Young Thongor Read Online Free Page A

battling savage beasts and even more savage men, and the scars of many battles marked him.
    Strapped in a worn old scabbard across his broad young shoulders, a great Valkarthan broadsword lay. It was his only weapon: and it was useless against the winged death that hovered, indolently flapping, against the sky of darkening crimson. Had he but a bow he could likely have struck down the flying horrors that had playfully, cat-like, lazily hunted him all afternoon down the bleak mountains to this desolate plateau.
    Here, in a brief scarlet flare of agony, he would die. And here his bare white bones would lie bleaching to powder under the Lemurian skies forever.
    But he knew no fear, this bronzed boy who lay helpless, panting, exhausted.
    3
    Where Horror Dares Not Pass
    Suddenly a cold hand went gliding across his hot thigh. He jerked about, nape prickling with primal night-fears, one capable fist seizing the hilt of the two-handed broadsword. Then he relaxed, chest heaving. It was a cold, black shadow that had crept across his flesh, dark and stealthy. A long, tapering shadow, like a pointing finger.
    Curious, the boy raised himself on one arm and peered about to see the source of that shadow. He threw his tangled black mane back from his face and stared with amazement. Stared at the ring of dark columns that encircled a lone cube of black stone like a rude altar. And stared at that which glittered and flashed there.
    He was looking directly into the sunset, but that roiling mass of crimson flame was less brilliant than the immense and sparkling jewel that stood amidst the monoliths.
    Cold wind swept over him in a gush.
    Fetid, hot breath blew, stinking, in his face. He flinched—ducked—as one of the scaly horrors of the upper sky swung low, snapping yellowed fangs at his flesh. The dragons were bolder, now. Or, perhaps, hungrier.
    He staggered to his feet, levering himself erect with one hand braced against a broken boulder. He would meet death face to face, standing on his two feet like a man, he thought grimly.
    They swung about far above, the twin, bat-winged horrors, circling for the kill. He glared about for a place to stand, a tall stone to set his shoulders against, and suddenly he thought of that circle of smooth lava pillars. The monoliths were set close together: the bat-winged horrors would not be able to come at him from above or behind it if he set his shoulders against one of those pillars; they could only come at him from in front, and then they would face the glittering, razor scythe of that mighty broadsword with which he and his forefathers had fought against many a foe. Perhaps he had a chance after all.
    Staggering a little, his aching legs still numb with bone-weary exhaustion, he headed for the ring of standing stones and the sparkling enigma they guarded and enclosed. He drew the great sword, Sarkozan. He set his back against the rough cold stone and took his stand. He threw back his head and shouted a challenge to the winged predators of the sky.
    They swerved and came hurtling down at him, those flapping black shapes. He could see the flaring coals of their burning eyes and the immense grinning jaws lined with yellowed fangs, the long snaky necks stretched hungrily for him, clawed bird-feet spread to cling and rip—
    Ignoring the ache of weariness in chest and arms and shoulders, the boy swung up the great sword as the flying dragons flashed for him—and swerved aside!
    Puzzled, the boy’s strange gold eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He watched through tousled black locks as the flying reptiles curved in their flight, veered away, and flapped off hesitantly, to rush down at him again.
    Again they came swooping down. And again they veered to one side at the last moment.
    It was strange. It was more than strange, it was a little frightening. It was as if those horrid dragons of the sky— feared the circle of standing stones!
    Propped against the rough pillar, leaning weary arms on the cross-hilt of the