by Brian Lumley
In the wake of the ships the settlement with its backdrop of cliffs quickly merged with the mist, and soon the three vessels passed out through the mouth of the fjord into the open sea. There, for all that the mist lay thick and menacing, the sails were unfurled and soon filled out as the dank, moisture-laden air swirled into them.
Finally, as they emerged seaward of the grey bank of fog, Harold roared a command from where he stood swaying in the prow. Echoing cries came back from the other ships; the pacemaker stopped his pounding; the sail belied out with the freshening breeze; and as the longships surged
forward into the gloom of Darkhour, so the oars were lifted up once more and stowed away.
The longships were now fully under sail, creaking through slapping wavelets toward unseen horizons. Overhead, a dull-glowing crescent of sun showed golden-red from behind Borea's shadowy bulk.
6 Wings in the Mist
They sailed out of one Darkhour toward the next, always holding the same course, three ships abreast under strange auroral skies. To the port side sailed the chief's ship with Thonjolf himself in command; to starboard his cousin Hanarl's dragon clove the wave crests. Pride of place, though, went to Harold's ship, for it was the craft that carried Ithaqua's emissaries and rode to sea flanked by the other two.
Only once, when the wind failed, did the Vikings unship their oars, and then briefly. For growing impatient, the Borean Warlord (a genuine high priest of the Wind-Walker in the eyes of most of the Vikings, though Harold and his closer colleagues obviously maintained certain reservations) saw fit to call up Armandra's familiar winds to fill the slack sails and drive the ships on. To witness again at firsthand the strange powers of these men from the skies, and this time to be completely sober, was galling for Harold and his cronies and astonishing to the crewmen; nevertheless, as time passed, proximity bred something of contempt among the crew of the longship.
True, the small-statured strangers seemed to command the very spirits of the air, and it certainly appeared that they carried the word of the Storm-God, but in the end they were only men. And so the bearded giants of the ship soon grew tired of peering wonderingly at the pair where they sat in the stern, and on occasion one or other of the Vikings would even venture so far as to ask of them a gruff question. For their part they always answered carefully and with a paucity of words so as not to demean their assumed standing.
Harold himself, exercising his trunklike legs by walking the wide central way that separated the oar banks, often strode close to the strangers. Whenever this happened, he would pause, legs braced and arms akimbo, scowling down at them. Invariably, though they returned his gaze blandly enough, de Marigny could sense the Warlord's desire to hurl himself at Harold's throat. Silberhutte's experiences on Borea had taught him well enough the best way to deal with treacherous enemies. To challenge Harold here, however, would be to challenge the entire crew — not to mention the crews of the other ships — and it would not bring their quest any closer to its conclusion. Thus Silberhutte bided his time, though now and then his companion could almost swear he heard the grinding of the Warlord's teeth.
For all their intense distrust and dislike of Harold, in one respect the pair followed his example: they, too, in a limited way, managed to spend some little time in exercising. De Marigny's method was to stroll out onto the walkway and limber up in the manner taught him in the plateau's gymnasiums: 'physical jerks' which were initially greeted with loud hoots of derision. The Vikings soon grew bored with such 'caperings,' however, and left him to get on with it.
Silberhutte's exercises were rather more spectacular. Using his fantastic skill, he juggled with his own and de Marigny's murderous picklike weapons; or at other times he would hurl himself furiously from one end of the walkway to the other in whirlwind feats of gymnastic agility. For all that displays such as these were performed solely as a means of loosening up otherwise inactive muscles, still the warrior crew would look on in open awe and admiration, much to their captain's envious chagrin.
During those infrequent periods when the Warlord sat nodding with his broad back to the curving side of the ship, then his companion would ensure that he stayed awake and mentally alert, and vice versa. Both men were certain that their position was very tenuous — the look in Harold's pig eyes said as much — which was sufficient in itself to keep them on their toes.
So Lighthour came and went, and gradually the sun crept once more into Borea's shade, and slow but sure the mists rolled up off the sea to deaden the slap of wavelets and shroud the ships in undulating milky billows. Darkhour was coming on again, and according to things the Earthmen had overheard, that was the time estimated for their arrival in the forbidden region, that area of ocean where loomed the rocky star-shaped bastions of the Isle of Mountains. They had heard other whispers, too, concerning devilish creatures that came down out of the sky to murder unfortunate sailors and drive venturesome ships away, but of these they could discover no further details .. .
Almost completely immunized against the cold by Annahilde's powder, de Marigny enjoyed as best he could his newfound comfort; nevertheless, and not wanting to become too dependent upon the drug, he used it sparingly as directed. In that period before and after Lighthour corresponding roughly to one Earth day, he had not taken a single sniff of the stuff, but as Darkhour drew closer, so he resumed his wary consumption of the warming powder, keeping at bay the freezing chill that came with the billowing mists.
Once, before the mist came down in earnest, they had thought to see in the distance a jagged wedge of land against the horizon, and at sight of those distant spires rising, the Vikings had grown silent. Too, there had been a cloud of tiny dots in the lowering sky above the far-off landmass, dots that seemed to circle sentiently but with motions unlike those of birds. Then the damp miasma of ocean had washed over the ships, covering them with a greyly swirling blanket.
And it was then also, with the Isle of Mountains comparatively close at hand and visibility down to only a few feet, that Harold decided to have done with these so-called emissaries of Ithaqua. It would have to be now, under cover of the mist, so that Thonjolf would never know the truth of it; he was a strange old dog with an odd sense of honour. Harold could always fabricate some tale or other with which to satisfy the old chief, and he knew well enough how to cow his men into complete silence. He had long ago decided that if anyone were to receive Ithaqua's blessings for fetching the girl Moreen out of the Isle of Mountains, that one would be Harold. The reward must certainly not go to a pair of strangers of doubtful origins .. .
De Marigny was on watch while Silberhutte lay wrapped in sleep in the very stern of the ship. For some little time the Warlord's sleep had been restless, and he had tossed and moaned, so that de Marigny had thought to waken him. He had resisted the impulse, reckoning it was best for Silberhutte that he slept his fill in spite of whatever bad dreams disturbed him.
Moments after making this decision, however, he reconsidered. Suddenly there was a tension in the air not at all to his liking, an ominous, almost physical weight that seemed to press down upon him. The figures of the Vikings closest to him, where they sat in their places behind the round shields that lined the sides of the ship, were almost obscured by writhing tendrils of mist; they seemed like grim-horned phantoms sitting there, and their sullen silence only served to accentuate de Marigny's growing premonition of creeping doom.
Then, before he could stretch out a hand to shake Silberhutte's shoulder, there came to his ears a clear and distinct sound. An unmistakable sound which issued neither from the too-calm sea nor the ships that lolled upon it but from above, from the banks of mist that rolled over them. The sound of great wings in the mist, beating steadily, eerily over the longships.
De Marigny started, his heart leaping, as Silberhutte's hand grasped his wrist. 'Henri! I .... I was dreaming. Or was I?'
`More like a nightmare,' the other retorted in a strained whisper. 'But this — whatever it is — seems real enough. Listen
!'
The Warlord needed no urging; his face was already tilted upward. 'Bat wings beating, the old girl said,' he recollected. 'But I don't believe she told the half of it, and we forgot to ask!'
Harold, too, heard the wings in the mist. Halfway down the walkway toward the strangers, sword to hand and flanked by two of his flunkies while a third followed up behind, he paused; his darkly suffused face blanched and his pig eyes grew wide.
`They've come,' he whispered, his voice a half-croak. 'Well then, so be it. But before the winged ones tackle us, we take the imposters . . . Now!' And with that cry on his lips, crouching as he rushed forward through the shrouding curtain of mist, Harold led his men in a treacherous attack.
Surging out from the swirling grey wall that obscured the deck, startling the crew almost as much as the outsiders they attacked, Harold and his homicidal colleagues were a fearsome sight. He himself wore no helmet and his long damp hair was plastered back on his head. His mouth was open in a twisted, hideous snarl, and his tremendous stature and sheer bulk — plus the fact that the great, dully glinting sword he held on high was all of five feet long — put the finishing touches to the paralysing shock of his appearance.
All in all the element of surprise itself ought to have been sufficient to see Harold's murderous intentions carried through, would have been sufficient but for unforeseen circumstances. One: the bully had made a mistake in allowing his cronies to flank him so closely. The walkway was not wide enough to accommodate three men abreast, certainly not men as huge as the Vikings. Even as they rushed into view of their intended prey, the man on Harold's right slipped on the damp planking, lost his balance, and fell, bringing down the one to the rear. By then de Marigny and Silberhutte were on their feet, reaching for their hand axes, automatically taking up defensive stances.
Then came the second unforeseen circumstance — the sudden intervention of an outside agency. For down out of the mist came Nightmare borne on leathery wings, Nightmare with the pointed ears and dripping fangs of the devil himself. The creature was a bat — fur bellied, yellow-eyed, with a wrinkled black-leather face — but it was almost as big as a man!
Flying between attackers and attacked, the giant bat used the talons of one of its hind limbs to rake. Harold's face, opening his cheek in a red slash. He cursed and hacked at the thing with his great sword, but the creature was agile as its smaller cousins of the Motherworld and avoided the Viking's blade without difficulty.
Again and again Harold struck upward at the huge bat until suddenly, following fast upon his last thrust, its talons reached down and caught at the blade near his wrist, snatching it from him. He cursed as, with a shrill whistle of triumph, the creature tossed the weapon aside so that it fell into the sea.
By then the man on Harold's left, who had momentarily stepped back to give the chief's son elbow room, was once more coming in to the attack. He leaped high in the air, striking at the bat and missing, then followed up his action by turning his attention once more to the strangers. Landing in -a crouch, he straightened up and whirled his sword at de Marigny. Instinctively, with skill born of his many lessons in the plateau's arenas, the Earthman ducked under the deadly arc to swing the needlepoint of his weapon into the giant's neck. In the next moment blood gushed in a crimson fountain, and the stricken man gave a single, gurgling scream before toppling overboard.
But now more bats had descended from the mist and were flitting hugely over the heads of the Vikings, striking at them with wickedly sharp talons as they rose up from their seats to fight back with savage blows. All was confusion; the mist swirled everywhere; the air was filled with shrill whistlings, screams, and bull roars of rage and pain as the bats took advantage of the momentary havoc to tear and rip.
Harold, defenceless now, still faced the first of these horrors from the sky, and as the great bat struck at him yet again, de Marigny stepped forward and made to intervene. The Earthman was in no way interested in saving Harold's skin, but it fully appeared to him that unless the bats were driven off, all aboard the dragonship were surely doomed.
Before he could strike, however, the Warlord --- until now curiously inactive caught at his arm and stayed the blow. 'No, Henri,' he shouted, 'leave it. If we don't bother them, they won't bother us. It's the Vikings they're after!'
But freely given or not at all, Harold needed no assistance. He was far from crippled by the loss of his sword, and as the bat tore at his chest with its talons, he struck it a massive double-fisted blow in the face. Half-stunned, the creature thudded to the deck, and taking advantage of this brief respite, the chief's son roared: 'Do you see what these so called "emissaries of Ithaqua" are up to, lads? Why, it's them called these monsters down on us! See here, they've sided with the bats! Now fight, you dogs, and when we've driven off the fliers, then we'll deal with the traitors . .
As he finished yelling, the dazed bat on the deck seemed to recover its senses. Wings outstretched, it flopped toward him and attempted to knock him from his feet. With a blustering battle roar, seeing that the thing was half done for, Harold stepped inside the span of its wings and caught at its soft throat. Forcing its dripping fangs to one side and well away from his face, he locked his mighty arms about its neck.
His remaining pair of cronies, having been amply engaged in their own right prior to this moment, now rushed to assist him. They stabbed at the bat together, their swords passing through its membranous wings and into its soft body. Blood gushed front its wounds and from its gaping mouth, drenching Harold from head to foot; but a moment later he heaved its corpse over the side of the ship to stand there red with gore and furious in the berserk rage that now gripped him.
The mist was lifting a little, and the bats were retreating with it, but in their wake they left a dozen dead or dying Vikings. Nor had the crew of the longship failed to take its toll. The deck was littered with the broken bodies of great bats, and those that yet lived were even now being put to the sword.
'Time we abandoned ship, Henri,' Silberhutte said as Harold's pig eyes lighted upon them where they stood in the stern. 'The big fellow's tasted meat, and we're next on the menu. Can you fly us out of this? The bats are waiting for us.'
`Waiting for us?' the other repeated. 'Then maybe we'd do as well to take our chances here.'
'No, you don't understand. They're waiting to lead us to the Isle of Mountains — to the great cave where the people of the island live — to Moreen . .
`But how do you — ?'
'No time now, Henri. Later. And here comes Harold —look out!'
Harold had taken two paces toward them, his massive hands reaching. Then, finding himself weaponless, he smatched a sword from one of his men. As he did so, de Marigny shrugged out of his fur jacket and let down his cloak from where he had gathered it at his waist.
As the Earthman's fingers brushed the studs that controlled the cloak in flight, so the Warlord yelled: 'Get aloft, Henri. Quick — I'll grab your legs!'
'They're trying to get away!' Harold roared, and he rushed forward, swinging his sword around his head. De Marigny was already airborne over the deck and bringing the cloak under his expert control when Silberhutte and the chief's son came together in a clash of steel and flying sparks. He looked down and was barely in time to see the fight finish as quickly as it began. For such had been the violence of the shock when the two crashed together that their weapons had shivered into fragments; the metal of their blades — axe and sword alike — had actually shattered!
Harold had then stepped back to hurl the heavy, jagged hilt of his sword at Silberhutte's face. But the Warlord, avoiding the deadly missile, had stepped in close to use the splintered haft of his axe as a club. Swinging it against Harold's neck, he had battered the giant to his knees. Then, as the Texan leaped to grab at de Marigny's legs, so he simultaneously contrived to smash his knee into the Viking's forehead. Once again this combination of blows must surely have killed any normal man, but even as Silberhutte secured his hold on de Marigny's cal
ves and the two drifted aloft, so they could make out the shape of the fallen man moving on the deck below, trying to climb to his feet.
'He must be made of iron!' Silberhutte muttered, shaking his head in disbelief as the cloak now bore them more surely upward into the dispersing mist.
And now, too, the remainder of the crew awoke from the stupefaction of seeing Harold so swiftly dealt with for the second time by the 'little' stranger. But their awakening was too late, and their cries of rage were of no avail as the cloak-fliers quickly soared out of range. Only one of the many spears thrown after them passed close; the remainder fell well behind, splashing into the sea. Then the ship was momentarily lost to their view as they rose swiftly upward into the chill but rapidly thinning mist.
Seconds later they climbed into open air. Circling high overhead, the bats were beginning to disperse, heading for that island briefly glimpsed before the mist had come down. At this distance and from this elevation, the island's shape could not be discerned, but the cloak-fliers had little doubt that it was the Isle of Mountains.
Will you be all right, Hank, hanging onto me like that?' de Marigny called down to his passenger.
`I'll be okay,' the Warlord answered. 'Don't worry about me. Just follow the bats.'
`Just as you say — but what makes you so sure they won't turn on us?'
`Because they told me so,' the Warlord returned, laughter in his voice.
'They what?' de Marigny shouted. 'How in the name of — '
