Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  He was too late. The hand of the god swept up. Elak fell to his knees, struggling to drag himself to where Solonala had vanished . . . and then there was only darkness around him, and the howling and shrieking of great winds . . .

  You will not want to miss the stirring and exciting and inexpressibly weird chapters that bring this fascinating story to an end in next month’s WEIRD TALES. We suggest that you reserve your copy at your magazine dealer’s now.

  THUNDER IN THE DAWN

  A story to stir the pulses—a tale of warlock and wizard and valiant men of might in the far-off olden time—a gripping tale of Elak of Atlantis

  The Story Thus Far

  “THE Northmen have invaded Cyrena. King Orander, your brother, is a captive of Elf the warlock, who has made a pact with the Viking chief, Guthrum. We need your help—the armies of Cyrena will follow you, but no other man.”

  So D’alan, a Druid priest, told Zeulas, who had once been a prince of Cyrena, but who was now known as Elak, a wandering adventurer of Atlantis. Together with Lycon, Elak’s comrade, and Velia, the young bride of Duke Grani-cor, of Poseidonia, they set forth toward the Central Lake, where Dalan’s galley waited. Granicor, furious at the loss of his wife, pursued them in another ship, aided by the wizardry of Elf.

  Near the shores of mysterious Crenos Isle the galleys met and battled, but were separated by a storm during which Elak was lost overboard. He was cast up on Crenos Isle and captured by the Pikhts, allies of Elf, a decadent, semihuman race who attempted to sacrifice Elak to their god, a Shadow which dwelt in the depths of a subterranean pool. Guided by Dalan’s voice, Elak cast himself into the pool and found himself in another world, where only the aid of Solonala, a witch-girl from an alien universe, enabled him to escape temporarily from the Shadow’s menace.

  Meanwhile Dalan’s galley had been beached on Crenos Isle, and the Druid’s magic showed .him the fate that menaced Elak. Lycon and Velia set out with the crew to invade the stronghold of the Pikhts, while Dalan sought the aid of Mider, ancient god of the Druids. Despite the power of the Shadow and the spells of Elf, Elak was saved by Mider, but only through Solonala’s self-sacrifice.

  The story continues:

  8. They Come to Cyrena

  “ELAK.” It was Lycon’s voice.

  Elak opened his eyes. Gray light bathed him.

  He was in the corridor of the pool, in the underground Pikht temple. Above him hovered the small fat figure of Lycon, round face alight with anxiety.

  “Are you alive, Elak? Did those damned dwarfs——”

  Elak drew a deep breath, got painfully to his feet, water cascading from his hair and garments. He looked down to where, beside him, the surface of the sunken basin lay blue and calm, untroubled by the Shadow that had once darkened it.

  “I’ve just dragged you from there,” Lycon said, following his gaze. “You shot up from the water like a cork.”

  “There was no other?” Elak asked. “You saw no one else in the pool?”

  Lycon was silent for a time, watching his friend’s eyes. Presently he shook his head.

  “No,” he said softly. “There was no other.”

  And then there was no more talk for a while, because Velia led in the blood-smeared oarsmen, who had just slain the last of the Pikhts; and Lycon was noisy about the number of dwarfs he had cut down and was, he said, almost thirsty enough to drink water.

  “But not quite,” he added. “Let’s get back to the galley. It wasn’t damaged much by the storm, Elak, and we can launch it in two days . . .”

  SO AGAIN the black galley drove northward through the Inland Sea, skirting the western shores of Crenos Isle, on through the swirling waters until white cliffs loomed on the horizon. And there, when it was least expected, Duke Granicor’s ship came down on them as the galley was beached.

  “Mider rot him!” the Druid growled, climbing ponderously over the rail, his brown, sea-stained garment flapping in the wind. “There’s no time to fight him now, Elak. We’ve got to get the chiefs together, lead them against the Northmen.”

  “My brother,” Elak said. “Don’t forget him.”

  “I know. But that must come later. You can’t help Orander till the Vikings are driven from Elf’s fortress, where they have their headquarters and where your brother’s a prisoner.”

  Lycon swaggered up, a flagon swinging against his side. “By the Nine Hells and a dozen more,” he observed, “are we afraid of Granicor? Go on ahead, Elak, and take Dalan with you. Give me two oarsmen and I’ll stay here and——”

  “You’re drunk,” Elak said without rancor. “Go away.” He turned to stare at the long galley that was rapidly growing larger as it swept shoreward. Elak’s spirits had been dampened since his adventure with the Pikhts, and the image of Solonala could not be dimmed even by Velia’s caresses. Her self-sacrifice had shaken him more than he knew. And within him had crystallized a burning desire to cross blades with Elf, to slay the warlock minstrel—and swiftly!

  So he agreed with Dalan. “We’ll head inland, eh?”

  “To Sharn Forest. The chiefs will gather there, with their men. I’ve sent a messenger, and the word will go through Cyrena. When the armies have gathered at Sharn, we’ll move north on Elf’s fortress.”

  “Good! I wish I had my rapier, though—this sword’s too heavy.” Elak made the tempered blade hiss through the air, and Dalan chuckled.

  “You can spill blood with it, though. Come. Granicor is almost within bowshot.”

  Dalan in the lead, the band set out to climb the white cliffs, reaching the summit as the Duke of Poseidonia beached his galley. Granicor wasted no time in threats; grimly silent, he led his crew in pursuit.

  But the duke was soon left behind. This was familiar country to Dalan, and swiftly the party marched through a tangled forest wilderness, even Velia touched by eagerness that enabled her to keep pace easily. That night they camped in a little valley by a stream that chuckled pleasantly as it wound among furze and bracken.

  Elak, sitting by the fire, idly plaited Velia’s bronze hair. “It’s good to be in Cyrena again,” he told her. “I never thought I’d walk this land again. Do you like it, Velia?”

  She nodded, the firelight bronze on her face. “It’s rough and wild and—and honest, somehow. Strong men must live here, Elak.”

  “The Northmen are stronger,” Dalan growled. “At least, until Cyrena has a leader.” He reached out a huge hand and retrieved Lycon, who was reeling dangerously close to the fire. “Bah, this drunken dog! But he’s a faithful one, at least.”

  “Only the gods know my true worth,” Lycon said surprisingly and collapsed in an inert heap, muttering faintly. Suddenly he sat up, his eyes bright. “Listen, Elak!”

  As he spoke feet came trampling through the underbrush. Granicor’s voice bellowed a raucous command. Yelling men charged down the slope.

  “Gods!” Elak snapped. “He’s trailed us, somehow. To arms!” His sharp cry cut icily through the night; swords gleamed redly; and the next moment Granicor and his crew were within the circle of firelight.

  Dulled by the heat of the flames, not expecting attack, yet Dalan’s men met the charge bravely. The two forces came together, crashed and mingled, and then it was a whirling fire-lit madness of blood and steel. Granicor headed directly for Elak, and, nothing loath, the tall adventurer sprang to meet him, sword hissing. The blades shrieked together in midair, were sent flying by the power of the blows, and, weaponless, Elak and Granicor closed, the duke snarling oaths, the other watchful and silent. They went down, scattering embers from the fire’s edge.

  SUDDENLY a shrill, warning cry came, above a low thunder of hoofs that boomed out from nearby.

  “Vikings! ’Ware—Vikings! The Northmen!”

  And down into the valley rode red-bearded giants, roaring, spears driving, swords hewing, driving resistlessly over the campfire as they had swept down on Cyrena. Men screamed and died beneath trampling hoofs, and those who lived fled into the forest. In a mome
nt the encampment was empty, save for the Northmen, the dead, and two men who lay locked in furious struggle on the ground.

  Elak’s arm was locked about Granicor’s throat, but the duke’s bull-thewed legs were slowly crushing his ribs, forcing the breath from his body, when the Vikings prodded the two apart with ungentle blades.

  “Thunder of Thor!” a harsh voice grunted. “What mad men are these? Guthrum, they——”

  Guthrum! At that name Elak tore free, sprang to his feet, heedless of the steel points that pricked him. His stare found a red-bearded giant in chain mail and brimless helmet, a man whose face had once been strong and powerful and valorous—a man whose eyes were dead!

  Blue eyes, dull and cold and bitterly ferocious, watched Elak. This was Guthrum, leader of the Northmen, whose pact with Elf had resulted in the imprisonment of Orander, King of Cyrena.

  “Guthrum?” It was Granicor’s voice. “The Viking? My people aren’t at war with yours. I am from Poseidonia!” The duke stood squarely facing Guthrum, looking up defiantly at the somber figure on horseback.

  Without replying the Northman lashed out with a mail-shod foot, sent it driving into Granicor’s face. Blood spurted as the duke reeled back. He caught himself, fumbled for a weapon that was not there—and hurled himself forward, up at Guthrum’s throat, snarling a blazing oath.

  The Viking’s horse reared; Granicor went down under driving hoofs. Bitter laughter shook Guthrum, but the dull rage in his eyes was unchanged as he looked down on the prostrate Atlantean, turned to eye Elak. The tall adventurer felt a shudder course down his spine as he met that dreadful blue gaze. Something had been drained from the Viking chief, and there sat in his eyes that which was not human.

  Granicor staggered upright, and Guthrum wheeled his mount to face the gory figure. In silence he listened while the duke choked out furious curses born of agonizing rage and shame. And then: “Do you think I fear such as you? Do you think I fear anything on earth—after what a warlock has shown me?” The dull stare of the Viking was utterly horrible in its cold ferocity. “I, who have come sane from the vaults of Elf’s citadel—shall I fear your curses?”

  He clapped spurs to his horse, went thundering into the darkness. From the gloom his voice came roaring back: “Crucify those men!”

  9. The Chiefs in Sharn

  SPURRED by the menace of Guthrum’s words, Elak tore free momentarily from his captors, but as he turned to the forest they were upon him. He fought furiously, desperately—uselessly. He was born down, held powerless in the grip of red-bearded, mail-clad giants, as Granicor, his face a bloody ruin, was also held.

  Working swiftly, the Vikings stripped Granicor of his armor, dragged him to where a great oak grew nearby. He cursed them, striving to break away, his tiny eyes flaming with rage and fear. But thongs lifted the duke’s apelike body, binding him inexorably against the tree’s bole. His arms were drawn up behind him, circling the trunk—and with iron spikes and improvised hammers the Northmen went about their crimson work.

  Elak watched, white-faced, as iron tore through flesh and bone, listening to the frightful cries that burst through Granicor’s mangled lips. The Vikings left him at last, letting him hang by his hands, shoulders wrenched almost out of their sockets. They turned to Elak.

  He tensed for a hopeless struggle. And abruptly he sensed astonishment in the craggy faces about him. The Vikings had turned, staring, to where a gross brown figure stood just within the circle of firelight.

  Dalan—his toad face hideous with fury, huge hands lifted. He made no sound, but so dreadful was the menace in his expression that the Northmen were held motionless for a moment. Then a cry went up; they surged forward, blades ready.

  The Druid flung out his arms in a strange gesture—as though he hurled a curse at his enemies. From his thick lips a word came, unfamiliar, alien. There was power in the gesture, power in the word Dalan spoke. The air seemed to quiver, charged with electric force.

  Thunder burst in Elak’s ears. He was flung back, blinded by a sheet of white flame that washed the clearing in stark brilliance. For a second he lost consciousness.

  Then the Druid was lifting him, muttering curses. Feebly Elak freed himself, stared around. The place looked as though lightning had struck it. The grass and trees were seared and blackened, and of the Northmen only charred corpses in half-melted armor remained.

  “Ishtar!” Elak whispered, his voice unsteady. “What—what happened, Dalan? Is this more of your—magic?”

  The Druid nodded. “A fire-magic I cannot work often. We have power over flame, Elak—and there’s flame in the sky as well as on earth. With Mider’s aid, I drew down the lightning. Those barbarians died by their god’s thunderbolt.” Vicious laughter shook the huge bulk. “Lucky for you I wasn’t cut down when the Vikings rode in. Look, their horses have stampeded—those that aren’t blasted to death.”

  Elak touched his singed eyebrows. “I don’t see how I escaped. Can you direct this wizard lightning of yours, Dalan?”

  “Perhaps. Also the Northmen wore armor, and you have none. That may have accounted for it. See—the man they crucified, Granicor—he wears no armor, and he’s still alive. Barely, I think.”

  Elak gaze went to where the tortured body of the duke hung from the oak. He hesitated, then went forward purposefully.

  “Lycon?” he asked over his shoulder. “Velia? Are they safe?”

  The Druid nodded. “Yes, they’re waiting not far away. But the rest of the crew are dead or scattered. We’ll have to move quickly to reach Sharn Forest—I didn’t know the Vikings had come this far south, and four of us can’t very well fight an army. In Sharn we’ll meet the chiefs—what are you doing, you fool? Freeing that dog?”

  “He’s an Atlantean, at least,” Elak said, wrenching at one of the iron spikes that transfixed Granicor’s hand. “And this is no way for any man to die.”

  The duke had apparently lost consciousness. As the last spike came free, his body slumped down in a bloody huddle at the tree’s foot. Elak paused.

  “He can’t live long. But I don’t like to leave him here to be tortured by the Northmen if they come. Yet——”

  “We can’t take him with us! Gods, will you feed him pap and nurse him after he’s just tried to slit your throat—while Elf rules Cyrena and holds your brother captive? I tell you we must get to Sharn—and quickly!”

  “Very well,” Elak agreed, turning toward the forest. “He can’t live till morning—no man could, with those wounds. To Sharn, then—and after that we march on Elf’s fortress.”

  “We march on Guthrum’s army,” Dalan grunted, “Wherever it may be. But it won’t be far from the warlock’s citadel. Guthrum’s headquarters is there.”

  His ungainly figure vanished in the shadows, Elak at his side. And at the foot of a great oak tree a frightful figure dragged itself half erect, an apelike man, seared and blood-stained and wounded on hands and feet. Mangled lips writhed and opened.

  “Elf’s—fortress,” a harsh voice whispered, cracked with agony. “And Guthrum!” A gout of blood spewed from the man’s throat, and a paroxysm of coughing shook him. He clung to the oak, dragged himself upright, grinning with abysmal pain.

  “So I won’t live till morning?” he mumbled. “I’ll live—till I find Guthrum!”

  Duke Granicor staggered a few steps and collapsed, but he lay inert for only a moment. Then, very slowly, wheezing and groaning between clenched teeth, he began to drag himself into the forest . . .

  ELAK stood before the Druid altar in Sharn Forest, a great gray stone, its top hollowed out into a shallow basin that was stained darkly by countless ages of sacrifice. It was dawn. A day and a night had passed since the encounter with Granicor and the Northmen, and for a few hours Elak has slept in the shadow of the Druid stone, while the chiefs gathered, drawn to Sharn by swift messengers. Lycon and Velia had slept beside him, and Dalan had watched, greeting each newcomer as he arrived. Now nearly all the chiefs were here, a grim half-circle in
the cold light of dawn, their strong faces betraying little of their thoughts. Yet somehow Elak sensed hostility in the eyes watching him, and their gaze was suspicious as well as appraising. Dalan realized something of this, for his ugly face was set in an appalling snarl.

  A young chieftain pushed forward, bull-necked, ruddy-cheeked. He advanced till he stood only a few feet from Dalan and halted with folded arms.

  “Have I your leave to speak, Druid?” he asked mockingly.

  Somber eyes watched him. “Ay, Halmer. Since Cyrena chooses a cub for spokesman—speak.”

  Halmer’s laugh was scornful. “My words are those of all, I think. Well—listen, then. The Northmen are still on the coasts. They will not come south. If they do, we can drive them back.”

  “What of Orander?” Dalan asked. “What of your king?”

  The young chief hesitated. Then, gathering courage from the Druid’s calm, he snapped, “We’ll fight for our own holdings, if need be. But Elf’s magic—who can fight that? I say, let the Northmen hold the coast, if they want it. They’ve not troubled my lands yet. If they do, I’ll know how to drive them away.”

  “And one by one you will go down beneath Guthrum,” Dalan said. “Halmer speaks for you all? You’ll let your king rot in Elf’s power, you’ll let the Northmen hang like a cankerous sore on the coast—Mider! But you need a king’s strong hand to rule you! Without Orander you squabble among yourselves like a pack of snarling curs.”

  Some looked shamefaced at that, but none spoke.

  Finally: “Who is this Elak?” one asked. “You say he’s Zeulas, the king’s brother. Perhaps. But you ask us to bow down before a man who killed his stepfather—a man who may, then, kill his brother and rule Cyrena!”

  Elak growled a curse. He pushed past the Druid.