by Steve Baxter
Un norse aide un slann à retrouver un vaisseau slann après moultes aventures. "Cétait les jours de gloire des slanns. Le
Portail Warp était une arche de seize
kilomètres de haut, construite dans la meilleure
obsidienne. Elle flottait au-dessus du pôle
gelé du monde et tournait avec la planète. |
Youre drinking alone? The strangers voice
rasped against the friendly hubbub of the tavern.
Erik lowered his tankard and thought it over. Between campaigns, Erik
the one they called Erik the Were always drank alone.
Everyone knew that.
So who was this? He had made enough enemies on his many campaigns.
Had one found him now?
The weight of his battle-hardened axe pressed against his thigh. He
turned slowly, wiping froth from his moustache.
A rich purple cloak swaddled the stranger. No face could be seen in
the hoods shadows. The stranger stood utterly still, like a
lizard.
Yes, I drink alone, Erik growled.
Then let me buy you another one. The stranger reached out
a gloved arm.
Erik wrapped the thin wrist in one hand. The stranger spat like a
snake and snatched back his arm. Beneath its covering the flesh had
been cold.
I mean no offence. Trembling, the stranger sat on a
precarious stool opposite Erik. He had no drink and he kept his hood
over his head. I know of you, he hissed, breathing hard.
You are Erik. A mercenary. A fighter whose fame passes far
beyond your forsaken Norsca. Erik caught a glimpse of yellow
eye deep inside the hood. You have just returned from
Araby?
Yah. So?
The stranger shrugged. He indicated the rest of the tavern,
half-armoured Norsemen waving money at serving women. I can see
it was a rewarding trip, the stranger said drily. But
youre not a man to throw money around, are you?
Erik remembered Araby...
The sunlight stamped down on fire-hot sand, scalding the blond bodies
of the Norsemen. He stood ready with the ulfwerenar, the wolf-kin.
The werewolf warriors howled their discomfort.
The metal of his sword burnt his hand. He closed with Arabs whose
breath stank of spices and who fought with knives clutched in long
teeth; a growl built deep in his throat and he felt his lips stretch
around a thrusting jaw; a red mist covered the sun and his teeth sank
into the dark flesh
Erik the Were.
His breath rattled in his throat. The stranger was watching him. He
forced himself to relax, to loose his grip on his tankard.
I risk my life for my pay. Why throw it at some fat
barman?
Very admirable.
Raucous singing drifted through the crowd.
Ah. The stranger cocked his head. Im no
expert on your aboriginal music, but I can make out the sentiments.
Companionship, the bond of death. Again the shadowed head
swivelled at Erik. And where are your companions,
Erik?
Erik worked his hand around his tankard. I choose my own
company, he growled.
Really? The stranger leaned closer; his sibilant hiss
turned to a whisper. You see, I know why they call you the
Were. You have a trace of the ulfwerenar in your veins, but your
blood is not pure. You are both wolf and man... but you are neither
wolf nor man, are you?
So?
Ive seen your type before. The wolf in you makes you a
formidable warrior... the little you dare release. But you are a
warrior wary of himself. Eh, Erik? And none of your comrades in arms,
human or Were, see you as one of your own. Do they, man-were? How
many of them will drink with you now? Is your wolf blood a gift or a
curse, Erik?
Erik slammed one fist on the tabletop. Heads turned. When they met
his glare they turned away.
What do you want?
My name is Cotza. The stranger stood. I travelled
here to find you. I have an assignment for you. A challenge for the
great and courageous Erik the Were. A journey to the northern wastes;
a search for ancient treasure... I have a room in the tavern called
the Dragons Tooth. Come at dawn. Cotza reached into a
deep pocket and threw a handful of coins onto the table.
Here, he said. Until then, drink and forget your
loneliness, man-were. And he turned and strode out of the
tavern, his gait awkward and rolling.
With a snarl of disgust Erik brushed the coins onto the floor.
A little before dawn Erik settled his account and left the tavern.
His breath frosting over his beard, he walked through Ragnars
deserted streets. At the edge of the little town he climbed a small
rise.
Pine-clad mountains swept down from behind Erik and pushed ridged
finders into the sea. The stars began to die; frost glistened. The
lights of Ragnar and a dozen other small towns glittered in the
fjords.
Mist covered the sea, and the mournful sound of a longboats
dragon horn floated out of the fog. Grumbling voices drifted up to
him out of Ragnar. The house of the Husthing the town council
shouldered its way above the mass of squat buildings, its bell
tolling the hour.
It was all very ordinary, human, comforting. Erik shivered and turned
away, and looked to the north. Darkness clung like smoke to the
northern earth, oblivious to the dawn.
Far to the north lay the great waste. It was a land of night. That
lingering dark was the banner of the Chaos Powers.
Something in him stirred. He touched the mat of fur that covered his
upper cheek. The cloaked strangers words had carried truth.
Erik was a solitary man. Other could sense the seeds of Chaos in him,
the traces of were-blood, even when the physical signs went
unnoticed.
He remembered a child goaded day after day by his fellows a
child who wasnt like the others, a child who was thick-set,
hirsute...
That child had never dared to do what it longed to do, to howl and
bark and bite into the throats of his tormentor. For what if the wolf
refused to subside, what if the wolf overcame the little boy and
trapped him somewhere inside?
Erik the Were. A child terrified of himself.
The stranger had seen into his most secret heart. Erik felt exposed,
weakened; anger coursed through his thoughts. He pulled his cloak
tighter around him and stalked back into town.
He rapped at the door of the Dragons Tooth. The innkeeper was
fat and bald. He grumbled as he led Erik up to Cotzas room.
Erik pushed the door. There was no bed in the room. A large iron bath
held water that steamed in the draught from the door. A massive trunk
stood open in one corner. On a table a plate was stacked with damp
greenery. It looked like seaweed. The dish was garnished with the
mashed-up remains of insects.
Cotza stood motionless in the center of the room, facing Erik. He
still wore his purple cloak.
What are you, Cotza?
Cotza nodded, the hoods shadow falling over his chest. I
expected you...
No more games. Erik strode towards him.
Cotza raised thin arms. Erik brushed them aside and grabbed handfuls
of cloak. The material was rich and thick, but it parted easily.
Cotza cried out. It sounded like a child weeping. The remnants of the
cloak fell away, and Erik stood back and stared.
Cotza ressembled a toad streched upright to stand like a man. His
face was mottled, his mouth wide; a white throat bulged. Eyelids like
plates slid across yellow eyes. He wore a suit of something like
rubber; fine pipes embedded in the suits were wrapped around
Cotzas limbs and torso. From one pipe water was leaking. Blue
feathers protuded from the neck of the suit, and china-blue tattoos
covered webbed hands.
The great mouth opened and a forked tongue flickered. You are
satisfied, strong man?
Youre a Slann. Erik felt numb, unable to react.
Cotza bent to pick up his torn cloak; Erik saw how his legs hinged
outwards like a frogs. Obviously Im a Slann. But
not just a Slann. He stroked the feathers around his neck.
I was once an Eagle Warrior. High rank, too. He waved
Erik too a chair and walked awkwardly to the door, pushed it shut. As
he moved Erik saw how the rubber suit showered his face and neck with
water.
Erik sat. But Slann never leave Lustria.
Of course not! How bright are you this morning. The Slann
limped to the table and picked up the plate of food. He waved it at
Erik. Breakfast?
Erik eyed the insects. No.
The Slanns tongue wrapped like a fist around particles of food.
Cotza kept talking as he ate, the words coming from the back of his
mouth. Theres no such thing as never, my
friend. But it is true that the Slann hardly ever travel. Its
such a fuss. He waved a webbed thumb at the bath, the rubber
suit. You may know were amphibians.
The word meant nothing to Erik.
I need to be warm and wet, said Cotza impatiently.
Your damn country is cold and dry. So I have to carry my own
warmth and wetness. The tongue flicked at the insects.
And youve no idea how hard it is for me to get decent
service in these taverns.
What do you want from me, Cotza?
Ah, the man of action. Straight to the point, eh? What do you
know of the Slann?
Erik shrugged. What I need to know.
Which is how to kill them with the least effort, I
imagine. The Slann pushed aside his plate and patted delicately
at his lips. Erik, let me tell you about the Slann. We are the
worlds oldest race. Some legends say we built the world, and
others besides. We travelled between our worlds in great ships
like longboats among the stars. Do you understand?
I understand youre telling me childrens
story.
Cotza rolled huge yellow eyes. Try to let me penetrate your
ignorance, Norseman. Our star boats travelled by passing through Warp
Gates. There was a Warp Gate on this world, far to the north of
Norsca. But on the other side of the Warp Gates was a strange ocean,
an ocean ridden with Chaos. The boats sailed this sea to the stars,
you see, and Chaos ah filled their sails. One day the
ocean broke from our control. Contact with other worlds was lost. The
Gates became centres of instability and horror. We Slann retreated to
Lustria, and degenerated into the barbarism we endure
today.
Erik removed his horned cap, loosened his fur in the steam-laden air.
How do you know this?
Legends. The Slann have tales of the past, garbled of course,
and so do the Elves. Cotzas frog face split into a wide
grin. Legs bent, throat working, he looked more toad-like than ever.
There are many legends, and they fit together, like the pieces
of a shattered plate. Do you understand?
Far to the north of here, across the Sea of Darkness, lies the
lost Warp Gate. It is the centre of a region so damaged that no
material thing can survive, and around that in turn lie the Chaos
Wastes.
Now. We will have to penetrate the fringes of the Wastes,
travel to places no mortal has seen in hundreds of years
Erik reached out and grabbed one skinny shoulder. Slow down,
Slann. What are you talking about.
The Slann hissed, nodding. My apologies. I will explain.
Please. Erik relaxed his grip; Cotza rubbed his flesh.
Why venture to such a place? I will tell you. The Elves have a
story...
They were the great days of the Slann. The Warp Gate was an
arch ten miles high, constructed of the finest obsidian. It loomed
over the frozen pole of the world and turned with the planet.
It was the heart of a glittering city. There were stars inside the
Gate. Slann traders passed through the Gate in their star boats to a
million worlds; a hundred races mingled in the Gateway city.
One day fire billowed out of the Gate. Death and destruction rained
over the Gateway city. Cubic miles of ice turned to slush. Now a
landing craft came lurching out of the Gate. Damaged in some
unknowable accident, it trailed fire. It flew hundreds of miles
before ploughing into the ground.
There were no survivors. The Slann cordoned off the area. The wrecked
star boat sank hissing into melted ice.
Slowly the ice froze over. The city was rebuilt. Gradually, over
centuries, the incident was forgotten...
Erik thought it over. Hed travelled in longboats convoys to
the New World often enough to pick up a little navigators lore.
Yes, the world was round. And it turned like a top around a spindle
somewhere to the north. But other worlds? Star boats?
He stood, gathering up his armoured cap. Ive told you
Slann, Ive no need to hear your childrens
tales.
Cotza hissed. Of course not. Since no human woman is likely to
bear you children of your own. Is that right, were-man?
Erik turned his back and walked to the door.
You see, Cotza said, the wrecked boat flew far
enough south to leave it close enough to reach. It is only a few
hundred miles to the north of here, across the Sea of Darkness
on the ragged edge of the Wastes. I intend to find that crashed Slann
boat, and I want you to come with me.
Erik hesitated, turned. No mortal creature has ever travelled
so far north and survived.
Cotza smiled. No mortal creature have taken the precautions we
will take. He looked at the Norseman intently. Well,
Erik? Will you join me?
Erik shook his head. I will not throw away ùy life for a
Slanns dreams.
Cotza opened his mouth wide. Ah, but what dreams do you have,
Erik? Are they human or Were? Listen to me. There is nothing for you
here. It will be a great adventure. Perhaps we will start a few
legends ourselves...
Erik grinned. Of course, theres one small
problem.
What?
How will you find this star boat? The Wastes are
large...
The Slann nodded rapidly. There is a way. The old Slann made a
map, showing the wreck. It was drawn on an indestructible parchment.
This map survived the fall of the Slann; it has become a priceless
artifact.
Eriks interest stirred. You are moving from fable to
fact, Slann. Show me the map.
Cotza grinned, throat wobbling. I dont have it. Ive
never even seen it.
Then how
But I know where it is.
And?
And I want you to steal it for me. Here. The Slann
scuttled to his trunk. He rummaged through a disorderly pile of
cloaks, spare pipe suits and food parcels. He drew out a small
leather purse, spilled it on the floor before the Norseman.
Erik looked down. Gold coins; scores of them. They bore a scowling
frog visage.
The face of Mazdamundi, Lord of All the Waters of the World
Pond, said Cotza. Call this an advance. Against
unimaginable wealth to come.
Erik looked up and studied the grinning Slann. Where?
Cotza hissed in satisfaction. Have you ever visited
Kislev?
Erik knew Kislev.
Kislev is in the chill north of the Old World. Its great cities
Urskoy, Praag, the sea port of Erengrad stand on rivers
that drain a continent.
Kislevs fortune is its trade. Its curse is its location. For
Kislev is a buffer between the Old World and the servants of Chaos,
who roam the Wastes to the north.
Two hundred years ago, said Cotza, there was an Incursion of Chaos.
Thousands of lives were lost. Praag was laid waste. But at last the
Champions of Chaos were put to flight. In one famous victory, the
Governor of the port of Erengrad defeated a Chaos Prince, seized his
booty.
Among the grisly trophies the severed limbs, the skull
fragments the Governors men found a treasure. It was a
map, printed on an indestructible parchment...
What Erik needed was a way to get to Erengrad. He found a small
whaling boat in Ragnar harbour. Its timbers were stained with blood;
a necklace of sharp teeth draped the crude dragons head at its
prow. The corpse of a whale bumped against the hull.
Erik found the boats master in a tavern. He was a fat, cheerful
Norseman called Bjorn. Over a couple of tankards, bought with Slann
money, Bjorn told Erik tales of how the boat worked the Great Western
Ocean. Now it was on its way to Erengrad to sell its latest catch.
Over more tankards Erik talked his way into a berth.
The lights of Ragnar disappeared into the freezing fog. Bjorn handed
Erik a bone-handled knife. This is a whaler, he growled.
Not a damn pleasure yatch.
Erik sighed and stripped off his furs.
There were twenty Norsemen in the crew, all broad and well-muscled.
They plastered grease over their faces and hands to keep out the
chill winds, and with Erik sliced their way into the
carcass of the whale.
On the evening of the tenth day Bjorn grabbed Eriks shoulder.
Erik was flensing a man-sized slab of meat; whale epidermis lay at
his feet like discarded clothed. He straightened up, the muscles of
his shoulders aching as they never had before. He was coated with
blood and bits of blubber.
Bjorn pointed. Erengrad, he said. Well dock
soon.
Erik grinned at Bjorn, feeling dried blood crackle over his face.
Thanks.
Bjorn snorted and clapped Eriks back with one huge hand.
Listen, you earned your passage. If you ever need a job, find
me.
I need to clean up.
Bjorn shrugged. Then dip a bucket over the side. The
waters fresh here; were already in the mouth of the
Lynsk...
Erengrad spread around the mouth of its river. Shadowed hills cupped
the city to the north. In the gathering twilight Erik could see coach
lights gleaming from onion-shaped cupolas.
An island sat like a mile-wide toad in the river mouth. It bristled
with docks. A broad bridge arched from the island to the mainland;
the bridge stood on wooden piles wider than a mans height.
The whaling boat nuzzled against one of the piles. Erik saw tough
wood coated with seaweed and barnacles. A ladder of rusty iron was
stapled to the pile. Erik and the rest of the crew filed up the
ladder to the bridges [b?]road surface. Then, grinning
with anticipation, they made their way towards the city.
Carts and coaches of all kinds crowded the bridge; the air was thick
with the scent of horses, of tar, fish, fresh-cut timber, with the
babble of a dozen tongues. A party of merchants clattered past on a
truck piled high with casks of wine and oil. Their sing-song voices
drifted over the hbbub; white teeth flashed in dark faces.
Estalians, Bjorn said, pointing. From Magritta,
maybe.
Bjorn, when do you leave?
After a day and a night, Bjorn growled. At dawn.
Long enough to unload and get credit. You coming?
Dont wait for me.
Bjorn nodded, showing no curiosity; then, wit a backward grin, he
melted into the evening crowd.
Erik spent the night quietly., attracting no attention. He hired a
room, ate and slept, kept his mind a blank.
The following afternoon he took a walk through the bustling heart of
Erengrad. Temple towers loomed over streets of low government
buildings. Pale lawyers, clerics, civil servants eyed him
curiously.
The palace of the city Governor was a jumble of cupolas and minaret.
Effete, Erik decided. It was surrounded by a wall of granite twice
Eriks height. He eyed it speculatively. Then he returned to his
room.
Dawn had already touched the sky when he arose. The whaler was due to
leave very soon. He imagined the crew drifting out of the taverns,
rubbing their eyes and gathering their furs...
He tied a thong of leather around his waist, pushed into it his heavy
iron axe and his short sword of beaten bronze. Then he slipped out of
the room.
A dozen campaigns had taught Erik how to move his bulk in silence.
Now he moved like a shadow through the sleeping streets of Erengrad.
He approached the Governors palace from its darker side, the
western. Outside the palace wall he waited a dozen precious breaths.
No movement; only the peal of a bell.
Then he scrambled up and over the wall, fingers digging into crevices
in the granite. He landed softly and hurried into shadow.
He was in a rich garden. Loamy flower beds were criss-crossed by
gravel paths. The palace itself sat in the heart of the greenery. It
looked like a sweetmeat in fancy wrapping, Erik thought in
disgust.
Light crept higher into the sky; more bells tolled somewhere outside.
There were no guards. Nothing moved.
Erik walked over the silent soil of a flower bed to the palace. The
doors were squat and massive, but there was a window at head-height
protected only by an iron grill. A moment with the blade of his axe
and the grill scraped free. He lowered the grill into a spray of
flowers and put his hands on the window ledge
A footstep like thunder. A growl like a shout in a cavern. A breath
on his neck, damp and stinking. Careless, careless
He whirled, reaching for his sword.
It was a giant, at least three times Eriks height. The giant
thumped a chest the size of a small room. His huge belly was swathed
with the skin of three oxen; three boneless ox heads dangled from his
hip, mouths gaping.
The giant bent over Erik and thrust forward a moon-like face. Erik
peered into filthy nostrils that were wider than his fist. The great
mouth opened in pleasure, revealing teeth like flagstones.
The giant clapped huge hands together, pinning Eriks arms to
his sides. Erik felt his ribs grind, his lung strain. He gripped he
handle of his axe with fingers that pounded with trapped blood.
Think, he told himself. Use his strenght against him
The giant grunted and squeezed harder. Silently Erik called to his
were blood. His jaw ached as if growing; the muscles of his back grew
supple and strong. He fixed his eyes on a particularly corroded
tooth. Then he arched his spine backwards, lifted both feet and
slammed his heels into the base of the tooth.
The giant stared, as if puzzled. Erik kicked again and again. Enamel
crunched beneath his feet. At last pain found its way to the
giants brain. He roared. Eriks skull rattled. The huge
fingers relaxed, just slightly; the giant began to straighten up.
Erik braced his feet against a stubble-thick chin and shoved as hard
as he could. He flew backwards out of the giants grasp; he
wrapped his arms about his head before he could hit the palace wall
but, as hed intended, he passed with a bump through the
window frame and rolled into the palace.
He landed on his back in a darkened room. A hand like a side of beef
crashed through the window after him. Carpet-roll fingers wriggled;
the giant bellowed in frustration.
Erik pushed himself to his feet, ribs grating, and scuttled away from
the window. Then he stood stock still, eyes closed, blood rushing in
his ears. Gradually the Were subsided.
When his thoughts had cleared of their red tinge he hurried into a
corridor. Widely spaced lanterns cast pools of light. He heard raised
voice, the clatter of footsteps.
He grinned into the darkness. He hefted the axe in his hand. He had
maybe seconds. Working by instincts he ran through the rambling
corridors.
He came to a carved doorway. Gold handle. A human guard who stared at
him with wide, startled eyes
A single blow to the windpipe. The man fell, unconscious and silent.
There was an ornate lock; a thrust of Eriks shoulder and he was
in the room.
The Governor was dressed. He sat calmly on the edge of his bed, a
small, portly, middle-aged man. I heard the commotion.
Ive expected you, Norseman.
Erik stared wildly about the walls. Was the map here?
I have a network of ears, the little man said mildly.
Strands of Norse-blond hair lay over his bare scalp. I need to
know, you see. And there is a whaling crew in town who have been
bragging about a mysterious Norseman who buys ale with Slann
gold...
There. In a gold frame, a parchment of china blue. There was a thick
red line that looked like the coast of Norsca.
A drumbeat of running footsteps. There was no more time. Erik smashed
the frame with a blow of his axe, pulled out the parchment and thrust
it into his tunic.
Norseman! the Governor snapped. Do you know what
youre stealing? That map is a trophy of our victory over the
Incursion. A memorial to thousands of lost human lives.
Despite his urgency Erik hesitated. So?
Give it to your Slann master and you betray your
race.
Erik stared at the serious, brave little man. He remembered the
seductive words of Cotza : Outcast, neither man nor Were...
what is your loyalty, Erik?
Erik spat onto the Governors thick carpet. Then he turned and
ran out of the room.
A party of soldiers to his left. Erik ran right, booted feet pounding
on carpet. He came to a kind of crossroads. He paused. The chasing
party was closing, waving polished swords. And ahead there was
another troop. They saw him and began to run at him.
Erik waited, let them rattle so close he could feel the draught from
their waved swords
then ducked to the right. The two parties clattered into each
other in a jumble of swords and ornate helmets.
He came to a window, kicked out the grill, somersaulted to the garden
below. He was in a battered flower bed. The sky was light enough to
show traces of blue. The giant lurched towards him, one finger
probing at a bloody tooth.
Erik saluted him. Then he sprinted at the wall and took it in a
single vault.
He ran across the bridge, dodging early traffic. Breath rasped in
his lungs. He risked a look back. Soldiers filled the bridge like a
thick fluid; they shouted threats and shoved aside cowering
traders.
The little whaling boat had already cast off. It was about twenty
paces from the quay. The crew, swearing and bleary-eyed, hauled at
rigging. Bjorn saw him and waved. Erik didnt slow. He sailed
off the bridge and smashed into the water a bodys-lenght short
of the boat; two quick strokes and the grinning Norsemen were hauling
him over the side.
Soldiers gathered on the bridge. Spears and arrows sailed over the
boat and plopped into the water. The Norsemen fished them out and
threw them back, spitting insults at the Kislevites.
Erik lay in the bottom of the boat, panting. The smell of whale blood
was like a welcome home. Bjorn stood over him, mouth twisted in
amusement.
Erik made to speak, but Bjorn waved him to silence. Tell me
later. Haul on this. Weve got work to do. And he handed
Eril a rope.
Erik sighed and struggled to his feet.
On his return to Ragnar Erik made for Cotzas lodging.
Now, the Slann hissed. Now we begin. He
drooled over the map, black tongue wriggling. Erik watched for a
moment, flesh crawling at the reptilian strangeness of the Slann,
remembering the Erengrad Governors accusation of betrayal.
Suddenly he was disgusted with himself. He turned to leave.
Cotza rasped : Wait! Norseman, where are you going?
You have your map. Ive been paid. Thats
it.
The Slann walked up to him, pasted feather rustling. But I want
you to travel with me. Follow this map; find the ancient
treasure.
Venture into the Wastes, for an idle frog dream?
Cotza showed no reaction to the insult. He said smoothly, I
offer you riches.
You offer me death.
The Slann stared into his eyes, white throat working. I offer
you salvation, Erik. A way to face the Wastes... a way to face
yourself. Are you afraid of that?
Anger and disgust boiled in Erik. His fists bunched. The Slann
stepped back rapidly.
Erik breathed hard, tried to remain composed. Cotza, he
spat, Ive fought with Slann. Youre like no Slann
Ive ever heard of. Slann are ritualistic. Governed by arcane
practices. For a Slann there s no looting; no individual glory. But
you youre greedy. Ambitious. Selfish. Grasping.
Devious. Erik barked contemptuous laughter. Almost
human... What are you, Cotza?
Cotza shook his wide head impatiently. Must all Slann be alike?
Are all humans alike? How little of the world you have seen,
Norseman. How little you understand.
Erik studied the quivering Slann for a few more seconds, then turned
once more. Goodbye, Cotza.
Norseman! I leave Ragnar in six days. Remember my
offer...
Another murky dawn broke over Ragnar. Erik left his lodgings,
holding his furs closed against the chill. He walked through frosted
streets towards the harbour.
Ragnar was unusually busy. Light shone already in the Husthing. Carts
clattered along the cobbled roads, grease lanterns making arcs of
light in the darkness. Mist billowed from the nostrils of horses.
Erik reached the harbour. All along the waterfront metal clanked,
wood thumped, men swore. Light moved over a row of ten longboats.
Today Cotza was leaving for the north, and he was creating quite a
spectacle.
Erik walked along the rough harbour wall and stood over a longboat
and its crew, relishing the familiar sight of their preparations for
departure. The boat was at least fifty paces long. It rode high in
the brisk waves; as it pitched Erik could see water streaming off the
boats overlapping timbers. Strands of seaweed clung to iron
bolts with heads as big as his fist.
A forest of oars now spouted from the boats side; shouting
sailors dipped them into the grey water. The light caught the
boats dragon prow. The wooden beast stared into the sea.
A team of mighty warhorses, towering over their human handlers, was
led onto one boat. The handlers overseer was a bluff, plump
Norseman. He cursed his men continually.
He turned at Eriks approach.
Bjorn...
The big Norseman grinned and clapped Eriks shoulder. Ah,
my mysterious friend! You are joining our crazy voyage with the frog
man?
I... dont know yet, Erik admitted. But if I
do Ill be glad youre there.
Bjorn shook his hand, then returned to work.
The sky brightened and the square sails of the boats were furled and unfurled. The sails all bore
a brilliant sun-symbol.
The emblem of the Emperor Mazdamundi, a voice hissed
behind Erik. The ruler of the sun. Shining over these frozen
barbarians.
Erik turned. Cotza stood there in a fresh cloak of purple; he tossed
back the hood to reveal a wide grin. Jets around his neck sprayed
mist into his face.
Why the horses?
You will see when we land on the coast of the Wastes. The
Slann pulled his hood over his head and walked along the harbour
wall. Then he stopped, turned his face to Erik, waiting.
Erik glanced toward Ragnar, his mind a whirl. Not one person on all
this stretch of coast, he reflected, would wonder where he was this
morning. None would miss him
Chaos, Cotza whispered. Its in your blood,
Erik. Face it, man. You have no choice.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, Erik walked after him.
The convoy of longboats pushed cautiously through the ice floes.
The fur-clad Norse sailors respectfully mucked out the warhorses,
shifted and lashed the tons of cargo. They laughed, joshed and
wrestled each other; for the first few days Bjorns tongue was
rarely idle.
But as they moved further north the men grew subdued. A sheet of
darkness fluttered like a flag across the northern sky, even at noon.
It was a constant reminder of their destination, and many a blond
head turned to that mysterious gloom.
They made landfall on a beach crisp with ice. Erik clambered into the
water with the rest. The cold stabbed through the wool and fur that
swathed his legs. Swearing, the Norsemen hauled their longboats high
up the beach!. The warhorses clattered through the wavelets,
snorting, utterly fearless.
The coast was a sheet of barren rock. The wall of darkness loomed
over the beach, dwarfing the tiny Norse camp.
Using their war axes the Norse broke up one of the longboats and
built a series of fires. The flames cast little puddles of light into
the hostile darkness. That first night Cotza let them break open
casks of mead, and the foreign shore rang with songs of the Norse
warrior gods. But, despite the drink, few slept easy.
The next morning Cotza began to reveal his plan. First sweating
workers carried bricks from the longboats and began to construct a
crude smelting oven. Then, some yards away, another longboat was
taken apart and the fat timbers of its keel laid out in a rectangle
about twenty paces long. Erik worked with the rest as a framework
twice as tall as a man was erected over the rectangle.
Cotza stalked about the site, his flat face poking out from under a
woolen cap. His jaw was wreathed in steam. He pointed and hissed
instructions to the cursing Norsemen.
After some hours he let the men take a break and began patrolling
around the hut-like construction, poking and pulling at joints. At
last he seemed satisfied and stood back.
Erik walked up to him. You are constructing an elegant little
house, Slann. What do you intend to do? Grow flowers on the
ice?
The Slann spread his mouth wide in his parody of a grin. The
best is to come, my friend. You are a fighting man. There is a battle
formation called the turtle. Do you know it?
Memories returned to Erik. Of a dozen men huddled under a carapace of
upheld shields, cutting their way into an enemy horde
Yes. I know the turtle.
Well, then. This hut is to be our turtle. We will ride inside
its shell into the mouth of darkness... all the way to the star
treasure. Now, the armour! He clapped his gloved hands.
Grumbling, the Norsemen got to their feet and began hauling metal
plates from the longboats.
Cotza brought a sample of the armour to Erik. It was a helmet. The
Norseman turned it over in his hands. It had a lustre like old
silver.
Mithril armour, hissed Cotza.
I know what it is. Ive seen it. Never held a piece
before. Too damn expensive.
Cotza hauled his coat higher around his neck. Mined by the
Dwarfs of the smith-city of Zhufbar. Too hard to work except
by magical means.
Erik handed back the helmet. So they say.
And shot through with charms against the Powers of
Darkness.
And on this legend youre going to gamble our
lives?
Cotza did not reply. Steam puffed from his slit nostrils. Erik
turned. The pile of unloaded armour had grown taller than a man.
Ill say one thing, Slann. Youre not short of
resources.
As you say, Erik, I am gambling my life. I have no interest in
economy.
Now Cotzas design became clear. Under the Slanns
direction the Norsemen began to plate the armour
over the structure. The mithril was too hard to work or pierce, so
they used huge iron clips to staple it to the wood.
The smithd carried ladles of iron from their oven. They poured the
iron like toffee into the gaps between the armour plates. Metal
dripped to the ground; snow flashed to steam.
Snow was packed over the cooling joints. Then the smiths beat at the
hardening metal with massive hammers. Walls of metal began to build
up, shining softly in the low polar sunlight. Even the floor of the
turtle was lined with armour.
The labour continued for a day and a night.
Erik touched one twinkling wall. The armour had retained its curved
forms here he could recognise a chest plate, there a broad
helmet pushing out the surface. It gave the plating a crusted look
oddly reminiscent of a real turtle shell.
He stood there, pulling at his moustache. Then he stepped inside the
turtle and began kicking at the mithril plates. Iron seals cracked
and plates tumbled to the snow. The Norsemen stood back and watched,
bemused. Cotza came stamping into the turtle. Norseman! What in
the name of the Under-Light do you think youre doing?
Panting, Erik faced the Slann. Im saving your life,
frog.
By kicking apart my turtle?
Erik bent and picked up a back-plate. A rough rim of iron clung to
it. Mithril armour might stop assault of the Powers. But this
pig-iron certainly wont. Cotza stared at him, his throat
working. Then what do you suggest? he rasped.
Clinker-build.
What?
Overlap the mithril armour. As we overlap the planks that make
up a longboats hull. Caulk it up with iron, as we caulk our
boats with animal hair. Then you will be surrounded by an unbroken
shell of mithril.
For long seconds Cotzas breath sawed through his nostrils. Then
he turned and stamped out of the turtle. He summoned Bjorn. Do
as he says.
When all but one wall of the turtle had been finished, the warhorses
were led in. They were divided in two teams of six and were to stand
on twin belts of thick leather. The belts were crusted with strips of
mithril, and they passed in continuous loops over wooden rollers. The
horses, stamping and neighing, were tethered into place by a web of
leather harnessing.
Erik stared at this arranement and scratched his head. I admit
to being baffled, Slann. How can the horses draw the turtle if they
themselves are carried within it?
Cotza laughed and patted the nose of one of the huge animals.
You will see my friend.
The warhorses peered at him with contempt, and after a few moments
the Slann shied away.
Now provisions were lugged into the turtle: lamp grease, furs, tight
bales of hay, Cotzas trunk, food and skins of water. Erik
noticed the Slanns heavy bath being dragged from the boats.
The irreverent Norseman fixed a longboats dragon head to the
box-like turtle. Its wooden eyes peered into the mists of the
Wastes.
At last Erik took his place with the Slann inside the machine. The
last plates were stapled into place. The molten iron caulking filled
the turtle with smoke. Erik coughed until Cotza produced a ring of
gold about a foot across, which he fixed to an overhead beam. A cold
breeze played out of the ring and over Eriks face. He watched
wisps of smoke disappear our of the ring.
Just a little gimmick, Cotza murmured.
Now the arctic daylight was shut out. Cotza and Erik lit grease lamps
and suspended them around the cabin. In the lamps yellow light
the turtle seemed an absurdly cosy place, the hulking horses reduced
to fireside pets.
Three heavy bangs on the shell. Bjorn, Erik realized, signalling that
all was finished.
Cotza opened his mouth wide. It begins! Now, Erik. The
horses!
He handed a bemused Erik a heavy crop, and together they began to
work the horses. The beasts neighed and dipped their heads, but at
least their huge hooves began to move, pulling at the leather belts.
With a sudden jolt the turtle lurched forwards.
You see it now! Cotza cried. The horses drag the
belts and the belts drag the turtle, inch by inch to our prize
Erik heard a cheer from the watching Norsemen. He made out
Bjorns muffled voice. I will wait for you here, my
mysterious friend. Bring me back a Slaanesh love daemon! There
was ribald laughter.
Excitement growing in him, Erik urged the horses harder. With the
sunlight glittering from its enchanted shell the turtle began to
crawl northwards.
The warhorses worked tirelessly, apparently not needing sleep. As he
fed them Erik patted their great nuzzles and talked to them
seriously.
Cotza took a disc from his trunk. He showed it to Erik. It was
polished and black, about the size of a dinner plate. The disc was
obsidian. It bore a dim representation of a landscape, of piles of
grey ice. The picture looked to Erik like an etching, a drawn thing
of lines and shading. Then Cotza wiped off the picture with his
sleeve and returned the disc to Erik, grinning.
The picture slowly redrew itself. It reminded Erik of watching frost
gather on glass. But the view it showed was slightly changed, as if
drawn from a different place.
An obsidian mirror, the Slann explained. As used by
the great emperor Mazdamundi, to study his empire as if through the
eyes of a flying bird. It will serve as a window in the wall of our
turtle.
Erik peered into the murky plate. Silently he promised himself that
if it ever looked as if they were about to drive him into a crevasse
hed kick a hole in the damn wall and see for himself.
Cotza spread his map over the turtles floor and squatted over
it, legs folded under him. He pored over the map, comparing details
with what he saw in his disc. He used his mirror and map to pick a
way through the jumbled landscape. If he wanted to steer the turtle
he would goad one team of horses harder; the turtle would swing about
with a teeth-jangling scrape.
The polar cold lanced through the thin metal of the turtles
shell. Erik hung furs over the inside surface of the shell; the furs
trapped the horses body heat and the temperature became
tolerable.
Cotza had Erik set up his metal bath and light a small fire below it.
Steam filled the turtle. The horses snorted complainingly and tossed
their heads; to Eriks disgust, Cotza discarded his suit of
tubes and stripped to his yellow-grey skin. He squatted happily in
the water, his nostrils poking above the surface.
Erik spent long hours working at his muscles, keeping them hard and
fast, or resting with his back to the wall of mithril armour. When he
slept he wore his weapons.
As they headed further north the sun disappeared from the sky. When
the obsidian plate was turned towards the Wastes the sky turned into
a thing of whirls and jagged lines.
The warhorses snorted, their huge legs working.
Erik started awake. The turtle rocked, swaying like a drunkard as
it crawled on its way. The Slann sat in his bath. He clung to its
sides with widespread webbed fingers. His eyes were fixed on Erik.
What is it?
Erik pressed his ear to the metal wall. He heard voices, like girls
laughing teasingly, receding from and approaching the mithril. And
there were scents like fine perfumes; he felt blood pool in his
loins...
I would guess it is a welcoming party from Slaanesh, said
Erik drily. The Pleasure Lord of Darkness. He stood,
rested lightly on the balls of his feet. He relaxed the strapping
around his battle-axe.
The heady laughter whirled around the turtle. Eriks imagination
showed him the daemonettes of Slaanesh... Their stigmata the
single right breast, the green eyes... and their unbearable beauty.
And all the while the subtle scents probed at his mind, stirring his
thoughts.
There was a pounding on the shell. It was as if a huge fist were
beating against the metal. Cotza screamed. The turtle shook. The
warhorses stumbled. Their leader raised his muzzle to the roof and
growled like a cat.
And now came another sound: a whirring, a grinding against the metal
like a knife-sharpeners stone.
Cotza whimpered. Thats a chain-sword. Theyre trying
to cut their way in.
Erik stared at the armour. He grabbed a grease lamp and held it up to
the roof, inspecting the seams. Its holding, he
breathed.
For how long? the Slann cried. He wrapped his huge face
in his hands.
Your Eagle Warrior courage is comforting, spat Erik.
Cotza stared up at the shuddering roof. What by the
emperors teeth are they?
Daemonettes, probably, Erik said, recalling old battles.
They fight as if insane. Perhaps there are Warriors of Chaos,
humans who have sold their souls
to the Pleasure Lord
At that Cotzas huge eyes flicked away from Eriks face.
His mouth worked and his hands spread once more over the rim of his
bath. Erik noticed the sudden reticence. Now, what did that mean?
What was his dubious ally hiding?
The pounding, the grinding went on and on, unceasing. But without
breaching the mithril. When he was satisfied of that, Erik resumed
his seat and closed his eyes.
Erik had survived many a battle. He didnt let the hammering of
Slaanesh daemons, the whimpering of a mysterious Slann, stop a light
sleep from stealing over him. But he kept his weapons to hand.
The days in the swaying turtle turned to a blur of noise. Erik
chewed meals of dried meat. His dreams were filled with smiling
women; their cheeks bore a soft down and their eyes were green
Cotza moaned continuously. He stirred in his bath, lost in his own
erotic nightmares.
Then it stopped. The turtle rocked to stability. The horses stumbled
at the suddenness of it, then found their feet. The belts whirred
once moreover their rollers.
Cotza sat bolt upright in his bath. His skin was grey, slick witch
slime. Bones showed through limp flesh. Its over,
he whispered. Were out of the reach of
Slaanesh.
Im sure wed be welcomed back, Erik said.
So were safe. The mithril worked! The Slanns
long legs flexed. Then he reached into a pile of supplies and drew
out a handful of dried cockroached. Greedily he shoved the insects
into his wide mouth.
Erik watched in disgust. The scents of Slaanesh were gone. But his
memories populated the silence outside with other servants of Chaos,
with an infinite arsenal of silent death.
Cotza feasted. Erik kept his hands on his weapons.
Their passage became smooth. Ominously so, Erik thought. The days
passed rapidly. It grew hot. Sweat steamed from the horses. Erik
discarded his furs. He stood beneath the Slanns air-breathing
ring; a breeze still rustled out of it, but for some reason it
didnt refresh him. He wiped sweat from his face, sat again and
tried to rest.
Even the Slann complained. Why should it be hot? he
whined. It should get colder as we go further north, not
hotter.
Erik smiled. I told you. Dont expect experience to be a
guide. Not here. Take what comes. And fight it.
The obsidian mirror showed a land of darkness. Cotza held it to the
roof and tried to guide their progress by the stars...
Suddenly he screamed. Erik jerked awake and reached for his weapons
and was slammed backwards by a punch in the chest. It could
have come from the fist of that Kislevite giant. He felt the wooden
floor splinter under him.
He struggled to his feet. There was nothing to see in the flickering
light of the grease lamps. But something was smashing its way around
the turtle, like an invisible bird. Heaps of supplies were blasted
open and scattered around the cabin. The horses roared; their
harnesses snapped.
Cotza was picked up bodily, tubes dangling, and slammed face-first
against the ceiling. Then he was dropped with a splash into his bath.
Norseman! Help me!
The lamps blew out. Now the only light came from the fire under
Cotzas bath.
Erik, what is it?
Erik struggled to keep his feet. Its an elemental. A
daemon of the air.
Our armour is breached
No. The elemental shoved past him; he felt a meaty slap
to the face. Its your breathing ring, Slann. Its
got in that way, bit by bit.
Then were doomed.
What? Erik staggered to the bath and grabbed the
Slanns shoulders. What in hell are you talking about,
Cotza? You Slann are supposed to be great wizards. Use magic. Fight
it off with a spell!
The Slann struggled out of his grasp and curled into a ball. I
cant, he moaned. I have no magic. Save us,
Norseman!
Erik stared at him, unbelieving. Then the elemental hit him in the
back and knocked him flat on his face. The creature pounded at his
spine, roaring like a gale. Erik gritted his teeth, arms trembling.
He howled, arched his back, pushed the hard pads of his paw-hands
into the floor. The fur on his face stood erect.
For a few seconds Were fought elemental. Then the daemon slithered
from his back. Erik struggled to his feet, fighting the impulse to
snap and howl. He had to control the Were, think clearly, find a way
to drive out the elemental...
Cotzas fire.
Erik grabbed the rim of the metal bath and pulled it off the fire,
tipping out the wailing Slann. Then he rummaged through their piles
of supplies until he found a block of lamp grease. He pulled the
sticky stuff apart and flung it at the fire.
Flame roared up; heat blasted into his face. The Were flinched; the
man stood his ground. The Slann scurried into a corner. Smoke poured
through the cabin, making Eriks eyes sting. The horses stamped
in complaint. Erik hurled more grease into the blaze.
Hot air blasted up. The atmosphere became a mass of smoke and
turbulence. It was as if a second elemental had been released into
the cabin.
But this one was controlled by Erik. The elemental slapped at his
legs and back. Erik heard it slam into the walls...
But it was weaker. Erik grinned, wiping soot from his face. As
hed hoped the elemental was beginning to lose its cohesion in
the disrupted air.
There was a wail that filled the cabin. Then air began to rush out of
the breathing ring. In a few seconds it was over.
The fire burned steadily now. Erik, coughing, began to relight the
lamps. He found Cotza buried in a pile of furs. Erik poked with one
booted toe. Come out, he said. Its
over.
The Slann uncovered one eye.
Take down your breating ring, Erik growled. It was
the only breach in our defence. And it almost killed us.
But well suffocate.
We keep it down until we have to. Understand? Now, help me fix
this damn mess.
He walked to the warhorses and began to calm them with firm
words.
Cotza hissed like a snake. Erik started awake. Painfully he pulled
himself to his feet. His head pounded. In the days since theyd
closed off the feed the air in the turtle had become thick and
stinking.
Automatically he looked to the horses. The huge beasts laboured at
their treadmill, their coats matted with sweat. The Slann was hunched
over his obsidian device. His lips popped together, mouthing words
unknown to Erik. Then he said quietly: Erik. We have
succeeded.
Erik strode through the swaying cabin and snatched up the plate. It
showed the usual murky scene, a sky of loops and whirls over a
formless land. But there was something new, a sharp image about the
size of Eriks thumb.
Its the star boat, breathed Cotza. See how
clear it is? It was designed to travel to other worlds. And so it has
survived the centuries of degradation in this forsaken place. It
shines in that plate like a pearl in mud
The star boat was a spindle, its prow and stern trailing to
needle-fine points. Erik judged the boat to be about five time the
length of the turtle perhaps a hundred paces in all. He could
see no sails, no oars.
I cant see any clinkering, he said. And... it
seems to be closed over, all around. More like a house than a boat.
Why should that be?
How would I know?
Why would you roof over a boat? Suppose... suppose it was to
move under water as well as over it Erik shook his
head.
Or, said Cotza, instead of keeping something out,
the closed hull was to keep something in.
Like what? Erik said.
Air? Suppose the ocean this boat sailed is as empty of air as
the air is empty of water.
Thats crazy.
Cotza laughed. The ways of the ancient Slann arent going
to be comprehensible to us for a long time. Perhaps not
ever.
He took back his obsidian plate and wiped it over. The boats
image began to slip below them; Cotza had to tilt the obsidian to
trap it. Were passing over the boat, he said.
Its buried in the ice...
Were nearly over it. Erik hurried to the horses and
pulled at their bridles. The turtle shuddered to a halt. Erik
gathered armfuls of hay and scattered them at the feet of the panting
animals.
Cotza stampered over the floor of the turtle, scanning the buried
boat with his obsidian plate and making crude sketches on a
parchment. He showed Erik glimpses of detail : plates of buckled
metal, panels covered with obscure rectangular designs. What a
treasure! he crooned.
Dont get excited, Slann. We havent worked out how
to reach it yet.
Cotza snorted and continued his studying. At last he spread out the
results of his labours. It was like a sketch map of the star boat.
Here, he said, tapping with a thumb. See how the
plates are breached, torn apart? Theres a hole wide enough to
let in a man. Even one as broad as you, Norseman, he added
jovially.
Erik studied the map, then paced around the turtle. At length he
selected a spot and cleared away clutter from the floor. The
holes here, he said.
Yes. The Slann nodded excitedly. He stood and clambered
into a purple cloak. Well, Erik? Lets see this boat for
ourselves.
Erik touched his weapons. He felt reluctant to breach the protecting
mithril shell...
But hed come a long way for this. And you can only die once. He
grinnedfiercely, raised one booted leg, and stamped down on the
deck.
The wooden flooring splintered and broke up. Then his boot reached
the clinkered armour beneath. Iron seals cracked and fractured. Soon
two plates were loose enough to prise aside. Thats
enough, Erik growled, lifting the loosened plates.
Lets keep the breach small.
Ice gleamed dully in the hole. Erik probed at it with one finger
and jumped back with a yell as ice flashed to steam. The Slann
laughed. The normal rules dont work here, remember?
he taunted.
Erik glared; then, with the butt of his battle-axe, pushed at the
popping ice until it was all vapourized. Tendrils of steam filled the
cabin. The Slann sniffed contentedly.
Under the ice the earth was greyish and dead, like fine sand. Erik
used the blade of his axe to scoop it out. Then his blade clanged on
something hard, metallic.
Erik looked up. The Slann stared into the hole, tongue wriggling out
of his lips. Erik bent into the hole and brushed away the remaining
layer of dirt.
The hull-metal of the star boat gleamed like polished bronze. The
Slann sat beside Erik and touched it in awe. Its perfect,
after so many thousands of year, he whispered. But look
how its crumpled.
Erik searched through the dirt until he reached the breach in the
hull. The last few grains of earth fell into a circular patch of
darkness. It was about a arms length wide. Erik stared into it,
saw nothing. Give me a lantern.
Cotza brought him a simple candle in a clay bowl. Erik lowered it
cautiously into the boat. The flame flickered but burnt on.
So the airs not foul, Cotza hissed.
Erik made out a floor of metal, perhaps ten feet below him. He looked
up at Cotza and shrugged. We cant learn anything from out
here. Im going in.
Let me hold the lamp.
After checking his weapons Erik swung his feet into the hole. His
waist passed through easily, his axe bumping against the lip of the
hole. Then he lowered his body until he was dangling from his
fingertips.
He let go. His feet hit the metal with a soft thud. He landed at a
battle crouch, sword in hand.
Silence. Darkness, broken only by a disc of yellow lamplight above
his head. The Slanns silhouetted head appeared.
Erik?
Im safe. Theres nothing here. Give me the
lamp.
The Slanns bony arm extended into the boat. Erik reached up,
took the lamp, turned with the light in his hand
A white face loomed at him, jaws wide and gaping. Erik yelled. He
grasped his sword and smashed, smashed again
Norseman! What is happening?
Erik stepped back, breathing hard. There was a chair before him,
large and fine enough to be a throne. Now it was covered by fragments
of smashed bone. Bone dust drifted in the musty air.
Nothing, Erik said. Theres no danger. It was
a skeleton, a thing of bones in this seat, facing me.
The Slanns nodding head reappeared in the hole. Erik laid his
lamp on the floor, then reached into the chair and pulled out a shard
of a skull. The head had been large, flat. What do you think it
was?
Slann, said Cotza. Just like a modern skull
perhaps a little larger, a little finer. No doubt weve
coarsened since our fall. I think that was a sailor, Erik. A Slann
who took this boat to the stars, and who died when the boat ploughed
into the ice. Cotza dangled his flippered feet into the hole
and dropped through.
Erik raised the lantern and began to explore. They were in a
sharp-edged box about as large as the turtle. Erik looked close but
could see no joints between the wall plates.
Another skeleton, intact, sat before a table. The table was encrusted
with buttons and slivers of glass. The chair held a pool of dust-
perhaps the residue of the Slanns flesh. Shreds of some ancient
material clung to the wide rib cage.
A spindle the size of Eriks fist hung in the air above the
table. Erik looked for wires suspending it, but could see none.
Look at this, he said. Its like... a toy
version of the boat. A model.
Cotza peered, poked with a tentative thumb. There was a spark when he touched, a crack like a
gunpower cap. The star boat groaned and shifted around them, like a
bear stirring in his sleep. Cotza looked about fearfully; Erik heard
himself growl.
The model came to rest. The groaning ceased. Cotza looked at Erik.
You know what this is, dont you?
What?
Its for controlling the boat. Its like... a rudder.
Yes, a rudder. Move the toy and you move the boat. See? Some races
have spells which work on the same principle.
Erik peered doubtfully at the model. Well, its like no
rudder Ive ever seen...
Now Cotza approached one wall. It was coated with panels of dark
glass. Below each panel was a plate covered with a close,
unrecognizable script. Obviously this room is only a small part
of the boat, murmured the Slann.
So whats in the rest?
Cotza shrugged. Maybe the sails or whatever it was they
used to drive this boat. He pushed his broad muzzle close to
the black glass. This stuff is obsidian. Come and
look...
There was a picture in the obsidian plate. Erik saw stars. And
something round and shining. The world? The Slann said, I think
were seeing what the sailors saw on this boats last
voyage. Erik, its true. This boat really did travel between
worlds.
So maybe this cabin is a kind of observation post, Erik
mused. Like a look-out posted in the rigging of a
longboat.
The Slann nodded absently. His black tongue shot out and licked wide
lips. I believe theres more obsidian in this single room
than in the whole of Lustria.
He reached up his right hand.
Cotza, dont touch anything. Remember the rudder thing.
There might be some kind of protection.
Im a Slann, Norseman, Cotza said haughtily.
This is my heritage. If we can get this obsidian loose, it
alone will make me richer than I could have dreamed. And who knows
what else well find...
The Slann peeled off his right glove and spread webbed fingers.
Cotza! Dont
Cotza touched obsidian. The cabin filled with fire and thunder.
Erik was hurled against a bulkhead. He felt the skin of his face
blister in the sudden heat. His nostrils filled with the scent of
scroching his hair, beard, clothes.
The red glare faded; the noise echoed to stillness. Coughing, wiping
tears from dazzled eyes, Erik struggled to his feet.
His weapons were in his hands. Good. He looked around quickly. The
grease lamp had blown out, but blood coloured light leaked from the
plate Cotza had touched. Above Eriks head he could see the hole
leading out of the turtle. And, beyond that, he could see stars.
So the explosion had breached the mithril. They were naked to Chaos.
Despair closed around his heart. He shook his head. One thing at a
time. He looked for Cotza.
The Slann was crumpled into one corner like a wad of rag. He was
staring in disbelief at his right arm. It ended in a stump, a few
inches below the elbow. Thick blood pumped like a dismal
fountain.
Erik had seen such injuries before. He had seconds to save the Slann.
He grabbed the edge of the Slanns robe and tore away a strip.
He wrapped the strip around the stump and twisted until he felt the
cloth bite to the bone. The blood flow slowed, stopped.
Then Erik got to his feet and picked up the Slann, boosted him
through the roof and back into the turtle. It was like lifting a
child.
Erik jumped, grabbed the lip of the hole with his fingertips, and
hauled himself up. The Slann lay limp on the floor, groaning softly.
Erik ignored him, looked quickly around the turtle, weapons to
hand.
The horses whinnied and stamped. The air in the turtle was cold,
damp. A wind like a fist slammed through the breached roof. Erik
reached up with one hand and felt around the breach until his fingers
closed around a dislodged mithril plate.
Soft fingers brushed his wrist. He ground his teeth and hauled the
plate over the hole. The wind died to a whisper. It wasnt
perfect, but it would have to do.
He kicked something in the debris. It was the spindle, the rudder-toy
from the star boat; it must have been blown clear in the explosion.
He poked it tentatively. There was no reaction. Impulsively he tucked
the little model into his shirt.
Now, the Slann. Cotza could still die if the wound wasnt
treated. And Erik was determined that he would stay alive until he
provided some answers. He reached for a handful of grease and slapped
it over the nearest lamp. A small fire roared up. Then he knelt and
pulled the shattered right arm out from under the amphibians
body. Cotza groaned, stared up at Erik with empty eyes.
Erik thrust the damaged arm into the fire. The Slanns scream
was unearthly. He struggled feebly. Erik held the arm fast until he
could see that all the blood vessels had shrivelled closed. He lifted
the Slann, who was unconscious at last, into his metal bath, and lit
the warming fire beneath it.
Cotza slept for hours. Erik waited until the watery eyes fluttered
open once more. Loops of slime clung to the Slanns eyelids. He
turned his head, looking dimly around the turtle. Then his eyes met
Eriks.
Youre no Slann, said Erik quietly. I
suspected when you had no magic to ward off the air elemental. Then
theres your character. Your greed. Your ambition. Like no
Slann. And youre a coward; you could never have been an Eagle
Warrior. Now I have proof. That obsidian plate would not have harmed
a true Slann. Its time for the truth. What are you,
Cotza?
Cotza dipped his head into the murky water, rubbed at slimy nostrils.
Then he said : Im human.
Cotza told Erik that he had been born of a peasant family in
northern Bretonnia. He grew to awareness in filth and squalor.
Strutting Breton lords ruled the villages with a severity matched
only by their corruption and incompetence.
Cotza was a weasel-like boy, weak and resentful, despised by his
fellows. His only consolation was the tales of the old men of his
village. They would recount fantastic legends of lands and times far
distant, and Cotza would sit open-mouthed at the edge of their
ruminative circles.
And most of all he loved the tales of the old Slann, with their
wonderful machines which could spit fire and fly through the air. In
his dreams Cotza was a God-Emperor, studying through obsidian his
boundless dominions...
Cotza had reached a bitter manhood when, one overcast day, the
sergeants of the army of King Charles rode into the local market
square. The colours of their helmets plumage shone out against
drab mud walls.
The sergeants drew their dandified pistols and gathered the young
men, Cotza among them, into a rough platoon. The King, the sergeants
said, intended a plundering raid over the border into Estalia. They
needed volunteers.
Two men were shot to encourage the rest. Then the peasants were
marching away, hand clasped on their heads.
So Cotza found himself recruited into the fyrd the peasant
backup to Charles professional troops. He was given a crude
heraldic design to sew onto his brown shirt, was supplied with a
stubby sword and an axe. He found life in the army of the King brutal
and unrewarding. He watched officers strut around the battlefields
intriguing against each other and showing off their dazzling
standards.
Meanwhile the fyrd was thrust into battle in great disorganized mobs.
Peasants died en masse. Cotza was a coward. He hid, ran, earned the
contempt of his fellows. But he survived.
There was magic on the battlefield, Cotza learned. While peasants
bludgeoned each other in the mud, he watched knights in their
enchanted armour ride out and join in battle under magic
standards.
He saw strange things. A man suffered grievous wounds to the head,
yet fought on. For a few seconds a knight split mysteriously into two
copies, baffling his opponents. Massive warriors would inexplicably
turn, drop their weapons, and run howling from the field.
And at the centre of it all was a strange figure, a frail-looking old
man who could nevertheless walk through a crowded field and have the
burliest warrior step aside for him. This was Rufus, a powerful
Wizard in the pay of the King. His bony face was masked by a florid
beard and he wore a cloak that was stiff with sewn-in runes, shards
of bones, bits of shattered blades; habitually he carried faded
spell-scrolls stuffed under his arms.
Once he dropped a scroll. It steamed as it lay in the mud. None dared
to pick it up for him. Rufus seemed to shimmer as he walked. The aura
of power around him was almost tangible. It hurt Cotza to stare too
long.
King Charles campaign drew to a muddy close. The ragtaggle army
headed back over the Breton border. Cotza thought about returning to
the village, to a life of poverty and dirt...
They crossed an old battlefield. The rotting bodies of friend and foe
filled the air with a fetid stench. The army made camp; Cotza,
exhausted, spread his threadbare blanket across the ground, lay down
and closed his eyes. But sleep would not come. He wriggled on the
hard ground, suffering the curses of his comrades. There was
something wrong. The ground was warm beneath him.
Warm?
He waited until the dead of night and then, by starlight, lifted the
blanket and scraped aside the mud. Then he sat back and scraped aside
the mud. Then he sat back and stared, breathing hard. He had found a
spell-scroll, dropped and trampled into the dirt, glowing softly like
coal burning from within.
Someone groaned in their sleep. Cotza hastily packed the earth back
over the scroll and lay down again, heart pounding. This was his
chance.
The next morning he made his way to the ornate tent of Rufus, and
waited at its entrance until the Wizard emerged. Rufus scowled like
thunder. The bits of shattered weapons sewn into his coat glinted at
Cotza like hard eyes. Cotza quailed... but he stood his ground. He
told Rufus about the scroll. The Wizard asked him to describe it, and
as Cotza did so Rufus eyes narrowed thoughtfully and he asked
where the scroll was.
Blood pounding, Cotza proposed a deal.
The Wizard mocked his bargaining, eyes burning. But Cotza got his
deal. He led Rufus to the scroll. The Wizard lifted it reverently
from the ground and returned to his tent, nodding slowly at Cotza as
he passed.
It took the Wizard some days to complete his preparations. Then he
sent a messenger to summon Cotza to his tent.
Now that the moment was here fear nearly overwhelmed Cotza; but he
pushed himself to his feet and followed the messenger, ignoring the
curious stares of his fellow peasants. He entered the gloomy interior
of the Wizards tent. The Wizard was a vague form in the
shadows. On a wooden table lay the stinking corpse of a Slann.
Cotza whimpered and almost fell; he felt a shaming warmth damply down
his legs. But, under Rufus directions, he climbed onto the
table beside the corpse.
It took three days. The pain was more than Cotza could bear...
almost. Then, on the fourth day, he opened new eyes. The world was
stained pus-yellow. The Wizard held up a miror.
A Slann face stared back at Cotza.
You see, soldiers even peasant solders share
stories, legends, from all over the world, Cotza told Erik.
I listened to the tales of Elves and Dwarfs, sifted through the
rubbish, searched for grains of truth, sought opportunity...
I remembered those boyhood tales. I learned that the Slann are
the oldest race on the planet. Their powers, though lost, were once
the greatest. Then I heard the legend of the star boat. I decided
that was my chance. In return for the scroll the Wizard gave me
gold... And I asked him to make me a Slann. I would seek out the star
boat, take its treasure and power.
Erik studied the broken amphibian without pity. You were so
stupid as to desire... this? To be a Slann?
It was my childhood dream, whispered Cotza. A
chance to reach the machines of the ancient Slann. It was a gamble.
For the highest stake for the chance of power such as no
mortal has wielded for five thousand years. Perhaps the power to
never die.
But youve lost, Erik snapped. You fooled me,
but you couldnt fool the Slann machinery. Could you?
Cotza hung his head, nursing his ruined arm. Erik left him. There was
no more to be said.
The turtle crawled over the ice like an injured slug. Erik had
tightened the horses harnesses, goaded them into turning their
armoured belts once more. The horses stamped and complained. They
were less willing to work together and progress was slow.
The belts moved with a grind. At least one of the wooden roller was
cracked, Erik decided. He tried to fix the loose mithril plates in
the roof and floor. But they rattled and slid, and Erik grimly sensed
invisible limbs probing into the breached machine.
For the first few days Cotza guided their way with his map and
obsidian, but he grew duller and more apathetic. At last he crawled
into a pile of furs, dangling his stump of an arm.
The air grew colder. At last frost began to rime the furs suspended
over the metal walls. Erik rested with his back to the mithril.
Behind the wall he could hear gloating laughter. His own body was a
battleground. In his dreams his hands turned to wolf paws which tore
his human face. He awoke sweating despite the cold, the fur on his
cheeks and hands erect and itching.
The grease lamps leaked dim patches of light. The turtle became a
place of shadows, sinister and huge, no longer a sanctuary. He
approached the horses, thinking to feed them. They reared at him,
shouting like huge cats, a menacing mass of hooves and ragged manes.
Erik stumbled back.
Something stirred under a heap of dirty furs. Erik poked aside the
furs with a booted toe. The thing that had been Cotza blinked up at
him. He stank of blood and urine. A few blue feathers still clung to
his skin.
The fake Slann held up his smashed arm. Something was growing out of
the stump. It had a tiny face with a mouth that opened and closed.
Cotza stared at it emptily.
Erik pushed the furs over the degenerating creature and returned to
his resting place. For a long time he clutched his arms around his
body, trying to stop his trembling.
They fell under the sway of Slaanesh once more. And once more the
fists of nightmare beat at the shell of the turtle.
This time the roof buckled. Erik clung to a shuddering wall. The
horses roared. The Cotza-thing squirmed in his pile of furs, mewling.
The turtle was rocked, picked up and dropped; rollers cracked and
Erik heard the belts grind the broken wood to splinters. There was a
smell of sawdust.
Still the turtle lurched on, its fraying belts spinning. But now Erik
heard a sound at first as soft as a heartbeat, a tumble of hooves
that grew to a stampede until at last
with a crash like thunder one wall of the turtle imploded.
Mithril plates shattered and ripped. The last of the lamps went out
and the turtle teetered once, twice, tipped sideways.
Erik tumbled, arms wrapped about his head. Furs and filth and grease
rained down over him. He caught a glimpse of a huge, wool-covered
face, of horns like swords.
The turtle was left on its side, its rollers spinning uselessly. With
a massive laugh of victory, the minotaur stomped away across the
landscape.
Erik pushed debris from his body and tried to sit up. The riven
armour admitted a gloomy light. Remnants of the snapped belts
littered the cabin. The warhorses were a dark crowd that fought and
bit at their harnesses. Erik heard toughened leather snap like
thread. The animals drummed their hooves against the nearest wall
until armour plates tumbled like leaves. Then the horses burst
through the wall and galloped away.
Erik pushed his way to his feet. Cautiously he worked his way through
the debris to the breached shell and peered out.
The turtle lay in a landscape of rocks, of a few stunted trees. The
sky was a dim grey. There was a scent, as if a beautiful woman had
passed this way
Nothing moved. And yet Erik sensed inhuman eyes watching, waiting for
him. Unprotected he wouldnt survive more than minutes out
there. He needed the mithril.
He found a breastplate and helmet among the debris of one wall; he
tied on the breastplate with a strip of leather and jammed the helmet
on his head, ignoring the scratching of its pig-iron rim. He searched
for shreds of drive belt. Strips of mithril still clung to the bits
of frayed leather; Erik wrapped the shreds around his limbs. He
fashioned crude mittens and boots. He swathed his face with belt
material, leaving only slits for his eyes.
Then encased in mithril, axe and sword to hand, and with the
rudder-toy still lodged inside his shirt he left the
turtle.
A kind of slime coated the machine; it dripped like mucus over Erik.
The dragon head had gone. There were teeth marks in the neck
stump.
Something called after him. Erik... Help me. And another,
tiny, voice echoed the first mockingly : Erik...
Erik...
Cotza was lost. Erik couldnt help him. He didnt look
back.
The land seemed empty of light. It was neither day nor night. At
times the horizon seemed impossibly distant, at times absurdly close,
as if the world itself were swelling and subsiding like the chest of
a breathing giant.
Erik shook his head. He was on the border of the Wastes themselves.
The rules dont apply, he growled to himself. He
stumbled on.
Occasionally the lid of clouds would break and Erik could make out
the stars. They flickered and wavered, as if seen through tears; but
they were there. Erik squinted up at them, searching for the North
Star. When he found it he turned his back and limped onwards. South.
Always south.
Occasionally he heard rumbling over the horizon, saw flashes of
light. The hordes of Slaanesh...?
Erik ran until his lungs rattled in his chest, away from the terror.
But there was no sanctuary. Even at the quietest hour, even in the
most lifeless wasteland, ghostly fingers clutched at him, prying and
probing. He would whirl, weapons ready; but there was nothing
there.
They were watching him. Biding their time. Perhaps arguing over the
spoils. He shook his head and stamped onwards. He didnt dare
sleep. He knew that if he lost consciousness he would not be allowed
to regain it.
The days wore away, and with them his strength. Finally his knees
buckled. He slumped to the ground, pressed face down by the weight of
his armour. Dust crept over his legs and buried them.
No From somewhere
he found the strength to push himself upright, to drag his calves
from the malevolent dirt. Then, with a howl of defiance, he drove one
foot ahead of the other.
His howl had been a wolfs, he realized. He dug his fingers into
palms that seemed thicker, more padded, than before. All his life he
had battled to retain his humanity. Only on the battlefield had he
used his Were power. But now his human strength was draining and the
wolf was emerging. Would he die an animal, his mind full of blood and
death?
Eyes half-closed, body crusted with scraps of mithril, Erik the Were
stumbled on through the deadly landscape.
Dimly he noticed that the land was changing. The trees disappeared
and the dust was replaced by a surface that was smooth and yielding.
A coarse black grass sprouted from the pitted ground. A tuft of grass
wrapped around Eriks foot. He clattered to the ground.
The earth was warm. Body hot. With his ear to the surface Erik could
hear a thumping. Like a huge heartbeat. Groggy, disgusted, he tried
to rise, push himself away from this ground of flesh. But strands of
the black hair-grass wrapped themselves around his ankles and wrists,
pinning him.
A face pushed out of the epidermis beneath him. A human face; the
face of a boy. Fur sprouted over high cheekbones. The boy cried and
stared into Eriks eyes. Erik, he said softly.
Erik...
Erik struggled against the thongs of hair. The tortured face was his
own, as a child.
Now there was a soft growling. The face was lengthening. Whiskers
sprouted from the stretching muzzle and a wide mouth grinned, filled
with razor teeth. It was the face of a wolf. A female. She licked her
lips, flicked her pink tongue at him.
Her body thrust out of the epidermis, wriggled against his. The body
was a human womans. Erik barked softly, aroused. His armour was
in the way; he began to shrug it aside. The lithe body of the female
moved beneath him
No His voice was a growl.
He ripped free one arm and touched his face. There was a suggestion
of a muzzle; the bone of his jaw ached unendurably, as if they were
being stretched. No, no, no
The human words seemed to cut through his hot, muddled thoughts. He
pulled free his limbs. The hair-grass ripped out by the root. The
land bled. He stood erect, breathing hard. It was an effort to keep
his balance, not to drop to all fours.
The wolf-face laughed at him; the body writhed. But now Erik could
see that the eyes were green, that the body had a single right
breast.
The stigmata of Slaanesh. Laughing, the daemon sank once more beneath
the surface.
There was a snorting, a clattering of hooves behind him. Erik whirled
around.
The warhorses. They ran towards him in a mist of sweat and saliva.
Their hooves left little bloody craters in the living earth. Sudden
hope filled him. If he could catch, mount one of them...
The horses drew closer, still packed together. Now he could see how
the heads and limbs of the horses thrust at random out of the herd.
Nostrils flared and eyes rolled as the dozen heads snapped and bit at
each other; legs clattered at random into the ground, some broken and
dangling.
Eriks hopes evaporated. He clutched his sword, braced his legs.
This was no ally of Eriks. The herd was a single creature, a
bag of dark skin out of which protruded the remnants of the
warhorses. The horse-thing was a chimera, a monster of Darkness.
The chimera struggled to a halt just before Erik; the nearer horses
tried to rear, and twenty hooves waved at the Norseman. Erik faced
it, sword and axe ready
There was a bulge in the sack of flesh. A reptilian face thrust out
towards him. A wide mouth opened. Two arms pushed out, beseeching.
Erik. The voice was muffled. For pitys sake.
Im still alive, and sane, inside this thing. Help me!
Cotza...
The horse-thing reared again and advanced, looming over him. And now
a face erupted out of the right arm of the buried Cotza-thing, a tiny
caricature of Cotzas.Erik, it hissed.
Erik. It lunged at his throat, snapping like a snake.
Erik smashed at it with his axe. Cotza wailed in agony. A hoof caught
Eriks chest. Armour spun away, gleaming. More hooves rattled
over his head, his back.
He lost his axe. He went down, arms over his head. Under the flailing
hooves the living ground turned to a bloody pulp. There was a smell
of urine and sweat.
He reached deep inside himself, sought all the Were strength in his
being. And unleashed it.
With a howl that was at once wolf and human, he rose to his feet and
stabbed at the thing above him, thrusting again and again.
There was blood and dirt and pain. Erik crawled away, slumped to the
ground, looked back. The chimera still raged. But it was being held
from him, pushed back by a darker shape that growled and leapt.
Shining teeth ripped throats and gouged eyes.
It was a wolf. For one second it looked at Erik with a kind of
understanding. Then it turned, scrambled onto the multiple back of
the roaring chimera, and fought on.
Erik struggled to his feet, pulled tattered armour around him, and
staggered away.
The land turned to dust again. Then ice crunched beneath his feet.
Erik shivered with the renewed cold. But he rejoiced. It was a
natural cold, a sign that he was leaving the shadow of the
Wastes.
Day and night resumed their cycle. The stars no longer wavered. Erik
dared to sleep, huddled in a blanket of snow.
He reached an empty coast. The frozen sand crackled. A single
longboat remained. Bjorn saw him approach, hailed him, came running
from the little camp to great him
then hesitated a few paces
away. Erik? he asked doubtfully.
Erik opened his mouth then licked his lips, worked his stiff
tongue and tried again. Bjorn. What is it?
So it is you, the Norse overseer said wonderingly.
But youve changed...
He took Eriks arm and led him to the edge of the sea, bade him
stare at his own reflection in a sheet of ice. Erik saw a smooth
face, a thing tangle of beard, cheekbones that were low and free of
fur. The mark of the wolf had gone.
Erik looked back to the northern shadow... to where his despised Were
half had remained to save him from the chimera. Perhaps it fought on
even now.
Come on, Bjorn said, wrapping an arm around Erik.
Lets get you to the camp. Weve got stew and mead...
and well set off for Norsca in the morning. Ill bet
youve quite a story to tell.
Norsca... He would return a hero, and fully human. No longer Erik the
Were. Erik the man.
Inside his shirt he could feel the slim form of the model star boat,
warm against his skin. A toy for his son one day...
Life stretched ahead of him like a sunlit room.
Yes, he told Bjorn. Quite a story.
La suite : Wood and Iron/Webcrash (par Slereah) Vers le début des années 90, Stephen Baxter
devait écrire une suite de "The Star Boat", mais
l'effondrement progressif de Games Workshop Books fit qu'il
dû se remettre le livre sous le bras, avant de le
republier en 1998 sous le titre "Webcrash". Nos deux protagonistes sont Metaphore (c'est en fait le
pseudo du vrai bonhomme dans le monde virtuel), un
navigateur, et Numinus Torca, dont j'ignore ce qu'il est
exactement. Dans l'histoire d'origine, il est un
"héritier déchu du Trône de Plutonium"
(ohohoh). Un gouverneur planétaire en fuite ? Un
Sensei ? Enfin bref, c'est un gens guère gentil qui
veut organiser des rébellions contre l'Imperium et ce
genre de choses. Voilà donc l'histoire de comment le monde de 40000
a trouvé celui de Battle et failli le
détruire. A priori, il reste encore la navigatrice en
Norsca et la Norse dans l'Imperium ! L'histoire est un peu
tordue par moment, mais on mettra ça sur le compte de
la transition de Warhammer à un autre univers. |