The Sword and the Sorcerer

  romwell of Aragon sailed to the far edge of the world to raise the powerful and evil sorcerer, Xusia, from his thousand-year sleep, only to use him and then betray him.

  But Xusia has made a vow to get even—in his own time, in his own manner, and in a new disguise . . .

  ROBERT S. BREMSON

  presents

  a BRANDON CHASE film

  THE SWORD AND THE SORCERER

  starring

  LEE HORSLEY • KATHLEEN BELLER

  SIMON MacCORKINDALE

  GEORGE MAHARIS as Machelli

  and RICHARD LYNCH as Cromwell

  co-producers

  TOM KARNOWSKI & JOHN STUCKMEYER

  directed by

  ALBERT PYUN

  produced by

  BRANDON CHASE & MARIANNE CHASE

  THE CATACLYSM

  he entire world seemed to be ripping apart at the seams and toppling off its axis. The final, cataclysmic Day of Judgment had arrived.

  Into this utter chaos came thousands of locusts, flying about the tomb in a clicking, buzzing frenzy. The two men and the witch used their fists to beat the swirling black mass of insects away from their faces. And through the terrible clamor of locusts, violent earth tremors, and their own shouts and curses came the blood-curdling baying of wolves and mad dogs.

  Then, in a flash, the whirling tumult disappeared as suddenly as it had started. The locusts were gone. The earth was once more inert. The winds had vanished. And the tomb was as still as universal death. The only disquieting change, which each of them felt, was the presence of some new awesome force.

  “Look!” the witch screamed in exultation. “Xusia lives!”

  Cromwell and Malcolm rushed to her side and gazed into the casket, grimacing with revulsion and astonishment at the sight.

  The slab of red marble was gone. In its place was a pool of blood inside the casket In the midst of this crimson broth stretched a long, thin, leathery-skinned creature whose bulbous head, closed lids, utterly hairless face and head, scrawny body and distended stomach made him resemble a jaundiced but newborn human—but one that was already fully grown and whose parents might have been ghouls. On his parched and pleated face were stamped the telltale signs of centuries of depravity and evil.

  “The sorcerer!” Cromwell exclaimed.

  “May we not live to regret this day!” Malcolm muttered, jumping back from the casket as if touched by fire . . .

  THE SWORD AND THE SORCERER

  Copyright © 1982 by BLC Services, Inc.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  An original Pinnacle Books edition, published for the first time anywhere.

  First printing, March 1982

  ISBN: 0-523-41787-X

  Printed in the United States of America

  PINNACLE BOOKS, INC.

  1430 Broadway

  New York, New York 10018

  T H E

  S W O R D

  A N D T H E

  S O R C E R E R

  ONE

  t was an unholy and howling night, fit for neither the ancient gods nor ordinary men.

  With each jagged burst of lightning across the rain-lashed heavens the enraged hydra-headed beast the sea had become seemed that much closer to crushing and devouring tiny Tomb Island. The coastal waters encircling this rocky site boiled and erupted with mountainous waves—the pounding and ripping claws of an advancing typhoon.

  This barren strip of land was called Tomb Island because of its sepulchral rock formations and tomblike caves, and because the commoners, serfs, and shepherds on the mainland believed that the souls of demons, witches, wizards, and murderers resided there. The handful of mainlanders who were foolish enough to investigate whether this belief was pure myth or grounded in reality never returned.

  Neither gods nor ordinary men would have dreamed of plowing through the violent upheavals of the sea on such a night and to such a fearful place. Yet even now a single, storm-battered galleon dropped anchor in a sheltered cove off Tomb Island.

  But Titus Cromwell, the fierce warrior-king of Aragon who commanded the galleon in question, was far from being an ordinary man. The wake of his many years as a campaigning general was strewn with hundreds of men he had personally dispatched to eternity with his dreadful sword. In his heart seethed enough hate to propel him through several typhoons, while his mind burned with the single-purposed vision of usurping the richest kingdom of the known world—Eh-Dan.

  It was the energizing combination of his monumental hatred and obsessive vision that had enabled Cromwell to brave the storm and now steel himself for an even more malevolent undertaking. Whereas the typhoon represented pitting his wits and mariner’s skills against natural elements, the immediate and dire challenge that awaited him on the island defied the natural, rendering his prowess as a soldier and cunning as a leader useless in the face of the supernatural.

  For these reasons, Cromwell brought to Tomb Island, in addition to two of his top aides and a cadre of his best warriors, the wizened, loathsome old crone chained in the hull of the galleon. Without her black arts he had no chance of welding the universally dreaded Xusia to his cause—Xusia, who, because of his consummate evil, had lain for many years imprisoned by the powers that be in a deathlike trance.

  Sheltered from the rain by an overhanging cliff, four cloaked figures stood impatiently watching the six soldiers in chain mail break through the outside cavern wall with picks and shovels. One of the figures was Cromwell. The heavy rains abetted the soldiers’ efforts by loosening the rocks and earth. Breaking into the tomb this way was vastly superior to attempting to clear the huge boulders that sealed the mouth of the cavern. That would have taken a whole battalion of Cromwell’s men.

  “Faster, you dogs!” Cromwell barked at the diggers. “Or you too will end entombed on this vile pile of rocks!”

  The soldiers redoubled their labors, for they had seen too many bloody results of Cromwell’s hellish wrath.

  Each of the four figures held a torch and the dancing tongues of fire cast an eerie glow on their faces, which were beaded with rain and sweat.

  Cromwell’s darting black eyes, set in features that seemed chiseled in cold stone, were reptilian in their coiled intensity. Nor was there any mistaking the creases of ruthless ambition on either side of his wide red rip of a mouth. Implacable resolve coupled with insatiable lust for power were qualities permanently etched into his fierce yet noble face.

  The slouched, battle-weary figure closest to Cromwell was General Malcolm. Torchlight cruelly underscored the ravages of drink and drugs on his gaunt, strained face.

  Directly behind the King of Aragon fidgeted Cromwell’s minister of finance, pudgy and effeminate Lord Buckingham. As usual in the face of any danger Buckingham was scared as a rabbit trapped in a cave. And although Cromwell found Buckingham’s cowardice and propensity for heavy perfumes and young boys distasteful, he tolerated his peccadillos. No one had a better head than Buckingham for inventing reasons for levying taxes on the rabble or for thinking up new ways of enriching Cromwell’s coffers with gold and talents.

  The small, shriveled figure hunched in front of the king was that of Ban-Urlu, the aged but powerful witch he had had his soldiers pluck from her lair in the forest. Her hawkish face by torchlight was even more repulsive to behold than during the day. With long hairs shooting out of a large black mole on her knobby chin, stark white eyeballs surrounding blazing green orbs, and sunken cheeks, Ban-Urlu resembled a nightmare incarnate. Nor did the stench of her unwashed body and the residue of odors from years of living in dank, fetid forests lessen the revolting sight.

  The howls and roars of the raging s
torm persisted as the soldiers’ shovels and picks continued to scrape and break rock. Suddenly a huge slab of stony earth and rock caved inward and Cromwell had his opening into the cavernous tomb.

  “Follow me, oh mighty king!” Ban-Urlu excitedly shrieked, plunging into the womb of blackness inside.

  Though the witch had never been on Tomb Island before, some dark sixth sense unerringly led her through the twisting tunnel. And as she scurried ahead of the three wary noblemen like a rat hurrying to where it knew there was food, Ban-Urlu’s beaky face and crooked frame grew increasingly animated with the fervor of adoration. For to Ban-Urlu the creature they sought in the tomb deserved adoration and worship. In the realm of witchcraft and sorcery to which she belonged, Ban-Urlu was a mere practitioner while Xusia was a demonic god.

  The flaming torches in their hands cast long, moving shadows of the four figures on the sweating walls. None of the savagery of the night was heard inside the mountain. Except for the sound of their own breathing and their uncertain feet the silence was total. Yet it was an evil, pregnant silence, out of which the intruders intuitively knew some kind of horror could be born at any minute.

  As they walked stoop-shouldered to avoid hitting their helmeted heads against the low-ceilinged tunnel, an unearthly glow began to blossom at the end of the long passage.

  Ban-Urlu started salivating at the sight of the soft, reddish illumination.

  Cromwell’s right hand gripped the bejeweled hilt of his well-honed sword; whatever threat that strange glow at the end of the tunnel denoted, he was prepared to grapple with it.

  Malcolm rubbed his bloodshot eyes and wondered if that unholy light was not the product of the wine and opium he had imbibed the night before.

  Lord Buckingham had never seen such a sinister-looking shine before. He began to tremble and glance longingly over his shoulder toward the makeshift hole through which they had come.

  “Sire, would you deem it disrespectful if I waited for you outside?” Lord Buckingham asked meekly.

  “Make one move to leave us,” Cromwell growled, “and your dubious balls will dangle from the tip of my sword!”

  The ruby-red glow grew brighter the closer they got to it. Suddenly they found themselves passing the threshold of a cavernous chamber of rock, where they saw, awe-struck, the source of the supernatural light.

  In the center of the deathly still tomb was a massive casket made of some material Cromwell had never seen before. Lodged in the top of the casket was slab of red marble, gleaming like the huge red eye of a dragon. It was from this mysterious stone that the unwavering stream of almost mystical light poured.

  Cromwell and his men guardedly moved toward the magnificent coffin, but Ban-Urlu motioned that they stand back. Her protruding eyes feverish with anticipation, the twisted witch raised one of her emaciated hands and pointed to the luminous casket.

  “It is there that our prince of demons sleeps!”

  She kept inching closer and closer to the casket until she hovered adoringly over it, herself bathed in the unearthly illumination. Slowly, with the controlled sensuousity of a young woman caressing her lover’s back, the old hag began to lustfully stroke the glowing stone, her withered face afire with some secret rapture. And as her hands lovingly caressed the marble her normally raspy voice made soft cooing, purring noises.

  Cromwell studied the old crone with disgust. Spittle dribbled out of the corners of her caved-in mouth and the dilated pupils of her green eyes tilted upward into her sockets. For a fleeting moment the witch reminded him of the look of ecstasy on the wench who rode astride him the night before. He shuddered. To imagine that old bag of bones in a sexual context was enough to make him want to retch!

  “That’s not a man’s shaft you stroke, you filthy old hag, but a casket! Get on with it!”

  Ban-Urlu hissed and threw him a jaundiced look. But she instantly stopped pawing the stone and wiped the contempt from her face when she saw Cromwell’s menacing scowl. The murderous king’s volcanic temper was known and feared throughout Aragon. And to end her life impaled on his sword before the casket of Xusia would damn her soul to drift through space for eternity!

  Without a word, Ban-Urlu untied the lizard-skin bag from the rope about her waist and removed a small, ornate oil lamp. Using her torch to light it, she set the urn on the marble stone. An eerie finger of mind-altering smoke rose from the lamp and she drew the smoke deeply into her lungs. Now Ban-Urlu began to shuffle and whirl around the casket, bowing obseouiously in the direction of the coffin. As she worked herself into a state of possession Ban-Urlu uttered the same incantation over and over again:

  “Xathos makid asom bacathulu, macathulus!”

  It was the arcane language of another age, long, long ago. The longer she chanted the incantation the plainer it became that she was in communion with invisible spirits. Perspiration broke out on her face, while the modulations of her voice suggested several other voices speaking through her. Once again Ban-Urlu’s green eyes rolled upward into her sockets, leaving only the whites exposed. Over and over she droned,

  “Xathos makid asom bacathulu, macathulus!”

  Now as she circled the casket for the tenth time she began to shudder and stagger, knocking up against the glowing coffin, acting as if occult forces were using her as a channel to enter the precious thing lying inside the casket.

  Buckingham was trembling uncontrollably and glancing incessantly over his shoulder, as if fixing to flee. When his gaze returned to the hag, who was reeling like an old drunken whore, and he saw what was happening to the casket, the torch slipped from his hand to the ground and he had to steady himself against the moist wall to keep from keeling over.

  The same sight evoked a different response from Cromwell and Malcolm. They unsheathed their swords and assumed a defensive position. But even while they did these things they knew their weapons were powerless against the metamorphosis taking place before their incredulous eyes.

  In a matter of seconds the three men witnessed the casket become composed of hundreds of tortured human heads, some of them actually moving.

  Next the tomb began to hiss and swell, with a demonic chorus whispering the same incantation coming from Ban-Urlu’s bloodless lips.

  Suddenly an icy, foul wind exploded into the tomb chamber. Cromwell and Malcolm automatically hoisted their swords and exchanged glances of disbelief when they realized the terrible wind emanated not from the outside but from somewhere within the casket.

  The wind rapidly became a fierce gale causing their long cloaks to flap, while whipping up the tomb’s ancient dust in great, choking clouds. Only Ban-Urlu seemed impervious to the dreadful tempest, as her voice and the sibilant whispers of demons blended with the typhoonlike wind. Cromwell, Malcolm, and Buckingham could hardly remain upright as the tempest knocked them about. They had to bury their faces under their cloaks to escape being blinded and suffocated by the churning dust and great veils of cobwebs.

  Gripped by stark terror, Buckingham was beside himself. His short pudgy arms flayed at the buffeting wind as if warding off invisible attackers. He was absolutely convinced that if he didn’t get away from this horrible place he would perish. Bending his head as far as his inflated stomach, he bucked and charged through the wind toward the tunnel with every ounce of strength he possessed, teary pleas for help issuing from his blubberous lips.

  Buckingham’s piercing cries jolted Ban-Urlu out of her trance. When she saw he was trying to leave the tomb she screamed at him.

  “Stop, you fool! On your life do not leave this chamber!”

  Whether from the shock of Ban-Urlu’s screeching warning or from the lashing wind, his short, stubby legs lost balance and he fell on his helmeted head, the impact of the hard ground on metal instantly plumeting him into oblivion.

  Suddenly the ground beneath them began to shimmer and shake. What felt like a tidal wave hitting the tiny island deflected their interest in Buckingham’s fate to their own safety. The next second the unmistakab
le rumbles and seismic concussions of an earthquake tossed the stunned trio to the floor of the tomb, rocking and shaking them as if they were in the palsied hand of a giant. The whole world seemed to be ripping apart at the seams and toppling off its axis. The final, cataclysmic Day of Judgment appeared to have arrived.

  Into this utter chaos materialized thousands of locusts, flying about the tomb in a clicking, buzzing frenzy. The two men and the witch used their fists to beat the swirling blackness of insects away from their faces. And through the terrible clamor of locusts, violent earth-tremors, and their own shouts and curses came the blood-curdling baying of wolves and mad dogs.

  Then, in a flash, the whirling tumult disappeared as suddenly as it had started. The locusts were gone. The earth was once more inert. The winds had vanished. And the tomb once again was still as universal death.

  The only disquieting change, and which each of them felt, was the presence of some new awesome force.

  Slowly the trio scrambled to their feet, their eyes focusing on the now steaming casket. Cromwell gestured that Ban-Urlu should approach it first.

  The screwed-up features of her hag’s face once more alive with adoring anticipation, Ban-Urlu staggered to the casket and peered into its now open interior. Immediately she grew incoherent, her face moving in uncontrollable contortions.

  “Look!” the witch screamed in exultation. “Xusia lives!”

  Cromwell and Malcolm rushed to her side and also gazed into the casket, grimacing with revulsion and astonishment at the sight that confronted them.

  The slab of red marble was gone. In its place was a pool of blood inside the casket. In the midst of this crimson broth stretched a long, thin, leathery-skinned creature whose bulbous head, closed lids, utterly hairless face and head, scrawny body and distended stomach made him resemble a jaundiced but newborn human—but one that was already fully grown and whose parents might have been ghouls. On his parched and pleated face was stamped the telltale signs of centuries of depravity and evil.