In the Moons of Borea Read online

  For while he treated her like the queen she was and behaved as the very gentlest of gentlemen in her presence, and while she quickly warmed to him who had saved the life of her beloved Warlord, still she sensed that he would be equally gallant with any lady of quality. Nor did it require much effort on the handsome Earthman's part to convince her that his presence on Borea was purely accidental, that he had not deliberately sought out Hank Silberhutte to perform some fantastic interplanetary, hyperdimensional rescue! He was on his way to Elysia, home of the Elder Gods, and only the tides of fate had washed him up on Borea's chilly strand.

  As for the esteem in which he held her, which amounted to something very much akin to awe, de Marigny hardly needed to fake it. He was after all of French descent, and she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. As gorgeous in her beauty as Titus Crow's own Tiania, Armandra was a young but fully mature, indeed a regal person, and it was more her great beauty that held de Marigny's appreciative attention than the fantastic powers he knew she commanded.

  Shortly after his audience with the Priestess of the Plateau, because the Warlord thought it would be good therapy for his rapidly recuperating body, de Marigny found himself given over into the none-too-gentle hands of the plateau's weapon masters. And Silberhutte had been right. For as time passed, the newcomer became so engrossed in his studies that he soon mastered all the elementary techniques of the plateau's weaponry and went on to develop a flair and panache quite unique in one previously unaccustomed to such arts.

  Therapeutically then, his daily sessions in the gymnasiums and arenas worked wonders for the stranded Earthman, but his main reason for giving himself up so completely to his tutors was not the perfecting of physical efficiency or the mastery of murderous weapons of war. He did it to keep his mind off the fact that he was marooned here on Borea, lost on an alien world in a strange parallel dimension. For Elysia seemed farther than ever from his grasp, and the wonders Titus Crow had so graphically described were fading in his mind's eye with each passing hour.

  De Marigny's living quarters on the perimeter wall of the plateau where they overlooked the white waste through a number of small windows cut deep and square through solid rock, were spacious, sumptuous, and warm. They were heated by the same oil fires that kept the plateau's precipitous face free from the layers of ice which must otherwise soon close up all entries and exits alike and deprive the great hive of its air and water supplies. The mineral oil came from a great black lake in the bowels of the place, a lake which had fed itself immemorially from some source far below ground. Along with the fresh-water lakes that teemed with blind cavernicolous fish and the well-stocked animal pens of the lower levels, the lake of oil assured the plateau its complete independence.

  All in all, then, de Marigny's lot might be considered extremely comfortable, and it would not have been an at all unpleasant or even tedious existence on Borea . . . but for the fact that he could see, through binoculars loaned him by the Warlord, the time-clock where it nestled in a glittering of white rime at the foot of Ithaqua's pyramid altar.

  The time-clock — his gateway to the stars,' his magic carpet between worlds — so close and yet so far away.

  He had his flying cloak, of course, and had demonstrated its gravity-defying skills before a thrilled audience of chieftains and Elders — its remarkable manoeuvrability in the cold air high 'above the plateau — but whenever he strayed out marginally over the white waste, he would feel the tentative tug of sinister winds. Then Ithaqua would stir atop his icy pyramid and stretch himself with the indolent but watchful attitude of a deceptively lazy cat.

  Armandra had warned de Marigny about that, and when on the last occasion she herself had to send friendly winds to, release him from the blustery clutches of one of her father's lesser elementals of the air, then she reluctantly but firmly denied him any further use of the cloak. And so he removed that garment of so many adventures, folded it, and laid it safely away in his rooms.

  From that time forward, seeing the way de Marigny gradually retired within himself, the plateau's Warlord despaired for his newfound friend and cursed his own inability to assist him; and while previously he had only tentatively broached to Armandra the subject of the possibility of the eventual rescue or recovery of the time-clock, now Silberhutte gave her little respite but determinedly brought the matter up at every opportunity until she was heartily sick of it. Such was his apparent obsession that while Armandra now trusted de Marigny completely, she found herself doubting the Warlord's own motives.

  Could it be that her man's ever-increasing concern for de Marigny and his Elysian quest was nothing more than a front hiding a desire to desert her and leave Borea forever? There seemed to be only one sure way to discover the truth of the matter: to assist in the clock's recovery and see what next happened. And if the Warlord did indeed desert her? Well then, if that were what he wanted, he would be free to go, but Armandra was unwilling to dwell too long upon the possibility of that ever happening.

  Was he not the father of her child — and did she not know his very mind, his every thought? Ruefully she had to admit that recently she did not know his mind, for more than ever before he kept his thoughts closed to her. This could well be for her own good; he might not want her sharing his worries; but on the other hand was it not at least feasible that he secretly harboured a desire to be rid of her and Borea forever?

  And always the problem returned to the same stumbling block — the question of the Warlord's loyalty, his love for her — so that in the end Armandra resigned herself to the one possible course of action. If the time should ever arrive when she could assist de Marigny in the recovery of his time-clock, then she would do so, and in so doing, she would give the man she called husband, Hank Silberhutte, every opportunity to leave her.

  Having made her decision and considered its possible conclusions, she then turned her thoughts to certain inner nightmares — to dwell upon the vast spaces between the stars and the even greater voids between dimensions — and having done so, she shuddered. Long and long had her father tried to tempt her away to walk with him on the winds that continually blow between the worlds . . . and wasn't she his daughter? If Hank Silberhutte had not come to Borea when he did, then by now she might —

  But thoughts of Silberhutte, her man from the Mother-world, and of their man-child, stilled her fears at once. No, it could never happen, she was sure of the Warlord's love; so sure that at the first opportunity she would put him to the ultimate test. Then she would see what she would see, for only then could her faith in him — her great love for him — earn its reward .. .

  8 Rough Justice

  De Marigny was asleep and dreaming wonderful dreams of Elysia, of Earth's dreamworld, and of all the strange and marvellous planets out on the very rim of existence, so that he all but cried out in anger when Hank Silberhutte shook him unceremoniously awake.

  `Henri, wake up, there's something you should see. This may be our chance to get the clock back!'

  Hearing the Warlord's words, the dull edge of sleep was driven instantly from de Marigny's mind. He got up and quickly followed Silberhutte to one of the square windows overlooking the white waste. Even without binoculars he could see a lot of unaccustomed activity about the Snow-Thing's distant altar. lthaqua's peoples were there in their thousands, forming a dark oval blot on the white of the frozen earth.

  Taking up his glasses and focusing them on the distant scene, de Marigny asked: 'Why has he mustered them? Is there to be an attack on the plateau?'

  The Warlord shook his head. 'No, not that. He lost three-quarters of his army the last time he tried it — yes, and he learned a terrible lesson in the bargain. They've gathered to witness his departure, to be instructed in the arts of their master and to be reminded of the penalties for any sort of treason or action in defiance of his laws. When last the Wind-Walker was away raping and murdering some poor girl of the tribes, three of his wolf-warriors — probably relatives of the girl — tried t
o defect to the plateau. It's not the first time; we've gained several useful citizens that way even in the time I've been here. On this occasion, however, they . .

  He paused and shrugged. 'This time they were caught and taken back alive. Before he goes, Ithaqua will deal with them.'

  `He'll kill them?' de Marigny asked.

  The Warlord nodded. 'It won't be pleasant to watch, and that's not why I awakened you. My reason for doing so is simple: once Ithaqua leaves Borea, we may be able to recover the time-clock. And the sooner we get moving the better. Armandra says she'll help us — in fact she seems to have turned completely about-face on the thing. She wouldn't even talk of it at one time — now she says she'll do all she can to help you get the clock back.'

  `But that's marv-' de Marigny began, but the Warlord cut him off with:

  `Look there. What's happening now?'

  Again training his binoculars on the totem temple, de Marigny answered, 'The ice-priests are bringing forward three captives through the ranks outside the circle of totems. The three are struggling like madmen, but their hands are bound. The rest of the crowd seems cowed, unmoving, heads bowed. Those inside the circle are prostrated. None but the priests move, and they leap and twirl like dervishes. The first of the three captives is pushed forward right to the foot of the ice pyramid.'

  `Henri, you don't have to watch,' Silberhutte warned.

  `I know quite a lot about lthaqua already, Hank. If I'm to know him fully, then I may as well see him at his worst. Whatever is to happen will happen regardless of my witnessing it.'

  Watching the distant scene, de Marigny grew still as Ithaqua reached down to lift up the first of his victims. The man, an Indian by his looks and dress, had stopped struggling and now held himself stiffly erect as Ithaqua's massive fist drew him effortlessly into the air. Without preamble the Wind-Walker held the man up above his monstrous head, turning his glowing eyes upward to stare at him for a moment. Then those eyes blazed wide open and their fires flickered with an almost visible heat. The taloned hand opened suddenly and the Indian fell, a doll spinning briefly in the air before plummeting with a splash of carmine sparks into one of Ithaqua's eyes!

  Slowly the grotesque figure atop the ice throne resumed his original position, then reached down again to take up the second wolf-warrior. Not so brave this man. He kicked with his legs and struggled violently. Ithaqua held him on high, made as if to drop him — then caught him — casually used thumb and forefinger of his free hand to pluck off one of the man's kicking, offending legs!

  Sickened, de Marigny looked away, then held to his resolve and found the scene once more. Ithaqua was now in the act of tossing a limbless, headless torso into the crowd within the circle of totems. And it was now the turn of the third and final offender.

  Grabbed up in massive fist, the man seemed to have fainted; his body hung slack from the Wind-Walker's fingers.. Almost uninterestedly, Ithaqua threw him aloft in a high arc. De Marigny expected to see the body plummet to earth — but no, not yet. lthaqua's fiendish elementals of the air had him, boosting him higher still, spinning him like a top until his limbs formed a cross, then buffeting him at dizzy speeds, north, south, east, and west above the white waste. Finally he zoomed skyward, a marionette jerked up on invisible wires, to be thrown down at high velocity into the scattering crowd.

  And indeed the crowd was scattering, for who could trust in the Wind-Walker's mood at a time like this? He had been amusing himself but now . . . now the game was over.

  Or was it?

  He cast about, turning his huge head from side to side, and at last his eyes came to rest on the time-clock where it lay at the foot of the pyramid. De Marigny gasped as the clock was snatched up — gasped again as Ithaqua threw back his black blot of a head and rocked with the convulsions of crazed laughter. Dumb, no audible sound escaped the monster, but in the next moment he turned his face to look square upon the plateau — square, de Marigny thought, at the window where he and Silberhutte stood — and hell itself flared in the carmine fires of his eyes.

  Then, _time-clock firmly clenched in hand, he leaped aloft to stride up terraces of air, grew large as, still rising, he raced for the plateau, his shadow an acre of darkness on the white waste. Almost directly overhead he came to an impossible halt, stared down for a moment, and held up the clock like a toy — no, like a trophy! — in his great hand, his whole body shaking with massive glee. Then he was gone, out of sight over the roof of the plateau and up into higher reaches of the chill atmosphere ..

  . . . Gone from sight, yes, and gone with him the time-clock, de Marigny's one hope of ever escaping from Borea and passing on into Elysia. For the first time the man from the Motherworld was truly stranded, and there seemed to be absolutely nothing he could do about it.

  Less than four hours later Hank Silberhutte found de Marigny on the plateau's roof. Approaching him, the Warlord felt satisfaction at his friend's robust if somewhat dejected appearance. Silently he appraised and approved limbs and muscles that had benefited greatly from long hours spent in the gymnasiums and arenas. Nor was de Marigny too heavily wrapped as he leaned across the battlements and stared morosely out over the white waste. He had started to grow accustomed to the bitter temperatures discovered whenever he left his apartment on the plateau's warm perimeter.

  'Henri, you look miserable.'

  Turning, de Marigny nodded a welcome and his agreement. 'Yes, and I feel it.' His tone was wry. 'Should I be happy?'

  'I think you'll be happy enough shortly.'

  There was a look about the Warlord that the other could not quite fathom, as if he harboured some pleasurable. secret. Suddenly hope stirred in de Marigny and he asked: 'Hank, what is it? What's happened?'

  The other shrugged. `Oh, nothing much — except we still have a chance . .

  'A chance — for what? How do you mean, "a chance"?' 'Ithaqua's gone, that much you know — but he didn't take the clock with him after all!'

  De Marigny grasped the Warlord's arms. 'You mean it's still here, on Borea?'

  Silberhutte shook his head. Not on Borea, no, but on one of Borea's moons. He visited both moons before he went off on his wanderings — and when he left them, the clock stayed behind. Look — '

  He pointed to the distant horizon, where two vast moons showed their dimly glowing rims, permanently suspended beyond the hills as if painted there by some cosmic artist. `That's where your time-clock is, Henri, in the moons of Borea. Which one — Numinos or Dromos — I don't know. One or the other, only time will tell.'

  De Marigny shook his head, frowning, failing to understand. 'But if the clock is on one of Borea's moons, we're separated from it by at least twenty thousand miles of interplanetary space! A chance, you said, but what sort - of chance is that? And how can you be sure that the clock is there in the first place?'

  The Warlord held up a hand and said: 'Calm down, my friend, and I'll explain.

  `First off, Armandra kept track of her father telepathically when he left. She knows that when he finished his business on the moons, he no longer had the clock with him. Indeed she believes that he deliberately let her see that he'd left the clock behind. Possibly he thinks he might trap her into leaving Borea — but I won't let that happen.'

  'Do you mean to say that Armandra could walk between the worlds like Ithaqua?'

  'If she wanted to, yes. That's always been her father's chief desire: to have her walking with him on the winds that blow between the worlds. If ever he managed to trap her out there' — with a toss of his head he indicated the alien star-spaces above and beyond — 'he'd never let her go again, would kill her first.'

  `Then how,' de Marigny patiently pressed, 'are we ever to get the clock back? I don't see what — '

  `Henri,' the other cut him off, 'what would you say, if I offered you the chance to take part in the greatest adventure of a lifetime? Yes, and a chance to get your clock back in the bargain? Dangers there'll be, certainly, and your life itself may well be at risk throughout
. But what an adventure — to fly out to the moons of Bores!'

  'Fly to the moons of — ' de Marigny's jaw dropped. 'Hank, are you feeling well? How in the name of all that's weird could I possibly fly out to the moons of Borea? Through space? An airless void? I don't see — '

  `This is Borea, Henri,' Silberhutte reminded; again cutting him off. 'It's not the Motherworld, not Earth. Things are often as different here as they are in Earth's dream-world — or so I gather from what you've told me. We're in an alien dimension, man, and things are possible which would be totally unthinkable on Earth. You want to know how you get to the moons of Borea? As I said, you fly there — in your cloak!'

  'My flying cloak? But —'

  `No buts, Henri. This is how it will happen:

  'Armandra will call up the biggest tornado you could possibly imagine — a fantastic twister, a great funnel of whirling wind twenty thousand miles long — and we'll fly down its eye like a bullet down the barrel of a rifle!'

  'A tornado?' de Marigny's imagination spun as dizzily as the wonder Silberhutte described. 'Fly down the eye of a vast tornado? And did you say "we"?'