Titus Crow, Volume 3: In the Moons of Borea, Elysia

by Brian Lumley

  ELYSIA - THE COMING OF CTHULHU!

  For W. Paul Granley, who wasthere at the christening .. .

  PART ONE : FAR LANDS, STRANGE BEINGS

  1 Borea

  Kota'na, Red Indian straight out of America's Old West -Kota'na, Keeper of the Bears watched Moreen at play with a pair of cubs each bigger than herself and shook, his head in admiration and amazement. The mother of the bears, huge Tookis, almost ten feet in height when she was upright, grunted and pawed the floor of the exercise cavern where she stood beside her master. Her mate was Morda, Kota'na's favourite among all the fighting bears, but Morda was not here. No, for he was out hunting with a pack of his brothers and their keepers, butchering food-beasts around the foot of the plateau for the larders of its tribes.

  But the way this girl played with these cubs -- without fear, laughing and biting their ears, and slapping their noses where they tumbled her and them retaliating with howls and clumsy bounds. like puppies, but never going to strike her! Striking each other, certainly, with mighty, resounding, bone-breaking clouts; but not the girl, never the girl. And mighty Tookis, the mother of the cubs - the way she seemed to enjoy all of this, snorting her encouragement and thumping the floor but if anyone else had dared to try it, maybe even Kota'na himself ... well, good luck to him!

  And at last Moreen had had enough. Laughing and panting she struggled free of the boisterous mounds of snowy fur which were Tookis' cubs, then leaned against the wall of the cavern to catch her breath. `They're too much for me!' she panted and laughed, shaking back her shoulder-length, golden hair. 'Why, I'd bet they're even too much for their own mother! Eh, Tookis?' And she flung an arm round the great bear's neck.

  Tookis thought otherwise. With a low growl she shook Moreen off, shambled forward into the fray, raised a cloud of dust where she merged with the cubs; until their massed, tussling, rumbling bulk resembled nothing so much as a small white unevenly mobile mountain. Kota'na grinned and let the play of these giant descendants of Polar bears continue for a moment or two, then stopped it with a single word. Until now the animals had been completely free, harmless in the presence of their master, but Kota'na dared not leave them alone like that. The cubs were at that curious age and would explore if they could; it would never do to have them wandering free through the many levels and labyrinths of the plateau, with mighty Tookis shambling along behind them! And so now he chained all three by their collars to the wall, on tethers long enough they might continue their game, then stepped back and let them get on with it.

  `There,' he said, as the snarling, slavering and tumbling recommenced, in a very convincing imitation of the real thing, let them weary themselves with play. It's the best exercise I know. And while they play, will you not sit with me on the 'high balcony there, and look out over Bores while we talk?'

  Moreen had her breath back; she stood up straight, all sixty-four inches of her, and dusted herself down. Then she gazed up in open admiration at the tall, bronzed Indian brave. He wore his shiny black hair in pigtails that fell forward to the ridges of his collarbones, and his naked arms and deep chest were marked with the unfaded scars of many a battle. For Kota'na was a great hero of the plateau's wars with Ithaqua's wolf-warriors and his Children of the Winds, and his deeds were already legended as the deeds of any mere man may be. Now he kept the bears for Hank Silberhutte, the plateau's Warlord; but more than that he was Silberhutte's friend: the highest honour to which any man of the plateau might ever aspire.

  [NOTE to this ebook: the paper original from which this ebook was derived was owned by a rare and accomplished Adept and Ipsissimus. He had turned down this page in the book, for use in future reference to this part of the book, of special relevance to him regarding the CCD.]

  And as Moreen regarded him, so Kota'na's keen brown eyes stared back in mutual appreciation. De Marigny, man (or possibly magician) of the Motherworld, had got himself a fine woman here. She should bear him many strong sons.

  The girl was lithe and supple as a withe, with wide, bright blue eyes and skin like the pale honey of wild bees. She had about her an aura, a warmth she wore like some fine ;fur; which had only ever been torn aside by Ithaqua, black stalker between the stars. Now, in her brown jacket and -trousers of soft leather, she seemed almost boyish, and yet fragile for all that. But her unaffected grace and loveliness, and her youthful litheness, were perhaps set off by a not-quite innocence; for Moreen had seen the Wind-Walker at his worst, and no one could remain wholly innocent after that.

  To have seen Ithaqua raging - to be witness to his mindless slaughters - was to have the innocence mercilessly ripped from you. And yet she had come through all of that, had succeeded against all odds to be one with The Searcher, Henri-Laurent de Marigny. Aye, mortal and fragile as all human beings are, nevertheless Moreen bore a strength in her and a power; she was a free creature of Nature, and could commune with all creatures of Nature wherever she found them. This was her power, and thus her seeming familiarity with Tookis and her cubs.

  As to Kota'na's invitation: 'Very well,' she said. `But what shall we talk about?- and please don't ask me to tell you again about Numinos, or of our adventures in the ice-caves on Dromos. That was a very frightening time and I would like to forget it ...' And for a moment, anyway, the laughter went out of her wide eyes.

  It was mid-morning on Borea, and the day was still and uncommonly bright. But 'bright' is hardly the right word, for Borea has no real daylight as such; it is a world which dwells in a permanent half-light, certainly in its northern regions. And that was where the plateau's vast hive of alveolate rock stood: in Borea's northland. There it towered, mighty outcrop thrust up in ages past, flat-roofed and sheer-sided, the last redoubt of Borea's free peoples against Ithaqua and his Children of the Winds.

  The balcony Kota'na had mentioned lay through an archway in the wall of the great bears' exercise cavern, cut through where the cavern's wall came closest to the plateau's face. One of many such observation points, it was a wide ledge where benches bad been carved from the solid rock; and beyond - only a chest-high wall separated Moreen and Kota'na from empty air and a sheer face that fell for well over a hundred feet to the icy, scree-littered foot of the plateau.

  It was cold there, where the occasional draught of frigid air would come gusting in from the northern plains; and so Moreen kept on the move while they talked, hurrying to and fro on the precipitous balcony and only pausing now and then to peer out and down at some freshly discovered feature spied on the gentling snow-slopes far below. Kota'na, on the other hand, impervious to the cold, as were most of the people of the plateau, simply stood stern-faced, his arms folded on his breast.

  `No,' he said after a moment, `I will not ask about the moons of Borea: Numinos, where you were born, or Dromos, where the Lord Sil-ber-hut-te and you others destroyed the ice-priests. I have remembered it well from your other tellings, and from what the Warlord himself has told me. It is a tale I shall pass down to my children, when they are old enough to understand it; and when Oontawa their mother is old, and when I am a wrinkled, leathery Elder, then our children will tell it to theirs. That is the way of legends; it is how they live. No, this time I would know of the places you have seen since last you were here, and what brings you back here? And if it is not impertinent of me - for I know your man is a wizard, whose ways are hard to understand - I wish you would also say what ails him? Doubtless it is a pain I cannot ease, but if I could -

  Impulsively, Moreen stood on tiptoe and hugged the tall Indian's neck. `No wonder Hank Silberhutte loves you!' she burst out. `And Oontawa and the great bears and your people, too. That stern look you wear can't fool m
e, Kota'na; it is a mask. You and your legends and tales of derring-do. You're a romantic, that's all! You'd take the entire weight of the plateau itself on your own shoulders, if you could. The way you talk about Hank, as if he were a god! He's a man of the Motherworld. But how can I blame you when he is exactly the same? You should hear him, sometimes, when he talks about how you killed the traitor Northan - and then would not give up his head until Hank had seen it and forgiven you for stealing his glory?'

  Kota'na held her at arm's length and raised an eyebrow at her impetuosity; but she could tell that he was pleased. He very nearly smiled. `The Lord Sil-ber-hut-te ... says these things?'

  `What? Of course he does! He can't talk about his "bear-brother" without puffing himself up first. You men!' Then she stepped back a little, hugged herself and shivered. And: `Come on, let's walk in the plateau,' she said; and in a moment her voice was serious again.

  Back under the arch and into the exercise cavern they went, where Tookis and her cubs were sprawled, panting, for the moment spent. Kota'na stopped and spoke briefly to a young Eskimo keeper, told him to tend the bears, and then he and Moreen passed on into the plateau's labyrinth. As they went, she said:

  `You ask what ails Henri. Well, I'll tell you. Except, believe me, he is not a wizard. His time-clock is a wizard's device, or would seem to be, I'll grant you; and its previous owner, now perhaps he really was a wizard! - or so I'd judge from what Henri says of him. But not de Marigny. He's just a man, albeit a very wonderful man, and I love him. And you're right, he is unhappy. Which is a hard thing to understand, I know. Through the time-clock he has all space and time at his command; they are his to explore endlessly. And yet — '

  `Yes?'

  She shrugged, and now Kota'na could see that Moreen, too, was unhappy. Because of her man's unhappiness. 'The one thing he most desires,' she finally continued, `it is forbidden to him. The one place he would find, that remains hidden. The one voice he would hear, even across kalpas of space and time, stands silent. Indeed, the entire universe seems indifferent to his endless searching, even heedless of it. Do you know, but Henri is known as The Searcher now, on a hundred strange worlds? What ails him? It is this: someone once showed him a bright jewel place, where miracles are frequent and the impossible is commonplace a place beyond imagining, called Elysia and said to be the home of the gods --- and all Henri finds are balls of mud and rock twirling endlessly about their heart-suns. Worlds countless as grains of sand — and to him just as tasteless. Ah! — I will tell you, Kota'na — but we have seen wonderful worlds in the three years you say have elapsed since first we left here in the time-clock. Huge worlds of ocean, teeming with islands of turquoise and rose and agate; mountain worlds where cities stand in the clouds atop the highest peaks; forest worlds, where the air is laden with scents of a million orchids, and the nights lit with organic lanterns glowing in the beacon-trees. We found friends on these worlds you would not believe, because of their strangeness; and so many of them took us to their hearts. But no, the one friend Henri seeks has a machine for a heart!'

  `Huh!' grunted Kota'na. 'He would seem perverse, this man you love. And yet he cannot be, because you love him. Perhaps he is under the spell of a mightier wizard yet?'

  And at that Moreen had to laugh. 'Oh, he is, he is!' she said. `Or so Henri would have me believe, anyway. But remember, Kota'na: my fostermother, Annahilde, was a "true" witch-wife — and yet even her magic was only trickery. So you see, I don't really believe in magic, and neither must you. There are only strange people —people with weird and fantastic powers — but there is no magic. And that is a fact for Henri told me himself. No magic at all, but forces and powers and something called "science".' But as she finished speaking, and even though she continued to smile, still it seemed to Kota'na that the girl's eyes had clouded over a little.

  And in her heart:

  Magic? she thought. Perhaps there is after all. For certainly Henri is ensorcelled. By a place called Elysia, and by the visions of a man called Titus Crow...

  At that very moment, Hank Silberhutte, and Armandra, the Woman of the Winds, were having much the same conversation. They were in their cavern apartments near the very roof of the plateau, and there was a rare tension between them which had its source in Armandra's natural suspicions and preternatural senses, and in the Warlord's most unnatural predilection for adventure.

  They were telepathetically attunded, these two, but had an agreement their mental privacy was paramount. Only in their most intimate moments together, or in time of danger or matters of pressing urgency, did they mingle their minds. For they had long since discovered that it is not well for man and wife to live in each other's pockets nor constantly in each other's thoughts, literally! But now Armandra was tempted to look into her man's mind, and perhaps not surprisingly.

  The time-clock was back on Borea after an absence of three years, and with it an air of adventure. And that, thought Ithaqua's daughter, was Hank Silberhutte's trouble. It was what gave him restless nights, filled his head with thoughts of a Motherworld; Earth, else long forgotten, brought him dreams of quests and adventures out beyond the farthest stars.

  'Armandra,' the Warlord sighed now, pausing in his troubled striding to reach out and gently grasp her shoulders in his massive paws — the delicate-seeming shoulders of this incredible woman, human spawn of the vastly inhuman Wind-Walker — 'we've had all this before. Don't you remember the last time? And didn't you entertain just such doubts then? And what came of all your fears, eh?'

  As she gazed back steadily into his eyes, so his words brought memories:

  When last de Marigny was here and before, they had all four — Henri and Moreen, Hank and Armandra — gone out on their impossible, peril-fraught mission to the moons of Borea, she had had plenty of time to talk to de Marigny and get to know him. She had questioned him minutely in all aspects of his past and his wanderings in the time-clock, adventures of which the Warlord had already apprised her, but which she found more immediately thrilling when retold by de Marigny. And it had been perfectly obvious to the Woman of the Winds that never before had she met a man like this one. Even in the Motherworld he had been something of an anachronism, the perfect gentleman in a world where morals and all standards of common courtesy were continually falling, but here on Borea his like had been unknown.

  It had not required much effort on the handsome Earthman's part to convince her that his presence on Borea was purely accidental, that he had not deliberately sought out Hank Silberhutte in order to perform some fantastic interplanetary, hyperdimensional rescue! No, for he was on his way to Elysia, home of the Elder Gods, and only the tides of Fate had washed him ashore on Borea's chilly strand . .

  Armandra came back to the present. 'Oh, yes, I remember,' she said, unsmiling. And she tossed her long red tresses and flashed her oval green eyes. 'And I remember what followed. It finished on Dromos in the caves of the ice-priests, where you and Henri very nearly died and I almost became handmaiden to my monstrous father! As for poor Moreen, if that beast had had his way ...' She shuddered and left it unfinished.

  `But none of that happened,' the Warlord patiently reminded. 'Instead we taught Ithaqua a lesson. That was the second time he'd tried it on, and the second time we'd bruised his ego. And now he stands off, regards the plateau and its peoples with a little more respect, spends his time and energies in more profitable pursuits. In other words, the last time de Marigny visited here it worked to the good of the plateau. Remember, too, he saved my life, snatched me from Ithaqua's wolf-warriors — who without a doubt would have given me into the hands of their terrible master.'

  'He saved your life?' she flared up, and for the briefest moment a tinge of carmine flashed in her green eyes. 'And how often did you save his, at great risk? Oh, no, Lord Silberhutte,' (she only ever called him that when he was in the wrong), 'there's no debt between you there!'

  `He hasn't come back to collect on any debts, Armandra,' the Texan released her, turned away, clenche
d his great hands behind his back. 'He wants nothing of us except our hospitality. He's come back as he went a friend — come back to be with people, for however short a time — before he goes off again on this crazy quest of his. Next to Earth, which he put behind him the day he left it, we're the closest he's got to family. That's why he's come back: because this is, as near as he'll get to home. At least until he finds Titus Crow in Elysia. If he finds him!'

  Armandra stepped round in front of him. Draped in a deep-pile, white fur smock, still her figure was the answer to any man's dream, the body of an exceedingly beautiful woman. Almost unchanged from the first time Silberhutte had seen her nearly six years ago, Armandra was Complete Woman. Her long, full body was a wonder of half-seen, half-imagined curves growing out of the perfect pillars of her thighs; her neck, framed in the red, flowing silk of her hair, was long and slender, adorned with a large medallion of gold; her face was oval as her eyes and classically boned. With her straight nose, delicately rounded at its tip, and her Cupid's bow of a mouth, perfect in shape if perhaps a shade too ample, the Woman of the Winds was a beautiful picture of femininity. But where her flesh was pale as snow, those great eyes of hers were green as the boundless. northern oceans of Earth. Yes, and They were just as deep.

  That was Armandra. When she smiled it brought the sunlight into the Warlord's darkest hours, and when she frowned ... then the fiery hair of her head was wont to have an eerie life of its own, and her eyes might narrow and take on a warning tint other than ocean green: the carmine passed down to her from her inhuman father.

  She was frowning now, but not in anger. In fear, perhaps? Fear of losing this man of the Motherworld, this Warlord, this Texan whom she loved so desperately.

  `And what of you, Hank?' she asked at last. 'What of your home?' Her frown did not lighten, and Silberhutte knew what was coining next 'Do you, too, feel trapped here, marooned? You guard your thoughts well, my husband, but I would know the truth. The plateau must seem a very small place compared to what you've told -me of those mighty city-hives of the Motherworld. And now, with de Marigny returned him and his time-clock -'