In the Moons of Borea

by Brian Lumley

  'My plan? Any plan I might have had would be changed beyond recognition by now. The idea was that if we found the clock here on Numinos, we'd pick it up and that would be that. But, having an idea that Ithaqua might have taken it to Dromos, I put it to Armandra, and she told me how we could go about getting there if we had to. Well, now we have to — but it's going to be a hell of a job, that's a promise. And it won't be any easier now we've the girl to allow for.'

  `About Moreen — ' de Marigny began.

  `Don't tell me,' the Warlord cut him off. 'It's written all over your face. Anyway, if she's half what Annahilde described, a man would be a fool to leave her behind.'

  `When you see her, you can judge for yourself,' de Marigny answered. 'As for now, I'll have to concentrate on what I'm doing, get us through this damned snake of a hole as fast as I can.'

  `Yes. Well, I won't bother you,' the other grunted. 'I'll spend the time "chatting" with my better half, let her know what's going on.'

  Now in silence the cloak flew rapidly between a string of flaring, shadow-casting torches, passing the occasional group of frantically toiling women along the way. Without exception the women wished them all speed, urging them onward with approving cries and gestures; and so they swept eerily on through the winding volcanic flue.

  De Marigny's urgency was clearly visible in the way he took chances in the darker stretches of the vent, but his handling of the cloak was now inspired. Despite the fact that his hideous guide had long since deserted him to return to Moreen, he flew faster than he had on either of his previous trips. Even so, it seemed to take hours before they finally flew out into daylight.

  And it was at once apparent that fighting was already in progress. Even in the dim light of Numinos the glint of metal could be seen in the saddles between the three lesser peaks, and the faint shouts and screams of furious contests echoed down to the fliers through the ominously still air.

  Gaining height the better to see the action in the saddles, the pair were relieved to note that the cavern folk were getting the better of their adversaries. At present only small groups of Vikings were reaching the ridges, and that only after fighting their way through continual avalanches of boulders released by the defenders. Tired from the climb and bruised by flying rocks, they were easily picked off as soon as they attained the saddles; but greater numbers were not too far behind. It would not be long before they were too many for the defenders to handle.

  Racing high over the lake, the adventurers felt a warm updraught from its still volcanic centre; then, ahead, Moreen's peak rose up before them; and -

  - And on its uppermost slope there was a clouding of dust, the glitter of whirling weapons, and a vast and frenzied throbbing of bat wings!

  Ten, a dozen Vikings engaged Moreen's monstrous protectors at not too great a height above her refuge; and two more, armed to the teeth, slid recklessly down a shale slope immediately above the low overhang that sheltered her cave. Then de Marigny saw the girl herself, hair streaming behind her as she plunged in a near-panic flight down the steep slope toward a green stand of tall, thickly grown pines.

  They were after her, those two heathens, and their prime reason for being here seemed completely forgotten in the excitement of the chase. There was no saying what they would do to the girl when they caught her .. .

  10 Warlords of the Winds

  Unseen, swooping down upon Moreen's pursuers from above and behind, the fliers made to deliver a surprise attack. De Marigny felt the cloak yaw slightly and saw that the Warlord had freed himself from the harness, that he hung now by his arms alone. Then, close in behind the excited, scrabbling raiders, the cloak yawed again, more wildly this time, before shooting skyward as Silberhutte cast himself free.

  Hurtling between the unsuspecting Vikings, whose eyes saw only the fleeing Moreen, Silberhutte caught them up in his powerful arms. This had the effect of braking his own speed while rapidly accelerating theirs, so that they shot headfirst out over the overhang to crash down in front of the girl's now empty cave. The Warlord landed light as a cat between them, noting that one lay still, his head at an odd angle. Better for the other if he, too, had shown no sign of life; instead he made to climb shakily to his feet, his helmeted skull offering itself as a target for the exiled Earthman's weapon.

  Up above, once more in control of the cloak, de Marigny saw metal shatter, blood and brains flying, heard a single gurgling shriek, then glided on after the stumbling, fearful girl.

  Noreen, it's me — don't run!'

  At the sound of his voice she fell back onto her fur-clad rump, skidded a few feet while clutching at tufts of tough herbage, then slowed to a halt, and looked back. De Marigny swept down upon her, landed close by in time to catch her up as she threw herself into his arms.

  `Hang on,' he told her. 'Tight now!' And again he was airborne and winging back up the slope to where Silberhutte waited.

  She stays here for now,' the Warlord yelled before de Marigny could once more set down. 'Henri, we have to take that peak up there. It has to be our launch site. The bats are doing a good job — but not quite good enough. We'll need to give them a hand.'

  To Moreen de Marigny said: 'Climb up after us — but be careful.' And when she would have questioned him, he earnestly added: 'Trust us, Moreen.'

  She stood then for a moment, looking lost and lonely as the pair flew off toward the peak .. .

  Bloody battle still raged at the mountain's crest, but the bats had done well. Only three of the dozen Vikings remained on their feet, and of those that had fallen, all but one were dead. The bats had paid dearly for their selfless service to the girl, however, for only two of them remained aloft. Pounding the air, they wheeled and hovered, buffeting and tearing at the bloodied Vikings who desperately hacked at them with whistling blades.

  Alighting, the Warlord rushed in to support these weird defenders of the peak. De Marigny quickly shucked off his marvellous aerial garment, and snatching up a fallen foeman's sword, he, too, joined the fray.

  First blood went to Silberhutte as he ran past a crippled but still active invader where he lay with the tendons of his legs slashed through. With a savage cry and a wild sweep of his sword, the man made to sever the Warlord's own legs. But leaping above the deadly arc of metal, the Earthman came down with both feet on the other's outstretched arm, breaking it close to the elbow. In the next moment the Viking's scream of agony bubbled into silence as Silberhutte sliced open his jugular.

  Simultaneous with that bubbling shriek came another — but not from an enemy. This dying scream came from one of the two remaining bats, skewered through the eye by a Viking sword. Down the great creature fell with the sword stuck fast in its head, so that the owner of that weapon had to leap astride the body of the bat to drag his blade free. As finally the sword came loose and its wielder turned toward the onrushing de Marigny, so the last bat settled with a piercing whistle of rage on the Viking's shoulders, literally decapitating him as it hurled his body to the ground.

  Both of the remaining Vikings fell on the creature from behind, dispatching it in a moment, then backed away from the oncoming Earthmen. Silberhutte and de Marigny, however, giving the invaders no time to recover from their terrific exertions, leaped in upon them with war cries and whirling weapons.

  The Warlord battered aside his man's buckler and blade, splitting his skull in the time it takes to tell, and de Marigny took only slightly longer. At the end, gore spattered and wild, the victors stood breathlessly back to back and surveyed the now silent field of battle. Broken bodies and bloodied weapons lay scattered about; great bats lay like crumpled heaps of dark fur together in a tangle with white-limbed Vikings; but finally the peak, that topmost summit of Moreen's mountain, was freeof all living invaders.

  As for the girl herself: she came quickly, nimbly up the steep slope toward the gore-streaked pair, a little out of breath and dishevelled but otherwise unharmed. Before she could reach them, Silberhutte moved apart from de Marigny to stand alone, his
eyes closed and his mind far, far away on another world, in mental conversation with the mind of his woman.

  For a moment he stood thus, then opened his eyes, turned to de Marigny and said: `Well, this is it, Henri. Let's hope there's time enough.' He nodded, directing his gaze down the outer slope. There, rapidly toiling upward, came a large body of Vikings. Among them, one stood out like a tree among saplings.

  `Harold,' de Marigny grimly noted. 'I was expecting him. Those two' — he indicated a pair of corpses with the fatal marks of the great bats fresh upon them — 'were from his ship. Did you recognize them?'

  The Warlord nodded an affirmative. 'If Harold gets up here before we can lift off — well, it will be up to you_ I'll be busy and of no use to you. You'd better get your cloak on and clip me in while I work.' He paused, added: 'And Henri — no distractions. This has to be all systems go first time . . . or not at all!'

  There were questions de Marigny would dearly love to ask, but he put his faith in the Warlord, and remained silent. As Moreen came closer, climbing the slope to a destiny she would never have believed, he ran to where he had thrown his cloak and donned it. Then he flew to the girl and returned with her to Silberhutte.

  And approaching, seeing his friend standing there alone atop the peak, finally de Marigny understood. He had not wondered how Armandra might go about sending them a tornado, for he knew well enough that she was capable of that. What had puzzled and worried him was how such a whirlwind could possibly pick them up and then power them on their way to Dromos; and, with fighting still in progress and increasing in ferocity along the ridges, how such a rescue could be achieved in time. Now he saw that no such intervention from Borea was planned, that their passage to Dromos would have its origin right here on Numinos!

  For Armandra controlled the winds with her mind, and now the giant Texan had given himself completely over to her- so that his mind was merely an extension of hers!

  The Warlord stood — legs apart and arms reaching out to the sea and sky, eyes closed and face a death mask — flesh white as a candle's wax and chill as an icicle. He stood there under a sky that darkened visibly, rapidly, as Armandra worked her will on the elements through his mind.

  Far out at sea, from a leaden sky shot with the golden traceries of electrical energy, searing lightning suddenly 'lashed down to lighten the surface of the darkly roiling sea. Then another bolt, and another, and in rapid succession a fourth, fifth, and sixth — becoming a torrent of bolts that turned Numinos bright with their fire as they strode about the Isle of Mountains on forked and fiery legs — until, in a final concerted blast that left the atmosphere reeking of ozone, the fires from the sky were done.

  Armandra was satisfied for the moment. She had successfully tested her powers .. .

  Moreen pressed close to de Marigny and gazed awestruck at the Warlord. Unseen forces lifted his long hair and floated it up about his head as if it drifted in deep and languid waters. Then de Marigny felt the tug of familiar, invisible fingers at the fabric of his fabulous cloak: Armandra's little winds, eager now to add their own effort to the greater tumult to come.

  'Go on then,' de Marigny whispered to them, unheard by Moreen. 'Do what you can.' And a flurry of dust spiralled up at his feet to race away and dwindle into the gloom that now hung everywhere like a harbinger of Doomsday.

  All lightnings had ceased now, as had the golden flickerings in the clouds that heralded them. Strangely, while the sky boiled darkly, about the peak the air was still. Steadily the mass of invaders, who as a man had paused to witness the aerial phenomenon, continued their climb toward the peaks and saddles, drawing closer with each passing moment. But now -

  - Now it was time to go, and now too an utterly weird thing began to happen far out at sea. At first it appeared that a wall of mist had sprung up in a vast circle about the mountainous island, a wall that deepened and whirled and came closer by the second. But soon it could be seen that the entire ocean was in motion, turning like a tremendous disc about the hub of the island, and that rushing wall of mist formed the disc's outer perimeter.

  In fact the mist was moisture ripped from the ocean's surface by the winds of Numinos under ArmandraSilberhutte's control, the same force that drove the sea in its rapidly accelerating whorl about the island. And that motion had reached the ocean cliffs of the island now, was already lifting the sea in a huge swell, tossing the Viking longships at anchor and threatening to smash them against the cliffs. A few moments more and they were being reduced to kindling as the waves reached higher yet up the rocks. Some of the ships parted with their anchors, went careening and dipping on the wild ocean until they, too, were battered against the cliffs and flew asunder.

  For a moment the Vikings on the slopes were awestruck, paralysed by the destruction of their ships; and in the saddles the island's defenders took advantage of the diversion to wipe out those invaders who had recently reached their positions. Then, realizing that some nameless doom was about to befall them, the men of the caves turned and fled back down the inner paths toward the vents. They would gather ranks there, make a stand against the Vikings at the mouths of the vents, then fall back and fight delaying actions along the lengths of the subterranean channels to the great cavern itself. That was probably how they planned it — but they were not to know that they would be spared any further fighting.

  The rising, towering, whirling wall of vapour was half as high as the mountains now, closing with the island, sucking more water up from the frenzied ocean. It was a fearsome sight, completely unnerving, and the effect it had on the Vikings was electric. They were afraid, yes, even unto flight — but where should they flee? With the alien wall of vapour rising at their heels, threatening to suck them up and blow them away, and their ships gone in, a maelstrom of wind and water, they could only come forward, up the last few feet of shale-covered slope to the saddles and peaks.

  And come they did, howling their berserker rage to the more loudly howling sky, foaming through their beards in fear and bloodlust. And the mountain peaks deserted and empty now of life — all save one.

  Carefully de Marigny fastened Silberhutte's harness about him, stood close to the Warlord, gathered Moreen to him and hugged her, telling her to cling to him tightly, more tightly than she ever clung to anything before.

  And still the Warlord stood as petrified, and faster whirled the great spout and higher still. Now the wall had breasted the far range of peaks and saddles, dipping down into the valley and moving rapidly across the central lake, whipping that, too, to a white-foaming fury.

  It was abundantly clear that the peak whereon the three stood was the centre of the tremendous spout, but as such it was utterly, incredibly calm. Calm, despite the fact that the sky was quickly being shut out — calm, while rushing ever closer the inner wall of the funnel wore a glassy mirror sheen — calm, when above and all about the sky, ocean, and central lake were a howling, banshee tumult.

  Then, as de Marigny felt invisible but familiar fingers returned to tug at the trappings of his cloak and freed one hand to find the controls of that fabulous garment, Moreen gasped in his ear and pointed to where a burly, red-haired Viking warrior now toiled toward them up the crest of the ridge less than one hundred yards away. Harold, alone of all his comrades, driven on by a berserker rage — an all-consuming hatred for the strangers who had upended his plans and his world — had finally arrived on the scene in time to be part of its conclusion.

  He seemed oblivious to the rushing wall of water that climbed the slope behind him, tearing up trees and boulders alike and rushing them aloft; he saw only the Earthmen and the girl, and, possibly, in his mind's eye, the destruction of the longships and the fantastic doom which had already overtaken his comrades in their thousands.

  `Emissaries of Ithaqua!' he roared, his voice somehow coming to them over the howling of tortured elements. `Aye, perhaps you are after all, for surely have the winds protected you. Well, if the Wind-Walker is in truth your Lord, then he is no longer mine! Da
mn Ithaqua, and damn his carmine eyes! His winds shall not protect you this time — not this time!' And he lumbered forward, red-eyed and foaming at the mouth.

  When Harold was no more than fifty paces from the little knot of people on the peak, the whirling wall caught up with him. Perhaps at the last he sensed his doom, for in the moment before that almost solid sheet of revolving air and water struck him, he turned to face it, throwing wide his arms as if to enclose it and uttering a wild shriek. A shriek of horror, perhaps, or maybe rage — rage that indeed the elements had won the day and robbed him of his prey.

  And a second later he was gone. Only a brawny arm showed itself to the horrified watchers, an arm that stuck out from the glassy surface briefly and was then sucked under. An arm, and the dull glint of Harold's great axe caught up in the rush and swirl. These things they saw, and heard the drowning echo of Harold's final shriek, soon lost in the cacophony of insane elements.

  Then, with a rush and a pounding of pressure that threatened to burst eardrums and pop eyes from their sockets, the cloak belled out and rocketed aloft, and Moreen's legs wound about her Earthman's waist in a scissor grip as the trio fled down the eye of the waterspout and out beyond the rim of Numinos.

  To an observer, had there been one far out in the Numinosian sea, it would have seemed that the great spout stretched itself impossibly thin as it speared the

  heavens — that high above the outermost layers of atmosphere it twisted tortuously and bent its neck like a great serpent — before striking across space at a huge and dully glowing orb hanging low on the horizon.

  Dromos .. .

  PART THREE : DROMOS