Young Thongor by Lin Carter Adrian Cole Read Free Book Online

warriors stood, motionless as graven images, immaculate in dazzling, sun-gold armor.
    For these things he had no attention.
    It was that which occupied the very center of the gloomy hall which seized and held his fascinated gaze. A tall chair of scarlet crystal, three times human height. And in the chair a man was seated.
    10
    Burning Eyes
    Zazamanc bore the appearance of a slim, tall, youthful man with strong arms, long legs, and a coldly beautiful face, which bore no slightest sign of age. He was attired in complicated and fantastic garments of many colors: puce, canary, blood-scarlet, lavender, mauve, subtle gray, deep violet.
    His raiment was unlike any costume that Thongor had ever seen or heard of. Tight hose clothed his long, slender legs; a tunic or jerkin, gathered and tucked and folded according to the dictates of some alien fashion, adorned his torso; sleeves of various lengths protruded one from the other. Long gloves were drawn over his lean, strong hands, and strange rings of metal and stone and crystal twinkled and flashed as he moved his fingers.
    A cowl, trimmed with strange, purple fur, was drawn about his head but did not cover his face. This held and fascinated the boy. It was of a supernal, an unhuman, beauty. A high, broad white brow, arched and silken-black eyebrows, long imperial nose, firm, delicately modeled chin, thin-lipped but exquisitely carved mouth—these were his features.
    They were flawless; without blemish. No wrinkle marred the purity of that godlike brow. No slightest shade of emotion lent warmth to the cold perfection of that face. It was like an idealized sculpture: cold, beautiful, pure, but inhuman.
    The eyes alone held life and expression.
    Strange eyes they were…black and cold as frozen ink…depthless as bottomless pits…cold and deep, but burning with a fierce, unholy flame of vitality. Behind their enigmatic gaze the boy somehow sensed a vast, cool, limitless intellect as far removed from the ordinary mind of mankind as man is from, say, the groveling insects or the squirming serpents.
    They brought him before the tall scarlet throne and he stood erect and unbowing as that black, burning gaze swept him slowly from head to foot. With careful, judicious deliberation the Veiled Enchanter scanned him slowly.
    When he spoke, and then only, did Thongor understand his cognomen. For, from brow to chin, his coldly perfect visage was delicately veiled behind a transparent membrane of some slight fabric, thin almost to the point of invisibility. Why a man should wear a veil which veiled nothing, and through which the eye could clearly see, was but the least of the mysteries Thongor had yet encountered in this tiny world of magic and beauty and depraved horror.
    “It is a savage boy; doubtless from the Northlands; I believe I recall a race of strong Barbarians who dwelt of old on the wintry tundras of that portion of Lemuria,” the Enchanter said idly. His voice was like his face: cold, perfect, clear, but devoid of warmth or animation.
    “I recall the race; but that was…long ago.”
    For an instant it seemed to Thongor that the black flame of those eyes bore within their fierce depths a measureless weariness, an age-old boredom. Perhaps even something of—futility?
    “He is young and strong, bred of brave warriors, I doubt me not. It might be amusing to see that strength…take him hence to the Arena Master. We shall see this youthful prowess on the Day of the Opal Vapors. Take him away now…”
    The guards saluted with mechanical perfection, and led Thongor from the silent hall. Behind, sitting tall and straight and regal in the scarlet chair, the Veiled Enchanter continued staring straight ahead, into nothingness, with no expression on his cold and beautiful face.
    11
    In the Speculum
    Zazamanc stood in his magical laboratorium. Corrosive vapours swirled about him, caught in twisted tubes of lucent glass. Fiery liquors seethed in crucibles of lead over weird fires of glowing