He removed the telescope from his eye to look at the enemy ships trailing by a mile. As he did so, he saw something flash in the sky. It was a curving sword of white, appearing suddenly as if unsheathed from the blue. It stabbed downward and then was gone behind the mountains.
SAM was startled. He had seen many small meteorites in the night sky but never a large one. Yet this daytime giant set his eyes afire and left an afterimage on his eyes for a second or two. Then the image faded, and Sam forgot about the falling star. He scanned the bank again with his telescope.
This part of The River had been typical. On each side of the mile-and-a-half-wide River was a mile-and-a-half-wide grass-grown plain. On each bank, huge mushroom-shaped stone structures, the grailstones, were spaced a mile apart. Trees were few on the plains, but the foothills were thick with pine, oak, yew, and the irontree. This was a thousand-foot-high plant with gray bark, enormous elephant-ear leaves, hundreds of thick gnarly branches, roots so deep and wood so hard that the tree could not be cut, burned, or dug out. Vines bearing large flowers of many bright colors grew over their branches.
There was a mile or two of foothills, and then the abruptness of smooth-sided mountains, towering from twenty thousand to thirty thousand feet, unscalable past the ten thousand-foot mark.
The area through which the three Norse boats were sailing was inhabited largely by early nineteenth-century Germans. There was the usual ten percent population from another place and time of Earth. Here, the ten percent was first-century Persians. And there was also the ubiquitous one percent of seemingly random choices from any time and any place.
The telescope swung past the bamboo huts on the plains and the faces of the people. The men were clad only in various towels; the women, in short towellike skirts and thin cloths around the breasts. There were many gathered on the bank, apparently to watch the battle. They carried flint-tipped spears and bows and arrows but were not in martial array.
Clemens grunted suddenly and held the telescope on the face of a man. At this distance and with the weak power of the instrument, he could not clearly see the man’s features. But the wide-shouldered body and dark face suggested familiarity. Where had he seen that face before?
Then it struck him. The man looked remarkably like the photographs of the famous English explorer Sir Richard Burton that he’d seen on Earth. Rather, there was something suggestive of the man. Clemens sighed and turned the eyepiece to the other faces as the ship took him away. He would never know the true identity of the fellow.
He would have liked to put ashore and talk to him, find out if he really was Burton. In the twenty years of life on this river-planet, and the seeing of millions of faces, Clemens had not yet met one person he had known on Earth. He did not know Burton personally, but he was sure that Burton must have heard of him. This man—if he was Burton—would be a link, if thin, to the dead Earth.
And then, as a far-off blurred figure came within the round of the telescope, Clemens cried out incredulously.
“Livy! Oh, my God! Livy!”
There could be no doubt. Although the features could not be clearly distinguished, they formed an overwhelming, not-to-be-denied truth. The head, the hairdo, the figure, and the unmistakable walk (as unique as a fingerprint) shouted out that here was his Earthly wife.
“Livy!” he sobbed. The ship heeled to tack, and he lost her. Frantically, he swung the end of the scope back and forth.
Eyes wide, he stomped with his foot on the deck, and he bellowed, “Bloodaxe! Bloodaxe! Up here! Hurry!”
He swung toward the helmsman and shouted that he should go back and direct the ship toward the bank. Grimolfsson was taken aback at first by Clemens’ vehemence. Then he slitted his eyes, shook his head, and growled out a no.
“I order you to!” Clemens screamed, forgetting that the helmsman did not understand English. “That’s my wife! Livy! My beautiful Livy, as she was when she was twenty-five! Brought back from the dead!”
Someone rumbled behind him, and Clemens whirled to see a blond head with a shorn-off left ear appear on the level of the deck. Then Erik Bloodaxe’s broad shoulders, massive chest, and huge biceps came into view, followed by pillarlike thighs as he came up on the ladder. He wore a green-and-black checked towel, a broad belt holding several chert knives and a holster for his ax. This was of steel, broadbladed and with an oak handle. It was, as far as Clemens knew, unique on this planet, where stone and wood were the only materials for weapons.
He frowned as he looked over The River. He turned to Clemens and said, “What is it, sma-skitligr? You made me miscue when you screamed like Thor’s bride on her wedding night. I lost a cigar to Toki Njalsson.”
He took the ax from its holster and swung it. The sun glinted off the blue steel. “You had better have a good reason for disturbing me. I have killed many men for far less.”
Clemens’ face was pale beneath the tan, but this time it was not caused by Erik’s threat. He glared, the wind-ruffled hair, staring eyes, and aquiline profile making him look like a kestrel falcon.
“To hell with you and your ax!” he shouted. “I just saw my wife, Livy, there on the right bank! I want…I demand…that you take me ashore so I can be with her again! Oh, God, after all these years, all this hopeless searching! It’ll only take a minute! You can’t deny me this; you’d be inhuman to do so!”
The ax whistled and sparkled. The Norseman grinned.
“All this fuss for a woman? What about her?” And he gestured at a small dark woman standing near the great pedestal and tube of the rocket-launcher.
CLEMENS became even paler. He said, “Temah is a fine girl! I’m very fond of her! But she’s not Livy!”
“Enough of this,” Bloodaxe said. “Do you take me to be as big a fool as you? If I put into shore, we’d be caught between the ground and river forces, ground like meal in Frey’s mill. Forget about her.”
Clemens screamed like a falcon and launched himself, arms out and flapping, at the Viking. Erik brought the flat of the ax against Clemens’ head and knocked him to the deck. For several minutes, Clemens lay on his back, eyes open and staring at the sun. Blood seeped from the roots of the hair falling down over his face. Then he got to all fours and began to vomit.
Erik gave an impatient order. Temah, looking sidewise with fright at Erik, dipped a bucket at the end of a rope into The River. She threw the water over Clemens, who sat up and then wobbled to his feet. Temah drew another bucket and washed off the deck.
Clemens snarled at Erik. Erik laughed and said, “Little coward, you’ve been talking too big for too long! Now, you know what happens when you talk to Erik Bloodaxe as if he were a thrall. Consider yourself lucky that I did not kill you.”
Clemens spun away from Erik, staggered to the railing, and began to climb upon it. “Livy!”
Swearing, Bloodaxe ran after him, seized him around the waist, and dragged him back. Then he pushed Clemens so heavily that Clemens fell on the deck again.
“You’re not deserting me at this time!” Erik said. “I need you to find that iron mine!”
“There isn….” Clemens said and then closed his mouth tightly. Let the Norseman find out that he did not know where the mine—if there was a mine—was located, and he would be killed on the spot.
“Moreover,” Erik continued cheerfully, “after we find the iron, I may need you to help us toward the Polar Tower, although I think I can get there just by following The River. But you have much knowledge that I need. And I can use that frost giant, Joe Miller.”
“Joe!” Clemens said in a thick voice. He tried to get back onto his feet. “Joe Miller! Where’s Joe? He’ll kill you!”
The ax cut the air above Clemens’ head. “You will tell Joe nothing of this, do you hear? I swear by Odin’s blind socket, I will get to you and kill you before he can put a hand on me. Do you hear?”
Clemens got to his feet and swayed for a minute. Then he called, in a louder voice, “Joe! Joe Miller!”
2
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nbsp; A voice from below the poop deck muttered. It was so deep that it made the hairs on the backs of men’s necks rise even after hearing it for the thousandth time.
The stout bamboo ladder creaked beneath a weight, creaked so loudly it could be heard above the song of wind through leather ropes, flapping of membranous sails, grind of wooden joints, shouts of crew, hiss of water against the hull.
The head that rose above the edge of the deck was even more frightening than the inhumanly deep voice. It was as large as a half pony of beer and was all bars and arches and shelves and flying buttresses of bone beneath a pinkish and loose skin. Bone circled the eyes, small-seeming and dark blue. The nose was inappropriate to the rest of his features, since it should have been flat-bridged and flaring-nostriled. Instead, it was the monstrous and comical travesty of the human nose that the proboscis monkey shows to a laughing world. In its lengthy shadow was a long upper lip, like a chimpanzee’s or comic-strip Irishman’s. The lips were thin and protruded, shoved out by the convex jaws beneath.
His shoulders made Erik Bloodaxe’s look like pretzels. Ahead of him he pushed a great paunch, a balloon trying to rise from the body to which it was anchored. His legs and arms seemed short, they were so out of proportion to the long trunk. The juncture of thigh and body was level with Sam Clemens’ chin, and his arms, extended, could hold, and had held, Clemens out at arm’s length in the air for an hour without a tremor.
He wore no clothes nor did he need them for modesty’s sake, though he had not known modesty until taught by Homo sapiens. Long rusty-red hair, thicker than a man’s, less dense than a chimpanzee’s, was plastered to the body by his sweat. The skin beneath the hairs was the dirty-pink of a blond Nordic.
He ran a hand the size of an unabridged dictionary through the wavy, rusty-red hair that began an inch above the eyes and slanted back rapidly. He yawned and showed huge human-seeming teeth.
“I vath thleeping,” he rumbled, “I vath dreaming of Earth, of klravulthithmengbhabafving—vhat you call mammothth. Thothe vere the good old dayth.”
He shuffled forward, then stopped. “Tham! Vhat happened! You’re bleeding! You look thick!”
Bellowing for his guards, Erik Bloodaxe stepped backward from the titanthrop. “Your friend went mad! He thought he’d seen his wife—for the thousandth time—and he attacked me because I wouldn’t take him in to the bank to her. Tyr’s testicles, Joe! You know how many times he’s thought he saw that woman, and how many times we stopped, and how many times it always turned out to be a woman who looked something like his woman but wasn’t!
“This time, I said no! Even if it had been his woman, I would have said no! We’d be putting our heads in the wolf’s mouth!”
Erik crouched, ax lifted, ready to swing at the giant. Shouts came from middeck, and a big redhead with a flint ax ran up the ladder. The helmsman gestured for him to leave. The redhead, seeing Joe Miller so belligerent, did not hesitate to retreat.
“Vhat you thay, Tham?” Miller said. “Thyould I tear him apart?”
Clemens held his head in both hands and said, “No. He’s right, I suppose. I don’t really know if she was Livy. Probably just a German hausfrau. I don’t know!”
He groaned. “I don’t know! Maybe it was her!”
Fishbone horns blared, and a huge drum on the middeck thundered. Sam Clemens said, “Forget about this, Joe, until we get through the straits—if we do get through! If we’re to survive, we’ll have to fight together. Later….”
“You alvayth thay later, Tham, but there never ith a later. Vhy?”
“If you can’t figure that out, Joe, you’re as dumb as you look!” Clemens snapped.
Tearshields glinted in Joe’s eyes, and his bulging cheeks became wet.
“Every time you get thcared, you call me dumb,” he said. “Vhy take it out on me? Vhy not on the people that thcare the thyit outa you? Vhy not on Bloodakthe?”
“I apologize, Joe,” Clemens said. “Out of the mouths of babes and apemen…You’re not so dumb; you’re pretty smart. Forget it, Joe, I’m sorry.”
Bloodaxe swaggered up to them but kept out of Joe’s reach. He grinned as he swung his ax. “There shall soon be a meeting of the metal!” And then he laughed and said, “What am I saying? Battle anymore is the meeting of stone and wood, except for my star-ax, of course! But what does that matter? I have grown tired of these six months of peace. I need the cries of war, the whistling spear, the chunk of my sharp steel biting into flesh, the spurt of blood. I have become as impatient as a penned-up stallion who smells a mare in heat; I would mate with Death.”
“Bull!” Joe Miller said. “You’re jutht ath bad ath Tham in your vay. You’re thcared, too, but you cover it up vith your big mouth.”
“I do not understand your mangled speech,” Bloodaxe said. “Apes should not attempt the tongue of man.”
“You underthtand me all right,” Joe said.
“Keep quiet, Joe,” Clemens said. He looked upRiver. Two miles away, the plains on each side of The River dwindled away as the mountains curved inward to create straits not more than a quarter mile wide. The water boiled at the bottom of the cliffs, which were perhaps three thousand feet high. On the cliff-tops, on both sides, unidentified objects glittered in the sun.
A half mile below the straits, thirty galleys had formed three crescents. And, aided by the swift current and sixty oars each, they were speeding toward the three intruders. Clemens viewed them through his telescope and then said, “Each has about forty warriors aboard and two rocket-launchers. We’re in a hell of a trap. And our own rockets have been in storage so long, the powder’s likely to be crystalized. They’ll go off in the tubes and blow us to kingdom come.
“And those things on top of the cliffs. Apparatus for projecting Greek fire?”
A man brought the king’s armor: a triple-layered leather helmet with imitation leather wings and a nosepiece, a leather cuirass, leather breeches, and a shield. Another man brought a bundle of spears: yew shafts and flint tips.
The rocket crew, all women, placed a projectile in the swivel-able launching tube. The rocket was six feet long, not counting the guide stick, built of bamboo, and looked exactly like a Fourth of July rocket. Its warhead contained twenty pounds of black gunpowder in which were many tiny chips of stone: shrapnel.
Joe Miller, the deck creaking beneath his eight hundred pounds, went below to get his armor and weapons. Clemens put on a helmet and slung a shield over his shoulder, but he would not use a cuirass or leggings. Although he feared wounds, he was even more frightened of drowning because of the heavy armor if he fell into The River.
Clemens thanked whatever gods there were that he had been lucky enough to fall in with Joe Miller. They were blood brothers now—even if Clemens had fainted during the ceremony, which demanded mingling of blood and some even more painful and repulsive acts. Miller was to defend him, and Clemens was to defend Miller to the death. So far, the titanthrop had done all the battling. But then he was more than big enough for two.
Bloodaxe’s dislike of Miller was caused by envy. Bloodaxe fancied himself as the world’s greatest fighter and yet knew that Miller would have no more trouble dispatching him in combat than Miller would with a dog.
And with a small dog at that.
Erik Bloodaxe gave his battle orders, which were transmitted to the other two ships by flashes of sunlight off obsidian mirrors. The ships would keep sails up and try to steer between the galleys. This would be difficult because a ship might have to change course to avoid ramming and so lose the wind. Also, each ship would thrice be subjected to crossfire.
“The wind’s with them,” Clemens said. “Their rockets will have more range until we’re among them.”
“Teach your grandmother to suck….” Bloodaxe said and stopped.
Some bright objects on the cliff tops had left their positions and now were swooping through the air in a path that would bring them close above the Vikings. The Norsemen shouted with bewilderment and alarm, b
ut Clemens recognized them as gliders. In as few words as possible, he explained to Bloodaxe. The king started to relay the information to the other Vikings but had to stop because the lead galleys fired off the first volley of rockets. Wobbling, trailing thick black smoke, ten rockets arced toward the three sailships. These changed course as quickly as possible, two almost colliding. Some of the rockets almost struck the masts or the hulls, but all splashed, unexploded, in The River.
By then the first of the gliders made its pass. Slim-fuselaged, long-winged, with black Maltese crosses on the sides of its slim and silvery fuselage, it dived at a 45-degree angle toward the Dreyrugr. The Norse archers bent their yew bows and, at a command from the chief archer, loosed their shafts.
The glider swooped low over the water, several arrows sticking out of the fuselage, and it settled down for a landing on The River. It had failed to drop its bombs on the Dreyrugr. They were somewhere below the surface of The River.
But now other gliders were coming in at all three ships, and the enemy lead galleys had loosed another flight of rockets. Clemens glanced at their own rocket-launcher. The big blonde crew-women were swiveling the tube under the command of small dark Temah, but she was not ready to touch the fuse. The Dreyrugr was not yet within range of the nearest galley.
For a second, everything was as if suspended in a photograph: the two gliders, their wingtips only two feet apart, pulling up out of the dive and the small black bombs dropping toward the decks of their targets, the arrows halfway toward the gliders, the German rockets halfway toward the Viking ships, on the downcurve of their arcs.
Clemens felt the sudden push of wind behind him, a whistling, an explosion as the sails took the full impact of air and rolled the ship over sharply on its longitudinal axis. There was a tearing sound as if the fabric of the world were being ripped apart; a crackling as if great axes had slammed into the masts.