Elak of Atlantis (7 page)

Dulled by the heat of the flames, not expecting attack, yet Dalan’s men met the charge bravely. The two forces came together, crashed and mingled, and then it was a whirling fire-lit madness of blood and steel. Granicor headed directly for Elak, and, nothing loath, the tall adventurer sprang to meet him, sword hissing. The blades shrieked together in midair, were sent flying by the power of the blows, and, weaponless, Elak and Granicor closed, the duke snarling oaths, the other watchful and silent. They went down, scattering embers from the fire’s edge.

Suddenly a shrill, warning cry came, above a low thunder of hoofs that boomed out from nearby.

“Vikings! ’Ware—
Vikings
! The Northmen!”

And down into the
valley rode red-bearded giants, roaring, spears driving, swords hewing, driving resistlessly over the campfire as they had swept down on Cyrena. Men screamed and died beneath trampling hoofs, and those who lived fled into the forest. In a moment the encampment was empty, save for the Northmen, the dead, and two men who lay locked in furious struggle on the ground.

Elak’s arm was locked about Granicor’s throat, but the duke’s bull-thewed legs were slowly crushing his ribs, forcing the breath from his body, when the Vikings prodded the two apart with ungentle blades.

“Thunder of Thor!” a harsh voice grunted. “What mad men are these? Guthrum, they—”

Guthrum! At that name Elak tore free, sprang to his feet, heedless of the steel points that pricked him. His stare found a red-bearded giant in chain mail and brimless helmet, a man whose face had once been strong and powerful and valorous—a man whose eyes were dead!

Blue eyes, dull and cold and bitterly ferocious, watched Elak. This was Guthrum, leader of the Northmen, whose pact with Elf had resulted in the imprisonment of Orander, King of Cyrena.

“Guthrum?” It was Granicor’s voice. “The Viking? My people aren’t at war with yours. I am from Poseidonia!” The duke stood squarely facing Guthrum, looking up defiantly at the somber figure on horseback.

Without replying the Northman lashed out with a mail-shod foot, sent it driving into Granicor’s face. Blood spurted as the duke reeled back. He caught himself, fumbled for a weapon that was not there—and hurled himself forward, up at Guthrum’s throat, snarling a blazing oath.

The Viking’s horse reared; Granicor went down under driving hoofs. Bitter laughter shook Guthrum, but the dull rage in his eyes was unchanged as he looked down on the prostrate Atlantean, turned to eye Elak. The tall adventurer felt a shudder course down his spine as he met that dreadful blue gaze. Something had been drained from the Viking chief, and there sat in his eyes that which was not human.

Granicor staggered upright,
and Guthrum wheeled his mount to face the gory figure. In silence he listened while the duke choked out furious curses born of agonizing rage and shame. And then: “Do you think I fear such as you? Do you think I fear anything on earth—after what a warlock has shown me?” The dull stare of the Viking was utterly horrible in its cold ferocity. “I, who have come sane from the vaults of Elf’s citadel—shall I fear your curses?”

He clapped spurs to his horse, went thundering into the darkness. From the gloom his voice came roaring back: “
Crucify those men!
”

9. THE CHIEFS IN SHARN

Spurred by the menace of Guthrum’s words, Elak tore free momentarily from his captors, but as he turned to the forest they were upon him. He fought furiously, desperately—uselessly. He was born down, held powerless in the grip of red-bearded, mail-clad giants, as Granicor, his face a bloody ruin, was also held.

Working swiftly, the Vikings stripped Granicor of his armor, dragged him to where a great oak grew nearby. He cursed them, striving to break away, his tiny eyes flaming with rage and fear. But thongs lifted the duke’s apelike body, binding him inexorably against the tree’s bole. His arms were drawn up behind him, circling the trunk—and with iron spikes and improvised hammers the Northmen went about their crimson work.

Elak watched, white-faced, as iron tore through flesh and bone, listening to the frightful cries that burst through Granicor’s mangled lips. The Vikings left him at last, letting him hang by his hands, shoulders wrenched almost out of their sockets. They turned to Elak.

He tensed for a hopeless struggle. And abruptly he sensed astonishment in the craggy faces about him. The Vikings had turned, staring, to where a gross brown figure stood just within the circle of firelight.

Dalan—his toad
face hideous with fury, huge hands lifted. He made no sound, but so dreadful was the menace in his expression that the Northmen were held motionless for a moment. Then a cry went up; they surged forward, blades ready.

The Druid flung out his arms in a strange gesture—as though he hurled a curse at his enemies. From his thick lips a word came, unfamiliar, alien. There was power in the gesture, power in the word Dalan spoke. The air seemed to quiver, charged with electric force.

Thunder burst in Elak’s ears. He was flung back, blinded by a sheet of white flame that washed the clearing in stark brilliance. For a second he lost consciousness.

Then the Druid was lifting him, muttering curses. Feebly Elak freed himself, stared around. The place looked as though lightning had struck it. The grass and trees were seared and blackened, and of the Northmen only charred corpses in half-melted armor remained.

“Ishtar!” Elak whispered, his voice unsteady. “What—what happened, Dalan? Is this more of your—magic?”

The Druid nodded. “A fire-magic
I cannot work often. We have power over flame, Elak—and there’s flame in the sky as well as on earth. With Mider’s aid, I drew down the lightning. Those barbarians died by their god’s thunderbolt.” Vicious laughter shook the huge bulk. “Lucky for you I wasn’t cut down when the Vikings rode in. Look, their horses have stampeded—those that aren’t blasted to death.”

Elak touched his singed eyebrows. “I don’t see how I escaped. Can you direct this wizard lightning of yours, Dalan?”

“Perhaps. Also the Northmen wore armor, and you have none. That may have accounted for it. See—the man they crucified, Granicor—he wears no armor, and he’s still alive. Barely, I think.”

Elak gaze went to where the tortured body of the duke hung from the oak. He hesitated, then went forward purposefully.

“Lycon?” he asked over his shoulder. “Velia? Are they safe?”

The Druid nodded. “Yes, they’re waiting not far away. But the rest of the crew are dead or scattered. We’ll have to move quickly to reach Sharn Forest—I didn’t know the Vikings had come this far south, and four of us can’t very well fight an army. In Sharn we’ll meet the chiefs—what are you doing, you fool? Freeing that dog?”

“He’s an Atlantean, at least,” Elak said, wrenching at one of the iron spikes that transfixed Granicor’s hand. “And this is no way for any man to die.”

The duke had apparently lost consciousness. As the last spike came free, his body slumped down in a bloody huddle at the tree’s foot. Elak paused.

“He can’t live long. But I don’t like to leave him here to be tortured by the Northmen if they come. Yet—”

“We can’t take him with us! Gods, will you feed him pap and nurse him after he’s just tried to slit your throat—while Elf rules Cyrena and holds your brother captive? I tell you we must get to Sharn—and quickly!”

“Very well,” Elak agreed, turning toward the forest. “He can’t live till morning—no man could, with those wounds. To Sharn, then—and after that we march on Elf’s fortress.”

“We march on Guthrum’s army,” Dalan grunted, “Wherever it may be. But it won’t be far from the warlock’s citadel. Guthrum’s headquarters is there.”

His ungainly figure vanished in the shadows, Elak at his side. And at the foot of a great oak tree a frightful figure dragged itself half erect, an apelike man, seared and blood-stained and wounded on hands and feet. Mangled lips writhed and opened.

“Elf’s—fortress,” a harsh voice whispered, cracked with agony. “And Guthrum!” A gout of blood spewed from the man’s throat, and a paroxysm of coughing shook him. He clung to the oak, dragged himself upright, grinning with abysmal pain.

“So I won’t live till morning?” he mumbled. “I’ll live—till I find Guthrum!”

Duke Granicor staggered a few steps and collapsed, but he lay inert for only a moment. Then, very slowly, wheezing and groaning between clenched teeth, he began to drag himself into the forest….

Elak stood before the Druid altar
in Sharn Forest, a great gray stone, its top hollowed out into a shallow basin that was stained darkly by countless ages of sacrifice. It was dawn. A day and a night had passed since the encounter with Granicor and the Northmen, and for a few hours Elak has slept in the shadow of the Druid stone, while the chiefs gathered, drawn to Sharn by swift messengers. Lycon and Velia had slept beside him, and Dalan had watched, greeting each newcomer as he arrived. Now nearly all the chiefs were here, a grim half-circle in the cold light of dawn, their strong faces betraying little of their thoughts. Yet somehow Elak sensed hostility in the eyes watching him, and their gaze was suspicious as well as appraising. Dalan realized something of this, for his ugly face was set in an appalling snarl.

A young chieftain pushed forward, bull-necked, ruddy-cheeked. He advanced till he stood only a few feet from Dalan and halted with folded arms.

“Have I your leave to speak, Druid?” he asked mockingly.

Somber eyes watched him. “Ay, Halmer. Since Cyrena chooses a cub for spokesman—speak.”

Halmer’s laugh was scornful. “My words are those of all, I think. Well—listen, then. The Northmen are still on the coasts. They will not come south. If they do, we can drive them back.”

“What of Orander?” Dalan asked. “What of your king?”

The young chief hesitated. Then, gathering courage from the Druid’s calm, he snapped, “We’ll fight for our own holdings, if need be. But Elf’s magic—who can fight that? I say, let the Northmen hold the coast, if they want it. They’ve not troubled my lands yet. If they do, I’ll know how to drive them away.”

“And one by one you will go down beneath Guthrum,” Dalan said. “Halmer speaks for you all? You’ll let your king rot in Elf’s power, you’ll let the Northmen hang like a cankerous sore on the coast—Mider! But you need a king’s strong hand to rule you! Without Orander you squabble among yourselves like a pack of snarling curs.”

Some looked shamefaced at
that, but none spoke.

Finally: “Who is this Elak?” one asked. “You say he’s Zeulas, the king’s brother. Perhaps. But you ask us to bow down before a man who killed his stepfather—a man who may, then, kill his brother and rule Cyrena!”

Elak growled a curse. He pushed past the Druid.

“It wouldn’t take much of a man to rule you, I think,” he snapped harshly. “There were not so many fools and cowards here when I left Cyrena. I killed Norian, yes—but in fair fight, and most of you remember that my stepfather had no great love for either Orander or me. But as for my wanting to rule this land of women—bah! I’ve asked your aid. If you won’t give it, I’ll go to Elf’s fortress alone and find my brother.”

At his words there was a stir. One man, a tall, lean oldster in dented armor, came to cast his sword at Elak’s feet.

“Well, I’ll go with you, at least,” he said. “And my followers are not few. I remember you in the old days, Zeulas—and I know you speak true words now.”

With antique courtesy Elak gravely retrieved the fallen sword, touched his forehead with the hilt, and returned it to the oldster.

“Thanks, Hira. I remember you, too, and that you were always ready to fight for Cyrena. These other dogs—”

Hira’s lean face twisted wryly. “No, Zeulas—or Elak. They are not dogs; they’re brave men all—but fear of Elf’s magic and hatred of each other have made them less noble.”

Brawny Halmer laughed, “Go with Hira, stranger—and you too, Druid, since he’s a madman too. I go back to my own holding now—and send me no more messengers.” He turned on his heel, to be halted by the curt voice of Dalan.

“Wait.”

He turned. “Well?”

“You fight among yourselves, you follow cubs like Halmer—and you fear Elf’s magic. Now for ages on uncountable ages the Druids have dwelt in Cyrena, and they will not go down now before the gods of the North—not for the lack of a few strong sword arms. So I tell you this: Druid magic may protect you against Elf’s wizardries. And it may not. But, by Mider!”—the toad face was a venomous devil mask; Dalan spat the words at the chiefs—“by Mider! Elf won’t protect
you
against the power of the Druids! And we have not lost our power!”

Some shrank back, and
there were pale faces among those turned to Dalan. But Halmer laughed scornfully, shrugged broad shoulders.

“Old men and children may fear you,” he mocked. “But I do not.”

The Druid lifted a huge hand, pointed upward. His voice came sonorously, laden with romance.

“Then listen, Halmer. And—watch! Should it not be dawn now?”

At his words a little movement of apprehension shook the chiefs. None had noticed before, but over the brightening vault of the sky an iron-gray cope of cloud had been drawn. Heavily it lay above Sharn, growing darker as they watched. A shadow fell on the clearing. The trees loomed strangely ominous in the dimness.

Yet Halmer laughed again. “Do we fear clouds? Your magic is feeble—charlatan!”

Dalan said nothing; his black eyes, half hidden by sagging lids, watched Halmer. A cold wind blew through Sharn; whispers rustled the forest. Steadily it grew darker.

From the chiefs a low murmur of fear went up.

Elak felt Velia creep close to him, put his arm protectively about her slim waist. For once Lycon was silent, looking up apprehensively. Before the altar Dalan’s misshapen figure towered, arms raised in menace.

Halmer’s voice was not quite steady, his face a little less ruddy, as he barked, “I’ll not stay here longer. I—”

“Go,” the Druid said. “If you dare.”

Halmer clapped hand to sword, turned, pushed through the group of chiefs. None followed as he moved to the edge of the clearing. Then, about to step into the dark shadows beneath the trees, he paused and drew back a step.