Thongor and the Wizard of Lemuria Read Free Page B

the slippery ice-walls of the great glaciers of his polar homeland, hunting the savage snow apes for their precious furs, it would be far easier for him to scale this wall than for another man.
    For Thongor, to conceive of a plan was to attempt it. Swiftly he removed his boots. Knotting the thongs together, he slung them over his shoulder, and tossing back the great cloak, he caught the upper ledge of the first stone and drew himself up hand over hand. His bare toes clinging to the small gap between the stones, he ascended, stone by stone.
    The air was chill with the night wind from the southern sea, but luckily the great golden moon of old Lemuria was hidden behind a thick veil of clouds. There were guards on the roof, and it would never do for them to sight him climbing. With hands and feet fully occupied, he was in a bad position to fight.
    Up and up he went, like a great black spider on the gray stone wall. The streets of Thurdis were far beneath him now. One slip, and he would dash out his brains against the slimy cobbles far below. He breathed calmly and deeply, ignoring the pain in his slashed arm.
    Then a loose bit of cement slipped beneath his foot, rattling down to the alleyway. For a long second he dangled, feet free, his entire weight supported by his fingertips. Then he clenched his teeth and drew himself up again, slowly, inch by inch, to a secure foothold.
    He clung against the wall for a moment, catching his breath and resting his arms. Above, on the parapet, two roof guards leaned their elbows against the wall, idly looking out over the city. All they had to do was to glance downward and they could not fail to see him, a black-cloaked shadow against the gray stone. He held his breath as they talked idly, gazing out over the towers and spires of Thurdis. He dared climb no further while they were there, lest his sudden movement attract their attention. His arm and shoulder muscles ached from the strain. It was as if red-hot needles were slowly being thrust into his thews.
    Still they leaned against their arms, just above him. He could even hear their conversation—as to which prisoner had escaped. The shorter one wagered it was the Northlander mercenary.
    “You remember the great lout, the one who made a wager with Jeled Malkh that his racing zamph would not win in the arena yesterday? He struck the noble otar down with his great barbarian pigsticker when the otar refused to pay! I hear Jeled Malkh nearly stuck the pig himself, but the oaf threw wine in his face or something. Hah! It would be an otarship for us, Thulan Htor, if we captured the Northland wretch.”
    “Aye,” his companion grunted. “But the street patrols will get him, not you and I. He will steal a zamph and make for the Caravan Gate, doubtless—unless he purchases a hideaway in the Thieves’ Quarter. I would like to come face to face with the mercenary pig myself, that I would. I’d show him what Thurdan steel can do with Northlander meat!”
    Just as Thongor’s arms were about to give way, the two turned away, leaning their backs against the parapet. Silent as a shadow, the Northlander ascended the wall behind them, grinning wolfishly.
    The two were still conversing when a deep voice spoke softly behind them:
    “The Gods have granted your dearest wish, Thulan Htor. Here is your chance to show a mercenary pig what Thurdan steel can do.”
    They whirled—to see a bronzed giant, naked save for leather clout and black cloak and warrior’s harness, standing atop the parapet, a mighty broadsword flashing in his hand. Golden eyes blazed in a clean-shaven face, and a long wild mane of thick black hair fell to the huge shoulders.
    Paralyzed, they gasped at this phantom that had appeared out of thin air by some supernatural force. Thongor kicked one in the throat, knocked him sprawling. His broadsword flashed out to open the other’s throat from ear to ear. The black beard was drenched in a sudden flood of gore. He sprang over their