by Brian Lumley
'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 a
nd 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.
'You talk of a raid,' de Marigny queried. 'What sort of raid?'
She nodded, grinning. 'Soon all Vikings will put on metal and sail their dragons against the people of the Isle of Mountains. Ithaqua has commanded it; he has set the hand of Leif Dougalson and the Vikings against the mountain isle.'
Here she paused, then laughed loudly and grasped their elbows. 'Aye, and your arms, too, will find work on that bat-haunted isle! Have I not foreseen it? Bat wings beating in the mist blood and terror and great winds blowing — and all in the name of . . . of Lord Ithaqua!' And it seemed to the two men that she spat the Wind-Walker's name out on the sand.
By this time the Vikings were back on their feet, and the two newcomers were able to see their Numinosian hosts more clearly; from which moment onward they began to feel a certain gratitude for the doubtful affections of the witch-wife. For the clan of Thonjolf the Red, while only four or five dozen in number, was almost without exception a clan of giants among men. Even the stripling youths of fourteen or fifteen years were well over six feet tall, while some of the full-grown men were almost seven. Silberhutte, for all his massive stature by Earth standards, was dwarfed by them!
'Another effect of the low gravity, Henri?' the Warlord asked out of the corner of his mouth.
'I would say so. By the same token their strength has probably not increased in proportion. Might even have been reduced ... I hope!'
Now the Vikings crowded forward, eager to get a closer look at their visitors, still open-minded about Annahilde's assertions regarding these men come down from the sky. So they flew, did they? Well, so did midges! What other powers did they have? Surely the Wind-Walker's chosen ones must be of greater stature than these men? What proof was there that they were what the witch-wife said they were? They moved closer still, then —
'Ho, there! Out of my way — move, man! Where are these strangers I heard the hag ranting about, these "emissaries of Ithaqua?"' The voice was a deep, drunken bass rumble issuing from behind the massed Vikings.
As all eyes turned from the strangers and a way was cleared for the speaker, so Annahilde whispered: `Harold, the chief's son. He's a drunkard and a bully. Beware . . . !'
3 Ithaqua's Emissaries
As large and foreboding as his voice — seven feet tall, with a middle like a barrel and a huge red face that well matched his tangled red hair and the blood in his pig eyes — Harold was a monster. He glanced once at the strangers, took a long draught from the jug he carried, then threw back his great head and burst into malicious laughter. His mirth was short-lived, however, and quickly gurgled into silence as he contemplated the two a second time. Now his peering inspection was much more thorough, more threatening; and while Harold was not as drunk as the Earthmen might have preferred, he certainly appeared to be all of the bully that Annahilde had named him.
Finally he turned scornfully on the assembled Vikings and roared: 'A trick! You've been tricked, all of you. By these two, aye, and by the hag there . . Harold waved a massive hand in Annahilde's direction. 'Emissaries of Ithaqua, indeed! Why, only look at them! They're common men, can't you see that?'
`But we all saw them fly in from the sea,' one of the younger men protested.
Harold stepped over to the youth and dealt him a backhanded blow that sent him reeling. 'Fool! Oaf! It's Annahilde's work. She's blown her powder in your faces. You'd see anything she wanted you to see. Sent by Ithaqua, my backside! These two? They look more like men from the Isle of Mountains to me . . . and we all understand the witch-wife's interest in the Isle of Mountains . .
Instantly Annahilde's sons, great hulking men in their late twenties, stepped forward and confronted Harold. At the same time a pair of surly looking brutes, Harold's cronies, took up positions flanking him. From one of these Harold snatched a spear whose shaft was thick as a man's wrist.
`Stand aside, bitch-sons, for I've no quarrel with you two — not yet! Aside, I say, and let's see what these strangers are made of.'
In the chief's absence Harold had a certain authority with the clan. With his cronies beside him and following his cryptic accusations — against Annahilde as well as the two strangers — it would have been purest folly for the witch-wife's sons to oppose him in earnest. Thus Erik and Rory reluctantly stood aside as de Marigny and Silberhutte separated and backed up against the hull of one of the beached longships.
Quickly then, allowing no time for thought, Harold drew back his arm and made as if to throw his spear. Instead of hurling the weapon, however, he retained it in the ready position. Silberhutte — a born fighter and greatly experienced — merely froze and narrowed his eyes, waiting for the cast, knowing he could step out of the spear's flight path. De Marigny, on the other hand, for all he had learned in the plateau's arenas, was short on practical experience. He feinted, almost tripped, and in the split second it took him to regain his balance, Harold laughed harshly and made his throw.
Without a doubt the hurled shaft should have pinned de Marigny to the planking of the dragonship, would have done so but for the intervention of Armandra's familiar winds. For when that deadly weapon was only three feet away from his middle, it met a violent, invisible force that wrenched it from its path and drove it point down into the co
arse sand between the two outsiders. Silberhutte snatched, the weapon up in a hail of pebbles and gravel, breaking it like a twig over his bent knee.
Harold shook his head in bewilderment, unable to accept the evidence of his own eyes. He knew his cast lad been a good one. It had seemed as if some unseen hand had struck the shaft aside in midair. And now the larger of the strangers — whose strength, for all his comparatively diminutive size, must be prodigious — was striding over to him, looking up at him through eyes that were unafraid, eyes filled with anger.
De Marigny knew at once what had saved his life. Now, as Silberhutte approached the huge, red-haired Viking, he whispered his thanks into thin air, saying: 'Just keep watch over us, friends. I've a feeling there'll be more work for you shortly.'
Now the bullyboys flanking Harold puffed themselves up and gripped their weapons in massive hands. One carried an axe; the other, whose spear lay broken on the sand, had drawn a sword. Harold glanced at his brutal colleagues, turning his head from side to side and grinning. To the Warlord he said, 'You wanted to speak to me, little man?'
'The two of us,' the Texan grated out through clenched teeth. 'You and I, dog, hand to hand. After that — then we'll decide which of us is the "little" man!'
`You call me . . . dog!' Harold almost choked on the 'word, going bright as a beetroot in his rage. 'And you, a midget, challenge me in hand-to-hand combat? Breath of Itha He drew back his arm to deliver a backhand blow like that dealt to the young Viking a moment or two earlier. Silberhutte ducked under the flying arc of muscle and bone, driving his rock-hard fist like a ramrod into Harold's solar plexus.