In the Moons of Borea (7 page)

Then -

- The whirling wall was gone, disintegrating as at the touch of some magical wand, flying apart when Armandra, a world away on Bores, released her control over it. The mighty whirlwind was finished, done, its debris filling the higher atmosphere of Numinos as fine snow. And down through that rapidly dispersing cloud of ice particles, their ears still ringing with the sounds of the great twister's death
cries,
down from a height of something less than two miles plummeted the men who had ridden a tornado from one world to another.

Head over heels in a knot of leather, fur, and chill flesh they fell, the cloak wrapped about them like some tangled parachute. And yet even as their fall began, it was partially arrested; they found themselves buoyed up and stabilized by Armandra's familiar winds, those same semisentient elementals of the air whose life-support bubble had protected them across twenty thousand miles of interplanetary space.

Now, falling feet first and at a vastly reduced velocity, the two men quickly disentangled themselves, and de Marigny cautiously took control of the flying cloak. As that garment of the Elder Gods took their weight, they felt a momentary tightening of their harnesses, followed by the sensation of sustained, controlled flight.

The cloak belled out above and behind them like the membrane wings of some great bat, and down they swept toward the surface of Numinos far below . .

The descent of the cloak and its passengers to the surface of Numinos was in itself a voyage of discovery. De Marigny soon noted that the cloak was flying with an efficiency never before experienced under the burden of a dual load. He attributed this fact to the low Numinosian gravity, which was about three-quarters that of Borea. He was also struck by the beauty of this strange moon whose far face, like that of Luna, had never been seen from the parent world and should therefore be cold, dark, and foreboding. Indeed away on the horizon great blue cliffs of ice reared like a mountain chain that stretched as far as the eye could see, and in the ocean vast icebergs drifted down from the frozen regions.

As for the Warlord: he was delighted to observe that Borea and her moons did after all have a sun of sorts, one perhaps not too greatly at odds with Earth's own. Away beyond the World of the Winds, which hung huge, grey-green, and ominously clouded in the sky, the pink and yellow orb of the luminary Silberhutte had always suspected, showed more than half its disk, shooting out bursts of golden auroral streamers that flowed into the void, slowed, and were rapidly drawn back into the furnace heart,

`A sun!' Silberhutte cried once more. 'Which means that Borea's far side is probably a paradise. Armandra never knew of the sun's existence, has never physically seen it, and her father seems to have taken good care never to let her see it through his mind. I'm willing to bet that lthaqua is confined to Borea's frozen regions just as surely as he is to the Arctic Circle and its boundaries

on Earth. If I'm right . . . do you know what it means? One day the monster may return from his wanderings to find the plateau deserted and its tribes flown the coop to tropical lands beyond his reach.'
l
ook down there,' de Marigny called out by way of an answer. 'Many of those islands appear to be volcanic. Is that or is it not a huge hot-water geyser?'

They were passing directly over a cluster of small islands as they headed for a greater land mass some miles distant. Close to one island a great spout of water belched up intermittently, emitting clouds of steam and boiling yellow gasses. High as they were above this phenomenon, nevertheless they smelled sulphur in the otherwise pure Numinosian air.

`Volcanic, yes,' Silberhutte agreed. 'I've seen and smelled much the same in the Motherworld — that is to say, on Earth. Look over there, on the horizon to our right. If that isn't a full-blown volcano, I've never seen one . .

But now something else spouted in the calm, gold-glittering sea half a mile below — many somethings — and in unison the two men cried: 'Whales!'

`Will you look at them, Hank!' de Marigny yelled. 'They're Great Blues, surely?'

'I'm no expert, Henri, but whatever species they are, I count a school of about fifty. The sea must be rich in food to support them.'

'But how did they get here, on Numinos, an alien moon in a strange parallel dimension?'

'The Wind-Walker could have brought the first pair of young ones — say, oh, maybe twenty thousand years ago.'

'But why?' de Marigny asked incredulously. 'Why should he do that, for goodness' sake?'

'Why not? If you're going to people planets, surely you have to provide food for your people, don't you? There-has to be some sort of ecology. On the other hand, these whales might simply have evolved here — they might have been here since the dawn of time. Perhaps this is the source
from
which Earth's great schools sprang. As far as we know, the Eskimos were Ithaqua's first human worshippers — and they've been killing whales for food since time immemorial.'

`But the thought is fantastic!' de Marigny answered. 1. mean, Ithaqua is evil, as blackhearted and alien a member of the CCD as ever was. And yet here we see him almost as — '

'As a god, my friend? Well, he
is
a god, isn't he, compared with the primitives who worship him? Certainly his powers — regardless of how he chooses to use them — are godlike. And for all we know, he could well be the Earthly prototype of Odin or Thor.'

'But to bring whales —'

'Why not?' the Warlord repeated, cutting in once more. 'Don't be fooled for one minute that he couldn't do it. Down on the white waste, not far from the plateau, there's an old icebreaker — a great ship of iron — and it could only have arrived on Borea one way. For that matter, didn't Ithaqua snatch my crew and me, not to mention our airplane, right off the face of the Earth and bring us here? Don't underestimate the Wind-Walker, Henri.'

'Little chance of that, Hank. I've had enough experience of the CCD, lthaqua included, to know well enough what they're capable of. It's just that I'm beginning to see him in a fresh light. So you reckon that he was the old Viking god of the storm, eh?'

'Not for a certainty, but he could have been.' 'And Valhalla?'

The Warlord looked up at his friend with a questioning frown as they sped in vertical tandem across the Numinosian sea toward land. Finally he, answered: 'It's purely a matter for conjecture, of course, but there are certain phonetic similarities .

`Yes, I can see that,' de Marigny answered. 'Using a bit of imagination, one could make "r'lyeh" sound
much like Valhalla.'

`I was thinking more on the lines of Hali,' the Warlord contradicted. 'After all, Ithaqua is an elemental of air and space, not water. Perhaps the Vale of Hali? ValHalla . . . ? Of course if I had someone even moderately versed in Old Norse matters here right now to talk to, he'd probably shoot me down in flames on the instant. But even an expert could only repeat what he has learned — what he himself believes — however erroneously. The real facts behind all myths and legends must forever lie in the unfathomable past. If your friend Titus Crow were — '

`Hank, look!' de Marigny's cry cut the Warlord off. `How's that for a Viking settlement?'

Half a mile away and looming larger by the second, perched in the flanking crags of an ocean inlet much like a fjord, a hamlet of cabins — many of them looking curiously like the dwellings of Scottish Highland crofters — stood as testimony to the habitation of the large landmass by human beings. Smoke, drifting up from a dozen or more family fires, made the air above the settlement blue with its lazily drifting haze.

Well-worn paths ran from the comparatively rude dwellings down to the sea, while on the beach three wooden slipways showed yellow against the darker shades of coarse sand and shingle. For a background to the whole, the cliffs and hills beyond were fringed with the tall pines of Norway.

To the rear of the beach, within the confines of a tall log fence, stood a large communal or festival hall. A pair of dragonships of classical shape and size lay beached, one to each side of the log enclosure. A third longship, its dragon's head lolling above the gentle swell, stood anchored just within the fjord's mouth. Several figures, antlike at that distance, moved on the beach and along the cliff paths.

Slowing the speed of the cloak as they approached the settlement, de Marigny asked the Warlord: `What now, Hank? Do we simply fly in and see what develops?'

`I think,' the other answered, 'that things are already developing. Listen . .

Drifting out to them over the sea came the deeply raucous bellow of a conch blown in warning, and immediately all of the now plainly visible human figures of the settlement turned to stare and point oceanward at the bat-shape that came down out of the sky toward the beach. Moments later, running down from their huts and houses — appearing from their places of work beneath the beached dragonships and out from behind the communal-hall's stockade, from wherever they happened to be at the time — the great majority of the settlement's people appeared, all hurrying to witness at firsthand the arrival of this strange, aerial visitor.

In between the rocky points of the fjord de Marigny flew the cloak, bringing it to a hovering halt over the sea some seventy-five yards from the beach. 'I see a large number of weapons there, Hank,' he cautioned. `Axes and swords.'

`I see them, and a spear or two. Still, from what little I know of the Vikings, they wouldn't go to bed without taking their favourite blades along! And in any case there's no question of a fight. We're outnumbered at least twenty to one — and we're here for information, not blood. But look — what's happening now?'

On the beach the four or five dozen Vikings, including a scattered handful of women and children, were congregated about a massive slab-sided boulder that guarded the gate to the communal hall. Standing atop this great rock, a wild, long-haired, ragged female figure harangued the crowd. They cowered back, cringing in the face of her vehemence, then turned their backs on her to kneel grudgingly on the sand facing the sea and the men who rode the cloak.

`What the hell — ?' the Warlord queried. 'Vikings — on their knees before us?'

`The old woman's a "witch-wife,'" de Marigny informed. `The Viking equivalent of both oracle and witchdoctor combined. A seer, a rune caster, supposedly endowed with all of the peculiar powers such terms dictate.'

`Very well,' said Silberhutte, 'then since she seems to be for us, I say we give it a whirl and take a run ashore.'

The beldam continued to rant at the assembled community as de Marigny flew the cloak in to the beach. There he hovered effortlessly while Silberhutte freed himself and fastened the loose ends of his harness straps at the back of his neck. Then, setting down beside the big Texan, the cloak's master allowed his marvellous garment to fall loosely about his fur-clad form. Now they stood shoulder to shoulder, the two of them, arms crossed on their chests.

Still the hag railed on, but her tone was lower now, full of awe. The eyes of the whole community fed unblinkingly, not a little suspiciously, on the men from the sky.

`That tongue she's using,' Silberhutte casually drawled. `The more I hear, the better I understand it. There's some Norse in it, a lot of Old English, too, but mainly it's . .' He frowned in concentration, trying to fathom the strangely familiar dialect.

`Gaelic,' de Marigny finally recognized the language. `And those swords on the sand there. Viking craftmanship, yes, but they're designed more like claymores than anything else!'

`Yes, I'd noticed that too,' the Warlord answered. 'But right now I'm more interested in the old woman. Listen to her — she's giving them hell!'

Even as he spoke, the crone uttered one final harsh word of command that rose in pitch to a breathless shriek. Then she threw her head back and her arms wide, beginning to stumble dangerously about the uneven upper surface of the rock. At that, almost without exception, the assembled Vikings cast their eyes down and bowed their heads. The two closest to the great boulder, however, leaped to their feet and rushed to help the witch-wife.

Her eyes had turned up, and she was falling forward, a bundle of rags that would have smashed down on the shingle if the two had not caught her and placed her on her feet. Now, recovering herself, she pushed them away and staggered through the prostrated ranks of Vikings to stand before the strangers. Her aides — blood relatives, sons by their looks — followed behind her at a respectful distance. Through black, bloodshot eyes she peered first at de Marigny, then at Silberhutte, all the while nodding her head of long, matted yellow hair. When finally she spoke, not all of her words were immediately intelligible to the pair, but their overall meaning was clear.

`So you have come, as I said you would: two strangers flying in from the sea on the wings of a bat. Two whose fates are totally entwined with those of the clan of Thonjolf the Red, for good or evil I know not. Two of you, blown on the winds, emissaries of Ithaqua!'

`Aye, we have come,' the Warlord took the initiative, `and it is good that you greet us thus.'

You speak the tongue strangely,' the crone answered, `but you do speak it. This, too, I foresaw.'

`And who are you, witch-wife?' de Marigny inquired.

`I am Annahilde, mother of Erik and Rory.' She placed scrawny hands on the arms of the pair now come up close behind her. 'Annahilde, widow of Hamish the Strong.'

She turned to Silberhutte. `You are much like Hamish in his younger days. Six years gone, he too was . . . was called by Ithaqua.' For a moment her visage grew yet more
bleak and her eyes filled with horror. Then she shook back her wild yellow hair and peered about her, like someone waking from a nightmare.

The prostrated Vikings were beginning to stir, their patience with Annahilde's demands almost at an end. Not all of them held their eyes averted; two or three
were
openly, ominously grumbling together. The newcomers had noticed this, and Silberhutte, continuing his role as spokesman, decided to relieve the situation.

`If these are Thonjolf's people,' he said, 'where is the chief, Thonjolf himself? We would speak to him: Also, get these people up on their feet. Emissaries of Ithaqua we are, but before that we were ordinary, humble men.'

'Ah, no!' she shook her head in denial and grinned, showing a mouthful of badly stained but surprisingly
even
teeth. 'Ordinary men you never were, nor will you ever be humble. As for these — ' She flapped a scarecrow arm to indicate the prostrated ones. `Up, dogs of the sea — on your feet. Ithaqua's emissaries grant you this boon, that you, too, might stand in their presence.'

As the Vikings sullenly got to their feet, she continued: `You ask for Thonjolf? Thonjolf the Red, who is also called Thonjolf the Silent? He is at Norenstadt, summoned there by Leif Dougalson, king of all the Viking clans. Word is out that a raid is in the offing. Thonjolf attends a great meeting of the chiefs but should soon return. Only his oaf of a son Harold is here, and he lies drunken in the meeting-house.' She tossed her head to indicate the enclosure to her rear.