And his sword came down, leaving his throat unprotected.
But Elak also lowered his rapier. His wolfish face cracked in an ironic grin.
“Had enough?” he taunted. “By Ishtar, but you’ve little courage for your size.”
The giant fumbled with the fastenings of his tunic. Abruptly he brought out something thin and dark and writhing coiled about his arm. He flung it at Elak.
The rapier screamed through the air but missed its mark. Elak sprang aside just in time; the dark thing shot past him and arched up to avoid the swinging cut of Lycon’s sword. For a brief moment it hung in empty air, while the silence of stupefaction stilled the tavern’s clamor.
It was a serpent—but a winged serpent! A snake with two webbed, membranous wings sprouting from its body. Beady eyes glittered in the triangular head as the monster hung aloft. Then down it came, swift as an arrow’s flight.
Chairs and tables crashed over, and the thunder of frantic feet sounded. Lycon’s thrust almost spitted Elak. The winged snake, unhurt, flashed away, but its fangs had grazed Elak’s shoulder. The brown leather of his tunic darkened swiftly, while a stench of foul corruption was strong in his nostrils.
“Bel!” he ground out. “I can’t——”
Suddenly a bulky figure loomed before him—the Druid, huge arms lifted, shielding the adventurer with his own body. Elak made to thrust him aside. Then, staring, he paused.
From the upthrust hands of the Druid a pale flame was rising, twin fires that burned fiercely, dwarfing the yellow glow of the lamps. Incredibly the flames swelled and grew and abruptly took flight. The winged serpent twisted in midair, its wings shirring. But inexorably the flames raced down upon it.
They spread out lambent fingers, interlacing, till around the monster revolved a sphere of silently glowing fire. The serpent was hidden from view by a glove of flame.
And it swiftly diminished, shrank to a tiny glowing point—and vanished. Where flame and serpent had been was nothing. A gray dust filtered slowly to the rough planks of the floor . . .
2. Northmen in Cyrena
“SO MAY all traitors die!” the Druid said harshly.
He was staring at an outsprawled giant figure that lay broken across a splintered table, a man whose black-bearded, swarthy face was upturned to the lamplight. On his brow a circle of reddened skin was burned and blistered, and blood bubbled in his throat.
Before either Lycon or Elak could move, the Druid had bent above the dying man, gripping his hair with rough fingers.
“Who sent you?” he snarled, his toadlike face aglisten with sweat. “Tell me, you dog—or I’ll——”
“Mercy!” the wretch gasped, blood gushing from his mouth.
“I’ll give you such mercy as will send your soul screaming down the Nine Hells! Who sent you? Tell these men!”
The man croaked, “Elf! He——”
Callously the Druid turned away. A frown creased Elak’s brow as he saw the fear-glazed eyes roll up in death. “Elf?” he repeated. “I know that name.”
“You should,” the Druid growled. “Perhaps you know mine, then—Dalan. Come on, we’ve no time to talk. The guards will be here in a moment.”
Lycon hesitated, shrank back. But Elak gripped his arm and urged him in the wake of the druid.
“We can trust him,” he whispered. “I’ve heard tales of this Dalan. And I think—” There was a wry smile on Elak’s lean face. “I think we’ll be safer with him than anywhere else.”
A wan moon hung low over Atlantis. Keeping in the shadows, the three cautiously made their way along the waterfront. Once they shrank back into a doorway while a troop of guards clattered past. And at last they came to a low hut into which Dalan ushered them, barring the door carefully before he turned to take a lantern from a peg on the wall.
Even then he paused to lift a trapdoor in the floor before setting the lantern on the rough table in the center of the bare, gloomy room. “In case of surprise,” he explained; “though I think we’re safe enough here.”
“In Bel’s name, what’s this all about?” Lycon demanded. The drink was wearing off, and he was trembling a little with reaction. Gratefully he sank down in a chair the Druid indicated. “Did you kill that bearded swine? Winged snakes—magic fires—haven’t you anything to drink in this cavern?”
“You’ll need a clear head for what I’m going to tell you,” Dalan said. “There’s magic in it, yes, or at least a science you can’t understand. I slew that traitorous dog with a power we Druids have had for ages—a power over fire. And thus I slew Elf’s messenger.”
“The snake? Who is this—Elf?”
Dalan sent a somber glance toward Elak, whose face was grim and cold. He asked, “This man—does he know nothing? Have you told him of Cyrena?”
Elak shook his head. “Tell him, Dalan.”
“Cyrena? The northernmost kingdom of Atlantis?” Lycon asked. “I know Orander rules it, but that’s all.”
“A dozen years ago Norian ruled Cyrena,” the Druid said. “He had two stepsons, Orander and Zeulas. Zeulas killed him.”
Elak moved uneasily.
“Zeulas killed him,” Dalan repeated, “in fair fight, and both men had provocation. Because of this, Zeulas, though he was the elder, did not assume the crown. He left Cyrena to wander, a homeless vagabond, through Atlantis.”
Lycon turned to stare at Elak. “By Ishtar! You don’t mean——”
“He is Zeulas,” the Druid said. “His brother, Orander, rules over Cyrena. Or—did rule.”
“The Vikings?” Elak asked.
“Yes. They’ve invaded the land, with the aid of Elf the warlock. Elf has always hated your brother, who would never give him the freedom he wanted for his black sorcery and human sacrifice. So Elf made a pact with the Northmen to destroy Orander, in exchange for power and for the victims he needs for his necromancy.”
“Did he—” Elak did not finish, but a cold fire blazed in his eyes.
“He couldn’t kill Orander; my magic was too strong for that. But he has taken him captive and left the armies of Cyrena without a head. So the chiefs argue and battle among themselves, and the Vikings slay them at leisure.”
Lycon was nearly sober now. A smoking oath came from his throat. “Your kingdom, Elak? This is your kingdom? And the Northmen and this stinking wizard rule it? Dalan”—he stood erect, teetering a little—“we head north tomorrow—tonight! I’ll slit this Elf’s throat like a pig’s.”
Elak pulled him down. “Wait a moment. Dalan—you want me to return to Cyrena? To lead the armies against the Vikings?”
The Druid nodded. “That’s why I’m here. Elf caught me unawares, and he has your brother captive. But if you’ll come north, you’ll give Cyrena the leader it needs. My magic will aid you.”
“To free Orander?”
“Yes. And to destroy Elf, to drive out the Northmen!” The toad face grew hideous with rage. “They desecrate the Druid altars, crucify our priests! They worship Loki and Thor and Odin, devils of the blackest abyss—and they worship Elf’s evil gods, as well. By Mider!” Dalan’s hand moved in a strange quick gesture as he named the Druids’ greatest deity. “You’ll come—you must come, Zeulas—Elak—whatever you name yourself now!”
Elak stood up. “Yes, I’ll come. I’d sworn never to enter Cyrena again, but this is a different thing.”
“And I’ll go with you,” Lycon put in. “You’ll need a strong sword in the forests. It’s a far distance to Cyrena.”
“Good!” Dalan’s great hands swept down, gripped Lycon’s shoulders. “You have courage—and you’ll need it. But we’ll not go through the forests. Look.”
He bent to scrawl, with a bit of charcoal, a rough map on the table’s top. “Here we are at Poseidonia. We go inland thirty miles to the Central Lake, where I’ve a ship waiting. Then north, down the river through the heart of Atlantis, into the Inland Sea that touches Cyrena. We’ll go with the current, and my oarsmen are strong.”
“And
we start—” Lycon’s face was eager.
“Tomorrow, at dawn. You’ll stay here with me tonight.”
ELAK hesitated. “Dalan, we may not return. And I promised—well, there’s a girl I’ll have to see tonight.”
“Velia?” Lycon asked. “Duke Granicor’s wife? I should think you’d had enough of her by now. And, by the way, what kept you tonight?”
“Her kisses,” Elak said frankly. “I told her I’d see her before leaving Poseidonia.”
Dalan grunted, “The guards——”
“I can evade them.”
“What about the man I killed in the tavern tonight—and Elf’s messenger? I tell you, Zeulas—or Elak—Elf fears you. He knows I came to Poseidonia to bring you north to fight him, and he knows, too, that if you’re dead, the Vikings will sweep unopposed over Cyrena. He has servants besides the Northmen—renegades, traitors!”
“I see Velia tonight,” Elak said stubbornly. He turned toward the door.
“Wait.” Dalan’s huge hand spun him about. “There’s no need to take unnecessary risk. We’ll leave tonight—and, on the way, you can stop for a kiss or two with this wench. But you’re a fool to do it.”
“It isn’t the first time women have made a fool of Elak,” Lycon said, grinning. “But Dalan’s right. We’d better leave Poseidonia now. I’ll feel safer in the forest.”
Elak shrugged and waited while the Druid hastily erased the map from the table. That done, the three cautiously let themselves out into the moonlit alley . . .
THE palace of Duke Granicor shone whitely, towering on a hillock above Poseidonia. To the southeast the ocean swept out to a dim horizon. In the other direction was the forest, dark, menacing. In the shadow of a gate Lycon and Dalan waited while Elak dexterously mounted the wall. He moved quietly through the perfumed blossoms of the garden till he reached the trellis beneath Velia’s window.
He had climbed it often before, and it gave no trouble now. The girl came upon the balcony as he softly called her name. He was briefly silent, studying her golden beauty in the moonlight.
Her transparent robe concealed little; she seemed like an amber statue draped in gauze. Bronze hair fell disheveled about an oval, elfin face; amber eyes were upturned questioningly to Elak’s. Without a word he drew close.
“I’m leaving Poseidonia,” he said after a time. “I may not see you again for a while.”
She clung to him. “Elak, I wish—I’ll go with you!”
“No. You——”
“I will! I can’t stand it here with Granicor. He’s a beast, Elak—a devil. You know how he bought me from my father—I’m little better than a slave to him. I—I’d have killed myself if I hadn’t met you.”
“Don’t be a fool,” Elak said gruffly. “You’ll get used to him in time. Though, by Ishtar, his face is enough to frighten babies! Well——”
“You’re frank, at least, vagabond,” a new voice growled. “And you’ll be franker on the rack, with this harlot beside you!”
Elak released the girl and swung about quickly to face the man who came on to the balcony from the shadows. Duke Granicor was smiling, baring stained, discolored teeth through a gray-shot beard. In his silks and velvets he looked incongruously bedecked, a huge ape masquerading in borrowed finery. Bloodshot small eyes glared at Elak from little pits of gristle.
“You skulking dog!” Duke Granicor roared, lifting a dagger. “Your face’ll frighten soldiers when I’m through with you!”
From the garden below came the clash of armor and the swift thud-thud of racing feet.
3. Through the Black Forest
ELAK had no time to draw his rapier before Granicor was upon him. He twisted lithely beneath the dagger’s blow, felt the blade tear and scrape along his ribs. Then he closed with his opponent, grimly silent.
Granicor’s arm rose up, blade red and dripping, but before it could descend Velia had gripped it. Before the duke could wrench his weapon free the girl had bent swiftly, set her teeth in hairy flesh. Granicor roared an oath; but the dagger dropped, went clattering over the rail to the garden below.
Someone was climbing the trellis. Elak dropped swiftly beneath Granicor’s encircling arms, and his own sinewy arms went about the duke’s knees, gripping them tightly. With one swift movement he hurled himself up and back, sent his opponent crashing over the marble balustrade, hurtling down into the shadows. A yell of alarm and a scrambling in the foliage, ending in a smashing thud, told of a guard wrenched from his perch by Granicor’s descending body.
Elak seized Velia’s hand. “Come on,” he snapped, and dragged her from the balcony within the room. A glance told him that there were no enemies here. Apparently the duke had been alone, save for his cohorts in the garden.
Now Velia took the lead. “I know the palace,” she said swiftly. “There’s a door Granicor may have overlooked. If there’s no guard——”
They sped along dimly lit halls draped with tapestries and rugs of somber magnificence. Faintly there came to Elak’s ears the sound of men’s voices shouting. Into a narrow hall—down a steep winding staircase . . .
Elak gripped a heavy iron door, flung it open. Someone rose up before him, startled and menacing; armor glinted in the moonlight. But the slim rapier sheathed itself in flesh, and blood spurted from a pierced throat as the guard sank down groaning. They hurdled his body and raced into the garden.
Blades shimmered frostily; shadows closed in on them. Elak saw Granicor, his face blood-smeared and horrible, one arm dangling uselessly, bellowing commands to his men. But surprise was in their favor, and they made the gate safely.
To their surprise it was open. Elak pushed the girl through and turned to find the pack yelling at his heels.
Huge hands gripped him; he was drawn through the gateway. Metal clanged. The gross figure of the Druid stood briefly between him and the soldiers. Then, without warning, a tongue of fire licked up from the ground. It spread and lifted, filling the gateway with its red blaze. Dalan turned.
“That will stop them,” he grunted, “for a time, anyway. Hurry!”
Lycon came out of the shadows, and the four raced into the dimness, seeking shelter in a nearby grove of trees before Granicor remembered to use arrows. As they came panting among the shielding trunks a menacing roar came from the palace, and a rout of men, armor glittering, came pouring down the hill.
“More than one gate,” Elak muttered. “Well, shall we fight—or run?”
“Run,” Lycon advised. “I’ll stay here and hold them, for a while, at least. You can——”
The Druid whispered, “Come. I know the forests. Follow me—and they’ll never find us. You too, Lycon.”
VELIA’S hand was warm in Elak’s as they silently trailed Dalan. Like a shadow for all his gross bulk the Druid slipped from tree to tree, taking advantage of every bush and shrub, till at last the noise of pursuit died in the distance. Only then did he pause to wipe the sweat from his ugly face.
“No enemy can find a Druid in the forests,” he informed the others. “If necessary, our magic can send the trees marching against those who follow.”
Elak grunted skeptically. “Well, I’ve let us in for something now. Velia’s coming with us. I’m not going to leave her here to be skinned alive by Granicor.”
She pressed closer to him, and Elak’s arm went about her warm slimness.
“It’s no hardship,” Lycon said, glancing slyly at the girl. “And my sword is yours to command.”
Velia thanked him with a glance, and the little man expanded visibly. Elak’s expression was none too cordial.
“Let’s get started,” he said. “We’ve a long march to the Central Lake and your ship, Dalan.”
The Druid nodded and took the lead. They set out through the moonlit forest . . .
Presently the moon sank, but Dalan guided them unerringly, even in the vague starlight, where they would have been separated had they not joined hands. Weird noises came out of the night; the shrill calling of birds and t
he rustle of underbrush. Once the ground shook beneath the tread of some giant beast that lumbered past unseen in the gloom. And once Elak spitted with his rapier a spider as large as his hand, which squirted venom a dozen feet as it writhed and died.
As dawn came they reached the Central Lake, a chill blue expanse whose depths had never been plumbed. Zones of sapphire and aquamarine and deeper blue lay across its surface. Floating at anchor not far away was a long galley, sails furled, waiting.
Sand crunched beneath their sandaled feet as the four hurried to the water’s edge. Dalan made a speaking-tube of his hands and bellowed lustily till a small boat left the galley, heading shoreward.
“That’s done, at least,” Lycon said with satisfaction. “My poor feet!”
He sat down and rubbed them tenderly. His own sandals had gone to protect Velia’s feet, but the girl’s flimsy night robe had been ripped to shreds by thorns and branches. She kicked off the sandals, slipped out of her garment, and ran into the lake, laughing with pleasure as the cool water caressed her aching muscles.
Lycon eyed her enviously. “I’d join her if I had time,” he observed. “Well, a few buckets of water will do the trick on deck. Here’s the boat.”
Two oarsmen rowed it; Dalan greeted them and quickly clambered aboard, his brown robe fluttering in the breeze. The others joined him; Lycon and Elak and Velia, who, after a few abortive attempts to adjust her robe, gave up the effort and made it into a brief kirtle.
“You may swim along the shore,” the Druid warned her, “but not out where the waters are deeper. This lake goes down to hell itself, I think, and there are devils below its surface.”
Lycon stared curiously around, apparently disappointed because no devils appeared. Then he fell to polishing his sword . . .
In the galley’s pit men lounged on benches: brawny, half-naked oarsmen, not slaves, for they were not shackled to the benches. Dalan shouted an order as he climbed on board. Men scrambled to obey, settling in disciplined order, gripping their oars. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a golden collar mounted a platform. He gestured, cried a command.
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