Mad Moon of Dreams

by Brian Lumley

  Strangely enough, the gaunts seemed similarly alerted and showed an urgency all their own. Sniffer and Biffer, however, before commencing their powder-ferrying tasks with the rest of the grim, shuffled down into Gnorri’s hold and returned with Hero’s curved Kledan sword and Eldin’s straighter blade, handing (pawing?) them to the questers in a sort of solemn but almost tangibly sarcastic silence. Just how they managed to express their disdain without the facility of facial expression or scathing words would be difficult to say, and yet both Hero and Eldin did feel a peculiar embarrassment.

  “I had forgotten about your swords,” Gytherik now explained. “The gaunts picked them up from the spot where we were tossed overboard from the deck of Shantak. They went off on their own to recover them while Limnar and I were placing the powder charges below the old sea-wall.”

  “Like a dog when you throw a stick for him, eh?” Eldin hopefully grinned.

  “No,” replied Gytherik in a very dry tone, “I think not. More like a patient valet whose senile master keeps forgetting his trousers!”

  By this time Gnorri’s crew had done what they could to ready her for battle, likewise the crews of the other ships, and all that remained was to watch and wait for the gaunts to finish with their transporting of powder barrels. This, too, was rapidly accomplished; and now the seven-strong flotilla slowly spiralled down out of a black, gold-streaked sky toward the surface of the moon.

  Ruins which from afar had merged with the mountains now became visible, dead temples to defunct and forgotten deities; and on the shores of oily oceans stood cities of thickly-clustered, leaning gray towers, windowless and inherent with a nameless menace other than that of their obvious and ugly alienage. The spiralling moonbeam path straightened out and was soon seen to be drawing the ships down toward a mighty crater of at least a mile in diameter and completely conjectural depth, whose throat occasionally belched rings of orange smoke or vapor and about which the Lengite armada sailed in a huge circle, keeping a healthy distance from the menacing rim.

  “That great hole,” observed Eldin, “seems more a gigantic tunnel in the moon than a crater in the proper sense.”

  “Mnomquah’s lair,” opined Hero with a grimace. “A vast burrow indeed. And somewhere in the middle, the blind beast himself—all horrid, hateful and hungry!”

  CHAPTER II

  Strange Alliance

  Some three miles over the mouth of the great moon-shaft, the flotilla recommenced its weird rotation; and despite maximum use of flotation engines, the seven ships began to be drawn inexorably down out of the lunar sky. As they corkscrewed ever lower the cannons were loaded with powder and balls, the crews took up weapons and readied themselves to adopt defensive position, and all was put in order for the battle which seemed about to break.

  Limnar Dass, however, ever the sky-Captain, was sorely puzzled. Granted, the enemy had an overwhelming majority—they had freedom of movement, too, for it could be seen that their sails were filled and that they navigated quite normally outside the spiral whorl—but should these advantages make them so contemptuous of the flotilla’s firepower? For the ships of the Lengite fleet did not seem to be taking up battle positions at all but were merely milling about like a crowd of excited spectators!

  Only one small group of enemy vessels seemed to display any real purpose at all, and these hemmed in an even smaller nucleus of ships—three in number—which tacked to and fro as if seeking an exit through the cordon. Seeing all this from on high, from a vantage point no sky-Captain could possibly resist, Limnar put his glass to his eye and scanned the scene more minutely. What he saw then caused him to beckon both Hero and Eldin to his side.

  “Those three ships down there are Shantak, Shroud and Chrysalis,” he informed, “and it looks like their master—or mistresses, as the case may be—have finally come to their senses. They appear to be trying to make a break for it!”

  “Huh!” the Wanderer callously grunted. “Well, good luck to them.”

  “We, too, have had our eyes on that lot,” said Hero, indicating the milling fleet far below. “Frankly, we don’t give a hoot for the problems of Zura, Lathi and the Isharrans—but there’s something decidedly wrong with the rest of this set-up.”

  “So you’ve noticed it too, eh?” Limnar raised his eyebrows. “Well, say on. Let’s see if we’ve arrived at the same conclusion.”

  “The way we see it,” Eldin took it upon himself to explain, “is that these Lengites are either damned poor sailors and strategists, or else they’re plain stupid. Just look at ’em down there. They’ve not bothered to make ready for battle at all. Their formation—if you can call it a formation—is a total mess!”

  “Seems to us,” Hero now put it in a nutshell, “that they’re merely jostling for a ringside seat!”

  “My own conclusion exactly,” Limnar grimly nodded. “They’re not here to fight, simply as spectators. They’re so sure we’re doomed that they’re just going to sit there and watch us go plummeting into that hole—like so many leaves swilled down a gutter.”

  Suddenly Hero, whose eyes were still taking in the scene below, gave a start and leaned farther over the rail. He pointed excitedly downward. “Look there! Yon cordon’s left a gap and our black-hearted friends from the dreamlands are making a run for it!”

  Limnar again put his glass to his eye, said: “Fools! They’re being shepherded into the spiral, fed directly into Mnomquah’s maw!”

  “Aye, and they’ve twigged it,” cried Eldin. “See how they turn and fight!”

  Shantak and Shroud—and Lathi’s paper ship Chrysalis, too—all had turned back from the moonbeam whorl to fire massive broadsides at the harrying horned ones. One Lengite ship was severely stricken, losing all of her canvas and much of her superstructure in the first withering fusillade; and a second vessel literally blew to bits in the sky as a lucky shot found her magazine. And despite the fact that the three fugitive ships had been mortal enemies, still Gnorri’s crew gave a cheer at the sight of the closest Lengite vessels turning tail. Any glee was short-lived, however, for more enemy ships were soon on the scene. Slowly but surely the three at bay were forced into the outer edge of the shimmering spiral.

  By now the flotilla’s altitude was much decreased, and it could be seen that the seven ships must soon sink down to the level of the three refugees as they were drawn deeper into the whorl. The Lengites on the other hand were now drawing well back, beyond the range of the flotilla’s cannon, content to let the spiral moonbeam complete its work. And as the whorl tightened so its speed increased, drawing all ten ships closer together like bits of flotsam in a whirlpool, until all rotated within hailing distance of one another.

  Finding Zura’s Shroud suddenly alongside and seeing the zombie princess herself defiant on the bridge, Hero called out: “How now, Zura? Are you beginning to regret your alliance with the moonbeasts? You’ve seen their cities, how alien they are, and you’ve surely learned the bitter lesson of any contract made with them. Why, they almost make your zombies seem wholesome by comparison!”

  “Ever the witty one, aren’t you, David Hero?” she called back. “But I have to admit, it seems you’re right. Shall we call a truce and fight side by side?”

  “Aye, if it suits you,” he answered, “though I can only see us going down to hell together!”

  At the stern of the ship Eldin made similar overtures toward Lathi, whose lovely face showed pale and outraged from her cabin’s window. “What’s it to be, Lathi?” he roared across to her. “Are you with us now that you’ve seen Thalarion destroyed a second time?”

  “You burned my hive city to survive,” she shouted back. “Mnomquah acted out of greed, deceit and treachery! I am with you, quester—for now.”

  Farther afield, Shantak’s rigging was decorated with dangling corpses. Most of them were horned ones, but two … they wore the apparel of the Dukes of Isharra, their silk-clad necks in nooses where they hung. “No need to ask whose side the Isharrans are on,” said Limnar D
ass to Gytherik. “The crew has mutinied—and it seems their masters remained madmen to the bitter end. Well, there are damned few of them, and they’re poor sailors at that, but any port in a storm …”

  And tighter the whorl drew the ten ships as their plunge became steeper and the mouth of Mnomquah’s lair loomed up from below. Now they were within the shaft’s jagged rim and level with the bulk of the Lengite fleet, and now they began to descend into darkness … Which was when Hero gave a great yell and cried:

  “Well, lads, what are we waiting for? We know who is reeling us in like a prize catch, don’t we? We know who waits at the bottom of this damned pit! Come on, Gytherik, lad, wake up! Don’t you see? If gunpowder can crack a great sea-wall, shouldn’t it also be able to give old Mnomquah a knock?—Enough of a headache, perhaps, that he’ll shut off this damned beam of his?”

  As if to emphasize Hero’s words (which really required no emphasis at all, since the funnel of the pit picked up his voice and magnified it ringingly, so that all aboard all ten ships heard it simultaneously) a great orange smoke-ring came rushing up from below to escape into the light even as the flotilla spun down into subterranean night. And still the echoes of Hero’s cry rang from the walls of that mighty stone throat.

  Then—

  A sudden stir of purposeful movement in the gloom! A flaring of ships’ lamps! The slamming of hatches thrown back and the rumble of rolling barrels! And above all Limnar Dass in command, controlling all, hurling out instructions, his voice utterly nerveless, steady as the moon-rock through which the flotilla now descended.

  “Hear me all Captains,” he cried. “Use only half your powder made up into two equal lots. And to be on the safe side, two fuses to each lot. Long fuses, I think, to burn for at least a minute. First lots not to be dropped until I give the signal, second lots to be released automatically as soon as the first detonations are heard. And lads, they’ll be loud bangs to be sure, so stuff your ears good and tight! Let’s give this moon-God more than he bargained for, eh?”

  He paused and breathed deeply of tunnel air, thought for a moment and listened to the sounds of urgent preparation in the gloom. For even down here the light was not wholly extinct. The atmosphere of the great shaft seemed sprinkled with luminous gold dust—yellow motes that streamed upwards and reflected the light of the lamps—Mnomquah’s beam exerting its monstrous, irresistible magnetism.

  “And listen,” Limnar’s voice rang out again. “All you engineers stand by your engines. Let ’em go full rip! Fill your flotation bags to bursting point. And if all works out the way we plan—well, you cannoneers will get a crack at the enemy yet! Now work, lads, work—and let’s hear you yell when your bombs are ready, right?”

  Minutes passed and the temperature mounted, and not merely as a result of the energy burned in frantic toiling. For as the ships of the flotilla descended toward the moon’s core, a monstrous heat and the very fetors of hell rose up to meet them, telling their crews that time was now limited.

  Sweating in the weak light of the deck lamps (for they dare not strike fire to unshielded torches), Hero and Eldin worked alongside Gnorri’s regular crew, their bodies naked from the waist up and gleaming as if oiled. Now the kegs of powder were shaped into makeshift canvas bundles with fuses protruding, and sections of the ship’s rail were removed to ensure safe and easy ejection. Then—

  “Starspur—ready!” came a cry from somewhere to port.

  And, “Skyhaze—ready!” from starboard.

  And, “Shroud—ready!” (A female voice, this time, and one Hero had never thought to hear with such relish!)

  “Skipcloud, ready!” As the echoes of one cry died away another took its place, until at last all that remained was an eerie silence. A silence broken only by the sounds of creaking rigging and the whoosh of an occasional smoke-ring as it rushed up, encircled, and rushed on—

  —A silence out of which Limnar’s words now fell like hammer blows on the ears of all who heard him: “First powder-bombs … ready!” he gave the signal. “Light fuses

  … now!” And finally, “Bombs awaaayyy!”

  In the dim light, angular black masses were seen to fall from the sides of the ships—appallingly slowly, it seemed—tumbling into the abyss and trailing sparks behind them. Then, seconds passed like hours while scores of hearts jumped and fluttered. Aboard Gnorri, Eldin closed his eyes, caught Hero’s arm in a steely grip and began to whisper:

  “Forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty!”

  With Hero taking up the beat: “Fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three, fifty-four—”

  And Gytherik’s youthful voice, beginning to show a few cracks now: “Fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty-seven—”

  Limnar, “Fifty-eight—”

  Eldin again, “Fifty-nine—”

  Hero, “Sixty!”

  And a pause, until … “Sixty, damn it!” Hero hoarsely repeated himself, making his words a command.

  And as if in response to that command—

  From somewhere far below a dull boom sounded, blossoming into a fully-fledged roar as the first bomb exploded. And upon that instant, triggered by the blast, a ragged but concerted shout of approval rang out from the crews of the ten ships (excluding Zura’s crew who could not shout, and Lathi’s who did not understand) and the second stick of bombs went whistling down to unknown depths.

  More explosions sounded, and one stupendous blast as several bombs detonated together in a chain reaction—and then the ships were reeling in a sulphurous, tearing wind from below, where a great expanding fireball lit up the bowels of the shaft as it rose menacingly toward them.

  Deafened, blasted and half-blinded, the crews of the ten ships hung on for dear life in the maelstrom of mad, scorching winds and reeking odors which then engulfed them. But below decks the engineers stood to their engines, and on the bridges the Captains were there with whiplash commands, words of encouragement and praise; so that not a man knew panic where none was necessary. And again that ragged cheer, but louder now, as the moonbeam whorl blinked out—as the ships gave one last, simultaneous lurch—as the crews felt an unaccustomed surplus of weight beneath their staggering feet.

  The flotilla was ascending!

  Ascending, yes! Borne up by powerfully pulsating flotation engines, lifted on gunpowder thermals, tossed aloft by fire and thunder and all the stenches of hell—ascending to a battle whose echoes would live in dreamland’s legends for all time to come!

  CHAPTER III

  Battle at the Moon-pit

  To the horned-one Captains of the many vessels which swarmed at a low altitude about the moon-pit’s rim, it must have seemed that Mnomquah had taken his prey and that he now enjoyed the feast greatly. Certainly he was making enough noise about it, as the subterranean booms and belchings erupting from below clearly showed. Indeed, there had never been such sounds from the moon-God’s lair before, not even on those occasions when he had drawn entire towns full of souls down into the black depths.

  Of course, there were those several individuals among the prey this time whose activities had caused the darkside powers a great deal of dismay—and Mnomquah himself great rage and frustration—so perhaps it was only natural that he should now vent his full fury upon them. How the oily waters of the Black Lake of Ubboth, the moon-God’s sanctuary and former prison at moon’s heart, must boil and froth now! And with these delightful thoughts in mind the almost-human Captains crowded their ships closer to the crater’s rim, perhaps hoping for some sign or other proof positive from their blind and monstrous Master of Masters that their suppositions were well-founded.

  A sign? If that was what they desired then they would soon be satisfied beyond their wildest expectations, but not with any sign of Mnomquah’s planning.

  On the contrary. For following close on the heels of a gushing emission of black smoke and sooty vapor, which acted as a smoke screen for the rapidly ascending flotilla, the bemused Lengite fleet suddenly found itself confronted with the damnede
st and most unbelievable thing. Namely the ten “doomed” ships, most of them scorched and blackened—especially Chrysalis, who even smoldered a little—but airworthy as ever and, now that Mnomquah’s moonbeam whorl was no longer in evidence, marvelously maneuverable.

  And now, knowing that their powder was limited, the gunners of the ten ships seemed possessed of an uncanny accuracy as they began to pound away at close quarters, ravaging those enemy vessels whose Captains had allowed them to stray too close to the rim. Dumbfounded, the Lengites stood in the sky over that hideous gray and yellow moonscape and shook with the savagery of the flotilla’s roaring cannons.

  Those Lengites well away from the center of activity recovered first, but were unable to return fire in fear of hitting their already reeling and embattled comrades in the forward ranks. And as Limnar’s little fleet sailed the circle, so her gunners crashed home shot after telling shot mercilessly into the now hopelessly confused and stampeding mass of enemy vessels. For this was what the flotilla’s Captains and crews had been waiting for: something tangible at last, real targets upon which to wreak vengeance for all the atrocities perpetrated against their fellow citizens in the land of Earth’s dreams.

  Skipcloud’s cannons boomed fire and smoke … and in another moment a panicked Lengite ship lost her bridge and aft superstructure before blowing herself to bits as a shot found her magazine. Starspur blew away a black vessel’s keel and substructure amidships, her flotation engines, too, so that in the space of a few seconds she began to teeter, then slide, then plummet from the sky amidst clouds of roiling green gas. And from all about the sky above Mnomquah’s crater, bits of debris rained slowly down; shattered planking and tangles of rope and canvas falling alongside the squat bodies of silenced horned ones, and many who were not yet silent. So that to any observer-and there were observers—it must seem that despite the utterly overwhelming odds, if the Lengites did not soon pull themselves together, Limnar’s flotilla must surely win the day.