brawny form. But he was doomed, and he knew it.
His savage people, tribesmen of the cold north, had a saying . When dragons hunt, the boldest warriors hide.
He was young, not yet seventeen, and nearly naked, his brown hide bare save for high-laced sandals and a rag of cloth twisted about his loins. His breast and strong arms, back, belly and shoulders were scored with old scars and white with road dust, for he had come far—halfway across the world it seemed, from that gore-drenched battlefield whereon all his people had died save he alone. Down from the wintry tundras of the frozen Northlands had he come, alone and on foot,
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