For some time before the water was sighted they had heard the thundering of the breakers and felt the change in the air. But when the sea itself met their vision neither could speak for a moment.
After the disappearance of Omega, they had debated the question of the immediate future at some length. And now, in the late afternoon, the only decision they had come to was that they would establish a camp somewhere near the shore.
Later, Mark contended, it would be wise to seek a more southerly spot for the winter.
It was out of the question to return to the tomb for more supplies. Even granting he could find it, there was the ever-present possibility that they would be recaptured by the wandering savages. And that was too great a risk, now that he had Nona to consider. But the whole matter was shortly taken out of his hands, so he might as well not have worried.
A mile or so to the north was a rocky prominence jutting out almost to the water’s edge. From that distance details could not be made out clearly, but it seemed to Mark that the lower fifteen feet of the cliff was in deep shadow. That might indicate that this lower portion was of soft rock which had been worn away some time in the past by the action of water, and now formed a recess sheltered by the overhanging cliff. It was well worth investigating, and they set out in its direction.
The forest receded as they approached the prominence, leaving a fairly wide beach. The cliff was indented deeply around the bottom. Mark didn’t have time to notice any more because he saw something a lot more interesting. Emerging from the woods at a point skirting the cliff was a large body of decidedly odd-looking men. Mark gaped, rubbed his eyes until they stung and gaped again. But the men didn’t disappear. And unless all the pictures in all the history books he’d ever seen were lying, the men were full-blown Vikings.
Big, rawboned, yellow-bearded bucks they were, with leather trappings, and most of them even bigger and heavier muscled than he. Their weapons seemed to consist of the short-sword and double-bitted battle-axe.
As yet the band had not sighted them and Mark bustled Nona toward the nearest fringe of forest. There would be a chance of eluding them once within the darkening wood, but they would surely be overwhelmed if they were caught out on the open beach.
Dusk was falling fast and it appeared for a moment as if they would not be discovered. The direction from which the Norsemen were approaching would make it impossible to escape if the band chose to intercept their flight. But still Mark was afraid to break into a run for the reason that a swiftly moving body is far more apt to be seen out of the corner of the eye than a slow-moving one. So they proceeded at a walk, in a direction at right-angles to the nearing band of men, each step bringing them closer to the safety of the forest.
BUT just about this time a particularly nasty Fate decided to insert a skinny finger and stir the brew. One of the nearer Norsemen glanced away from his course skirting the cliff and saw them. A sudden shout announced that they were discovered.
“Run for it!” he cried.
But he knew as he sped across the sifting sand, matching his pace with Nona’s, that the Vikings had far less space to travel in order to cut them off. The race was lost before it was begun.
There was one last chance, however. “Nona! Cut across to the left. I’ll engage them for a minute, and then catch up to you.”
“No! — They’ll kill you!”
“I can run faster than you,” he explained. “I’ll only need to stop them for a minute, and then I’ll break away and catch up to you. Do as I say!”
Nona reluctantly obeyed. But the maneuver was spotted by the Norsemen, for two men detached themselves from the band and galloped off to catch the girl before she could reach the forest. Mark gave a groan and caught up to her. It was better to be together if this was to be the end.
And then too, if the Norsemen were in one body he could put more of them out of commission with the needle-gun, before the remainder could cut loose with their swords and axes. He only hoped that the gun would throw needles with sufficient strength to penetrate their leather trappings.
Instructing Nona to make a sudden bolt for the forest when the marauders drew near, Mark slowed his pace and loosened his axe in its holster. The needlegun he held in readiness.
In another second they would be in range. Aiming carefully at a level with their faces he released the trigger. The gun vibrated with a humming sound and one of the attackers went down. Three more had fallen when the throbbing of the gun abruptly ceased. The magazine was empty!
Mark wiped the palm of his right hand, on his jacket — remembering the bear — and drew the axe, silently cursing himself for neglecting to reload the gun. There was no time now, for he was not at all familiar with the workings of its mechanism.
The Fates must have been chuckling, for as Nona obeyed his command to turn and run again toward the forest, she slipped on the treacherous sand and was immediately grabbed up by a burly golden-haired giant.
The Viking had his hands full, for the now tireless girl fought like a wildcat, squirming and scratching and biting.
But Mark saw none of this, for he was quite busy himself. There were about twenty-six of the rovers, and he was certain he was going to cut this number down considerably before they finally got him. The first to meet him was a bearded giant, fleeter of foot than his companions, for he was several feet in advance.
With a tigerish spring, Mark sunk his axe through the fellow’s steel helmet and snatched the short-sword out of his lifeless hand. A wrench tore the axe loose while the sword in his left hand fended off a blow from the next one.
In two heart-beats he was dispatched in a like manner. But now the rest of Mark’s attackers had come up and were methodically surrounding him. The cuts he was receiving caused not the slightest pain for they healed as fast as they came.
Time after time the Vikings were about to cut him down from the sides and rear, but his flashing sword and shearing axe saved him.
BUT the inevitable finally happened. A sword blow, delivered from behind, gave his skull a terrific thump. There was a bright flash, a feeling of falling, and then darkness. He was unconscious for only a few minutes, but when he awoke he was trussed up so securely that he could hardly move. A twist of his head revealed that Nona was similarly bound. She didn’t look very frightened. Just mad. Mark grinned.
The Norsemen — the ones who weren’t dead or sitting on the ground nursing their wounds — were arguing apparently about Mark’s stainless-steel axe, held gingerly by a blond Viking who seemed to be their chief.
Their guttural speech was totally unfamiliar to Mark, and the occasional awed glance in his direction from one or another of his captors made even less sense.
After a minute, the chief bent over to examine Mark’s wounds. There weren’t any. Not even scars. Another discussion arose over this, but it sounded like so much Swedish to Mark. Swedish! That blamed Omega again! He had foreseen that Mark would run afoul of these rovers. And he had evidently known that they would not be killed, but merely taken prisoners.
Finally the Norsemen seemed to have come to some sort of conclusion, for the chief approached and spoke in a respectful tone of voice and motioned for Mark and Nona to rise.
There was a great confusion for a few minutes as the survivors made provision to carry their fallen comrades. Mark noticed with approval that the dead were to be taken along as well as the wounded. This placed his conquerors on a definitely higher plane than his former captors, who had left the dead behind, and killed the wounded rather than be encumbered with them. He suddenly chuckled at the thought that these men were in for a great surprise. Four of the corpses were due to come to life when the effects of the drugged needles wore off.
The presence of Norsemen, fantastic as it might be, meant that there must be a ship somewhere in the vicinity. Yet there was none in sight. The question was answered in short order when the chief led the way around the seaward side of the cliff. There, standing well off from the shore was a long, low-slung,
single-masted ship, barely visible in the fast-fading twilight.
Evidently the shallow slope of the shore had prevented closer approach, for the boat lay just outside the whitecaps, rising and falling with each rolling wave.
Without any hesitation the Norsemen plunged into the sea, herding Mark and Nona along. Four of the leather-clad giants took it upon themselves to assist the captives, as the water deepened and it became increasingly difficult to maintain balance without the use of their arms.
The two who aided Mark were frankly curious and took this opportunity to squeeze his biceps and test the hardness of his abdominal muscles. In fact so attentive were this pair, that, slightly alarmed, Mark twisted around to see if Nona was being similarly treated.
In the main, the ship was a typical Viking raiding-vessel. High-prowed, and equally high in the stern, its sleek lines were marred by the long row of out-jutting oars. These were out-rigged to provide a maximum leverage.
The sail, now furled, was a departure from the traditional Viking style. Its yards and halyards were of an improved rig, and, Mark guessed, far more manageable than the older type.
As the wading party advanced several more details showed variance with his recollection of Norse ships. Although his knowledge might have been gleaned from unreliable sources, Mark was sure, for one thing, that Viking vessels were not nearly so large as this one appeared to be. But these were not Vikings of the tenth century. Of the same general racial stock and possibly a similar state of culture, they must have retained some of the knowledge that was theirs before the series of wars that wrecked civilization throughout the world.
WILLING hands hauled them aboard. The captives were allowed to stand at the base of the thick mast while the chief disappeared into a cabin in the fore part of the ship. A guttural chattering was going on between those who had remained on board and the landing party. Several times Mark noticed curious stares in his direction and twice as often in Nona’s. Her scanty clothing, soaking wet, probably accounted for this. He scowled helplessly.
“What will they do with us?” queried Nona.
Mark looked at her with pride. Her face showed only the calm, unruffled placidity that was her natural expression.
“It’s hard to say,” he agreed. “But for the present there’s no need to worry. The sight of my blue blood, and the way my wounds healed has got them buffaloed. And then too, we both fought like wildcats and if these apes are anything like their ancestors, they have a great admiration and respect for physical valor. Keep your chin up. We’ll come out on top.”
His words were a lot more cheerful than his thoughts. His recollection of Viking history was far from reassuring. The old Norsemen, as far as he could remember, were not given to going about shedding sweetness and light. They had at one time, in fact, forced the king of France to hand over a large portion of his land. They had raided Paris on several occasions. Very tough people.
The chief reappeared, barking orders. The oars were manned and the big squaresail unfurled. An offshore breeze soon had the craft scudding out to sea, and the oars were no longer needed.
As soon as the ship was well under way, and there was no longer any need for his supervision, the chief addressed Mark with a series of unintelligible gutturals. Then realizing that he was not understood, he beckoned and led the way back to the cabin. To the prisoners’ surprise, its interior was as barbarically luxurious as a sultan’s seraglio.
On a cushioned divan reclined a rawboned giant with a flowing white beard and a decidedly emaciated appearance. This ancient had the look of one who was suffering from, or just recovering from, a wasting illness.
By the deferential attitude of the chief Mark wrongly deduced that this old one was the captain of the ship and the other was second in command, acting-chief during his commander’s illness. The yellow-haired one gave a stiff bow and made a sort of salute with his right hand and with the same motion waved it toward the captives, as if presenting them.
He then stepped back and effaced himself while the ancient calmly inspected the two prisoners. While so doing, the decrepit old fellow propped himself up on one elbow, and then, after a long minute, sat erect. The look of astonishment on the other Viking’s face gave Mark reason to believe that the old fellow hadn’t sat up for many a day. He was evidently recovering, then, though just what effect that might have on Nona’s and his welfare he had no way of telling.
“Your knife, Sven, son of Sven,” quavered the ancient, finally, holding out his hands. The words, of course, were Swedish but their meaning was made clear when the chief produced the knife.
Mark wondered what was coming, but stood quietly waiting, as did Nona. There was nothing they could do, even if the ancient should decide to slide the weapon between their ribs. Mark wondered if his new healing powers would stand up under that kind of punishment. He was afraid not.
But the oldster didn’t seem to have anything like that in mind, for with a great creaking of stiffened joints, he rose to his feet and started hacking away at the wet bonds which were cutting into Mark’s wrists.
The yellow-haired chief looked on wide-eyed, but made no attempt to interfere. The old man seemed to be quite a guy, Mark decided, for he remembered that Vikings were not inclined to be respectful to anybody who couldn’t command their respect.
But then these weren’t really Vikings. He mustn’t be deceived too much by appearances. They might turn out to be very nice, once he got to know them. Even quite gay characters. The business of the sudden attack on shore didn’t necessarily mean anything. It seemed to be the order of the day to attack — or avoid strangers.
He would have to adjust his mind to life in this new world, where only primitive reactions were to be expected. In this age it paid to look on every stranger as an enemy until he proved he wasn’t.
THE bonds parted and Mark flexed his muscles. He was surprised to see that the ancient was holding the knife for him to take.
The chief was equally surprised and this time could not hold his peace, “Don’t!” he cried, and moved forward to interfere. “He will kill you!”
But the graybeard waved him aside. “Know you, Sven,” he admonished, “that this one is the chosen of Thor, the master of thunder. He is an earthly representative of the Hammer-thrower. Have you not seen proof enough? His influence has already cured my affliction. Observe!”
The ancient squatted and sprang erect several times in quick succession, at the same time flinging his arms wildly about. Not understanding the reason for these calisthenics, the captives wondered vaguely if the oldster wasn’t probably a shade unhinged, but Yellow-hair was impressed.
“I bow to your superior knowledge, O Wise One,” he said, and did.
Mark, at this point, quickly took the proffered knife before the old fellow could go into his dance again. In an instant Nona was likewise free. Mark returned the knife to the dumbfounded chief.
“I don’t know what it’s all about,” Mark informed Nona, “but it looks as if the danger is over. The old gent seems friendly.”
The ancient was looking at the chief triumphantly, having proved his point. “I shall now,” he proclaimed, “speak with the strangers in the language of the Asa, the Gods, which they understand.”
Then turning to the prisoners he said: “Ay tank everything bane okay now. Ay tank ve go home.”
Mark looked at Nona and Nona looked at Mark. Then they both looked at the ancient. Mark groaned. “Omega! I might have known.”
The ancient turned, to the chief, Sven, son of Sven, as if pleased with Mark’s words. “The chosen of Thor tells me that he forgives you for attacking him and his mate,” he said. “And furthermore that the Valkyrs will bear those that he was forced to kill to their eternal glory in Valhalla. You may tell this to our men. And distribute mead that all may rejoice in the good fortune that is ours in having such guests. Now go and leave us alone.”
Sven, with a stiff bow which shook his long hair into his eyes, left the cabin. The ancient grinned
impishly, and addressed the captives. “You vars speaking of Omega? Ay nefer bane heard of him.”
Mark eyed him askance, far from convinced. When unusual things happened, Omega was very apt to be within haling distance. “I hate to dispute my elders,” he mused, aloud. “But that’s very corny Svenska you’re handing out. Quit playing, will you?”
“Whippersnapper!” raged the spurious Swede. “Can’t I have any fun? You’ll talk back to the wrong guy some day, and he’ll spill some of your aristocratic hemoglobin. Scoffer!”
Still muttering the old man let his aged body creakily down on the cushioned divan. “I ought to do something for this old duffer,” the quavering voice resumed, in quieter tones. “After all, he’s allowing me the use of his body, even if he does think I am the spirit of Odin.” The body stretched and started to fill out before their eyes. Some of the gauntness seemed to leave the face, but it still remained the face of an old man. “Mustn’t go too far or they won’t recognize him. But this should give him forty years more and he was dying when I took charge.”
Chapter 12: Whom The Gods Have Chosen
MARK pulled Nona down on an upholstered bench beside him. “Of course this is none of my business, but would you mind clearing away some of the fog? Don’t put yourself out, mind you.”
Omega sat up, chuckling. “I get a kick out of watching you two. Not that I sicced these latter-day Vikings on you. I admit I knew you would run into them if you went in the direction I sent you. If I had advised any other course, you would have fared a lot worse.
“Matter of fact I couldn’t have prevented that fight by any normal means, but I did save you from having your head sliced off on two occasions. That was one of the reasons that those men were so in awe of you. The two men who swung those blows swore that their axes struck a wall in front of your neck. And that is what started them noticing that, although they had cut you up a good bit, the wounds had healed. After that they were willing to believe anything.”
The Best of Argosy #2 - Minions on the Moon Page 8
