In the Moons of Borea

by Brian Lumley

`Then there remains only one more question, or perhaps two,' the elder muttered. Suddenly he seemed lost for words, strangely embarrassed, but at last he found his tongue:

  'We keep watches on the sea approaches; the higher peaks are constantly manned, as is the passageway from the sea. Just before you came, we were forewarned by the young man on watch at the mouth of the tunnel. He is a very young man and easily excited, but he says that when you came, you followed the bats, and that like the bats you — '

  `Like them we flew, yes,' de Marigny spoke up, anticipating the question. 'This cloak 1 wear has the power of flight. It carries us through the air at great speed. I brought it with me from the Motherworld. The Warlord, too, is a stranger in your world, for he hails from Borea, the World of the Winds. Our purpose in coming here is to find the woman Moreen, for we think she may be able to help us in our quest . .' Here de Marigny broke off, for as he had spoken, his voice had been progressively drowned out by a rapidly rising babble from the surrounding circle of cave dwellers.

  His and Silberhutte's revelations, coming thick and fast, had finally broken through the reserve real or assumed — that the men of the caves had initially displayed. Now the air was full of such muttered words and phrases as: 'The Motherworld! Borea! A thousand longships! The woman Moreen! A flying cloak!'

  At last the hunched-up old greybeard — who appeared to be the main spokesman for the group, possibly the leader of the entire subterranean clan — held up his hands and cried: 'Hold! There is much to be said and little enough time for saying it. There must be an orderly council meeting as soon as one can be arranged, but before that — ' He turned back to the strangers.

  'You,' he spoke to Silberhutte. 'You have the appearance and the build of a great warrior, even though you are not a very tall man, and your friend calls you "Warlord." And you,' he looked at de Marigny. 'You wear a flying cloak that carries you through the skies like a bird. That is a wonder I must see. And in addition, though you would not seem to be wizards, you say you come from distant worlds! Very well,' he nodded, 'we accept that you control great powers; it remains to be seen how well you use them. And so, before I call a grand meeting of the council, there is one more thing I must know. When the Vikings come, will you —

  `Yes, we will,' Silberhutte interrupted. 'If we are still here when the Vikings come, we'll help you defend 'yourselves as best we can.' He turned to his companion. 'Right, Henri?'

  `Right!' said the other. And from somewhere high in one of the many deep dark recesses of the ceiling, a series of shrill, eerie whistlings greeted their decision with approval ..

  8 Moreen

  From that time onward — following the meeting of the council and during the feast prepared in their honour that followed it; and then through the drinking, talking, and great round of introductions — time and again the newcomers would ask to see Moreen, only to be told that for the moment this was out of the question. Darkhour was not long passed, and no one would venture to guide them to Moreen until the way was fully lighted by the strange auroral rays of the sun.

  For she did not dwell in the cavern itself — was unable to bear the weight of the mountain above — but preferred the air of the inner slopes, of the forest and the five mountains, particularly that peak whose inner face housed her in a cave of her own. There she dwelled, far across and high above the deep central lake, and there they would doubtless find her with her retinue of great bats — but not until after Darkhour. Now they must rest themselves and benefit from the good food and drink they had consumed. They could sleep easy in the knowledge that they were with friends, and when they awakened, that would be time enough for them to go out and seek Moreen.

  For all that, the proposed itinerary of the cavern folk seemed to make good sense. The thought of finding the mysterious Moreen remained uppermost in de Marigny's mind; of finding her, yes, and of having her decipher those cryptic symbols scrawled upon a scrap of soft hide by Annahilde. Surely, he told himself, he must be closer now to recovering the time-clock than at any time since leaving Borea; and such was the mental fever this thought wrought in his mind that sleep seemed almost impossible.

  Nevertheless he did sleep, finally succumbing to the combination of weariness and strain that hung over from the nerve-racking journey through the midnight tunnel; and to the soporific effect of an amount of ale consumed during the feast; but it was in no way a peaceful sleep.

  Twice he started awake from unremembered nightmares upon his bed of furs, bathed in the glow of the fire that burned brightly before the hollow in the cave's wall that housed his own and Silberhutte's recumbent forms. On both occasions he cast about nervously with his eyes in the gloom beyond the flickering flames, observing on ledges across the great cave the moving fires that told of patrolling watches. But it was not until he awoke for the third time that he noticed the huge bat where it hung upside down, clinging to an overhang of rock like some weird watchdog not far above where he lay.

  The eyes of the creature, inverted, burned upon his briefly, then turned to Silberhutte's still form. The Warlord stirred for a moment and his body tensed ... but then he settled back on his furs, sighed deeply, and relaxed. After awhile the great creature turned its eyes once more upon de Marigny, and he fancied it sensed his restlessness.

  At once, as if from nowhere, driving out all agitation and frustration, comforting sensations began to fill his mind. Without feeling any resentment, he knew that indeed this monstrous creature, whose smaller cousins of Earth were synonymous with Night and all the terrors of midnight abysses — was lulling him to sleep, soothing his fears, and calming his troubled mind; and so persuasive was its hypnotic power that he gave himself up entirely into its care and quickly fell into a deep, satisfying, and dreamless sleep.

  . . . And it was the leathery beating of that same creature's wings that awakened him hours later; that and Silberhutte's terse command, breaking into his subconscious, that he should get up. Raising himself onto one elbow, de Marigny saw the Warlord crouching upon his own bed and staring into the eyes of the huge bat where it hovered, buffeting the air with mighty sweeps of its wings. The creature's movements were full of a visible urgency, de Marigny could see that, but the nature of what it imparted to the Texan was far beyond his grasp. Though Titus Crow had once hinted that he was slightly telepathic, de Marigny had little practical knowledge of the art.

  He could guess, however, and guessing, his heart sank. For the Warlord had made a promise, and de Marigny knew that it could not be broken. 'The Vikings?' he queried.

  Silberhutte, without taking his eyes from those of the furred monster whose motions scattered the ashes of the fire and caused its embers to glow bright red, merely nodded for an answer.

  `They're here?' de Marigny pressed. 'Already?' 'Only hours away, Henri, and there's much to do.'

  'I know,' a trace of bitterness crept into de Marigny's voice. 'We promised we'd help .

  'No,' the Warlord quickly answered, turning toward him, 'I promised.'

  The great bat, satisfied at last that its message was understood, flew off into the cavern's gloom as Silberhutte grasped de Marigny's shoulder. 'I promised, Henri,' he repeated, 'and it's up to me to make that promise good.'

  'But I — '

  'No buts, friend. I fixed it with old Skaldsson the chief, right after the feast. You are to go hunt out Moreen, while .I take a closer look at the tunnel's defences. The peaks should be easily enough defended — a dozen men could start avalanches down the outer slopes that would keep out the entire army of Vikings for a long time — but the tunnel is different again. Those booby traps they've rigged up will create all hell when they hit, but only for a moment. When the boulders stop rolling the Vikings will come on again, more angry than before, and they'll take it out on the cavern folk.'

  'You think they'll get this far?' the other asked.

  Silberhutte nodded. 'I don't doubt it. There are too many of them: thousands of them in a great fleet of long-ships with Harold bringing them in. I wa
s shown them through the mind of the great bat. Some of its brothers are keeping an eye on the fleet even now, picking off Vikings whenever they get the chance - and paying dearly for their audacity!'

  'But I can't just go off chasing this girl while you - '

  Again the Warlord cut him off: 'You have to, Henri. We have to get that cryptogram deciphered before we can find the time-clock. For all we know the clock is within easy reach, and with it - '

  'We could turn back the entire Viking force!'

  `Right!' The Warlord clapped him on the shoulder. `While you're away, get in touch with Armandra. With or without the clock we may have to be out of here quickly. Also I have my work cut out in the tunnel. There must be dozens of places where additional booby traps can be rigged up. If I take a gang of the cavern folk and start near the entrance, we can play a delaying game all along the tunnel's length. By then, using the flying cloak, you should be safely back from your meeting with Moreen.'

  'But surely I should be back long before then,' de Marigny protested, frowning. 'I mean, the Vikings are still hours away.'

  `That's right, and you still have to get out of here. The exits from here to the inner valley are long, dark, winding, and treacherous. But . . .' The Warlord paused. 'Wait, 1 have an idea.'

  'An idea? About what?'

  'We've been thinking in terms of a human guide to get you to Moreen. However . . .' Again he paused, then frowned and half-closed his eyes. He held up his hand to silence de Marigny as the other started to question his meaning.

  Moments later there came the throb of leathery wings and one of the great bats hovered close by. The Warlord opened his eyes wide and stared at the bat, and once more de Marigny watched their silent 'conversation.' Finally the bat flew off and Silberhutte turned to his friend with a grin.

  Before the Warlord could speak, de Marigny guessed: 'A bat? My guide is to be a bat?'

  'Right. There's one on its way from Moreen right now. Flying your cloak, you'll follow it out along one of the exit tunnels to the inner slopes. Once out in the open, it will take you straight across the lake to Moreen.'

  'I'm to fly blind through the tunnel?'

  `Carry a torch,' the other answered. 'Is that feasible?'

  'I wouldn't really care to try it,' de Marigny replied. `What if the cloak catches fire? I don't know how - '

  `Then try to attach yourself to your guide in some way or other,' Silberhutte cut in. 'Give it some thought. Getting to Moreen has to be your problem, Henri. As for me: I'm off to get things moving. The cavern folk are not telepathic; so far they don't know that the Vikings are almost here. Well, they should have recovered from their feast by now. I certainly hope so. They're going to need all of their strength and wits before very much longer!'

  Flying in darkness behind the great creature to which he was loosely tethered - not having to worry about obstacles but merely ensuring that his forward speed and direction were compatible with those of the bat; being towed, if anything, like some blind, sentient balloon behind his constantly, weirdly whistling 'guide' - de Marigny thought back on that period of activity immediately preceding his departure from the great cavern. He had gone with

  Silberhutte to warn the cavern folk of their imminent danger, and while the Warlord had assumed command of the fighting forces, he had spoken long and earnestly with the chief, old Arnrik Skaldsson. Their topic had been Moreen.

  The chief had been able to tell him much. Since her coming to the Isle of Mountains, Moreen might easily have had her pick of the younger unattached men of the cavern, of which there were several, but had preferred a lone existence accompanied only by her bats on the slopes of the inner valley. It seemed that before she came here, a witch-wife had promised her that the time would come when a man would find her - a man as good and free in spirit as she herself was good and free - one she could love. And of course she had shunned the great cavern from the first, had hated the idea of being shut in; for she was a 'warm one' and her love of open skies and freshening breezes could not be fulfilled below ground.

  The cavern folk, on the other hand, for the most part could not bear to be too long out in the open. They feared Ithaqua mightily, most of them having fled his wrath to come to the island in the first place, and they associated the Wind-Walker with vast, wide-open skies. Their agoraphobia could not, however, preclude their essential watch duties on the peaks, nor did it stop certain persistent types from visiting Moreen when circumstances permitted and attempting to woo her over.

  She would have none of it; for to give herself to a man of the cavern would mean following him into the constant gloom of the cavern world, and hers was an exceptionally free spirit. Why should she take a husband when already her bats provided so adequately for her? Five in number, those creatures which had bound themselves to her brought her wildfowl from the wooded inner slopes, fishes from the deep lake; even her clothing was woven of their soft fur. They were her constant companions.

  Aye,. and they were her protection, too, or so old Skaldsson had told de Marigny. Twice when men had thought to bring her forcibly to the cavern (they were, after all, Vikings or the sons of Vikings, and as such wilful and less than diplomatic in dealing with women), they had returned scratched, bruised, and bloodied from their encounters with Moreen's providers and protectors.

  She could have had those men killed, little doubt of that, but such was not her nature. She was kind and gentle and free, and she intended to stay that way. She desired neither the cavern's safety nor its restrictions, nor indeed the caresses of any dweller therein. But if de Marigny had questions to ask of her, surely she would answer all of them willingly and truthfully if she could, and certainly she would enjoy his company for a little while, she who lived apart from the cavern clan and dwelled halfway up a mountain.

  These things that the chief had told him, together with many other scraps of knowledge, passed in kaleidoscope review through de Marigny's mind as he automatically answered the gentle tug of his guideline in the dark. Quite apart from Moreen he thought of. Silberhutte and his plan to fight a delaying action along the length of the tunnel from the sea. He could not help feeling a little guilty that he was to have no part in that fight. Perhaps if he could get this meeting with Moreen quickly and satisfactorily over and done with . . .

  The Warlord had said he would contact Armandra, ask her to conjure up another tornado one with its roots right here on Numinos - to carry them to their final destination, wherever that might be. Just how the Woman of the Winds would contrive to do that, de Marigny could hardly guess, but Silberhutte seemed sure enough of the thing's mechanics. According to him the idea's feasibility was not the crucial factor; the crux of the, matter lay in their ability to rendezvous with the tornado when it came.

  All of these things had passed through de Marigny's thoughts several times before he spied ahead, partly. obscured by the nightmare shape of his guide as it manoeuvred the jaggedly tortuous sinuses of this long-dead volcanic vent, a distant fragment of dull daylight that hung in darkness like a damply luminous rag. Soon, as the light improved, he was able to pick out the features of the treacherous walls as they moved slowly by, following which the passage rapidly widened and the bat picked up speed.

  De Marigny could almost sense the relief of his huge `blind dog' as it now sped ahead, no longer constrained by concern for its merely human 'charge. The muscles powering its wings must have been close to exhaustion. No bird, except perhaps the hawk with its ability to hover, could have managed the job; even a hawk must surely have crashed and come to grief in the absolute darkness.

  Now there was no holding the bat, and such was the turmoil of air left in its wake that de Marigny's control of the cloak was in constant jeopardy. He quickly cut himself loose from his guide, then accelerated to maximum velocity as the bat, free at last of its aerial anchor, shot ahead on throbbing wings.

  Out they sped across the inner lake, the five peaks towering overhead. Straight as the path of an arrow flew the great bat with d
e Marigny not too far behind. Somewhere over there, at the other side of the lake, the woman Moreen had her cave. It would not be long now before de Marigny knew the answer to his one, all-important question.

  Moreen . . . The 'woman' Moreen, in actuality little more than a girl. Almost twenty years of age and all of them spent on Numinos, an alien moon in an alien universe.

  Moreen of the golden hair, shoulder length and shining with its own lustrous light; Moreen of the wide, bright blue eyes. Her natural, intrinsic warmth covered her like a blanket only ever torn aside by Ithaqua, black walker on the winds that blow forever between the worlds.

  Tiny Moreen, at least by Numinosian standards. Sixty-four inches of unaffected grace, loveliness, youthful litheness, and not-quite innocence; for she had seen the Wind-Walker at his worst, and no one could remain wholly innocent after that. To be audience to it, even captive audience, was to be defiled.

  Moreen: mortal and fragile as are all human beings, nevertheless carrying a strength within her which, mercifully, made it possible for her to put aside the past — blot it from her mind to a wide extent — until those long-lost loved ones, her father and poor, maddened mother, aye, and Garven too, all of them were only bright memories that terminated where the Wind-Walker had intruded to score them from her mind.

  Moreen of the mountain — laughing Moreen — who had a love of all living things with but one exception: the monster Ithaqua, for whom her heart held only hatred.

  Moreen . .

  At Darkhour, as was her wont, she had lain in the mouth of her cave on a comfortable bed of bracken covered with soft skins, her body bathed in the glow of a fire that burned ruddily in a hearth of piled stones. She had absently listened to the rustle of great wings from the rear of her cave where her bats hung together from the stalactite ceiling like a cluster of strange fruit; and she had watched the reflective surface of the still lake far below for the ripple and wash of auroral, heavens and the images of pale stars which only ever showed at Darkhour.