Young Thongor by Lin Carter Adrian Cole Read Free Book Online Page B

bowl-shaped depression had been scooped out of the ground by captive genii, its sloping sides terraced into tiers and fitted out with curved marble benches. The gladiators themselves, and the cages that held the beasts they were to fight against, dwelt in subterranean crypts below the arena floor. To these, the bird-masked and unspeaking warriors conducted the youthful barbarian.
    They brought him to a huge, fat, half-naked man who had been working out with the swordsmen. He was crimson from his exertions, his massive torso glittering with sweat, and as Thongor came up to him he was toweling himself dry and emptying an enormous drinking horn filled with dark ale. One of the bird-guards proffered a slim ivory tablet to him. It was inscribed with a brief directive, written in emerald inks, in queer, hooked characters such as the barbarian boy had never before seen. The man scruti nized them quickly, then raised thoughtful, curious eyes to Thongor.
    “A Northlanderman, eh? Tall for your age, and built like a young lion. Well, cub, I doubt not those strong arms will provide merry entertainment for our Lord, come the Day of Opal Vapors!” His voice was hearty and genial, and his great, broken-nosed slab of a face, beefy-red, glistening with perspiration, was cheerful and honest. His little eyes were light blue and good-humored. Thongor rather liked the look of him, and slightly relaxed his stiff, guarded stance. The gamesmaster noted this, and chuckled.
    “My name is Jothar Jorn and I am our Lord’s gamesmaster,” he said. “You’ve naught to fear from me, lion cub, so long as you do as you are told, and quick about it, too.”
    “I am Thongor of Valkarth,” the boy said.
    The gamesmaster nodded, looking him over with quick, keen eyed. “Valkarth: I might have guessed, from the color of those eyes. Snow Bear tribe?”
    Thongor bristled and a red glare came into his strange gold eyes. “My people were the Black Hawk clan, and the Snow Bear tribe were—are—their enemies,” he said fiercely.
    The big man eyes him with frank, friendly curiosity. “You’re a bit mixed on your tenses, lad. ‘Were—are’—which would you have?”
    Thongor’s head drooped slightly and his broad young shoulders slumped. In a flat, listless voice he said: “My people are dead, fallen in battle before the dogs of the Snow Bear; my father, my brothers…”
    A sympathy rare in this primitive age shone in the small blue eyes of the big man. “ All …of your people slain in war by the other tribe?” he asked in low, subdued tones.
    Thongor’s head came up proudly and his shoulders went back. “All are dead; I am the last Black Hawk,” he said bleakly.
    “Well…well…” Jothar Jorn cleared his throat loudly, and shook himself a little. “In that case, you will be hungry,” he said in his hearty way. “Hungry enough to—eat a Snow Bear, shall we say?”
    The boy grinned soberly, then laughed. And they went in to dinner.
    Jothar Jorn bade an underling lead the barbarian to the common room where the gladiators ate at long benches, and set a repast before him such as the boy had not seen for as long as he could remember. A succulent steak, rare and bloody, swimming in its own steaming juices, tough black bread and ripe fruit and a tankard full of heady ale. Thongor fell on the feast ravenously, reflecting that if this was captivity, then it might not be so bad, after all.
    13
    The Pits of Ithomaar
    Ten days passed, and busy days they were. As a newcomer to the City in the Jewel, Thongor was curious about everything and kept his eyes and ears open. He soon learned that Jothar Jorn had entered the magic crystal only twenty years before: he had been gamesmaster of the arena of Tsargol, a seacoast city far to the south, head of an expedition into the mountainous country of Mommur, trapping beasts for use in the games then to be held in celebration of the coronation of Sanjar Thal, Sark of Tsargol. He, too, had glimpsed the jewel from