Published in 2019 by

Xanthotor Press
Liscensed from Rainfall Records & Books
Copyright as a whole © 2018 Rainfall Books
This edition © Xanthotor Press 2019
Story, copyright © 2018 by Glen M. Usher & Steve Lines
Artwork copyright © 2018 by Steve Lines

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any

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holder, except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews. For
more information contact Rainfall Books.
______________________________________________

SECOND EDITION

2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
 Printed in the United Kingdom

Xanthotor Press
XP 001

VARLA OF VALKARTH
Is dedicated to those two scribes of
The Lemurian Chronicles
LIN CARTER and
ROBERT M. PRICE
TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Mountains of Mommur

Jungles of Lemuria
Slavers!
Jungle Terror
The Crimson Zemadar
Pirate Peril
The Dream of Lady Naramora
The Slave Auction
The Plan
The Thirsty Kroter
Volgath the Unza
Xothar Vool
Discovery!
Sharouk and Korolia
Finding Sharouk
Betrayed!
Serpents in the Dark
Black Dawn Rising
Doom of the Black Dawn
Glossary
X
 The Mountains of Mommur

Varla of The Snow Bear tribe, made her way slowly along the treacherous
mountain path that wound its way between the jagged peaks of the mighty
Mommur Mountains; her destination the warm southern climes of the jungle
lowlands far below.
Clad in the warm furs of the ulth, the white bear of the snow
countries, and sturdy boots of bouphar hide, she picked her way through the
jagged rocks and scree, her sword of Valkarthan steel sheathed in a worn
leather scabbard strapped across her back; the hilt rising at her left shoulder.
She descended the rocky slopes and scarps with the sure-footedness of a
mountain goat, for snow-covered peaks and valleys such as these were her
natural environment. She was some nineteen years of age and tall for a
young woman; sinewy and strong. Her skin was clear bronze, tanned by the
sun; her jet-black, unshorn hair, fell below her shoulders and her strange
golden eyes blazed with sullen feline fire, as they scanned the serrated rocks
before her.
Varla was an outcast.
 Her home had been in a great valley in the land of Valkarth in the
Northlands, where the frigid ebon waves of the Great Northern Ocean
Zharanga Tethrabaal crash unceasingly against a bleak, rock-strewn coast.
She had been forced to flee her home after slaying her tribe’s shaman, the
vile Zarthan.
Zarthan had long coveted Varla’s youthful body. His old, yellowed
eyes had gleamed with cruel lust every time he’d gazed upon her, but Varla
had sworn to herself that she would rather die than suffer the touch of the
lecherous old sorcerer. Zarthan, using subtle flatteries and simple magiks,
had insinuated his way into the confidence of her father Jothon, who was
Clan Chieftain. Always were the shaman’s poisoned lips whispering at his
ear, guiding and advising, until the cunning Zarthan all but controlled him
and through him, the tribe.

Thus was her father unknowingly in thrall to the obscene shaman.

When Zarthan had announced that he wished to take Varla for his bride,
Jothon had readily agreed to the foul union, even though he knew that his
daughter’s heart was given to the young warrior Chandar, for the two had
been sweethearts since they were striplings.
Chandar had observed how the lidded gaze of the shaman dwelt
overlong on the lithe form of his woman and hate grew in his heart. But
Zarthan was no fool and had seen the embers of hatred smouldering deep
within Chandar’s eyes.
It happened that one evening the hunters had returned to the village
with the dire news that Chandar had fallen into a deep crevasse while
crossing an ice bridge that had collapsed suddenly beneath his boots. Varla
had been heartbroken. Instantly she had looked at Zarthan and his smirking
countenance had told her all she had needed to know. Somehow the
abominable creature had caused his death. In an instant of insane fury she
had grabbed a spear from the hands of a hunter who stood nearby and
plunged it deep into the black heart of the surprised shaman. She had moved
so fast that none had time to stop her. Vainly clutching at the haft of the
spear, Zarthan had fallen wordlessly to the ground, blood frothing between
his thin, cruel lips.
 One glance at the hard eyes of her father had told her she would
receive no mercy for her actions, for she had just committed murder.
Nobody would have believed that Zarthan had slain Chandar with sorcery
and she had had no proof. The punishment for murder amongst the people of
the Snow Bear tribe was death!
Deep within Jothon’s eyes she’d thought she’d detected a hint of the
man she once knew; who loved her and proudly taught her the ways of the
warrior - or had it been the reflected light of the torches?
No matter. She had taken the only course of action left open to her.
Snarling in fury she had broken through the small crowd that had gathered
upon the return of the hunters and with nary a backward glance she had
vanished into the cold Valkarthan night.

* * *

Varla frowned at the unpleasant memories. It had been almost a year since
these events and in this time she had slowly traversed the inhospitable
vastness of the Lemurian Northlands moving ever southwards, avoiding the
feuding Valkarthan tribes where she could, slaying where she couldn’t and
stealing victuals in the dark of night when game was scarce.
Passing through narrow rocky passes, across treacherous snowfields
and over slender bridges of stone that spanned deep crevasses, she moved
ever onwards until one day, in the distance, she saw ice-clad twin peaks of
granite and knew that they stood above the narrow pass of Jomsgard that
wound its way through the Mountains of Mommur.
From west to east the mighty mountain range stretched, like the
crenulated spine of a sleeping behemoth, dividing the high wintry wastes of
the bleak and barren Northlands from the lush, jungle-girt Southlands, or
Dakshina. Only the Pass of Jomsgard allowed easy passage through the
mountainous barrier. But she knew also that the gorge led to the high-walled
keep of Barak Redwolf, the Lord of the Pass, built upon the higher of the
two mountains on a spur of rock that thrust out over the pass. This road she
must avoid at all costs, for none passed the Great Gate without relinquishing
some sort of payment to the Lord, and she had naught to offer, though she
knew Redwolf would think otherwise if he were to lay eyes upon her.
 So it was that Varla began a descent that most civilised people would
never even have considered, for there was no path to follow, just the ice-clad
rock face. But she was a war-maid of the Snow Bear tribe and had been
climbing such scarps all her life.

Jungles of Lemuria

As the hours passed Varla slowly and painfully descended the mountain.
The shrieking wind sought to pluck her from her precarious hold and dash
her to bloody pulp on the jagged rocks far below, but her grip was firm, even
with fingers that were numbed with the cold. When darkness fell she would
find a sheltering niche within the rock face and remain there until the first
rays of the sun hit the mountains. Then she would rouse herself and continue
her journey. Two days it took for her to descend the rocky scarps and on the
morning of the third she found herself able to walk upright once again. The
long descent was over!
 The lower she travelled through the melting snows, the warmer and
thicker became the air. Here in these more temperate climes the approach of
spring was noticeable and game was plentiful. With her dagger she was able
to bring down the occasional rodent, though she baulked at eating the unza,
the white Lemurian rat. She wasn’t that hungry!

* * *

In time she passed through a forest of tall pine trees and early one morning
found herself standing upon a great escarpment. Before her was a visa of
wondrous magnificence the like of which she had never beheld in all her
nineteen years. Laid out before her were the warm lands of the Dakshina
where the early morning mist lay over the grassy meadows. Beyond in the
hazy distance she could just see a river winding its serpentine way through
the dense jungle and, on the horizon, sparkling silver in the sunlight, the
waters of the great gulf.
Many stories had Varla heard of the Dakshina and the wondrous cities
of Lemuria, for her uncle had travelled much in his youth and was one of the
few Valkarthans to do so and to return to his cold homeland. She knew that
somewhere along the shores of the warm waters of that gulf, magnificent
cities reared their towers of marble and bronze, glittering in the bright
Lemurian sun. Even their very names thrilled her: Shembis; Patanga;
Thurdis.
As the dawn rose over the edges of the world Varla strode down the
escarpment towards her destiny.

* * *

Soon the dense walls of the jungle closed in around her. Her lithe, weather-
hardened body, now free of her heavy furs, was quickly covered in a sheen
of perspiration, for the atmosphere was heavy, humid and redolent with the
myriad scents of exotic blossoms. Vibrant blooms reared their magnificent
heads high above her and vast towering lotifer ferns stretched their fronds
hundreds of feet into the clear blue skies of ancient Lemuria.
It was not long before she managed to find a game trail amid the
rotting, tangled undergrowth and following it began her danger-fraught
journey into the primeval wilderness of the jungles of Chush.
 As she moved stealthily through the emerald world, unconsciously
echoing the movements of the deodath, the huge feline beast that also
stalked these jungles, she saw vast moths and butterflies fluttering back and
forth amid the gorgeous blooms upon the still, stagnant air. Never had she
seen such beautiful creatures, for the winds of Valkarth were harsh and cruel
and did not allow such splendour to flourish. Still, she thought, there was
beauty in the frigid wonder of the glaciers and the cold, sullen grandeur of
the frozen lands of her home.
She made her way along the pathway, stopping occasionally to sniff
the air for the scent of water, as the trail doubtless led to or from a watering
hole.
After a time Varla detected water. She moved forward carefully and,
pulling aside the fronds of some large ferns, looked out onto a watering hole.
There were three beasts drinking at water’s edge; slim creatures, resembling
antelopes, and her stomach began to rumble, for she knew they were
phondle and made for good eating. The creatures were wary though and
were constantly testing the air for the scent of predators. Silently Varla
watched, for without a bow there was no way she could bring one of the
creatures down. Finally, brushing aside the fronds she stepped into the
clearing and in an instant the creatures were gone, vanishing into the jungle
like ghosts.
Kneeling at water’s edge, as wary and skittish as the phondle had
been, she cupped her hands to drink, her eyes constantly searching the
jungle’s edge for movement. Then, she bathed the many cuts and abrasions
she’d received while pressing her way through the tangled undergrowth.
Some burned from infection caused by thorns and stinging vines, but she
bore the pain stolidly as she scrubbed them with crushed leaves and water.
None of them were serious and would heal within a day or so.
 Suddenly she heard a rustling of foliage behind her. She turned
swiftly, reaching for her sword as she did so, but before she could draw her
weapon a fine rope mesh was flung over her. Snagged in the folds of the net
she lost her footing and tumbled to the ground. Swiftly, several white-robed
figures in turbans emerged from the trees and surrounded her. Dusky hands
reached out, each adorned with several ornate bejewelled rings. She fought
hard, scratching and biting at every hand she could reach, all the while
trying to draw her dagger. As her hand closed on the weapon, the pommel of
a wicked curved sword came crashing down upon the back of her skull and
blackness enveloped her.

Slavers!
When she regained awareness her head was throbbing painfully. She was
sat on the loamy soil of a jungle glade, her back against the purple bole of a
giant jannibar tree. She tried to move and realised immediately that she had
shackles about her wrists, the chain of which was locked into a metal pin
driven deep into the hard wood of the jannibar tree against which she rested.
She saw that she was chained at the end of a long line of men and women,
similarly fettered. There were about thirty in all, all of whom were resting
upon the forest floor. Looking about the glade she saw there was a large
creature tethered to a tree - this she recognised as a zamph; a huge reptilian
beast of burden.
Without a doubt she had been captured by slavers!
Varla regarded her fellow prisoners. They were all handsome, dark-
skinned savages clad in vandar and deodath skins and adorned with bones,
beads and tribal totems; they were obviously denizens of the jungle and now,
along with herself, captives of the slavers. Proudly they sat, silently glaring
at their captors with undisguised hatred. Varla turned her attention to the
person shackled next to her, for he alone stood out. His skin was as white as
her own and his clothes, though torn and soiled, were of fine silks and
cottons and bore the marks of a refined lifestyle
As she gazed at him he turned and caught her eye. Then he spoke to
her in a language she did not understand. She shook her head to relay this
fact to him and regretted it instantly as shards of pain exploded within her
skull. He spoke again and this time she understood his words for he used the
mercantile dialect of traders, a language she had learned from her uncle.
“I am pleased to see you’ve recovered’’, said the blonde stranger, “I
feared they’d caved your skull in, these vermin of the eastern deserts.’’
He was blonde; his overgrown tumbling curls giving him a girlish
appearance offset by his goatee beard and thin moustache, which were close-
cropped and stylish. Varla could see that a warrior’s body lay beneath these
foppish trappings thought and she realised that it would not bode well for the
person who underestimated this man.
 “I forget my manners girl, my name is Phan Grivas, formerly of
Patanga and more recently in the service of the Sark of Garmundis, a little
known principality south of Pelorm. My tenure of employment there ended
in unfortunate circumstances I’m afraid. Gambling and comely wenches
such as yourself were my downfall. Now I find myself your fellow
prisoner.” He gave his chains a mighty tug, testing their strength; “How was
I to know she was the Sark’s cousin? Or that the merchant in Shembis would
be so unforgiving of a little gambling debt. No need to for the Sark to sell
me into slavery to recoup his losses. I’ve just had a run of bad luck lately!”
He paused and eyed Varla speculatively. “Still, enough of me. Who
pray tell, are you, and what brings you to this sorry pass?”
Her pain-clouded brain sought out the words for a reply which came
haltingly. “I’m Varla - from there…” she said, indicating the cloudy peaks of
the Mommur Mountains that were just visible through gaps in the tree-line.
“I am of Valkarth.” she finished.
“From Valkarth you say? Up there somewhere? A barbarian from the
ice plateaus? Can’t say as I’ve ever been that way. Still, you’re a pretty one
and no mistake,” His tone was condescending and patronising. “Stick with
me girl and you’ll be fine.”
Varla reached for her sword and discovered it was gone. So too was
her knife. She glared at the blonde, baring her strong white teeth.
“I need no help from you.” she hissed.
“No? I see now I was wrong, for you’re doing so well by yourself.”
He laughed indicating her shackles.
 “No talking!” barked one of their captors as he strolled languidly over
to where they were sitting. He was Zurad, leader of the slavers; a lean and
hard-faced man and dark of skin with a purple dyed beard and cold black
eyes. As he neared them the Patangan awkwardly got to his feet, standing a
good head taller than the slaver, who smiled mirthlessly and said, “In a week
or so yellow-hair we will reach the ship and head out into the gulf. Once I
have handed you over to the Slave-Lord Kurash Kal and received payment
you will be sold in Dalakh, most likely to serve as an oarsman chained
below-decks in a war galley of the Sark’s navy.” He then looked at Varla,
who remained seated, before continuing. “And this dark-haired barbarian,
once tamed, should serve well in the seraglio of the Sark, for his agents have
an eye for a handsome wench. She may be a little stringy, but with some
fattening up and a perfumed bath she will fetch a good price I have no doubt
of that!’ Licking his lips with his slug-like tongue, he said, “In fact, I may
bid on this morsel myself!’
At this Phan Grivas lurched forward with hands outstretched
attempting to grab at the throat of the slaver, but before he could reach the
leering Zurad his chains jerked him backwards. “I’ll rip your throat out you
piece of offal,” he hissed through gritted teeth.
Zurad laughed, “A thousand pardons good sir, it seems I have
offended your delicate sensibilities. It would appear you have feelings for
this unwashed barbarian sitting in the dirt.”
Varla growled and made as if to rise, her eyes glowing with menace.
Zurad moved back a pace and seemed relieved when he noted that she
remained seated. She glared up at him, grinning in amusement. Zurad
continued. “She truly is a beauty: savage and untamed. A splendid prize
indeed. The gods favoured us when she crossed our path. I know your kind
Patangan; a wealthy, pampered playboy. You will not last a moon cycle
before you die at the oars and your corpse is cast overboard to feed the
voracious larth.”
 Jungle Terror

The days faded into one another as the slave party slowly made its way
through the jungles of Chush and Kovia, travelling ever southwards toward
the northern coast of the Gulf of Patanga.
One morning after breaking camp the slave party was making its way
along a narrow isle between two walls of dense jungle undergrowth; the
immense jannibar and lotifer trees towering hundreds of feet above them
creating a world of shadow and mystery. Zurad rode at the head of the
column atop the zamph, sat in the curved, bony neck-shield that formed a
natural saddle. He guided the immense beast with reins attached to small
iron rings that pierced the zamph’s sensitive ears. The train of slaves was
attached to the beast and followed behind. Varla and Phan Grivas were at the
rear of the train. Behind them walked guards, their hard, dark eyes scanning
the verdant growth above and about them, ever alert for the invisible dangers
they knew lurked in this green, twilight world, for this realm of bizarre and
fantastic beauty was also the domain of sudden, violent death and terror.
 The dense foliage could easily conceal the stealthy deodath; the
vicious dragon-cat and the most feared land beast of the entire Lemurian
continent, or mayhap the mighty dwark; the insatiable jungle-dragon known
also as thunder-lizard or perhaps the majestic black-furred Lemurian lion,
the vandar, which could attain a length of ten feet or more. So far luck had
been with them and their journey through the jungles of Kovia had been
uneventful, but Varla kept her senses sharpened, ever watchful for danger
As they walked she noticed that the vegetation around them was
beginning to change somewhat and the ground was starting to grow sodden
underfoot. Their progress became slow and uncertain, though Zurad seemed
to know well the path he was taking. Varla’s keen senses detected also the
tang of salt in the air. By this she knew they were approaching the mighty
Gulf of Patanga, which cleft the continent of Lemuria almost to its very
heart.
Phan Grivas knew something of this area for he had served for a time
as Otar in the army of the Sark of Patanga. He told Varla that they were
approaching vast swamplands that bordered the shores of the northern coast
of the gulf to the south of the city of Shembis. These swamps were
oftentimes a retreat for pirates, brigands and bands of slavers; their maze-
like avenues of waterways being a perfect place of refuge. The naval forces
of the great Lemurian city states would seldom expend the manpower
needed to venture into these doubtful waters, for here lurked the poa, the
savage river dragons. Almost invisible, due to their jelly-like translucent
flesh, these vicious serpents glided unseen in the stagnant waters of the
swamps.
At the front of the procession, Zurad’s zamph had halted momentarily
as he pondered the crossing of a narrow creek that lay before them. Then he
urged his mount slowly forward towards the dark shallow waters.
Varla nudged Phan Grivas with her elbow and indicated the matted
tangle of interwoven boughs and leaves which formed a thick canopy above
them. Dangling vines hung dim in the gloom and strange blossoms blazed in
vivid colour against the dark leaves.
“Something moves Patangan” hissed Varla. “Up there!” She pointed
to the foliage above their heads.
The Phan Grivas looked up and as he did so he realised that the vines
were indeed moving.
But there was no breeze!
 They weren’t vines!
As he came to this realisation black shapes began to rain down upon
the slave train.
“Fathla!” screamed Zurad in warning “Fathla!”
There were cries of fear and panic from the shackled slaves as the
creatures fell among them.
“Tree leeches” shouted Phan Grivas as Varla looked at him
questioningly. “Look to the trees barbarian.”
Zurad acted swiftly and jumped from his seat atop the Zamph,
unsheathing his scimitar and severing the chain that attached the slave train
to the zamph as he did so. Many of the creatures had landed upon the beast
and had swiftly fastened themselves to its hide by mouth and tail as even
more fell. They were the size of small dogs and those attached to the zamph
were already swelling obscenely as they gorged on the beast’s blood.
And still more were falling. One fell onto the head of the poor
creature which began to bellow furiously in fear and confusion. It was
thrashing around in the murky waters of the creek, churning up stinking mud
and debris. The stench was almost overwhelming. Several of the slavers
attempted to bring the beast under control but to no avail, as roaring in fright
and alarm it lumbered off into the mangroves, crashing headlong through the
tangled growth, its cries growing fainter as it vanished deep into the swamp.
All looked to the trees above as the leeches dropped among them.
Most landed upon the ground and were quickly dispatched by the swords of
the slavers but several found human prey; attaching themselves swiftly to
feed. Such was their voracious appetite for blood that their unfortunate
victims were mere withered husks within minutes. As their bodies collapsed
bloodless and pale, the leeches would detach themselves to lay bloated on
the ground. These were quickly dispatched by the slavers. As blades slashed
and hacked the leeches burst open like bloated corpses and reeking gore
splattered the sodden ground.
Phan Grivas and Varla were virtually helpless, shackled as they were,
and could do naught but watch warily as the loathsome creatures fell upon
the slaving party.
 Varla pulled at her chains in frustration, but strain as she might she
could not break them. Next to her Phan Grivas was likewise trying to free
himself. Then a leech fell upon the shoulders of the Patangan. A pampered,
city-bred, civilised woman might have found herself frozen and unable to
act, giving the creature time to attach itself to the Patangan and feed, but
Varla was a barbarian born and no decadent city-dweller. With her, to think
was to act. Swiftly she grabbed the nether end of the creature before it could
affix itself to the back of her new friend. As she did so the creature twisted
toward her, its three-jawed maw seeking her warm flesh. As the head shot at
her she managed to loop the short length of chain between her wrists about
the creature’s snake-like torso. Swift as thought she pulled her wrists apart
drawing the loop tightly about the leech and with one vicious jerk she tore it
in two. The pieces of the body fell to the floor writing obscenely, spewing
yellow ichor and blood as it died. Phan Grivas had barely had the time to
register he was in peril.
Looking about them Varla realised the fight was over. The slavers,
who were cleaning and sheathing their ensanguined weapons, were dripping
with ichor and the digested blood of their captives and colleagues. A few
leeches had managed to escape into the undergrowth, but most were finally
dispatched and lay about the path in curdling puddles of putrid gore. The
shrivelled husks of a handful of slaves and their captors also lay about them.
One slave, a dusky skinned warrior from Chush, lay weak and dying as his
life’s blood flowed freely from several bite wounds. There was nothing that
could be done to staunch the flow for the bite of the fathla contained a strong
anticoagulant and his wounds were many. One of the easterners cut his
throat.
Zurad inspected the slaves. Five were slain and he ordered that they
be taken from their shackles and their bodies thrown into the swamp. This
was done. So too, without ceremony, were three slaver corpses so disposed.
The fathla attack was a reminder that the Lemurian jungles, though
beautiful, were deadly and swift death awaited the unwary.
Varla resolved to remain alert, for a she knew the jungles were home
to creatures far more dangerous than tree leeches.
 The Crimson Zemadar

It was noon of the following day and the party had stopped to eat. A hunk
of bread each and some brackish water was all the slaves were provided.
Varla gnawed at the stale bread with her strong teeth. It was a meal and who
knew when she would get her next. Phan Grivas did likewise, grimacing as
he did so. They were again chained, this time by strong shackles fastened
about the branches of the mangrove trees. They were constantly watched by
alert guards and all kept a wary eye out for fathla.
Varla found her grasp of the mercantile language improving the more
she conversed with Phan Grivas. Neither of them could understand the
native dialects of their fellow slaves and so talked only to each other. The
Patangan proved to be of a garrulous nature and Varla, naturally sullen, did
not have to say much.
 He told the Valkarthan barbarian that he‘d surmised that the slavers
were from the desert region of south Nianga in the shadows of the Ardath
Mountains, possibly from Darundabar or Dalakh along the River Ilth. That
would no doubt be their ultimate destination if they weren‘t traded in the
ports of Tsargol or Vozashpa on the way.
These names meant little or nothing to Varla, but she had seen maps
of the Lemurian continent and knew they were many vorn from the Ardath
Mountains. Much could happen before they got there. She would bide her
time and await an opportunity to escape. She would be no slave for some
decadent desert Sark!

* * *

By late afternoon the party reached a small inlet where a ship stood at
anchor a spear‘s throw from shore. The inlet was partially shielded and
sheltered from the gulf by a small headland thick with mangrove trees; a
good spot, offering concealment from the prying eyes of the naval ships that
patrolled the waters of the gulf.
They were all weary and caked in the filth of the swamp and Zurad
was in a mood even fouler than usual, for with the loss of his zamph he‘d
been forced to walk like everybody else.
Varla looked at the ship with interest as it was the first one she had
ever seen. It was about ninety paces long, low and rakish with a lean hull
and sharp keel of scarlet stained timber. Upon its single mast, set amidships,
a black sail, emblazoned with scarlet, was furled.
Zurad gestured to the vessel and addressed Varla and Phan Grivas
mockingly. “Welcome to the Crimson Zemadar!”
As the pair scowled at him he hailed the ship. ‘Wake up Malook, you
stinking pile of zamph dung!’ Make ready to board slaves!”
With this there was movement in the crow’s nest and a scrawny
looking devil cried back in response before shouting to those below decks to
make ready the boats.

* * *
It was early evening by the time the slaves were aboard the Crimson
Zemadar and chained upon crude racks that had been designed for this
purpose. The racks were below the rowing benches and were rank with the
stench of human ordure and sweat, for there were ten or more slaves already
there. As a corpulent slaver was placing Varla in the racks next to the
Patangan there came a shout from Malook, “No Thantas, Zurad wants that
one to go into the hold with the merchandise.”
Thantas grinned and leeringly winked at Phan Grivas who strained at
his restraints in frustration. Varla made to sink her teeth into the arm of the
rotund slaver, but with a swiftness that surprised the Valkarthan he struck her
a cruel blow across the face with the back of his hand knocking her
unconscious.
“Careful dung vermin“, swore Malook, “the Captain will flay you raw
if she’s damaged.” With this, Malook grabbed Varla and pulling roughly at
her chains, dragged her away.

* * *

As the flaming glory of dawn grew golden in the east the Crimson Zemadar
crept from the shelter of the creek and set forth upon the waters of the gulf,
her black and crimson sail spread wide to catch the morning breeze; her oars
flashing as they dipped and rose in the morning sun.
Phan Grivas, who had slept fitfully chained at the racks, was
awakened by the slaver Thantas. He pushed a copper bowl against the
Patangan’s lips. “Drink this.”
Phan Grivas drank the water greedily for he was very thirsty and his
lips were cracked and dry. When he’d finished Thantas roughly thrust a
piece of ship’s biscuit into his mouth and grunted “Eat.”
“So where is it we are bound if I may enquire?” he asked as he
chewed the foul tasting biscuit.
The obese man looked at Phan Grivas and smirked. “We are heading
to the city of Dalakh. It lies deep within the deserts of Nianga, far along the
coast past Tsargol and Vozashpa where the river Ilth flows into the Southern
Sea. Dalakh lies many vorn inland upon the great river.” Thantas pushed
another piece of biscuit into the mouth of the Patangan and continued. “It is
truly a great city; a dry atmosphere, not like these damp humid lands along
the Patangan gulf and Kovian peninsula.
 “And Varla?”
“The Valkarthan girl? I suspect Zurad has plans for her.” Thantas
laughed as he saw the look of rage that crossed the Patangan’s handsome
features. Phan Grivas jerked at his shackles as the rotund slaver walked
away laughing.

* * *

Varla lay bound securely hand and foot in the hold below decks. Slowly she
regained consciousness and immediately felt the movement of the ship. It
was a most uncomfortable feeling and caused a strange sensation in her
stomach. A glance around the dim, cramped hold told her she was alone.
Beside her she noticed a square plate of wood upon which lay a crust of stale
bread and some mouldy cheese. Next to it this was a cup of brackish water.
Greedily she consumed the provender and drained the goblet. Mayhap
a more civilised woman would have turned her nose up at such meagre fare,
but the Valkarthan had no such qualms. It was food and drink and she
hungered and thirsted.

* * *

After what she judged to be several hours Varla heard movement and within
moments a shaft of bright sunlight lanced down into the gloom. Then a
figure descended the stairway into the hold and approached the Valkarthan
girl introducing himself as Tarshik.
Varla pulled at her ropes as she had done many times before, her
muscular arms straining with the effort, but the knots were expertly tied.
“What of the Patangan?” she asked, her golden eyes blazing with fury.
 “He yet lives,” said Tarshik, “down in the racks with the other slaves.
I took him for a dandy at first, but he‘s a strong one for a debauched city-
dwelling westerner.” He laughed, “Did you know that we took delivery of
him from a party of merchants from Shembis shortly before we caught you?
It seems the foppish cad had been caught in a delicate situation with a couple
of nieces of the Sark. The Sark was all for execution but was persuaded that
selling him off to the slave merchants would go some way towards
recouping the fellow’s not inconsiderable gambling debts. First thing he did
when he realised he was chained to Zurad’s slave caravan was to offer him a
bribe to release him. Said his family had money and lands outside Patanga.
Zurad just laughed.”
Tarshik threw a hunk of bread at Varla and returned topside. She ate it
and settled down to sleep. Eventually a chance to escape would present itself
and she would be ready . . .

* * *

Some hours later Varla awoke. She knew dusk had fallen for daylight no
longer filtered down through the gratings above.
Suddenly the trapdoor was lifted and she glared resentfully as two
figures descended the stairs. It was not the one known as Tarshik, but the
scrawny Malook and another sailor she had not seen before. They came over
to where Varla lay on her pallet amid some empty wooden crates and
Malook grabbed her roughly and pulled her to her feet.
“Zurad requests the dubious pleasure of your company, you savage
little harlot!” he hissed.
Varla reacted instinctively and struck him hard across the face with
her bound hands, breaking his nose. Malook was not expecting the blow and
fell backwards crashing heavily onto an empty crate, blood pouring from his
wound. At the same time the ship rolled violently and Varla lost her footing
and tumbled painfully to the deck. The other sailor reacted quickly and
responded by striking her across the base of the skull with a belaying pin he
kept in his belt. She groaned and lay still.
“You stupid fool Zamos!” cried Malook, trying to stem the flow of
crimson that was pouring from his shattered nose, “She better not be dead!
Zurad will feed us to the shaths! Quickly, let’s get her to the Captain’s
cabin.”
 * * *

Zurad struck Malook a hefty blow across his face, once again smashing his
nose. Malook screamed in agony.
“Imbecile he shrieked. You could have killed her!
Malook spluttered as he pressed his hands against his face, “The little
harlot broke my nose! She’s strong - you don’t know these Valkarthan
barbarians. I’ll wager she’s stronger than most of your men!”
Zurad struck Malook again, rage contorting his handsome be-
whiskered face. This time the blow landed heavily on the side of his head.
“Malook, be grateful I don’t have you lashed at the gratings. You two get out
of my sight before I change my mind!” he shouted.
The two sailors left the Captain’s cabin swiftly, Zamos helping
Malook, who was teetering on the verge on unconsciousness.
Varla’s limp form lay upon the rug where the pair had
unceremoniously deposited her before Zurad’s outburst. The slaver Captain
lifted up her lifeless form in his arms and took her across to a divan and
placed her upon it.
She moved slightly and opened her eyes. Her vision was blurred at
first but, like a savage beast, awareness retuned to her swiftly. She
recognized the face of Zurad above her. She tried to move but her hands and
legs were still bound.
“Stirring at last I see.” remarked Zurad. “I offer my sincere apologies
for the actions of those two fools.”
Varla’s eyes darted about her.
She was in a luxuriously appointed cabin. Animal skins were thrown
about the floor and shields and weapons adorned the walls. In the centre of
the room was a table of black arld wood upon which were maps, charts and
various instruments of navigation. Resting against a wall nearby she saw her
sword and harness and her hunting knife and sheath.
All this she took in with the swift, all-encompassing glance of a
barbarian born. Quick as a cathgan, a desert viper, she lunged for her knife
but fell heavily to the floor.
Zurad laughed. “You have spirit girl, I’ll give you that.
“Free me slaver scum and I’ll wipe that smirk from your face!”
snarled Varla.
 At that moment there was a loud knocking on the door and a voice
shouted “beggin’ your pardon Captain, there’s a sail sighted.”
Zurad let rip a curse, glanced at Varla to check that she was still
securely tied and went on deck at once. He leaped to the larboard rail and
gazed towards the now visible sail.
Malook cried from the crow’s nest. “Ship ho cap’n. Pirates!”
Zurad cursed again.
Pirate Peril!
It was a pirate ship, no doubt about it: bloodthirsty cutthroats from the city
of Tarakus, capital of the corsair kingdom, bearing down on the larboard
tack to gain the offing on the Crimson Zemadar.
“Beat to quarters Janath and clear the decks for action!” shouted
Zurad to his second in command. Then as the drums began to beat; to
Thantas: “To the racks man! Free and arm the slaves.”
“Aye aye sir.” Thantas shot a look at his Captain but knew better than
to question his orders and made his way swiftly to the racks.
Zurad wanted every able bodied man available to fight. He did not
stop to wonder what their reactions would be. He knew they would fight, all
of them to a man, for it was fight or die under the bloody cutlasses of the
pirates of Tarakus.
Zurad walked aft and stared narrowly at the pursuing shape. He could
see white water creaming away from the bows. He knew they could not
outrun the pirates for as fast as the Crimson Zemadar was the brass-beaked
dragon prow of the corsair galley cut through the waves at an even more
rapid pace and they had the weather gauge.
The galley was almost upon them. Zurad could see scores of vicious
looking pirates at the rails and hear their shouts and jeers as they waved their
weapons.
“Ship the oars Thantas.” shouted Zurad. He didn’t want them
shattered and oarsmen killed as the corsair galley drew alongside.
Then Zurad realised there was one other who could wield a sword.
 He re-entered his cabin to find Varla making her way slowly across
the floor towards her weapons. Swiftly he grabbed her hair and knelt over
the prostrate Valkarthan. “We are attacked by pirates girl. Give me your
word you’ll fight for the ship and I give you mine that if victory is ours I’ll
free you.”
Varla’s golden eyes blazed savagely. “And the Patangan?”
“And the Patangan.” replied Zurad.
“I swear.” spat Varla.
Swiftly Zurad cut her bindings. Rubbing her wrists to restore the flow
of blood, Varla took her sword and knife and together the two of them raced
out onto the deck.
The sleek pirate ship was already drawing alongside the Crimson
Zemadar‘s larboard side. Grappling hooks were flying and, as they took
hold, pirates were pulling mightily, drawing the two vessels together. Then
boarding planks, shod with vicious barbs of iron, smashed through the
Crimson Zemadar’s rails and bit deeply into the decking. There was a
triumphant roar and the pirates began to swarm across the gap between the
two ships and onto the deck of the Crimson Zemadar.
At the same moment there was a cry from amidships and the slaves,
led by Phan Grivas brandishing his trusty sword of Patangan steel, arrived
on deck and without hesitation engaged their assailants.
Zurad, for all he was a cruel and sadistic man, was no coward and
with a lusty curse drew his cutlass and did likewise.
Varla was no stranger to battle. Often had her tribe fallen into conflict
with neighbouring tribes such as the White Wolf tribe and the hated Black
Hawk tribe, but never had she fought such a battle as this, stood upon the
swaying decks of a Niangan slave ship facing a screaming horde of blood
thirsty corsairs. She gripped her sword tightly in her right hand and yelling
the war cry of the Snow Bear tribe joined Zurad in combat.
Baring her teeth in a wolfish grin, the red joy of battle flaming in her
strange golden eyes, Varla was upon the first pirate in an instant, her
glittering sword cleaving his head from his body before the corsair had time
to utter a single cry. In the same instant Zurad hurled himself upon another
invader, his cutlass disemboweling him with one expert sweep. Bright steel
flashed and red blood and steaming entrails splashed as the pirate sank to the
deck moaning. Varla and Zurad exchanged a glance and the two got down to
the bloody work of slaughter.
 Varla, her great sword clutched in her fist, was now deep amongst the
attacking horde, her blade glistening wetly crimson as she swung it in
glittering arcs, slicing flesh and bone. Those facing her faltered at this grim
apparition and thus met their doom for Varla was no pampered civilized girl
to freeze at the sight of a screaming horde of blood-thirsty corsairs, but a
proud warrior of Valkarth. She was accustomed to the stink and carnage of
the battlefield and did not hesitate to cut her opponents down.
At her side Zurad was also acquitting himself well. His vulpine
features were twisted in a mirthless grin as his wicked blade reaped a bloody
harvest as more pirates swarmed aboard the Crimson Zemadar to engage her
crew.
Steel rang on steel as the slaves joined the fray, inspired by the mighty
swordsmanship of Phan Grivas who led them as they fell upon their foes.
They fought not only for their lives, but for something almost as precious -
freedom!
Varla had just dispatched an opponent, shearing his scrawny frame
almost in two when she noticed a pyramid of six large casks lashed to the
deck of the enemy ship. A desperate plan formed as she engaged another
buccaneer. She prayed to Father Gorm that her guess was right as she leapt
past the advancing pirate, and in a whirlwind of deadly steel made her way
along a boarding plank, scattering attackers as she went. Most fell into the
gap between the two vessels to be devoured by the shaths, the huge
Lemurian sharks that had gathered below, lured by the scent of fresh-spilled
blood. In moments the Valkarthan stood upon the deck of the enemy ship
Zurad had no idea what Varla intended by boarding the attacking
craft, but was kept too busy fending off the blades of the corsairs to worry
over much. Dodging a thrust to his ribs and countering with a slash that
opened the jugular of the filthy seadog who opposed him, Zurad gave his
full attention to staying alive.
Phan Grivas, the slaves and crew of the Crimson Zemadar were
similarly engaged. The cries of the dying filled the air, along with the reek of
sweat, blood and ordure.
 The deck of the enemy ship was sparsely populated for most were
aboard the Crimson Zemadar. The Valkarthan paused, leaning on her sword
for a moment, then swiftly made her way to the casks. Her heavy blade
made short work of the staves and soon all six casks were shattered and
spilling their contents upon the decking. Varla grinned to see her guess had
been correct.
She turned to make her way back to the fray to find two corsairs were
nearly upon her. One thrust at her breast with a rapier, a blow that Varla
dodged easily, slapping the thin blade aside with her own before ramming it
up into his jaw and withdrawing it savagely, ripping his face apart. The
second attacker ran into his companion and dropped his weapon. A second
later Varla had sheared off the top of his head just below his silk bandanna.
Varla heard a voice behind her.
“You dung-splattered slattern!”
She turned to see the glowering visage of the corsair Captain stood
upon the quarter-deck. He was a giant of a man with long plaited black hair
and a bristling beard, also black and plaited. He was wearing red silk
pantaloons tucked into knee length leather boots, a red bandanna tied about
his head and a black sleeveless silk shirt. This latter item served to display
his huge arms, heavily tattooed and adorned with gold armbands. In his right
hand he held an enormous double-headed axe.
“Come dog and die” hissed Varla as she stood ready to face this
formidable foe.
Slowly the captain walked down to the main deck.
“You shall be the one to die barbarian,” grinned the pirate, displaying
rotted and broken teeth, “none there are who have stood before the blade of
Daros Thal and survived to tell the tale. Prepare to greet Shastadion the
Sealord.”
 At this Daros Thal lunged, swinging his war axe with alarming speed
for one so large. Varla dodged the blow with the swiftness of a striking
serpent and made to counter-strike, but already Daros Thal was aiming
another. She knew her blade of would shatter if it were to suffer the full
impact of the mighty war axe and so she spun upon her heels and leapt to the
larboard rail grabbing the cordage of the standing rigging with her left hand
as she did so. The tar covered rope afforded her a solid purchase and she
quickly turned to strike at the pirate captain. But Daros Thal was quick and
was upon her before she could make her move. His blade swept towards her
skull. Varla ducked and was only saved by her lightning fast reflexes. The
blade whistled just above her head. Then Varla felt herself falling and
realised that, though the blade had narrowly missed her, it had cut through
the rope she was holding. Above her the ugly face of Daros Thal was
grinning down at her. But Father Gorm was watching over her this day, for
the rope had been cut close to a cleat and as she fell the rope held and she
found herself swinging a few feet above the heaving waves. Quickly she
began to climb back towards Daros Thal.
His pock-marked face leered down at her. “I know not whether to
slice you in half myself barbarian or cut the rope and watch the shath feast
on your fulsome flesh!”
As if to illustrate this, from below her came a mighty whoosh as a
huge shath lunged up at her from the waves below, its jaws gaping wide.
With a loud click they snapped shut just inches away from her boots and
slowly the savage creature fell back into the roiling waves.
Daros Thal pulled out a dagger and began to cut at the rope from
which Varla dangled, laughing has he did so.
Varla knowing that she had but seconds to act if she didn’t want to
become shath fodder whipped her own blade from her belt and with unerring
accuracy, threw it straight at Daros Thal. It caught him full in the throat in-
between the two plaits of his beard and gurgling in surprise he toppled
forward, falling over the rail and into the gaping maw of a huge saurian
waiting below. With a crunch of powerful jaws Daros Thal was gone.
Swiftly Varla clambered back onto the deck of the pirate ship.
 With the death of their Captain all of the fight went out of the pirates
and they began to scramble back to their ship, fleeing like monkeys across
the boarding planks and ropes. The crew of the Crimson Zemadar raised
their swords giving a mighty cheer and hurling insults at the fleeing
brigands.
Varla ran across a boarding plank back to the Niangan ship; the
fleeing pirates getting out of her way as she did so. None wanted to face this
blood-spattered she-devil from the Valkarthan wastes whose strange golden
eyes gleamed with savage bloodlust.
Swiftly Zurad gave orders for all the ropes binding the two ships to be
cut. The boarding planks were shattered and thrown into the sea and the
crew pushed the two ships apart with poles and boathooks. The pirate vessel
was slowly drifting abaft when Varla finally put her plan into action. She
grabbed a ship’s lantern, and seeing that the wick was burning, smiled to
herself. Then with a mighty heave she threw the lantern at the drifting ship.
All watched in silence as the spluttering lamp arced over the heaving waves
between the two vessels and smashed upon the deck, exploding in a violent
conflagration as the flame ignited the oil in the lamp and the pitch that had
spilled from the casks that Varla had shattered earlier.
Greedy flames rapidly overwhelmed the doomed ship and the crew of
the Crimson Zemadar watched, cheering heartily as the surviving pirates,
some engulfed in flames, jumped into the heaving waves of the Southern
Sea only to be immediately torn apart and consumed by the savage maws of
the voracious sea creatures feasting amid the waves.
In minutes the ship was a smoking hulk, burned to the waterline and
its crew either consumed by flame or by the denizens of the deep.
Thus was the corsair ship from the pirate city of Tarakus vanquished.
“Well, it appears I owe a debt of gratitude to you both.” Said Zurad to
Varla and Phan Grivas, who stood together at the larboard rail still watching
the burning ship.
“And of course to all the slaves who joined us and helped us win the
day here.” added Phan Grivas sardonically.
“It is so,” admitted Zurad, casting a cursory glance at the remaining
slaves. “Thantas, double rations of grog for the crew and... passengers.”
Varla looked at the gathered group and saw that only four female
slaves remained alive and but a handful of galley slaves.
“And Thantas,” added Zurad, “have the crew dispose of the dead.”
 Thantas gave the order and the crew got to work. All the bodies, dead
and gravely wounded, were cast overboard into the frothing waves of the
Yashengzeb Chun and work began on scrubbing the decks.
Zurad turned to Varla and Phan Grivas. “Won’t you join me in my
cabin, I have a fine Cardornan wine awaiting a special occasion and I think
the saving of our lives merits its uncorking?.”

* * *

Varla awoke to painful consciousness, her head throbbed like a hundred

jungle drums and her senses were clouded and fuzzy. She looked about her
to find that she was once more securely bound and seated upon the divan in
the Captain’s cabin. At her side slumped Phan Grivas similarly bound and
still unconscious. The early morning sun shot rays of bright light into her
eyes through the open cabin door as the barbarian girl strained at her
bindings, but once again they were tied expertly.
She subsided and slowly her recollections of the night before
returned. A celebration had been held aboard the Crimson Zemadar and she,
along with Phan Grivas and the remaining slaves had been invited to the
Captain’s Table. There, much food and wine had been consumed for Zurad
said he had decided to make sail for the scarlet walls of Tsargol where cheap
slaves could be procured to fill the empty benches at the oars. There too, he
said, would Varla and Phan Grivas be free to go their own way. From
Tsargol, said Zurad, the Crimson Zemadar would return to the gulf and the
jungles of Kovia in search of fresh cargo. They were welcome to remain on
board for the return trip if they so wished. Varla had frowned at this, but said
nothing.
“So you awaken.” Varla’s sullen musings were interrupted by the
mocking voice of Captain Zurad who sat behind her at his desk. He rose
from his chair and came around to face the barbarian.
“You filthy unza,” she hissed savagely, “you gave your word.”
Zurad laughed sarcastically as he stood before her, hands on hips.
“Yes I did, didn’t I?”
The Dream of Lady Naramora
The city state of Dalakh stood upon the great river Ilth deep in the
wastelands of Nianga; a harsh and arid land of scorching crimson deserts
and desolate wilderness. The river Ilth rose in the Mountains of Ardath to
the north and flowed down through the cities of Darundabar and Dalakh and
thence into the Southern Sea bringing life and wealth to the two cities. But
Nianga was a cursed land. Thirty centuries ago the wizard scientists of the
three ancient cities of Kuth, Shandathar and grim Zanjan had sought to
master the dark sciences and by that mastery dominate Lemuria. It was
known as the Aeon of the Grey Magicians, when men turned to evil
wizardry and leagued with the cunning serpent in his secret isles amid the
Inner Sea. They had tried to seize and tame the Ultimate Forces that lurk
within the heart of the sun. But a shadowy doom fell upon their lands and
the Grey Magicians were struck down, their cities trodden into dust and all
their lands laid waste to become a desolate wilderness known as the Grey
Barrens. But who knows what dread secrets may still lay buried in the ruins
of those lost cities or what foul creatures still lurk amid the shifting dunes of
the desert sands thirsting for blood and revenge?
* * *

All was not well in Dalakh. There had arisen an ominous new cult called
The Cult of the Black Dawn.
It was said that the High Priest of this cult, one Xothar Vool,
originated from the lost city of grim Zanjan, while others maintained that he
was a sorcerer from Dalakh itself who had discovered some of the fabled
secrets of the Grey Magicians. Whatever his origins, it was known that he
had discovered something beneath the crimson sands of the Grey Barrens in
one of his many sojourns to the blasphemous cities of the Grey Magicians.
It was on his return to Dalakh from that shunned land that the huge
domed temple of the Dark God Iao-Thaumungazoth, the Lord of Black
Magic, which stood at the centre of the city, was re-named. It was now the
Temple of the Black Dawn and dedicated to the worship of Savitar-Negroth.
Xothar Vool had also wormed his way into the confidence of the Sark
of Dalakh, one Jalar Dubal, who now made no decision that wasn’t first
sanctioned or suggested by the wily priest.
One of Jalar Dubal’s first decrees under the malign influence of
Xothar Vool was the banning of the worship of any gods in Dalakh other
than the three gruesome gods of the Lords of Chaos
 All temples devoted to any other deities were looted and destroyed
and their priests forced to take the oath of The Cult of the Black Dawn or be
put to the sword.
There were nonetheless a handful of brave souls who still remained
loyal to their own gods and carried out ceremonies of worship covertly, ever
knowing that discovery would mean a bloody death upon the blood-stained
altars of the evil cult of Xothar Vool.
Lady Naramora was one of these few. She worshipped Sirana, the
River Goddess and was fortunate in that her position meant that she was not
subject to the constant inspections and raids of the Sark’s militia.
It was also providential that her manse lay a considerable distance
from the city as she could prosecute her worship of the Goddess far from
prying eyes, for she was all but forgotten by the grey-robed priests of priests
of Xothar Vool.
Naramora was a woman of substantial means, for her late husband Var
Koomis had been a scholar and engineer of significant note and had played
an important part in the construction of the various irrigation canals and
waterways of Dalakh. Originally from the west, they had journeyed from
their home in the lush green meadows of Ptartha, northeast of Tsargol, to
Nianga at the request of the Sark of Dalakh, for her husband’s reputation had
travelled far, even unto the ears of Jalar Dubal‘s predecessor Shular Khan.
For fifteen years had they dwelt in the Niangan city until Var Koomis
met with a fatal accident, drowning in one of the canals while inspecting a
water pump. For the past two years the Lady Naramora had dwelt in
isolation, save for her servants and staff, in her manse outside the city,
avoiding social intercourse and companionship.
She was a beautiful woman. Her long, raven-hued tresses hung free
and unfettered and her pale complexion was unusual in a land where most
were dusky of skin, burned thus by the savage glare of the Niangan sun,
which she studiously avoided. Her eyes were deep blue, framed with kohl
and long-lashed. Her sensuous lips full and her body firm and supple.
 But this evening her beauty was marred by a frown, for her heart was
troubled. Her son and only child Sharouk had been missing for this past
fortnight and she suspected that he was now an acolyte of The Cult of the
Black Dawn; his naïve young mind entrapped by the guileful tongues of the
grey-robed priests. Many young people had been mysteriously vanishing
from the streets of Dalakh and it was thought that most, if not all, were
behind the walls of the great domed temple of Savitar-Negroth.
She was at her wits end and had conceived no way of rescuing her son
from the clutches of the evil cult of Xothar Vool and so resolved to seek aid
from The River Goddess.
As a Priestess of Sirana she had long ago mastered the art of
travelling to the mysterious realm of the Shadowlands where the Gods
themselves move among the shades of men. It was dangerous, for the
Shadowlands were perilous, but no other option seemed to present itself to
her.
Leaving her apartments the Lady Naramora walked out into the cool
air of the Niangan evening and made her way to the temple.
The Temple of the River Goddess was a splendid domed construction.
Built upon a small island in a lake fed by canals running from the river Ilth,
it was surrounded by luxuriant gardens, tastefully planted with lush trees and
exotic flowering shrubs.
Crossing the marble bridge that led to the temple, the lady entered the
cool interior and began to make her preparations. She made her way to a
pallet standing in the centre of the circular room which was draped with
expensive silks and cushions. From a pocket in her clothing she took a small
silver bottle and placed it upon a chest which stood next to the pallet. It
contained a heady narcotic, distilled by The Sisterhood from the nectar of
the slith blossom with carefully prepared spices and spirits. Then she lighted
incense sticks and candles set in silver candelabra about the room and made
her way back to the pallet. Picking up the silver bottle she uncapped it and
drank down the contents, draining it of every drop of fluid, for the tincture
was not at all unpleasant to the taste. Then she settled down and composed
herself for slumber. Her sleeping silks felt smooth and cool upon her naked
skin. The narcotic took effect swiftly and within moments she was
unconscious…

* * *
After a brief moment of oblivion Lady Naramora found herself standing
upon a small island in the centre of a vast river whose banks on either side
were barely discernible. Before her rose a vast temple of silver and ivory,
from the apex of which sprang myriad fountains of crystal clear water that
fell and splashed down the shimmering sides of the edifice in silvery
cascades. Her ears rang with the melodious sounds of the running water as
she gazed at the beautiful building.
“Thou dost gaze upon the Temple of Sirana, O Lady!”
The voice was sweet and musical, as of spring waters rushing over
pebbled beds but with a deep and sonorous quality like the roar of
plummeting cataracts. Such a voice was never uttered by human throat.
“I am your faithful servant come to seek your aid.” said Lady
Naramora peering closely at the temple for the source of the voice. As she
looked a curtain of shimmering of water parted like drapes and within she
saw a strange figure. Partly obscured by the misty waters she perceived it to
be the figure of a woman. Taller than a human she was and her skin was
silvery blue, as was her hair, which shimmered about her head like sunlight
on rippled water. Her face was serene and almost painful in its beauty. Deep,
languid eyes, wise beyond the knowledge of man, gazed upon her and it
seemed their depths plumbed the vast spaces of infinity.
“Speak my child?”
“My Lady Sirana, I come to you seeking guidance. My son Sharouk
has fallen under the baleful influence of an evil sect known as The Cult of
the Black Dawn I call upon you in my time of need, as your most devoted
Priestess, and ask for your aid in returning my son to my side.”
“Much is known to me of this cult my daughter, for even in the
Shadowlands their influence is felt. These are dire times for Dalakh, indeed
for the whole of Lemuria, for an ancient evil, long banished, is returning.
Xothar Vool has acquired long buried manuscripts and learned many of the
forgotten secrets of the Grey Magicians. From the scarlet deserts of Nianga
he has unearthed an artifact, a vast crystal skull, with which he hopes to
bring about the return of the dreaded Dragon Kings of old. Those
disappearing from the streets of Dalakh are doomed to become victims in his
sacrificial blood ceremonies, for only through regular blood offerings to the
crystal skull can the portal be prepared and opened and the Dragon Kings
return.
 “I have had brief glimpses into the fog of what-might-be and there is
faint hope. On the morrow you must make your way to the slave auctions in
Dalakh for there shall be two slaves on offer there. One a girl of dark hair
and savage mien; a barbarian from the northern wastelands of Valkarth; the
other a fair-haired Patangan. You must purchase them at all cost, for they
shall be your salvation.”
At this the curtain of water drew in and the figure, which seemed to
merge and dissipate into it, vanished.
Lady Naramora awoke upon her pallet of silks and cushions, the
warm Lemurian sun caressing her naked body where she lay as it shone
through the crystalline windows of the Temple. To her surprise she found a
crystal pendant set in ivory on a silver chain about her neck. A gift from the
goddess she surmised.
Morning had arrived. It was the day of the slave auctions in the plaza
of the city and she knew what she must do.

The Slave Auction

The slave market of Dalakh was situated near the docks in a huge, square
building whose centre, where stood the seller’s podium and slave block, was
open to the sky. On three sides of the square were the slave pens, where the
slaves were chained on display for the viewing pleasure of potential buyers.
The fourth wall was lined with tiers of wooden benches either side of an
arched entranceway which faced the auction block.
 The auctioneer was a giant of a man named Kabul who stood over
seven feet tall. He was shaven of pate and grossly fat, with triple chins and a
pendulous stomach, all dripping with greasy sweat. He was clad in naught
but a filthy breechclout and a stained leather harness hung with wicked
flails, whips and other implements of torture and punishment. He stood upon
the auction block and faced the tiered seats which were thronged with
potential customers. To his left was a small podium which held a block of
rare arld wood and a hammer of the same material. In his right hand he held
a vicious looking whip of cured bouphar hide.
To his right stood Phan Grivas and Varla of Valkarth. Both were
naked. They were manacled to each other by heavy chains attached to their
ankles and each wore wrist chains binding their hands before them. Their
ankle chains were fixed to rings set securely into the auction block.
Varla’s head was held high and proud. You would have thought that
she stood in the golden palaces of Patanga or Tsargol wearing the finest silks
and jewellery rather than naked and unwashed upon the auction blocks of
Niangan slavers.
She glared out at the crowd before her.
Phan Grivas also stood gazing at the crowd, silently cursing as he
remembered how the treachery of Zurad had led them here.
After they had awoken in Zurad’s cabin to discover they were once
again in bondage The Patangan had been returned to the slave racks, where
he had stayed for the remainder of the three week journey to Nianga,
periodically taking his turn at the oars of the Crimson Zemadar. Varla, so he
discovered later, had remained chained in Zurad’s cabin, where the slaver
captain had treated her reasonably well. Doubtless he didn’t want to damage
his merchandise.
They had journeyed up the vast river Ilth through the scarlet sands of
Nianga until they reached their destination, the city of Dalakh. There they
had been taken from the ship and Zurad had personally handed them over to
his master, the Slave Trader Kurash Tal, scowling darkly at the lack of a
bonus as he received his meagre payment. Then they had been led away to
the holding pens to be prepared for auction. There they had remained for
three days before finding themselves dragged out into the glaring Lemurian
sun to be chained in the viewing pens of the slave market to await their turn
upon the slave block.
 The sharp crack of a whip brought the Patangan back to the present as
Kabul began the auction.
“What am I bid for the barbarian bitch?” began Kabul, thrusting the
handle of his whip roughly under Varla’s chain.
She lunged impotently at the slaver and snarled, “Come closer fat man
and I’ll rip your stinking heart out with my bare teeth.”
This was precisely the reaction Kabul hoped for. He grinned: “How
much for this heathen savage from the frigid Northlands? She‘s a strong one
and no mistake.” He grinned revealing his broken, rotted teeth. Varla could
smell the stench of his fetid breath upon her face
“Quiet girl,” hissed Phan Grivas. Varla’s amber eyes flashed
dangerously but she heeded the Patangan’s advice and glared at the
assembly before her as if daring one of them to purchase her.
“Fifty dinshar” came a voice from the benches.
Varla and Phan Grivas both looked up suddenly, scanning the crowd
for the bidder, for they recognised the voice immediately: it was Zurad!
Phan Grivas spat disgustedly upon the sand and Varla pulled again at
her chains giving vent to a savage growl. Suddenly she felt a searing line of
fire upon her back as the whip of Kabul kissed her flesh.
“Be still girl,” repeated Phan Grivas. “By the Gods I hate that cur
Zurad as much as you, but there is little we can do at present. His time will
come, I can assure you.”
“Fifty dinshar from Zurad there - took a fancy to her did you? The
obese slaver grinned as he played with his whip suggestively.
“Sixty!” came another bid, this from an effeminate looking lord with
rouged eyes and painted cheeks.
“Sixty dinshar from the Lord Chash Shal Bel,” confirmed Kabul.
“Fodder for your gladiator pits, no doubt my Lord?”
“Seventy” said Zurad, a look of annoyance on his face.
“One hundred!” came back Chash Shal Bel.
“One hundred and ten!” This from Zurad.
“I tire of this petty squabbling,” said Chash Shal Bel languidly, “I bid
three hundred dinshar for the barbarian savage. He shot a petulant gaze at
Zurad, who was now on his feet, red-faced with anger. Cursing he stormed
out of the auction house darkly muttering to himself as Chash Shal Bel
smiled.
 Phan Grivas and Varla watched him go suspecting they were fated to
meet again before their destinies were played out.
Kabul licked his lips avariciously. “Three hundred dinshar for this
marvellous specimen of womanhood. Any more bids? His experienced gaze
took in the assembly at a glance. He didn’t expect any more bidding. Three
hundred dinshar was a high price to pay for a single slave. He took hold of
his auction hammer: “Last chance, else the female goes to the Lord.”
The hammer began to fall…
The Plan
It was early evening when Lady Naramora rode into the gardens of her
manse astride her kroter, one of the slim, long-legged reptilian mounts of
ancient Lemuria. She reflected upon the auction she had just attended.
Events had conspired against her and she had arrived much later than
intended. Breathlessly she had made her way to the auction house and was
just in time to see that a female barbarian and a blonde westerner stood upon
the auction block. She had known at once these were the two she sought. To
her horror she had seen that the hammer was falling. Having no idea of the
winning bid she had shouted “One thousand dinshar for both the barbarian
wench and the blonde.” As soon as the words had left her mouth the hammer
had struck the block.
And so it was that she had purchased the two slaves as directed by the
Goddess Sirana and it was Varla of Valkarth and Phan Grivas the Patangan
who rode behind her upon their own reptilian mounts, their hands tethered to
the saddles. A fourth beast made up the caravan and astride this was Tarnus
Tarn, her loyal bodyguard.
Once in the courtyard of her house Naramora dismounted and slave
girls ran up to stable the kroters. She nodded to Tarnus Tarn who had also
dismounted and he untied the hands of Phan Grivas and Varla and helped
them dismount.
Before the pair had a chance to question the woman who had
purchased them they were led away by handmaidens. Neither resisted,
preferring to see where matters led.
Presently, after a bath and a change of clothes, Varla and Phan Grivas
were escorted to the lounge of the house, where the Lady Naramora was
waiting. She greeted them as they entered and the three settled down on soft
divans drawn up near a roaring fire in the hearth. More girls brought wine
and viands, and the pair set to with gusto, for it had been many weeks since
they had enjoyed a decent meal. As they ate the Lady talked.
“I thank you both for your patience, perhaps it is time I explained
matters to you.”
At this Varla just grunted and continued tearing at a haunch of
bouphar meat. Phan Grivas replied. “Indeed Lady, while we are both most
grateful for having escaped the slave pens it is my experience that nothing
comes without a price. You no doubt expect some service from us?”
“Yes, Patangan, you are very astute. First let me explain.”
 At this the Lady Naramora told of her missing son, fallen into the
clutches of Xothar Vool’s evil cult and the hold the vile priest had over the
Sark of Dalakh. She recounted her conversation with the Goddess Sirana
deep within the Shadowlands and the prophecy that they would be her
salvation in this matter, but neglected to mention Xothar Vool’s planned
attempt to bring about the return of the Dragon Kings, surmising that such
knowledge would adversely affect their decision to rescue her son.
At the mention of the Shadowlands Varla had eyed Lady Naramora
warily. She had the barbarian’s innate hatred of sorcery and mysticism,
preferring the bite of good, honest Valkarthan steel to the mutterings of
pallid conjurors.
“And so,” finished Naramora, “I would ask that you two venture into
the Temple of the Black Dawn to rescue my son and return him to me. You
will be well paid for your task and I will arrange passage for you on a
merchant ship to Vozashpa or Tsargol if such is your desire.”
At this Varla, who had been sitting on the far side of the hearth busily
devouring her food, spoke. “So that’s why you bought us at the slave
auction. Why do you not simply get your man Tarnus Tarn to hire and lead
some sell-swords to snatch your son back from these men, surely the taverns
are crawling with such braggarts?”
Lady Naramora arose from her divan and sauntered languidly to the
fireplace casting her gaze into the crackling embers. “Do not think that I
have not done so Varla. several times I have sent men into the temple and
none have yet returned.” Her voice quivered with emotion as she spoke.
Taking a crystal pendant from about her neck she handed it to the Varla. It
was fashioned in the shape of a teardrop and set in ivory. “This may be of
aid you in your quest. It is the sacred emblem of Sirana Goddess of the River
Ilth, mayhap she will watch over you”
Hesitantly Varla took the pendant. “I’ll rely on the edge of my blade if
you don’t mind;” growled Varla, “but the youth may find it of some
comfort.” So saying she thrust it into a pocket.
The Thirsty Kroter
The afternoon of the following day Varla and Phan Grivas once again
entered the city of Dalakh. But not as captives of cruel Niangan slavers.
Now they rode splendidly caparisoned kroters and were attired in new
clothing supplied by the Lady Naramora, for they had readily agreed to enter
the Temple of the Black Dawn and rescue her son. Varla was equipped with
a pair of sturdy boots that reached to her knees and a tough leather jerkin
that a seamstress slave girl had helped fashion for her. Over this she wore a
harness with her sword strapped across her back in the fashion of her tribe.
She looked regal, beautiful and splendid; the proud warrior-daughter of a
Valkarthan Chieftain. Phan Grivas looked a different man also. His blonde
hair and beard were now neatly groomed and in the livery of Naramora’s
house guard he looked every inch the officer of The Patangan Guard he
claimed to be.
As they rode their reptilian mounts through the crowded streets, Varla
looked about her. “It would appear we are in one of the more decadent
districts of the city by the carousing I see about me.” she remarked as they
steered their kroters through the mêlée of beggars, staggering drunks and
brazen, scantily clad whores.
“Very perceptive lass.” remarked Phan Grivas sardonically as he
gently repulsed the advances of one very stubborn, and yes, very seductive,
harlot. “Come, it was a hot and dusty road, let us repair that tavern there and
wash away some of that dust with a flagon or two of ale and a hot, juicy
bouphar steak.”
Varla gave an annoyed grimace, “Shouldn’t we be concentrating on
the task at hand?”
A wry smile crossed the face of Phan Grivas as he dismounted and
tethered his kroter. “Intelligence gathering lass.” He patted his nose with his
forefinger. Varla dismounted and tethered her mount beside that of the
Patangan’s and the pair entered a hostelry known as The Thirsty Kroter.
The tavern was crowded despite the hour and many men stood at the
bar or sat at low wooden tables drinking sour beer and cheap wine from
tankards and leathern jacks.
 The atmosphere was thick with the aromas of roasting meat, dirt,
sweat and the bawdy voices of the drinkers. Their entrance made little
impression on the patrons and if any eyes gazed appreciatively at Varla’s
body they soon found areas of more interest elsewhere when they saw the
steely glint in her golden eyes and her hand resting on the handle of her
wicked-looking dagger. Pressing through the malodorous throng Varla
followed Phan Grivas as they made their way to the bar. There they were
greeted by a fat, sweating innkeeper who greeted them effusively.
“What’ll it be?” he asked, wiping his greasy hands on an even
greasier apron.
“Two flagons of ale if you will.” answered Phan Grivas, who, Varla
realised, was no stranger to such establishments “none of the watered down
stuff mind - and a couple of bouphar steaks.”
The fat man scratched between his second and third chin. “Right you
are,” he said taking the bronze coin the Patangan had placed upon the
counter, “take a bench if you can find one; your ale will arrive presently.”
Soon Phan Grivas and the Valkarthan were making their way through the
crowd once again towards a clear space they’d spotted at the far end of one
of the long wooden tables.
As soon as they had seated themselves a wench approached Phan
Grivas, placing her arms lasciviously around his shoulders; she was
doubtless one of the harlots who worked the upper landing, where pleasure
was bought and paid for by the hour. “Want to have a good time?“ she
cooed, “special rates for one as handsome as you.”
Varla reacted in a heartbeat, shoving the woman roughly so she reeled
backwards and collided with a table full of spice merchants, sending drink
and food flying in every direction. The harlot screamed in rage and rapidly
regained her feet as silence fell across the entire tavern. From her silken
garter she withdrew a small, ornate, but razor sharp dagger. “For that you
shall die barbarian bitch!”
 In one fluid motion Varla was on her feet her dagger in her hand.
“Make your move slut“, she hissed. But just as the trollop was about to
lunge Phan Grivas got swiftly to his feet and was behind the girl before she
had chance to turn on him, his right hand upon the base of her neck, his
strong hard fingers finding the correct point and applying pressure. With a
sigh the girl went slack, her dagger falling from nerveless fingers and
clattering to the straw-strewn floor. Before the strumpet hit the ground the
Patangan caught her and swiftly carried her over to a bench upon which she
was unceremoniously dumped. “I think this one’s had too much to drink,” he
declared to the startled onlookers, patting her head. At this the patrons
returned to their drinks, disappointed that no blood had been spilled.
Looking at Varla’s surprised expression he explained “A trick I learnt
from a thief in the fleshpots of Shembis. I’ll teach it to you sometime.
“I want you two out of here!”
It was the innkeeper, pushing his way through the crowd towards
them. “On your way before I call the City Watch. We don’t want your kind
in here. We’ve enough trouble with the priests and…” He stopped himself,
his eyes darting fearfully about the room, which once again had again fallen
silent.
“Come girl, time we left.”
Back on the street the pair were untying their kroters. “Well that was a
waste of time,” complained Varla. Not only did we not discover anything
regarding the Temple of the Black Dawn or the whereabouts of Sharouk but
we didn’t get to dine either. I could eat a Bouphar whole.”
Phan Grivas grinned and was about to reply, no doubt with some
sardonic or witty comment, when sudden movement attracted his attention.
A scrawny fellow, with a wrinkled, weather-beaten face and clad in
tattered rags darted out from behind the Varla’s kroter. An action which
nearly cost him his life as, in an instant, Varla’s knife was at his throat.
“Stay your blade barbarian, for such I see you to be, you’ve naught to
fear from me.” stammered the wizened figure, visibly shaken by Varla’s
swift reaction. “Permit me to introduce myself; I am Volgath, known by
some as Volgath the Unza.”
 The pair looked at the pitiable figure. His grey hair was lank and
greasy and clung to his head in clotted strands. His skin was grey-white, like
something that had lived underground too long, and his clothing naught but
filthy rags stiff with dirt and grime. His small black eyes darted restlessly
about him. He was well named decided Varla.
“State your business or be off!” snapped Phan Grivas who had also
unsheathed his blade.
The scrawny little man flinched at the Patangan’s words but went on
“I could not help but overhear your brief conversation. I think I can be of
service to you. My humble abode is but a short distance from here, let us
three adjourn there where an equitable arrangement of some kind can be
agreed upon.”
Varla eyed the scrawny creature and scowled. “What makes you think
we’d trust you?” she said.
Volgath the Unza leered at the barbarian licking his lips with his
lizard-like tongue. “What do you have to lose?”
Volgath the Unza
“Since the rise of The Cult of the Black Dawn things have been bad for
business.” declared Volgath pushing a stand of greasy hair from his eyes.
They were seated in Volgath’s lodgings, a dingy room in one of the stinking
back-alleys of the city, with just a few rude furnishings and a crude pallet by
way of home comforts. “The grey-robed priests have shut down many of the
taverns and most of the whore houses,” he continued, “it’s getting hard for a
man to make an honest living.”
Phan Grivas looked at the emaciated creature before him and
wondered if he even knew what an honest living was.
Volgath gestured with a scrawny arm, indicating his filthy hovel. “As
you may observe,” he remarked, “I have fallen upon lean times of late. But it
was not always thus, my nickname of unza was not unwarranted; I know
every street and back alley of this city; nothing goes on in Dalakh of which I
do not have knowledge.”
Doubtfully Phan Grivas told Volgath of their mission.
“About that arrangement I mentioned…” Volgath rubbed his hands
together his eyes glinting avariciously.
The Patangan took a gold dinshar from his money pouch provided by
Lady Naramora and threw it towards Volgath, who deftly caught it and
swiftly secreted it somewhere within the folds of his filthy clothes.
Leaning forward he began. “It is likely that the youth you seek will be
somewhere within the walls of the main temple, at least until he’s finished
his training. It is heavily guarded and more like a fortress these days; your
chances of getting inside and rescuing the youth are slim at best.”
Swiftly Varla reached out and grabbed Volgath by his scrawny neck.
“Can you help or not unza?”
“Indeed I can,” croaked Volgath breathlessly “I know a way in, a way
unused for many years.” He gulped with relief and sat wheezing as Varla
released her grip.
“We would go in tonight,” said Phan Grivas, “for the moon is full and
doubtless the priests will be occupied with their dark ceremonies.” he
flipped another gold dinshar at Volgath, which joined the first somewhere
within his clothing. A third gold piece is yours when we stand within the
walls of the temple.”
Volgath the Unza grinned. “How is it that you mean to identify this
youth may I ask?”
 “Fortune favours us for he bears a distinct birthmark on his right
temple,” replied Varla.
“Tonight it shall be then.”

Xothar Vool

The chamber of Xothar Vool was an opulent and ornate room situated atop
a small tower near the main dome of the temple. It was a circular chamber,
walled with stone, the inner walls of which were adorned from floor to
ceiling with arcane tapestries of olden times, depicting scenes both horrific
and abhorrent. Also upon the walls were shelves of wood whereupon stood
all manner of strange and curious books. Some were bound in leather, or the
skin of reptiles; others between plates of rare and precious metals, carven
ivory or ancient wood. Rolls of parchment and vellum and texts of
incredible antiquity rested upon several tables about the chamber and deep
carpets and rugs lay strewn about the floor.
But the room was dominated by a huge black chair of arld wood,
which stood in the centre of the chamber atop a dais of seven stairs,
fashioned from the ebon metal nebium. Before the chair, which was draped
in black velvet stood a plinth of black, shining steel and upon it was a human
skull of translucent crystal.
 In this chair sat Xothar Vool. He was tall and gaunt and sour-faced
and his pallid skin was stretched like tissue paper over his cadaverous,
hawk-like features. His pate was shaven and his lips cruel and thin. His
black robes served to accentuate rather then conceal his emaciated frame.
His skeletal hands gripped the arms of the chair as he sat motionless with
eyes closed muttering strange incantations.
Pungent incense and strange narcotic vapours permeated the room’s
atmosphere and Xothar Vool breathed deeply, taking the fumes deep into his
lungs. Slowly he slipped into an hypnotic state as his body began to vibrate
subtly.
Had there been anybody else within the chamber, and had they had
the ability to perceive the higher realms they would have beheld the astral
form of Xothar Vool rising slowly from his corporeal form, like so much
smoke from a candle.
Xothar Vool gazed upon his physical self and after satisfying himself
that all was well he turned to the crystalline skull upon the plinth of black
steel and gazed intently at it.
Slowly his astral form began to enter the skull through its gaping
jaws, again as if wispy smoke were carried on a light breeze, until his etheric
form was entirely encased within the skull. Our imagined observer would
then have beheld a macabre sight indeed for the eyes of Xothar Vool gazed
out through the eye sockets of the crystal skull!
But Xothar Vool saw not his sanctum sanctorum but gazed instead
upon the landscape of the Narghasarkaya.
Into this bleak world where no sun shone to light the day, nor moon
existed to illuminate the night, went Xothar Vool, exiting the skull by the
same means he entered. Relying solely upon his astral vision, which needs
no mundane light to perceive such realms, he began to traverse the realm of
the Narghasarkaya
Turning, he gazed back at the skull, which was now of mammoth
proportions, and then walked onwards into the gloom.
Presently he discerned a reddish light glowing sullenly in the darkness
which emanated from fissures and fire pits amid a range of low hills that
rose from the arid, scalded landscape ahead of him. He continued on towards
these, crossing a vast area of fused sand which reflected the sanguine glow
of the lowering sky.
 As he neared the foothills he saw another enormous gaping skull, the
jaws of which formed a huge cave mouth. Within the maw a steep staircase
plunged down into the ebon darkness.
Descending the staircase Xothar Vool soon came upon a colossal hall
floored with black marble. Far above, lost in shadows, reared an enormous
dome, standing upon thick pillars of nebium. The black stone walls were
hung with peculiar tapestries of woven metal depicting scenes abhorrent and
alien to the human eye.
But none of this was of interest to Xothar Vool, for ahead, occupying
the very centre of the gloomy hall, was the object of his quest.
It was a throne of black nebium twice the height of a man and in the
chair a figure was seated.
Xothar Vool gazed up at the immensity of the shadowy shape that
loomed above him. It was hard to discern the details of the huge creature in
the uncertain light, but Xothar Vool knew it for what it was: A Dragon King!
The creature was man-like but was no man. Its huge, powerful body
was scaled and as black as the nebium throne on which it sat. It had a long,
heavily muscled tail, a blunt-muzzled reptilian head whose misshapen bulge
denoted human, or perhaps more than human, intelligence and the powerful
limbs of the dwark, the savage thunder lizard of the Lemurian jungles.
Turning its head it looked down at Xothar Vool and spoke; the sibilant
hissing sounds that issued from its throat barely recognizable as words.
“Xothar Vool, you are taking too long. I and my brethren wait impatiently,
imprisoned in this stinking dimension since our defeat at the Battle of
Grimstrand Firth!”
The priest bowed low before the imposing creature and replied. “My
Lord Ssslithar. This very night shall see an end to your exile. The sacrifices
stand ready; the way has been prepared; the moon waxes full and the stars
approach an auspicious alignment. All is ready for The Ceremony of the
Black Dawn.”
A chill gleam of cold malignant fire burned deep within the Dragon
King’s eyes. “Not before time sorcerer. Too long have we waited, trapped
here in this cursed realm plotting our vengeance against mankind.”
“Ready your subjects my Lord, for very soon we shall see the return
of the mighty Dragon Kings to Lemuria.”
“Come my brethren,” hissed Ssslithar, “soon shall we reap our awful
revenge.”
 With this more serpent men began to emerge from the shadows at the
edges of the chamber.
Xothar Vool turned to begin his journey back to the realm of the living
as, behind him, The Dragon Kings gathered…
 Discovery!

Varla and Phan Grivas walked stealthily along a dim corridor deep within
the Temple of the Black Dawn. They went carefully for it was difficult to see
in the thick gloom, lighted as it was by occasional burning torches affixed to
the damp, dripping walls. They wore the hooded grey robes of the
hierophants of the order over their usual apparel. Ahead of them in the
flickering light they discerned a group of similarly robed figures
approaching. Quickly they sought concealment in a nearby shadowed
alcove, pressing their backs to the cold stone and hoping the gloom was deep
enough to hide them.
Silently the figures passed, unaware of the proximity of the intruders,
making their way through a wide arched doorway and disappearing up a
large staircase.
When the party were out of sight, the pair came out of hiding and
continued on their way.
 Volgath the Unza had been true to his word and had led them by a
torturous route through the ancient sewers and catacombs and into the old
section of the temple. Despite his advancing years and feeble appearance he
had moved through the stinking tunnels with an ease that belied his age. His
nickname was well-earned it seemed.
Once they were inside the temple, he had left them, clutching his
payment; his obligation to them over.
“It is the night of the full moon,” said Phan Grivas. “It seems that all
are making their way to the topmost dome for the evening’s ceremonies. It‘s
a safe bet that Sharouk will be there as well”. Rubbing his beard
thoughtfully he continued, “how we are going to rescue him if he is at the
ceremony is something I haven’t quite figured out yet.”
Varla looked at the Patangan. “What if the boy isn’t there?”
“We must split up.” said Phan Grivas after some thought. “I’ll make
my way to the ceremonial chamber and from a place of concealment try to
establish whether the boy is there. You continue searching for the sleeping
chambers of the acolytes. We’ll meet at the foot of those stairs there.” he
indicated the staircase which the group of priests had just ascended.
“Very well,” replied Varla and without another word vanished into the
gloom of the corridor.
Phan Grivas stood for a moment, watching the back of the Valkarthan
as she walked away. These northern barbarians were a savage breed he
mused, but he could think of nobody better to have beside him in this
adventure than Varla of Valkarth.
Turning his attention to the problem at hand he realised he had no idea
how he was going to find his way into the ceremonial dome of the temple.
While he pondered, the Patangan was forced to conceal himself in the
shadowed alcove several times as groups of priests and acolytes passed him
to ascend the staircase to the chambers above.
Eventually he decided that the obvious approach was best and, as he
was wearing the grey robes of the sect, decided to ascend the staircase
openly.
 Reaching the top without incident he found a wide corridor before
him, with two narrower ones to his left and right. At the far end of corridor
he faced, which was well illuminated by braziers and torches, he could see a
large doorway that doubtless led into the ceremonial dome. It was guarded
by two priests. The corridors to either side of him were dim and gloomy.
Quickly he darted into the left hand corridor before either of the priests were
aware of his presence. He paused to consider his position. It was probable
that some sort of password was needed to gain ingress to the domed hall, so
he could not take that route. He decided to explore the darkened corridor
further and see if there might be an alternative way in.
Slowly the Patangan moved down the dim passageway, blade in hand.
Ahead of him the corridor turned sharply to the right and as he approached
the turn he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Not the slap of sandals
on stone as would be made by members of the priesthood, but the sharp
click of steel shod boots.
Palace guards!
The Patangan quickly looked for a means of concealment, but here the
walls were of smooth stone and offered no shadowed areas. He would not
run from these vermin, so, throwing off the cumbersome robes and gripping
his blade tightly, he planted his feet wide and stood firm awaiting discovery.
A pair of guards rounded the corner and the Patangan was upon them.
His blade moved in a blur of silver as it opened the throat of the first guard
he reached. The man wore a look of astonished surprise as he fell to the
floor, hands desperately trying to close the awful wound from which his
life’s blood poured. With a terrible gurgling sound he died in an ever-
widening pool of blood.
The second guard was quicker of mind than his unfortunate
companion. In an instant his blade was swinging toward the Patangan. Phan
Grivas barely managed to block the blow; it was all he could do to defend
himself against the continual volley the soldier rained down upon him.
As he fought he heard footsteps behind him.
“Ho guards, we have an intruder!”
He spared a quick glance over his shoulder, avoiding a vicious cut to
his neck as he did so.
It was a priest who had spoken, doubtless one of the two from the
door. He pointed at Phan Grivas with his staff of arld wood. “This is sacred
ground blasphemer;” you defile it with your presence.”
 Phan Grivas had maneuvered himself as he fought so as to put the
wall at his back. This way he could see both antagonists. The guard lunged
at him hoping to disembowel him while he was distracted but Phan Grivas
had been expecting such a move. He avoided the blade and riposted with his
own, taking the guard cleanly through the heart. As the man fell to the
ground he heard more footsteps and saw with dismay that another group of
armed men were running down the corridor. They formed a ring about him,
all with swords at the ready. He slowly wiped his ensanguined weapon on
the uniform of the fallen man and warily faced his opponents.
The priest spoke again: “We outnumber you outsider, it would be wise
to submit.”
Phan Grivas spat upon the floor in answer and dropped into a low
crouch smiling grimly. “Come then you snivelling curs, take me if you can!”
The soldiers moved forward grinning. The priest however raised a
hand. “Take care dogs, Xothar Vool has commanded any intruders this night
be delivered to him.”
At this Phan Grivas laughed. He had no such constraints when it came
to killing his opponents. He launched himself at the priest but, to his surprise
he moved swiftly to one side. As he moved he lashed out with his staff
giving Phan Grivas a hearty whack behind his ear. The Patangan fell to the
floor, out cold.
The priest gave the supine form of Phan Grivas a vicious prod in the
ribs and said to the guards, “Take this unza to Xothar Vool.”

Sharouk and Korolia

Korolia was happier than she had ever known. Her life within the temple
was everything she had been promised by the grey-robed priestess who had
recruited her not four weeks ago.
It was at the induction of the new acolytes that she had met Sharouk.
When Korolia had first seen the youth she had thought him the most
handsome boy she had ever beheld. He was tall and slender and pale of skin;
handsome, lithe and strong. His blue eyes, rare in these desert climes, were
bright and intelligent and when she caught his gaze it was obvious that his
thoughts ran along similar lines, for Korolia was indeed a beauty. Her slim,
lithe body was supple and graceful as a dancer’s. Her hair was dark and fell
in long, flowing tresses well below her shoulders and her dark-lashed eyes
were a deep brown as was her skin. Her soft, full lips were warm and ripe
and the rondure of her hips and breasts set Sharouk’s heart afire with fierce
passion and desire.
In the brief time they had been together their love had grown stronger
and the pair had become almost inseparable.
They were together now, within her chamber, though it was expressly
forbidden by the rules of the Order.
Sharouk sat upon a pallet cradling Korolia’s head upon his lap and
caressing her long flowing hair as she talked. “Oh Sharouk, soon our
initiation shall be over and then we can be together always. We shall go out
into the world and spread the Sacred Creed the entire length and breadth of
Lemuria.”
At this Sharouk smiled. “It won’t be long now my love, for I heard
master Jandak Sar say that tonight will be our last night within the temple.”
 “Oh Sharouk, I can’t wait any longer…” the girl’s reply was
interrupted as they heard the slap of sandals upon the stone flags of the
corridor outside.
Swiftly Sharouk slid under the wooden pallet, hiding in the shadows
just as a priest appeared in the doorway.
“Come girl, you are needed at the ceremony.” The priest glowered at
Korolia and roughly took her arm and dragged her from the room.
Beneath the pallet Sharouk lay still. He waited until the sound of
footsteps had faded and then came out from his place of concealment. That
had been a close call! One of many as it happened, for the pair had met
several times underneath the noses of the Priesthood, daring the wrath of
Xothar Vool to be together.
No matter, thought the boy, they would meet up again after the
ceremony. It was this thought that reminded him that his presence was also
required at the gathering and that he was late. Quickly he threw up his hood
and left the room.
Hurrying along a corridor Sharouk knew that Jandak Sar would not be
pleased if he was late. He hoped that the hood would prevent him from
being recognised by fellow priests or acolytes, for his tardiness would be
severely punished if it came to the attention of Xothar Vool.
Beneath his hood Sharouk‘s head was shaven, as was common
practice with all male acolytes of the cult and this served to clearly display
the strange spiral-like birthmark on his left temple.
As he turned a corner he gasped in surprise for a robed priest stood
before him. Before he could muster the words to mumble an excuse the
priest lashed out and a hard fist connected with his jaw knocking him
unconscious.
 Finding Sharouk

Varla, still wearing the grey robes of the priesthood, moved stealthily down
a passageway. So far her search had yielded nothing other than a few close
calls with priests. She had to admit she had no real idea where Sharouk
might be. Hopefully Phan Grivas would have more luck.
Drawing near a junction she heard the sound of approaching footsteps
echoing hollowly from the walls of the corridor to her left. They were
drawing closer. A quick glance about her told her that there were no alcoves
or shadowed areas in which she could conceal herself. So, she stood and
waited. Within moments a grey-robed priest turned the corner. He stopped
suddenly, shocked at the sudden appearance of a priest before him and was
even more shocked when that priest punched him squarely on the jaw with a
balled fist.
As the priest fell to the floor his hood fell back to reveal his shaven
skull. Varla gasped in surprise for there she saw the spiral birthmark as
described by Lady Naramora.
“The boy!” she hissed to herself.
She could not believe her eyes. Here she was wandering the twisting
corridors and chambers of this vast temple looking for him and it seemed
that the Gods had delivered him to her!
 She knelt beside the lad, who was just coming round. His eyes
widened in surprise as he gazed up at her. “I’m sorry Master; I am late for
the ceremony. I had….”
“Sssh… lower your voice fool or you’ll have the priests upon us in an
instant. My name is Varla; I’ve come to get you out of here and away from
these fiends. I’ve been sent by your mother, you must come with me.”
At this she lowered the cowl of the grey robe she was wearing and the
youth realised with shock that this was no acolyte or priest but some savage
female.
Sharouk looked at her incredulously, “Get me away from here? But
why? I like it here! I want to be with Korolia! Get away from me foul
unbeliever!”
The youth arose sluggishly and attempted to shove Varla out of the
way.
“My patience with you wears thin lad!” growled Varla as she knocked
the youth unconscious again. She grinned mirthlessly as she hoisted the inert
body over her shoulder. “Consider yourself fortunate I didn’t break your
jaw!” she murmured.
Silently Varla crept down the corridor with her burden, barely
avoiding detection several times for, as the hour of the ceremony grew
nearer, the corridors beneath the temple were becoming busier and all
seemed to converge on the arched doorway that led to the upper levels of
this vast and many tiered temple.
Phan Grivas was nowhere to be seen when the Valkarthan eventually
arrived at the pre-arranged meeting place. This was an eventuality for which
their hastily drawn up plan had made no allowance. She knew she must get
the boy out of the temple but her savage code of honour would not let her
leave her comrade Phan Grivas to a grim fate in this sinister temple.
 Betrayed?

“Damn that thrice-cursed Patangan!” Varla swore softly under her breath
as she and the youth, who had now regained consciousness, waited in a
dimly lighted stone passage in the lower reaches of the Temple. “Where is
he?”
The boy was sullen and remained silent but his eyes flicked left and
right, ever alert for a chance to escape from this barbaric female savage. He
didn’t fancy another blow to the jaw, for the woman packed a powerful
punch. If only he had a weapon…
He started with shock as Varla offered him the dagger from her belt.
Was she a witch? Could she read his mind?
“Take this boy,” hissed the Valkarthan, “you may need it. Don’t get
any ideas about stabbing me in the back either.”
Sharouk took the weapon and slid it into his belt.
 “And this.” Varla took the pendant that Lady Naramora had given her
from about her neck and handed it to the youth. “Your mother gave it to me;
she said something about the protection of the Goddess Sirana.”
Sharouk took it with ill grace and placed it about his own neck.
“Now, keep silent and stay close to me!” she whispered harshly,
“We’ve got to locate my companion Phan Grivas, if he still lives!”
“Pssst. Varla. Over here,” came a voice from the gloom as a grey-
robed figure walked out of the shadows towards them.
Varla’s hand moved to the hilt of her sword.
“Phan Grivas?” she whispered enquiringly as the figure drew closer
and drew back the cowl of his robe to reveal that it was indeed the Patangan.
“Varla, I’m so glad to have found you lass. I see that you have the
boy!” Phan Grivas smiled and continued. “Excellent. But swiftly, no time for
talk. I’ve found a route out of this cesspit; it’s in a chamber I stumbled upon
halfway along this passage. Follow me; it‘s not far.” The Patangan began to
move up the corridor.
Presently they stood before a stout wooden door, “It’s in here. The
passage is just behind a fountain at the room’s centre. There is a trapdoor
which opens up on a tunnel leading back down into the sewers. Quickly
now.” He produced a key and unlocked the door.
Varla walked past him and entered the chamber. It was dark inside,
illuminated only by the light from the threshold behind her and by moonlight
coming in through small windows from above. The Valkarthan could see
that the walls were covered with a great many shelves, full of urns, jars and
bottles of all shapes and colours; many filled with unknown substances. In
the centre of the room, illuminated by the baleful moonlight stood a large,
sluggishly flowing fountain.
It was circular in form with a low wall and about three paces in
diameter. In the centre stood a statue representing three intertwined serpents
and from their gaping jaws issued dark water which fell splashing into the
circular pool below.
Varla approached it warily, blade drawn, but upon reaching the far
side could see nothing but the unbroken stone floor.
 “I see no trapdoor Patangan!” she called over to her companion, who
stood silhouetted in the doorway. Looking to the floor once again just to be
sure the thought came to her: How did Phan Grivas come by a key to this
room? At this very moment she heard the large door slam shut and the
metallic clatter of the lock being clicked into place, followed by a cackling
peal of laughter.
Varla swore. The double-crossing Patangan would pay for his
treachery. No doubt he hoped to return Sharouk and claim the reward for
himself. Well her blade of Valkarthan steel would have something to say
about that!
A faint sound from behind her interrupted her thoughts. It was a slow,
dragging rasp, dry and stealthy.
She turned but could see nothing.
Then she heard it again, a soft rustling sound like old leather being
dragged across stone. Her nape hairs prickled as he stood there mystified.
She walked back toward the fountain, slowly drawing her blade, and at the
sound of the sword being drawn, there appeared two lambent spots of green
phosphorescence in the gloom of the archway on the other side of the
fountain.
Varla realised with horror that they were eyes!

* * *

Outside the door Sharouk gazed at the Patangan in hopeful surprise. “Why
did you do that, are you in truth a priest of The Black Dawn?”
Slowly Phan Grivas turned to face the youth, grinning widely. To the
boy’s horror the grin got even wider and wider still: impossibly wide and
full of needle sharp teeth. The Patangan’s face shimmered and blurred as
Sharouk gazed on in spellbound horror; his visage changing horribly. His
nose grew into a long snout, ears and hair receded and vanished and his skin
became black and scaled like that of a reptile. The figure also grew in
stature, towering above the astonished youth.
 What finally stood before him was no longer a man but a monster,
with the broad, sloping shoulders of a giant. It stood twice the height of the
boy, erect upon great bent, hound-like legs. From its massive shoulders
sprang short arms, clawed and powerful. Its neck was long and it had a large,
hairless head; blunt-muzzled and expressionless. Its slitted eyes of cold
green flame blazed with malignant intelligence beneath misshapen brows
and its glittering black-scaled body was accoutered in a thick belt and
harness with jewelled ornaments and evil looking weapons.
Sharouk, who was well versed in Lemurian history, knew it for what it
was: A Dragon King!
He could scarcely believe his eyes. As all knew, the Dragon Kings
had been defeated at the battle of Grimstrand Firth five-thousand years ago
after the thousand-year war when the sons of Phondath had led the First Men
against the serpent-men. The hero Thungarth had called upon the Father of
the Gods and in a storm of whirling thunder Gorm had descended and given
to Thungarth the mighty Star Sword, the Sword of Nemedis. Armed with
this weapon of power the Last Heroes had set forth and driven the Dragon
Kings back to the cold northern shores of Lemuria and their last redoubt The
Black Keep. There they were finally overthrown and slain and there did
Thungarth fall.
These thoughts flashed through his mind in an instant. “This must be
sorcery! Your kind is dead or banished,” shouted the youth in dismay, “the
Dragon Kings are no more!“
The thing that had been Phan Grivas let loose a hideous sound that
may well have been laughter. “Foolish youth,” it hissed, “not all were slain.
Many Dragon Kings escaped, transported by the black arts of the Dragon
Wizards to other realms to await the time of our return. That time is now.
This night shall see the Ceremony of the Black Dawn; This night shall see
the blood of the unbelievers spilled on the altars of our dark god Savitar-
Negroth; This night shall see the opening of the doors between realms; this
night the Dragon Kings shall take their place as the rightful rulers of all
Lemuria!”
As it hissed these last worlds the Dragon King extended a monstrous
clawed hand and made to grasp the youth by the throat. There was nothing
that he could do; the reptilian creature towered over him and there was no
escape. Then the rough scaled hide of the creature’s claw came into contact
with the medallion that Varla had given him.
 The serpent-man gave a violent hiss and withdrew its hand, which
was blistering and giving off a foul smelling smoke as if it had been burned
with acid.
Then Sharouk gasped in revulsion as he saw that the Dragon King’s
scaled flesh was falling from its claw.
It was melting!
The creature was screaming in anger and pain, its lidded eyes full of
ophidian hate for the puny human who had caused it hurt.
A swift realisation swept over Sharouk: The amulet was death to the
serpent-men! He knew he had but one chance. Summoning up all his
courage and strength he took hold of his dagger by both hands and, while the
creature was momentarily distracted by its unexpected injury, plunged the
blade deep into its chest. The Dragon King gave a mighty bellow and fell to
the floor stone dead; its dark reptilian heart penetrated by the blade.
Sharouk gazed at the fallen serpent-man, scarcely crediting the fact
that before him lay a fabled Dragon King, slain by his own hand.
Then he heard the sounds of a struggle coming from behind the
locked door. The barbarian was in trouble!
Hastily he searched the fallen robes the creature had discarded until
he found the key to the door. Then, grabbing a burning torch from a sconce
on the wall nearby, he thrust the key into the lock.

Serpents in the Dark

The eyes within the gloomy archway gleamed mellifluously in the dimly lit
chamber; cold ophidian orbs of malice and hatred. Varla divested herself of
the priestly robes, raised her sword and adjusted her stance to face whatever
slithering evil now slunk from out of the shadows.
In the uncertain moonlight filtering down from windows above, she
made out the vague form of a great serpent, taller than a man, rising up
before her. A civilised woman would have hesitated; paralysed with fear or
uncertainty, but Varla was a warrior born with the instincts of a savage
barbarian of the wild Northlands. With her, to think was to act. As the great
shape loomed toward her she lashed out swiftly with her mighty blade and
sliced cleanly through the reptile’s neck. Black gore splashed as the head fell
to the floor with a wet thud and rolled into a patch of moonlight.
It was the head of a woman!
“A Slorg!” hissed the barbarian mirthlessly.
She stepped away from the torso, which flopped and writhed about
the chamber, spewing foul smelling ichor as it did so.
She had heard whispered tales of these foul creatures; the terrifying
woman-headed serpents of the harsh eastern deserts of Lemuria, around the
campfires back in her Valkarthan homeland, though she had always doubted
the veracity of their existence. It seemed she had been wrong!
Then she heard for the first time the sibilant hiss of the slorg hunting
song; a sinister, throaty whispering that came from the archway ahead. She
shook the dark gore from her blade as more of the loathsome creatures
entered the chamber, their cold, green eyes blazing with hatred and fury.
This woman-thing had slain their sister!
 They glided towards her warily, for they had seen how fast this
creature moved and, as they wriggled forward into the moonlight, Varla got
her first good look at a slorg.
The pale body was that of a snake; as thick as her waist and twice her
length but where the blunt, wedge-shaped head should be there grew the
pallid, mask-like face of a woman! The round skull was bald and scaled, but
the visage of the creature was one of perfect beauty, clashing abhorrently
with the vile snake-like body. The lambent green eyes were slanted and
glowed with vile ophidian hate in a face white and smooth as alabaster.
Scarlet lips smiled seductively and parted, revealing the wicked fangs of a
serpent.
Then they were upon her in a writhing mass of twisting, undulating
bodies.
Varla launched herself into the slorgs, her blade a silver blur as it cut
deep into their scaled flesh. Dismembered heads and severed torsos fell to
the floor in a welter of reeking gore as the barbarian’s blade sang its own
song of death. The sibilant hissing of the maimed and dying slorgs was
almost unbearable in its volume, but still the Valkarthan fought on,
managing to avoid the whipping torsos and tails of the slorgs as they sought
to capture her. She knew that if she were to find herself entrapped within
those coils she would have little chance of escape.
One creature’s head was crushed by the flat of her blade while another
uttered a hideous wail as its sinuous torso was hacked in half. Still they
came and as they came they died. But Varla knew even her savage
endurance couldn’t keep this up for much longer for there seemed to be no
end to the creatures and for every one slain another would take its place.
Onward they came and on she fought, her blade swinging ceaselessly,
hacking and smashing at heads and writhing bodies in a whirlwind of
destruction. The chamber was littered with worm-like bodies of dead and
dying slorgs and the air was thick with the stench of their ichor.
Then as Varla shook her hair from her eyes and prepared for the next
attack she realised that only one creature remained. This one was larger than
the others and Varla surmised that this was probably their queen, if slorgs
had such things.
 “Come then bitch and join your sisters!” growled Varla as the creature
slid slowly towards her. Then, with a swiftness that took the Valkarthan by
surprise, the slorg’s tail whipped about and encircled her body, trapping both
her arms as it did so. Slowly the slorg’s grip tightened and Varla found
breathing difficult as her lungs were slowly crushed. She tried to move but
the coils were too restricting. Her sword clattered to the floor.
She was helpless!
The pale head of the loathsome creature drew closer to her, swaying
rhythmically on its long, slender neck. The gleaming skull was inches from
her face and the slorg’s emerald eyes, blazing with malevolence, were
growing larger and larger until it appeared to the barbarian that she was
sinking into a swirling sea of emerald effulgence.
She was only dimly aware of bright scarlet lips smiling, revealing
razor sharp fangs dripping with venom, as they brushed her throat.
At that very instant the door to the chamber burst open.
Upon the threshold stood Sharouk, a flaming torch in his hand. He
paused a moment at the sight of Varla in the grip of the slorg. It seemed to be
the night for seeing near-legendary creatures, for never had he seen a slorg
before. Then he screamed and rushed into the chamber.
The slorg turned and hissed venomously at this new distraction,
baring its fangs at the boy, but Sharouk was not deterred. Running toward
the creature he thrust the torch straight into its face. The slorg cried out in
pain as the flames seared pallid flesh. Its hold over Varla was broken, both
physically and hypnotically, as it turned toward this new attacker.
“By Father Gorm!” screamed Varla, “the creature nearly had me!”
She shook her head as she came to her senses.
Sharouk tried to thrust the torch into the creature’s face once more,
but he was not quick enough and the slorg’s tail whipped about, dealing him
a hefty blow and knocking him halfway across the chamber. The torch fell
from his hand.
With an evil hiss of satisfaction the slorg again turned its attention to
Varla. The female head, its scaled flesh now hideously scarred, began to
weave hypnotically upon its long, slender neck, slowly moving toward
Varla. At the same time its serpentine coils rippled and began to twist about
her body.
 But she was ready. In the brief respite that Sharouk had given her she
had reached down for her broadsword. As the head came towards her, its
fangs dripping with venom, she struck. Violently and swiftly she brought her
sword upwards. The blade caught the slorg just below its alabaster chin and
sliced through the jaw and deep into the skull. As it clove into the brain she
twisted her wrist and pulled the blade free in a welter of splintered bone,
brain and gore.
Its head was a shattered ruin, but somehow the creature was still able
to scream. Varla stood and watched dispassionately as it shrieked in agony,
its sinuous body thrashing about on the floor. Sharouk joined her and they
both looked on as its movements got weaker and weaker, until finally it died
with one last spasmodic shudder.
“My thanks to you lad.” said Varla. “Now, where is that unza Phan
Grivas, I will rip out his treacherous heart!”
“No!” the youth replied. “It was not your friend who betrayed you! It
was a Dragon King in his guise.”
Varla laughed. “A Dragon King? Don’t be foolish lad; the Dragon
Kings are things of distant legend.”
“So thought I, but it was a Dragon King. It wore the guise of your
friend, but it was not him”
“And how is it that you, a mere youth, escaped this mighty Dragon
King?” asked Varla sceptically.
Sharouk touched the medallion around his neck, “This saved my life!
It has some magical quality that causes the flesh of the creatures to seer and
to burn!”
Varla frowned as the youth waved his hand towards the door, “Come,
let me show you!” he said.
In moments they were standing over the hideous corpse of the Dragon
King. Sharouk bent over the body and with some effort withdrew his dagger
which was still embedded in the reptile’s heart.
Varla looked down at the reptilian beast with a feeling of awe. This
was a Dragon King! Never did she expect to see one in the flesh. She
repressed a shudder of revulsion and said “Well boy, it seems that I owe you
an apology. I know not how or why, but that is indeed the corpse of a
Dragon King.”
“It was when the creature tried to choke the life from me that his claw
touched the medallion.” explained the boy.
 “Obviously this crystal amulet holds a power deadly to the Dragon
Kings,” mused Varla. How fortunate your mother gave it to me,” she said
suspiciously. “I wonder how she knew that we’d need a talisman that was
deadly to an ancient race not seen in Lemuria for five-thousand years…?”
Sharouk went on to tell the Valkarthan everything the Dragon King
had said before he was slain; of the Ceremony of the Black Dawn and of
their imminent return to Lemuria
For a moment the Valkarthan was silent as she pondered what the
youth had to tell her. Then she said, “We must get to the ceremony at all
costs, before it is too late. Not only may my friend be in peril but the fate of
all Lemuria may hang in the balance!
“You think your friend is at the ceremony then?” asked Sharouk.
“Yes,” replied Varla, “how else could the Dragon King have adopted
his appearance and how could they have known we were in the temple?
Phan Grivas would not have given up the information willingly, but it is said
that Dragon Kings can steal your thoughts.”
Varla paused and looked at a small glass jar on a shelf nearby. “I have
an idea. There are a great many small containers in this chamber. We’ll take
some and fill them with water from the fountain. Then we shall dip the
pendant of Sirana into the contents of each of the jars. Maybe whatever
makes the amulet so repellent to those Dragon King devils will permeate the
water! We may have a potent weapon to use against these fiends! But first,
to see if my idea is sound.”
So saying Varla filled a jar with some of the water and watched as
Sharouk dipped the crystal pendant into it. Nothing happened. There was no
violent reaction or change in the liquid. She began to have doubts that her
plan would work.
Taking it to the corpse of the slain Dragon King she emptied the
contents over the creature. The effect was almost instantaneous. As the
Water of Sirana splashed against the dark scales the flesh began to crackle
and burn. Dark, noxious smoke billowed disgustingly from the corpse as it
began to melt like so much wax before a fire. Varla smiled sardonically.
“Well, it works. Now all we have to do is to get near enough to the Dragon
Kings to use it...“
Black Dawn Rising
The great golden moon of ancient Lemuria glared down upon the city of
Dalakh and the Temple of the Black Dawn, its yellow rays illuminating the
huge dome of polished brass. Night hung like an ebon velvet canopy over
the city and the billion stars shone done coldly from the fathomless sky. If
any citizens had been foolish enough to be abroad in the city this night they
would have heard the throbbing of many drums and the chants of the vile
priesthood emanating from the temple of Savitar-Negroth, for the ceremony
of the Black Dawn had commenced. If successful it would herald a new
epoch: one where the young kingdoms of Lemuria would tremble beneath
the scaled talons of the mighty serpent-men.
Varla lay concealed on a small balcony that extended from the wall of
the circular temple about twenty feet from the floor. Together she and the
boy had made their way from the chamber of the slorgs and ascended the
stairs toward the temple entrance. Sharouk, with the sack full of small jars
containing the Water of Sirana secreted beneath his robes, had approached
the priests guarding the door. He had told Varla that he knew the password
and so the pair had decided that, once they arrived at the top of the staircase,
he would enter openly, apologising to the priests for being late while she
would find another way in. Hopefully he now stood somewhere amongst the
robed acolytes inside the temple awaiting her signal.
While Sharouk was occupying the guards Varla had slipped into the
right hand corridor and made her way along it until she had found a short
flight of stairs. Ascending these, and guided by the pulse-like throbbing of
the drums, she had eventually come upon the curtained entrance to the
balcony.
 The Valkarthan carefully raised her head and gazed over the lip of the
balustrade down to the temple below. The vast chamber was circular with
two rows of black marble columns leading from the main door in the wall to
her left up to the sacrificial altar which stood against the wall to her far right.
These pillars stretched up into the gloom of the domed roof, where four
large windows of translucent crystal admitted the golden rays of the full
moon. About the walls she could see other balconies similar to the one in
which she was hidden. Below them stood temple guards in lustrous,
burnished armour. She counted twenty or more including two which stood
below her balcony. To either side of the pillars were ranked the priests and
acolytes of the Black Dawn, all grey-robed and hooded, while the passage
from the door to the altar was clear.
The altar drew her attention. It was dominated by the huge likeness of
a human skull with gaping jaws. It was over twenty feet high and seemed to
be fashioned from single translucent crystal that shimmered in the flickering
light cast by the torches and burning braziers. It stood on a large
semicircular dais of black marble which was reached by three wide steps and
before it was the sacrificial stone roughly hewn from some greenish-grey
material. Then she saw the three massive figures standing upon the dais:
Dragon Kings!
The ceremony had already started!
One of the lizard-men was at least a head taller than its companions
and was wearing black armour of bestial and uncouth design. Accoutered
with thick belts and a harness which bore several monstrous weapons, it
wore a strange helm of red metal upon its misshapen brow. This, she
guessed, was their Arch Priest or King.
Even though she had previously gazed upon one of these creatures,
the sight of a living Dragon King sent an involuntary shudder through her
body. They stood motionless in the billowing smoke, their black-scaled
bodies glistening in the crimson light of the torches: they looked to Varla
like blood-soaked demons from the pits of Yamath.
Then Varla saw Xothar Vool.
 He stood before the altar, cowl thrown back, his shaven pate gleaming
in the torchlight. His arms were outstretched and in his right hand he held an
ornately carved and razor sharp sacrificial dagger. Upon the altar was a man,
stripped to the waist and held prone over the pitted stone by guards grasping
his hands and feet. As Varla watched in revulsion the blade descended and
plunged deep into the chest of the unfortunate victim. His screams mingled
with the throbbing of the drums as Xothar Vool thrust his hand into the
wound and pulled out the man’s still-beating heart. Then he threw it into a
large bowl of burning coals that stood nearby. Suddenly the drums ceased
and Varla could hear the hissing of the heart upon the hot coals. Noxious
black smoke was billowing up from the brazier, putrid and evil in
appearance. As the heart burned Xothar Vool began to chant:

Ia n’gath t’thak Savitar Negroth!

Ia n’gath t-shirt Slidith!
Ia negate t’thak Iao-Thaumungazoth!
Gh’thug ch’an qua’nath Narghasarkaya!

The words resonated weirdly; the sound alien and guttural to Varla’s
ears. Human vocal chords were not designed to utter such syllables. The
earth-shaking force of those names echoed through the domed chamber and
shook the whole building with their power. As the final word faded away
Xothar Vool hurled his arms aloft in a black ecstasy of worship, his head
thrown back. The crystal skull began shimmer with an eerie radiance. Within
its gaping maw a sickly green mist swirled, contrasting hideously with the
crimson clouds of the braziers. Varla gazed at the emerald vapour. It seemed
to be coalescing! The clouds swirled violently as though torn by harsh winds
and grew darker, gradually turning to black and taking on a vague form. The
form solidified and grew larger and suddenly there was another Dragon King
standing amid the billowing clouds!
Varla knew she had to act swiftly. She would not stand idly by and see
another helpless victim die upon the altar of the Black Dawn to feed Xothar
Vool’s dark Magic. No more Dragon Kings would materialise within the
crystal skull!
 She gazed about the chamber, deciding upon a plan of action. To the
left of the altar stood a group of prisoners, black hoods over their heads.
Their hands were bound by ropes and they were watched over by more
temple guards.
Another victim was being led to the altar. The two guards had
removed the corpse of the slain man and were dragging what was obviously
a young girl up the stairs of the dais. The rope binding her hands was cut and
the hood pulled from her head.
Varla’s eyes blazed in anger. The girl blinked in confusion as the hood
was lifted. Her frightened eyes were wide in her pale face. Her tattered
blouse was ripped from her by one of the guards, exposing her breasts. She
tried to cover them with her hands and a shiver of fear ran through her as she
saw the blood-stained stone and the figure of Xothar Vool still clutching the
black dagger. The sorcerer licked his thin lips in anticipation.
Varla got to her feet and stood upon the balustrade of the balcony. She
drew her sword and prepared to jump.
Then she heard Sharouk’s voice scream: “Korolia!”
Doom of the Black Dawn
Sharouk walked confidently towards the two priests at the door of the
temple as Varla slid unnoticed into the dim corridor behind him. He gave the
password and entered as unobtrusively as possible joining the ranks of the
other acolytes. Then he waited nervously for a signal from Varla.
He looked on in horror and disbelief as a victim was sacrificed on the
altar. He saw Xothar Vool rip the man’s heart from his chest and he saw the
Dragon King materialise within the crystal skull and stride forth to join his
brethren.
The icy hand of fear gripped his heart. This was beyond anything he’d
ever experienced. Nervously he waited. Still no sign came from the
Valkarthan.
He wondered if she’d been captured but then realised she would have
been dragged to the temple if that were the case. His nerves on a knife-edge
he waited. Another victim was being led to the altar. This time it was a girl.
It was as the hood was torn from her head that Sharouk, who could hardly
believe the evidence of his own eyes, realised who it was.
“Korolia!” he cried.
Forgetting his fear he cast off his robe and began to run towards the
altar brandishing his knife.
Varla paused for an instant when saw the boy running between the
columns towards the altar.
Then she jumped.
She landed heavily on one of the guards who stood below, snapping
his neck like a rotted twig. The other she gutted with a vicious backswing
and was already moving towards the altar, the war cry of the Snow Bear
Tribe upon her lips. This was the way to die, she thought, to go forward
joyously with a song upon your lips and a blade in your hand!
 In his anger Sharouk had forgotten about the water jars, his only
thought was to plunge his dagger deep into the vile heart of Xothar Vool.
The sorcerer priest paused in surprise as the boy rushed towards him,
the black dagger held high above the heaving breast of Korolia. His eyes
widened further when he heard the savage war cry of Varla as she leapt from
the balcony.
Ignoring the girl on the altar the wily priest stepped back a pace as the
three lesser Dragon Kings moved towards the Sharouk, their huge serrated
swords in their clawed fists.
Checking that Korolia was not in immediate danger Sharouk paused,
thrust his dagger into his belt and drew out the sack of jars. The first Dragon
King was descending the dais stairs when he threw a jar straight at it. It
smashed against its scaled chest spilling the Water of Sirana all over its
black hide.
The creature let out an ear-splitting shriek as the liquid started to
corrode its flesh. Dropping its sword with a loud clatter it clutched at its
body as a vile noxious steam began issuing from the burning area. Chunks of
ophidian flesh slid down its torso and splattered upon the floor. The other
two Dragon Kings paused uncertainly, giving Sharouk time to pull another
jar from the sack. With unerring accuracy he threw it, catching the second
Dragon King squarely on it‘s reptilian snout. It screamed in pain as its head
began to bubble and liquefy.
Swiftly he lobbed another jar at the third Dragon King which was
striding down the stairs hissing in rage; its evil black sword at the ready. As
the jar flew towards it the Dragon King knocked it out of the air with a
mighty swing of its blade and its contents fell harmlessly to the floor.
Sharouk fumbled for another jar in panic; he had but scant moments before
the creature would be upon him.
Then the beast gave a shrill hiss of pain and stopped. Surprised,
Sharouk looked down and saw why. The creature now stood in the contents
of the shattered water jar and its mighty clawed talons hissed violently and
spewed vile smoke as the corrosive power of the Water of Sirana took effect.
It swayed upon its great hind legs and collapsed onto the cold stone of the
temple floor, hissing in agony as the water did its deadly work.
 Sharouk looked to the altar for Korolia. She still lay there, too scared
to move. The guards restraining her had run as soon as they had seen the
effect the Water of Sirana was having on the Dragon Kings. “Run Korolia!”
he shouted as he pulled out his knife and began to ascend the stairs, his eyes
fixed on the sorcerer.
Xothar Vool stood with eyes wide in fear and disbelief. The Dragon
Kings defeated by a mere boy? It was impossible!
The sorcerer raised his staff and, uttering a dark incantation, directed
it at Sharouk. There was a blinding flash and a coruscating beam of light
shot from the tip and engulfed the boy in a weird radiance, stopping him
dead in his tracks.
Xothar Vool’s thin lips twisted in a self-satisfied smile. Then his grin
faltered. The boy should be dead by now; naught but a smoking crisp upon
the floor, but instead the light about him was fading and he was unharmed.
This was perhaps the first time in his bloody, cruel and supernaturally
prolonged existence that magic had failed Xothar Vool. Sweat glistened on
his brow as he cursed the Lords of the Black Inferno. Why was the boy still
alive?
Sharouk was just as surprised by these events. Then he realised he
still wore the pendant of Sirana. In some way the magic of the River
Goddess was protecting him from the dark thaumaturgy of the sorcerer.
Desperately Xothar Vool hurled spell after spell at Sharouk but it was
in vain. In a frenzy of gibbering rage he gave an incoherent shriek and
hurled his staff at the boy.
Dodging it easily, Sharouk grinned at the exhausted sorcerer and
began to ascend the steps.
Abandoning dignity Xothar Vool turned and ran.
Sharouk was about to give chase when the Arch Priest of the Dragon
Kings, his black armour glistening, strode towards him, hissing an archaic
chant, the uncouth melody of which rose and fell like the waves of the sea.
Deftly Sharouk drew another jar from the sack, noting only one more
remained. No matter, he thought, this was the last of the Dragon Kings.
The beast was less than three paces away!
He hurled the jar with all the force he could muster and grinned in
satisfaction as it hit the creature squarely on the breastplate. The Dragon
King stopped and stood motionless before him. Then its reptilian head went
back and a terrible sound issued from it jaws.
 It was laughter!
Sharouk realised with a thrill of horror that the Water of Sirana was
having no effect on the Dragon King.
It was protected by its nebium armour!
He hurled his last jar, this time aiming for the reptile’s head, but the
creature was prepared now and avoided the projectile. The jar flew past him
and smashed harmlessly against the altar.
Sharouk knew he faced death. He stood before a Dragon King with
nothing but a knife to defend himself. He had been lucky last time but his
luck had run out. But Sharouk was no coward and he stood his ground.
The Dragon King uttered another raucous peal of laughter and slowly
drew his great black sword. “Die manling as the hands of Ssslithar!” he
cried as the blade swept down towards Sharouk’s head.

* * *

Meanwhile Varla was cutting a red swathe through guards and priests alike
as she hacked her way towards the altar where she could see Sharouk
hurling his jars at the Dragon Kings.
Her great Valkarthan war blade rose and fell and rose again, its blade
stained and steaming with hot gore. She fought like a wildcat; steel rang on
steel harshly, filling the great hall with iron echoes. Guards ran at her and
fell before her; priests got out of her way or else died where they stood.
Guard after guard came at her. She disarmed one with a practised
twist of the wrist and gutted him with a vicious slash across the stomach.
The man fell screaming. She opened the throat of another who staggered
backward with a choking gurgle, dropping his blade to clutch at his ruined
throat. Blood poured between his fingers as he collapsed to the floor.
Another fell with a cloven skull as she plunged on, moving with the grace
and speed of a striking vandar, cutting the guards down like so much wheat.
Men fell before her with a head or an arm shorn off. Some of them were
skilled swordsmen but Varla was a barbarian born and had wielded a sword
as soon as she could stand. She countered all their subtle thrusts and swept
their blades aside. Many fell back before this astonishing female who fought
like a deodath, the vicious, almost unkillable dragon-cat of the western
jungles; those that didn’t died.
 To the terrified priests she looked like some demon from the nether-
pits of Yamath. Drenched in the blood of her victims; her silver blade
flashing, her black mane flying and her amber eyes shining with bloodlust.
Her blade lopped off limbs and cleaved skulls; each stroke scattering
droplets of blood in the air like crimson rain.

* * *

Sharouk could not tear his eyes from the descending blade as he looked up at
Ssslithar. He knew that within moments that sword would cleave him in two,
but an icy paralysis had claimed him. He could not move.
Suddenly there was a loud metallic clang and a flash of sparks as the
black sword was knocked aside. The Dragon King hissed violently in anger
as the weapon clashed loudly against the floor.
Varla had cut her way to the dais just in time to divert the attack.
“Move boy,” she shouted as Ssslithar turned his attention to this new
antagonist, “see to the girl, then free the prisoners!” Then Varla remembered
the crystal talisman and an idea came to her; “quick boy, the talisman, throw
it to me!”
Shaking his head Sharouk came to his senses. He ripped the chain
from about his neck and tossed the pendant to Varla who caught it deftly,
then he ran to Korolia and quickly led her away from the altar.
Varla made her move. She dodged past the Dragon King and jumped
up onto the altar stone. For a moment she paused, desperately, hoping her
guess was right. Then, with a prayer to Father Gorm, she threw the pendant
straight into the mouth of the crystal skull.
And nothing happened!
With a curse, she turned to confront Ssslithar who was now facing her.
She made a barbaric sight as she stood there atop the altar of a Black God of
Chaos facing an Arch Priest of the Dragon Kings drenched in the blood of
her enemies; her amber eyes blazing savagely. If Father Gorm had decreed
this was the day she die, so be it, but she would take the Dragon King with
her into the shady vales of death.
She knew that protected by his nebium armour and his black scaled
hide, which was almost as tough, the Dragon King would be hard to kill. Her
blade would barely penetrate its thick scaled hide.
“Come then reptile.” she said grimly, “
 Ssslithar, his ophidian eyes glinting with malicious amusement,
opened his jaws wide and laughed!
Varla saw her chance. Swift as a striking vandar, she threw her sword
point first. It flew straight into the gaping maw of the Dragon King and
plunged deep into the soft flesh of his mouth, the point smashing through the
back of his skull such was the strength of the cast. The serpent man gave an
ear-splitting shriek as he staggered backwards under the violent impact.
Then he reached up a black, clawed hand and Varla watched in stunned
amazement as, with a surge of incredible strength, Ssslithar took hold of the
hilt of the sword and dragged the length of steel from his jaws. Then he cast
the weapon aside and to Varla’s amazement, took a step towards her. She
watched spellbound as he took another step, then yet another. Then Ssslithar
stopped. For a moment he stood motionless, then his black blade fell from
his hand and he fell stone dead to the floor.
Then madness!
The crystal skull exploded!
The air quivered and the temple shook. There was an icy blast, as
frigid as the dark spaces between the stars and flying shards of crystal flew
everywhere. A cold, unhealthy radiance momentarily illuminated the
chamber and glittering mists plumed and billowed; rising to the domed
ceiling glowing iridescently.
Then it was gone.
Where the skull had stood there was now just a pile of sparkling
crystals and dying motes of light.
For three heartbeats this event held all within the chamber in a state of
frozen shock.
Varla was the first to recover her wits. The force of the blast had
thrown her from the altar and she lay dazed on the stone floor beneath the
dais, her ears ringing like a host of temple bells.
Then all was shouting and tumult - priests were running hither and
thither in a mad, blind panic or standing about in a daze. The temple guards
who still lived had lost heart and were dropping their weapons in surrender.
Slowly Varla got to her feet cursing, “Gorm, but that was a close one.”
Every muscle in her body ached from the blast and the wounds of battle. But
she lived.
 As she rose a heavy blow landed on the back of her skull sending her
sprawling to the floor again. She landed heavily but rolled quickly to face
her attacker.
Looking up she saw a robed priest standing above her, a cutlass in his
hand. He threw back his cowl with a triumphant laugh. “So, she devil, we
meet again!”
It was Zurad! The treacherous Captain of the Red Zemadar!
Varla was at his mercy! Her sword lay on the dais where the Dragon
King had thrown it. Fast as she was the slaver would gut her before she
could reach him. “You verminous unza,” spat Varla, “give me a blade and
face me like a man!”
Zurad laughed again, “time to die barbar…..
He never finished the sentence.
He staggered drunkenly and stared down uncompre-hendingly at the
sword-point that was protruding from his chest. His own sword fell from
nerveless fingers and he slowly slid off the blade and fell in a crumpled heap
dead on the floor.
As he fell, Varla saw who it was that stood behind him.
“Phan Grivas!” she cried in amazement.
“I told you we were destined to meet again, Zurad and I.” said the
Patangan smiling. “Well met lass, I’m glad I could bloody my blade before
you‘d killed everybody!”
Varla grinned. “Phan Grivas, you old rogue. It’s good to see you.” She
got to her feet and clapped the Patangan on the shoulder.
“Steady girl,” he said as the blow nearly knocked him off his feet,
“I’m on your side.” Then he added, “by the time Sharouk had freed me and
the other prisoners there was nobody left to kill. The explosion knocked all
of the fight out of them.”
Varla laughed. Then her face clouded over. She looked about the
chamber, her keen eyes taking in every detail: the bodies of the slain; the
noxious pools of dissolved Dragon Kings; the smoking remains of the
crystal skull; the corpse of Zurad and the groups of those that still lived,
standing about the chamber in dazed confusion. Sharouk and Korolia were
also standing nearby, both unharmed.
But there was somebody missing…
“What of Xothar Vool?” she asked grimly. “Where is the filthy unza?”
“Curse it wench you’re right, he’s not here.” spat Phan Grivas.
 “Korolia says she saw him,” said Sharouk, “while you battled
Ssslithar all eyes were upon the struggle. The defeated sorcerer took the
chance to slip away unnoticed; but Korolia saw him. He scuttled over to the
wall behind the crystal skull and vanished into some hidden door secreted
there.”
“By Tiandra’s teats,” swore Varla.
She made her way over to the section of the wall indicated by Korolia,
followed by her comrades. They searched for several minutes but could not
find even the barest crack to indicate that there was a hidden door.
“It looks like the wily priest has escaped us,” remarked the Patangan.
“For now,” replied Varla, “for now. But I swear by Father Gorm that
we shall meet again and my sword shall cleave his bald-pated head from his
scrawny neck.” So saying she retrieved her sword from the altar. “Come
Patangan,” she said, clapping him on the shoulder heartily, “I need a drink!”

Epilogue

The last few weeks had passed swiftly. Varla and Phan Grivas had spent
them relaxing in the manse of Lady Naramora. After the events in the temple
they had returned Sharouk to his mother, along with Korolia, as they were
almost inseparable. The reunion was a joyful one and the dark events within
the temple of the Black Dawn were almost forgotten by the two lovers.
 The Priests of the Black Dawn had been imprisoned or banished and
the temple dedicated once more to the worship of Iao-Thaumungazoth. The
Sark, free from the baleful influence of Xothar Vool was bringing the city to
order and all was well in Dalakh.
Life in the manse of Lady Naramora had been peaceful, but both
Varla and Phan Grivas were chafing at the bit to be gone. It was a long way
back to Patanga.
And so it was that one morning, as dawn rose over the edges of the
world, lighting all the skies with a brilliance of gold and crimson flame, that
two kroters left the manse of the Lady Naramora. The two comrades had
opted to return to the Gulf by land, having had enough of ship bound
adventures for the while.
And so they rode, a warm breeze blowing through the swaying palms
as they headed northwards to new adventures.
 A Glossary of Lemurian words,
names and terms used in
VARLA OF VALKARTH

Arld - a very hard black wood, somewhat akin to teak. Arld trees grow in
the cold tundra of the Northlands.
Azul - enormous moths with gauzy, richly-coloured wings. Harmless,
beautiful, they inhabit the jungle countries
Bouphar - large bovine animals, bred by the Lemurians for their beef-like
meat and for their leather hides.
Cathgan - a small, scarlet and very poisonous viper of the eastern deserts
beyond Darundabar and Dalakh.
Chandra - Lemurian jewels of golden-orange hue. Often of immense size.
Chush - a region of jungles in the west of Lemuria.
Dakshina, The - the Southlands of Lemuria.
Daotar - a military rank: the leader of ten companies or a thousand men, the
equivalent of a Colonel. (See Oatar.)
Daotarkon - an officer commanding ten Daotars, generally the supreme
officer of an entire host. Kon is a suffix denoting supremacy, but the literal
meaning of the term is Daotar of Daotars.
Deodath - the terrific dragon-cat of the Chushan and Kovian jungles, the
most feared beast in the entire Lemurian continent. Having three hearts and
two brains the deodath is ferocity personified and is virtually unkillable.
Dorl - pink Lemurian rubies.
Dwark - the enormous and insatiable jungle-dragon of Lemuria, resembling
to some degree the Tyrannosaurus Rex
Fathla - the terrible tree leeches of Kovia and Chush which could grow as
large as a small cat.
Graak - the lizard hawk called ’the terror of the skies’. The scaled, fanged
graak was armed with a cruel, hooked beak and a crest of bristling spines.
Its leathery bat-like wings sometimes measured a full forty feet from tip to
tip.
Gunth - the primitive man-eating beastmen of the jungle countries.
Jannibar - a conifer tree with a purple bole and fronded height
Jomsgard Pass - a pass through the Mountains of Mommur. The only
accessible route through the mountains.
Kroter - the slim long-legged reptile used by the Lemurians as we use the
horse.
Larth - the Horror of the Yashengzeb Chun the Southern Sea, the larth was a
sea dragon of huge size, with a blunt-muzzled snake-like head on a long
serpentine neck. This marine monster was armed with short flipper-like arms
which bore tremendous strength, hooked with powerful claws.
Lotifer - a conifer tree with a bole of dark scarlet wood which grows to an
amazing height.
Mountains of Mommur - a vast range of lofty mountains that stretch across
the whole continent of Lemuria from west to east.
Mungoda - the fearsome cannibal trees of the Kovian jungle. These
carnivorous plant-animal hybrids, fungoid in nature, were capable of limited
movement and could capture small animals - even unwary men - with their
long, flexible front tentacles. They are worshipped by the Mkodo tribe, who
feed them human sacrifices.
Nebium - a dead-black silk-smooth metal, denser than any other element on
earth.
Nuld - The mysterious winged men of the unknown Zand country north of
the Mountains of Mommur.
Oph - inhabiting the jungle countries to the South, this horned serpent with a
blade-edged spine is a man crusher.
Phondle - A small, plump, defenceless, but fleet-footed creature, perhaps an
ancestor of the gazelle, found in the jungle countries and the forested regions
of Ptartha.
Photh - a small, scarlet-furred bat with a body similar to the cat found,
enormous flaring ears, hollow blood-sucking fangs, a long furry tail and
razor claws found chiefly in Kovia and Chush It was prized for its hide
which tanned to a scarlet, supple leather, soft and flexible as pigskin.
Poa - The sinuous deadly river dragons of Lemuria. They were particularly
feared as their Jelly-like flesh was as lucent as glass and in water they were
virtually invisible.
Sarn - the Sarnberry tree of Central and Southern Lemuria produces a dark
red berry from which Sarn wine is fermented.
Shath - a huge Lemurian shark. They could grow to over twenty feet in
length and could smell fresh blood in sea water over fifty vorn. Dark grey on
the back with pale grey underbellies, and three red dorsal fins and red tail.
Voracious in appetite they will eat almost anything.
Slith - the vampirous slith flower was native to the swamps and jungles of
the tropic South. Its waxen petals exuded a narcotic vapour that stunned
unwary beasts and men into a drugged stupor. The fanged blossoms would
then drain the blood from their captive’s flesh, the pallid petals flushing
crimson as the flowers gorged on hot blood.
Slorg - the slorg was the dreaded woman-headed serpent of the desert
countries. In form a pale, colourless snake the length of a man, upon whose
question. Fluid neck grew - not the blunt-nosed head, wedge-shaped head of
a serpent - but the head of a human girl, in a hideous travesty of mankind.
The face, with its dead-white flesh, its green eyes that flamed in a mask-like
face and scarlet lips whose smile revealed uncouth tusks, was horrible as its
perfect feminine features clashed with the repulsive, serpent form.
Tiralon - the fabulous green roses of Lemuria’s jungles
Ulth - the white furred mountain bear of the glacier bound tundra’s of the
Northlands. They grow to a height averaging nine or ten feet and Varla’s
people hunted them.
Unza - the Lemurian rat, a naked white creature with lambent green eyes
and long, venomous fangs.
Vandar - the majestic black-furred Lemurian lion, which was know to attain
a length of ten feet.
Vorn - Lemurian measurement of 5,555 feet. Approximately a mile.
Xuth - the vast and hideous worm-like monsters who breed in the caverns
beneath Lemuria. Blind, slug-like, they absorb food by direct osmosis,
enveloping their prey within their pulpy, amoeboid flesh. Almost unkillable,
the xuth continued to grow as long as they remained living. Fire alone is
feared by the mindless worm-things.
Yembla - the monstrous flying spiders of the Lemurian jungles. It achieves
considerable size, but is virtually weightless due to inflatable body sac
which fills with an organic hydrogen gas manufactures by the yembla’s
glands.
Zharanga Tethrabaal - The Great Northern Ocean of Lemuria.
Zamph - a huge rhinoceros-like beast of burden. Its skin was thick and
leathery, dull blue in colour and fading to a muddy yellow under the belly.
Its short and stumpy legs were hoofed with tough pads and could carry it
without tiring for many days. It had a horny. Beaked snout with a horn
obtruding from between its small eyes. Its neck was covered in a large
curved shield of bony horn, like a natural saddle. It was in this saddle the
zamph’s rider sat, guiding the immense beast with reins attached to small
iron rings that pierced the zamph’s sensitive ears. The zamph was docile and
easily trained, being a grass-eater.
Zemadar - among the most dreaded monsters of ancient Lemuria. The
zemedar was a crimson reptile of insatiable killer-lust. It’s insane ferocity
often made it attack in the face of certain death. Armed with a triple row of
foot-long fangs that slavered a poisonous saliva that instantly paralysed its
prey, with a whip tale edged with wicked barbs, the twenty foot reptile was a
juggernaut of murderous fury, the only vulnerable portion of its dragon-like
body being its sulphur-yellow eyes.
Zulphar - the vicious Lemurian boar, hunted for its delicious meat.