Elak of Atlantis (8 page)

It seemed to Elak that, far in the gloom, something was watching—something infinitely horrible, avid for prey. And Halmer must have sensed something of this. He wavered, without taking a step forward or back.

“Druid magic
is feeble,” Dalan whispered. “What holds you, Halmer? There is nothing in the wood.”

Nothing—but a soft soughing, a nameless rustle in primeval, shadow-darkened forest. The dark dawn lowered over Sharn.

“Old men and children fear me,” the Druid mocked. “But
you
do not, Halmer. No.”

Snarling a furious curse, the young chief leaped forward into the gloom as though casting off unseen shackles. The murmuring deepened, grew to a low, sullen roar. Halmer was a dim shadow plunging forward between towering trunks.

Men saw him pause, casting a startled glance upward. His sword flashed out—and the roar of the forest grew deafening. From above something came hurtling down, a great branch, torn from its parent tree, sent plunging through foliage upon a man who screamed once in frantic fear and died. Men saw Halmer borne down, broken, under the terrible impact. The roaring died to a faint murmur, lessened almost to nothing.

“Druid magic is feeble,” Dalan said softly. “Does Halmer think that now?” He swung to face the chiefs, bellowing. “Follow Halmer if you dare! Leave Sharn without swearing fealty to Elak—and you walk the forests under the Druid curse. By Mider! Go—and see how long you live!”

But none dared face the Druid’s wrath. One by one the chiefs came forward and cast their blades before Elak.

So Elak took command of Cyrena’s armies—and from Sharn Forest the word went forth like flame: Gather! Sharpen steel! The land is risen against the Northmen—and the king’s brother leads Cyrena against Elf and Guthrum!

Gather! Gather to march against the Viking hordes!

10. IN THE VALLEY OF SKULLS

Lycon swilled wine from a goatskin, set it down, and wiped his mouth with the back of a pudgy hand. His sharp eyes drifted over serried ranks of armored men, flashing steel, horses snorting hungry for battle. It had taken twelve days to draw the last fighting man from the mountains and far places of Cyrena; three days more of steady marching to reach the Valley of Skulls, named for a bandit who, long ago, had littered the slopes with the heads of his enemies. But the Northmen had drawn together swiftly and had made their stand, too, in the Valley of Skulls. A river separated the two armies, safely beyond bowshot of each other.

“When do
we attack?” Lycon asked Elak, who stood beside him on a little knoll.

“Soon,” the lean adventurer said. “The sun will rise in a few minutes. At sunrise we cross Monra River.” He tested the metal of his rapier. “It’s good to have a weapon like this again. I’ll give this blade its baptism today.”

“And I’ll give mine,” Velia broke in, coming lightly up the hill toward them. Her slim armor-clad body gleamed in the gray light of false dawn. Her bronze hair foamed out from a helmet that was too small to prison its bright masses. “This is different from Poseidonia, Elak. This was the life I was meant for—not a perfumed harem in Granicor’s palace.”

“Yes, it’s different from Poseidonia,” Lycon said glumly. “They have good liquor there. It’s next to impossible to get wine in this barbarian land, and the bitter ale your countrymen drink is too much for me, Elak. Gall and wormwood!” He spat and reached for the goatskin again.

Elak drew Velia close to him, kissed her swiftly. “We may meet death today,” he told the flushed girl. “I’d rather you’d stay in camp.”

Velia smiled and shook her head. “I’ve tasted war, and I like the draft. Listen!”

Far along the valley trumpets blew a call; they grew louder, closer, till the tocsin resounded from slope to slope. Across the river the armies of the Northmen waited.…

“They mean to use arrows as we cross,” Elak said. “But I think they’ll be disappointed. My plans are made.”

Trumpets shouted,
drums groaned, banners lifted, streaming in the chill dawn wind, and the army of Cyrena moved forward. Brawny, fair-skinned, yellow-haired warriors, following their chiefs, riding their chargers into the foaming current of Monra River—and, watching, Elak smiled.

“Hira and Dalan have led men to the Vikings’ flanks,” he told Velia. “The Northmen think we’ll ford the river near the center of their front. But—look!”

The first rank of Elak’s army were in the river, dashing across in the face of a storm of arrows. On the opposite bank waited pikemen, and behind them, armored red-beards with swords and axes. The men of Cyrena seemed suddenly to surge forward in the wake of the advance guard, hurling themselves toward Monra River, down the valley’s slope. But in their rear ranks a concerted movement was taking place; whole troops and companies were racing to left and right, slanting toward the river, attempting to outflank the Northmen.

“What’s this?” Velia asked. “The Vikings can ride as fast as our men. Why—”

Across the river the enemy had seen Elak’s move, and their flanks moved outward—but not far. A great shout arose far to the left, and, a moment later, a thunderous roar came from the right. Over the ridge, on both wings of the Viking army, rode warriors, streaming down the slopes, swords and lances gleaming in the sunlight.

“Hira—and Dalan!” Lycon said. “They outflanked the Northmen in the night. They’ll give us a chance to cross Monra.”

Now the strategy was evident; a thin line of warriors held the bank of the river, their bowmen keeping the enemy engaged. And the rear ranks of Cyrena galloped to left and right, racing into Monra River, plunging across it and up the steep shores in the face of a hail of arrows and steel. They could not have succeeded had it not been for Hira and Dalan, whose warriors spread ruin and confusion in the Viking flanks.

“We’ve crossed,” Elak barked, eyes agleam. “Now we’re on equal ground—it’s strength, not strategy, that counts now we’ve crossed Monra. Come on!” He turned to a great white charger that stood nearby, stamping his impatience, his hoofs striking fire from the rocks underfoot. With one leap Elak was in the saddle.

Upright in the stirrups,
shouting, rapier unsheathed, he thundered down the slope, and behind him rode Lycon and Velia—down to the water’s edge, into Monra River, foam splashing high as they charged across. A roar went up from the warriors—and the next moment, driven back by the impetus of Elak’s forces, slashing and thrusting at his heels, the Northmen gave way up the slope, desperately contending each inch of ground lost.

Then there was nothing but a red maelstrom of hewing and cutting, ax and sword and strongly driven spear; screaming of horses that galloped by with riders clinging with one hand and warring with the other; horses plunging and dying in a welter of thunderous crimson ruin—giant men fighting and falling and slaying as they fell.

Raven banners toppled. Shouts of “
Odin! Thor with us!
” mingled with roars of “
Cyrena! Cyrena!
” Elak thrust and thrust again, guiding his steed with one hand as it stumbled and leaped over knots of prostrate, struggling men and still, bloody bodies. Above the ranks that surrounded him he saw the Druid’s head nodding and swaying far to the right, and a great sword hewed steadily about Dalan, cutting a wide swath of corpses. And ahead, in the front rank of the Viking army, rode Guthrum, red beard flaming, moving like a towering pestilence among men whose helms and heads were crushed by his bloody ax.

“Thor! Thor with us!”

“
Cyrena!
”

Sweat and blood
smeared Elak’s face. He tried to find Lycon and Velia, knew it was impossible in the melee. A Viking rode at him yelling, spear leveled; the white warhorse leaped forward and aside at Elak’s urging. The spear point grazed his cheek as he swayed aside, and his blade sank deep into the Northman’s hairy throat. He whipped it out, steel singing, thrust at a new foe.

The sun rose higher, and the reek of spilled gore mingled with the stench of sweat. At the top of the ridge the Vikings rallied, knowing that if they were driven past it they were lost. And like a massacre King Guthrum raged among his enemies, his ax rising and falling steadily, rhythmically, dreadful as the hammer of the Northmen’s god Thor. The army of Cyrena was checked—driven back a little down the slope.

“Forward!” Elak spurred his charger, sent it leaping against the mad horde that swept down Skull Valley. “
Cyrena! Ho, Cyrena!
” His rapier darted out like a snake striking, and its touch was as deadly. A Viking fell, screaming his death cry.

And Elak’s voice caught his army as it hesitated on the brink of retreat that led to destruction. One man, mad with valor, facing an army—and then Cyrena held, held and resisted and charged to meet the Northmen as they poured down.

“Slay!” A voice screamed—Dalan’s hoarse, trumpet-loud. “Slay the Vikings! For Cyrena!”

Men dazed and exhausted with battle felt new life pulse within them; blood-drunken, murder-hungry, they flooded against their enemies in a blasting charge that could have only one result. Fighting bitterly, insanely, hopelessly, the Northmen were overwhelmed, pushed up to the crest—beyond it, down the slope, while from the Valley of Skulls the armies of Cyrena came like a consuming flame. It was the day of doom for the Vikings—their Ragnarok—and the raven banners fell in the dust and were trampled by racing hoofs.

“
Slay! Slay the Vikings!
”

Upright in his stirrups Elak shouted, seeing in the defeat of the Northmen the ruin of Guthrum, the end of Elf—the freeing of his brother Orander. Cyrena had conquered—that he knew. Beside him Lycon reined up, his round face flushed and bleeding.

“Ho, Elak! They run like rabbits!” Even now Lycon could not refrain from his habitual exaggeration. For the red-bearded giants were not fleeing; they fought on, hopelessly, slaying as they died.

Resolution flared in Elak’s eyes. “Lycon—stay here. Lead our men.” He whirled his horse.

“Where are
you going, Elak?”

“To Elf’s fortress! Now! I’ll take him by surprise—”

The rest was lost as Elak clapped spurs down, galloped up to the ridge—along it, skirting the edge of the battle. Lycon’s shout was unheard in the roar.

But another had seen Elak’s flight. A horse broke from the uproar, raced in pursuit. Astride it sat Dalan, brown robe streaming. Not even in this battle had he donned armor, and strangely no weapon had touched him. But few could venture alive within the deadly sweep of the Druid’s sword. The runes carved on its blade ran red now, dripping along the horse’s flank as it raced after Elak.

And behind them rose the death cry of the Vikings in Cyrena, while after Elak, after the Druid, rode vengeance. Guthrum on his huge black charger, grimly silent, leading a little band of Northmen—and there was cold murder in the Viking king’s bitter eyes!

11. HOW GRANICOR DIED

Elf’s fortress rose, a great grim castle of stone, flanked by the sullen waters of the Inland Sea. It was empty now, or nearly so, for the Vikings had gone to meet Elak’s army in the Valley of Skulls, and Elf kept few servitors. Men whispered that not all of these were human.

In the dimness of early morning a man had come down from the hills and entered the citadel, hoisting himself painfully from stone to jagged stone of the wall that guarded Elf’s privacy. But the rivet-studded, iron barbican that blocked the inner gate he could not pass; and so he waited, skulking in the shadows, caressing the edge of a long sword he carried in one maimed hand. The face of Duke Granicor was like that of one of the gargoyles that grinned from the roofs of the fortress. Incredibly he had lived, had made his way north in search of Guthrum, and now, knowing nothing of the battle in the Valley of the Skulls, he sat on his haunches, a malignant fire glowing in his eyes. His clothing was in rags, and he more than ever resembled some monstrous shaggy ape lying in wait for its prey.

The sun was high when at last
he heard the clatter of hoofs and swiftly drew back into a shadowy niche. Elak and the Druid reined to a halt before the door of iron let into the outer wall, and the tall adventurer swung from his horse, his gaze examining the rough stones. The other’s voice halted him.

“Wait, Elak. We won’t have to climb. I’ll open this door for you.”

Dalan, without dismounting, reached into the folds of his robe, drew forth something which he hurled at the barrier. Immediately a sheet of blinding white flame sprang up, hiding the wall momentarily, setting the horses lunging and prancing in terror. Elak was nearly jerked from his feet as he fought to hold his steed.

Then the flames died. Where the door had been was a white-hot puddle of melted iron, and the stones of the portal were blackened and cracked by the intense heat. The Druid spurred forward his horse, and it hurdled the searing liquid iron easily. Elak followed, just in time to see fire burst out from the grill of the barbican.

“So far, so good,” Dalan grunted, watching the iron melt and drip to the stones of the courtyard. “But Elf doesn’t depend on doors and walls alone.”

Elak, looking up, did not answer. On the summit of the inner wall a gargoylish figure was carved seemingly of rugose dark stone, a creature that might have sprung from any of the Nine Hells. Stunted and huge and hideous it seemed to crouch above the courtyard, glaring down menacingly. Wide wings swept out from its gnarled shoulders. Somehow Elak sensed evil in the posture of the thing, the tiny eyes that seemed to watch him.

“Come! The barbican’s down—”

The Druid’s black warhorse stepped forward—and simultaneously Elak caught a flicker of movement from above, sensed rather than saw a great figure that hurtled down, wings sweeping, talons clutching murderously. He clapped spurs into the stallion, sent him driving against Dalan’s steed. With the same movement he unsheathed his rapier, thrust up almost without aim.

A flapping of wings buffeted him.
The weapon was torn from his grasp, and he crashed down on the stones, battling for his life with a monster that clawed and bellowed and ripped with vicious tusks—the thing he had thought carved from stone, the gargoyle, brought to evil life by Elf’s dark sorcery. Exhausted as he was, Elak was no match for the creature. The fangs drove toward his throat; a foul breath was strong in his nostrils.