Fred Saberhagen - The Book of the Gods 05 - Gods of Fire and Thunder

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2024-12-23 0 0 722.97KB 312 页 5.9玖币
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Gods of Fire and Thunder
Fred Saberhagen
. . . the moon embrace her shepherd,
And the queen of love her warrior,
While the first doth horn the star of morn,
And the next the heavenly Farrier.
With a host of furious fancies
Whereof I am commander,
With a burning spear and a horse of air
To the wilderness I wander.
—"Tom O'Bedlam's Song," Anonymous
1
Never before had Hal seen any fire as strange as this one. Its hungry tongues
seemed to feed on nothing at all as they went burning and raging up toward
heaven from the flat top of a thick spire of stone that rose steep-sided from
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the broad river valley. Rarely had Hal felt the glow of any blaze this large.
The wall of light and heat went up straight, unnaturally straight, into the air
for a good thirty feet. To the right and left the wall of fire swept out in a
great, smooth convex curve, making a barrier as high and nearly as solid-looking
as a castle's outer curtain. For all Hal could tell by looking at it, that might
be just exactly what it was, the magic wall of some great god or monarch's
stronghold.
The shape of the flaming barricade strongly suggested that it went all the way
round the top of the rocky crag in a smooth curve, which would make it an almost
perfect circle, and Hal thought that if it did that, it must enclose a space
some twenty-five or thirty yards across. From where he was standing now, on a
little saddle of land well outside that enclosed space, there was no telling
just what might be contained within it.
Ought such a magic wall to have a gateway in it? From this angle he could see
nothing to suggest there might be one.
Hal had been standing in the same place for several minutes, getting back his
breath after the steep climb, while he studied the amazing flames. He marveled
at how steadily they maintained their position, so frighteningly artificial and
regular, neither advancing nor retreating, not letting the chilly evening breeze
push them even a little to one side, as any natural fire would have wavered. For
several minutes now Hal had been certain that the fiery tongues were born of
magic, for they were feeding themselves on nothing, seemingly nothing at all but
the rocky earth from which they sprang. But as far as he could see, the ground
directly beneath the tongues was not consumed, only blackened by the heat out to
a distance of a yard or so.
Overhead, the glare of the fire obliterated whatever stars might have otherwise
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been coming out now that the sun was down. The strange, unnatural blaze created
its own local domain of light and summery warmth. This zone included the spot
where Hal was standing, and extended for yards beyond him down the broad grassy
slopes and rocky outcroppings surrounding the crag on every side. The sound made
by the tremendous fire was not really loud, though it was very steady, a muted
roar that blended with the background murmur of rushing water. During Hal's long
climb up here from the valley he had noticed several small streams, all plunging
down steep hillsides to the river some four hundred feet below.
He was a stocky man, standing with his powerful arms folded under a
well-traveled cloak. A few flecks of gray showed in his once-fair hair and beard
and mustache. His weatherbeaten face was fixed in a thoughtful expression.
Hal was still puffing slightly from his tedious climb. During the final part of
the ascent, climbing the last long slope of grass and rocks, he had felt the
heat of the great fire grow steadily more intense on his face and hands. Now he
was about as close to it as he could comfortably get, and he could tell that the
occasional streaks of flame that rose up green and blue were the hottest, while
most of the light was coming from tongues of fire that glowed bright orange.
Part of what made the fire fascinating was that its colors were in constant
change, varying rapidly from one part of the bright ring to another. Bands of
greater heat and greater light were continually changing places, seeming to
chase each other around the circle. What caused the variations was impossible to
say.
It had been late afternoon when Hal, making his way north through unfamiliar
land along the valley, had first caught sight of the strange burning. At that
time it had struck him that for all the flame there seemed to be amazingly
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little smoke. Now, inspecting the scene at close range, he thought there were
certain indications that the peculiar blaze was no more than a few days
old—there, for instance, a tree stood just at the outer limit of destructive
heat. Trunk and branches were now bare and charred, darker on the side toward
the fire, good evidence that no tree could possibly have grown in that location
while the fire roared.
It seemed the fire was going to tell him nothing new, however long he stared at
it. By now Hal had ceased puffing, and he determined to go completely around the
ring, getting a close look at it from every side—if he could manage to do so
without frying himself or falling off a cliff. He had what he considered to be
good reasons, going beyond his usual curiosity. This process of circumambulation
proved somewhat difficult, but Hal persisted, though once or twice the
irregularities of the slope brought him so close to the object of his study that
he might have roasted himself some meat for dinner—had he any meat to roast. The
fire was not merely some kind of magic trick, an illusion that a man might be
able to pass through with impunity.
At one point he passed the head of a steep, narrow ravine that went plunging
down to end exactly on one curving bank of the broad Einar River. The drop-off
was so sharp it made him a little dizzy to look down. The polyphonic murmur of a
chain of little waterfalls came drifting up—he had taken note of them during his
climb. Their noise now blended with the soft roar of the tall flames.
The surrounding landscape was one of rocks and scattered vegetation, and was
mostly unpeopled. For miles, in all the directions he could see, there were only
very occasional sparks of other flame to see, the signs of settlements or
farmhouses lighting up against the night.
Halfway through Hal's pilgrimage around the fire, he was taken by surprise when
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a certain small object in his belt pouch suddenly twitched and jumped. It felt
like a tiny animal in there, but he knew that it was not alive—unless sheer
magic counted as a kind of life. Opening the pouch, he pulled out a small
object—which to a casual inspection gave no sign of being anything but a scrap
of dirty cloth. But the bit of fabric behaved in an extraordinary way, glowing
and brightening (though without fierce heat or flame) in the man's hand even as
he held it out and moved it about.
When the strange fabric tugged most strongly at his fingers, Hal reached
straight down into a tuft of long wild grass at his feet. The thing that now
revealed itself to him was half covered by loose sand and hard to see. Hal
spotted it nevertheless and picked it up—a broken fragment of yellow, heavy
metal. There was enough of the thing to see that when intact, it must have been
part of a crescent shape about the size of Hal's broad hand.
A groove ran halfway round one of the thing's flat sides. Holes had been punched
through the groove, and one or two of those holes were still occupied by iron
nails. The nails were still wedged in place, though this piece of golden
semicircle had been somehow torn loose from whatever object they had once held
it to. After a long look he stuffed the object into his belt pouch.
He was frowning by the time he had returned to his starting point without having
discovered anything like a gate or entrance to the enclosure of flame. The only
thing the circumambulation had really accomplished was to remove any lingering
doubts that the fire made a complete and regular circle, almost perfect in its
shape.
Obeying a sudden impulse, he bent down once again, snatched up a small stone and
flung it uphill. Just before the pebble disappeared into the flames it flared
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incandescent, as if at that point in its flight the heat had truly been great
enough to turn it molten.
Hal gloomily shook his head.
Turning his back on the fire at last, frowning more thoughtfully than ever, Hal
retreated to a comfortable distance. He took a morsel of dried meat from his
pouch, and stood chewing on the tough fibers while he thought things over. Had
he had any fresh meat, he wouldn't have tried to cook it on this particular
hearth. These flames were too obviously unnatural. He possessed no real skill in
magic, but none was needed to see that. The near-perfect regularity of their
ring offered good evidence, as did the fact that they showed no tendency either
to grow or to diminish.
On reaching the place where he had decided to spend the night, he made his
simple preparations for settling in. Winter was definitely coming on in this
part of the world, but this close to the great mysterious burning a man ought to
be able to stay comfortably warm. In his preliminary scouting Hal had discovered
what he thought would be an ideal spot to sleep, on a small saddle of raised
land almost as high as the burning crag, and separated from it by only thirty
yards or so. There the generous Fates, as if feeling some concern for the weary
traveler, had caused soft moss to grow upon a handy patch of soil. On this bed
Hal now lay down wrapped in his cloak, shadowed by a small outcropping of rock
from almost all the direct light of the untiring fire. Still, by moving his head
only a little from side to side, he could see a large part of the slope to his
right and left, brightly lit by the fire above. He ought to be able to get a
good look at anything or anyone that appeared in the area during the night.
The traveler's peaceful rest behind the rock had not lasted much more than an
hour when some subtle change in his surroundings awakened him. He came awake
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with the inner certainty that he was no longer quite alone. Opening his eyes, he
lay for a few moments without moving, his battle-hatchet ready in his hand
beneath the cloak. Nothing and no one had come very near him yet. Cautiously Hal
raised his head and from his niche of wavering shadow studied the slope
immediately below the flames, first on one side and then the other.
In a moment, the figure of a young man had walked into his view, no more than a
moderate stone's throw away from Hal, but seemingly unaware of his presence.
The fellow was tall and active, dressed in boots, trousers, and a kind of
quilted jacket, but wearing no armor except a plain steel helmet that left his
almost beardless face exposed. His movements had a kind of nervous recklessness,
as well as the jerkiness of deep exhaustion. At the moment he was certainly not
on his guard. A short sword was sheathed at his side, and his clothes were so
begrimed and tattered that it was hard to guess whether they had originally been
of rich material or poor.
This newcomer's attention was entirely centered on the great fire itself, whose
gentle roar went on unceasingly. The youth continued a methodical progression,
as if he were intent on making his way entirely around the ring of flame,
reconnoitering just as Hal had done. He even seemed to be making the same
tentative efforts to approach the burning wall as closely as he could, but of
course the heat kept him yards away.
Carefully the concealed watcher sat up, peering first around one side of his
rock and then the other, to see more of the steep, rough cone of the hillside.
He saw enough to satisfy himself that the young man, who presently reappeared,
had come here quite alone. Hal rose to his feet, stretched, adjusted his cloak,
seated his hatchet once more in its holster at his belt, and remembered to pick
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up his horned helmet from where he had set it aside when he lay down to sleep.
Then, feeling as ready as could be for whatever might develop, he stepped out
firmly, striding back across the little saddle of land toward the fire.
The youth's back was turned to Hal, and his attention remained entirely absorbed
in the spectacular wall of flame. When Hal had come within thirty feet without
being noticed, he judged it wise to halt and call out a few words of greeting.
The tall lad spun around at once, clapping a hand to the hilt of his sword. Hal
was waiting open-handed, arms spread in a sign of peace; but even so he realized
that his appearance, that of a powerful armed stranger, could hardly have been
very reassuring.
"Who are you?" the other demanded, in a hoarse voice that quavered with some
recent and excessive strain. Extreme stress and exhaustion were plain also in
his young face. "What do you want?"
"No harm, lad, no harm at all." Hal kept his arms spread wide, and made the
tones of his own gravelly voice as soothing as he could. "I'm a traveler, just
passing through. My home's hundreds of miles to the north. I was heading that
way, following the river, when I saw these flames."
After a pause, in which the other did not respond, he went on. "My first thought
was that some farmhouse was burning. Then, when I had climbed halfway up these
rocks, I thought maybe it was a castle or watchtower—not really farming country
just along here. But now I'd be willing to bet there's no building at all inside
that fire. It's a strange one, isn't it? Certainly it has to be more than
natural."
"They are Loki's flames." The words seemed choked from the youth by some intense
emotion. "They feed on nothing but magic. They need no fuel to keep them
burning."
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"I see." Hal recognized the name, but took the claim in stride. "So, the gods
are involved. Can't say I'm surprised. I never saw another blaze like this one."
And he shook his head on its thick neck.
The youth had turned slowly round until he had his back almost to Hal and was
staring again into the multicolored, undying blaze. His lips moved slightly, as
if he might be whispering a word.
The man from the far north cleared his throat. "My name is Haraldur; most call
me Hal, to save themselves a little breath and effort. And who are you?"
The tall one turned slowly back. He relaxed slightly, out of sheer weariness, it
seemed. His hand still rested on his sword's hilt, but as if he had forgotten it
was there. "My name is Baldur," he announced in his strained voice.
"I see," Hal said again. He nodded encouragingly.
Slowly Baldur went on. "I live—I once lived—only ten miles from here." His words
had a wondering tone, as if something about that statement struck him as
remarkable. Presently he added: "Some of my family—my mother—still lives there."
Hal, exercising patience, grunted and nodded again. Fortune had now blessed him
with a chance to talk to a native of these parts, and he didn't want to waste
the opportunity. There was information he desired to have.
Baldur now gave the impression of nerving himself, gathering energy, to make
some serious effort. At last he went on: "Do you see—anything—strange about me?"
He spread out both his hands and turned them this way and that, presenting them
for inspection. "Do I look to you like a dead man?"
Hal strolled a few steps closer, and stood with folded arms, looking the young
fellow over from head to foot in the fire's clear light. After a moment he
raised a couple of stubby fingers to scratch under the rim of his horned helmet.
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"I have seen some strange folk here and there," the northman announced at last.
"Yes, a fair number who might be described as really odd. And several others who
were seriously dead. But I'd say you don't fit in either category." He held up a
cautionary hand. "Mind you, I may not be the very keenest judge. I once spent
several months as shipmate to a god, and never guessed who he was until he told
me."
But the youth had no interest in some stranger's tales of adventure. He had the
attitude of one with more than enough of his own. His cracking voice grew no
easier as he said: "Three days ago, I was leading a squad of men in battle when
I was cut down." Baldur reached up with large and grimy hands to his plain steel
helm, and gingerly eased it off his head, revealing the fact that the steel was
dented. When he bent slightly forward, his corn-yellow hair fell free, stained
and caked with the reddish-brown of old dried blood. "See my wound!"
Hal grunted again, squinting in the bright, just slightly wavering firelight at
the head that loomed above his own. He saw what little he could see without
getting any closer. There had certainly been a copious flow of blood, but it had
stopped some time ago. The wound itself was quite invisible under thick hair and
clots.
The northman renewed his efforts to be soothing. "Looks nasty, all right, but
maybe not so bad as it looks. Scalps do tend to bleed a lot. Anyway, you
survived."
This soothing attitude was not exactly welcome. "I said I fell!" the youth
choked out. Baldur's teeth were bared now in a kind of snarl. "I tell you that I
died!"
"I see," replied Haraldur in a neutral voice. "If you say so. That's
interesting." He resisted the urge to back away a step, compromising by shifting
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摘要：

GodsofFireandThunder FredSaberhagen    ...themoonembracehershepherd,Andthequeenofloveherwarrior,Whilethefirstdothhornthestarofmorn,AndthenexttheheavenlyFarrier.WithahostoffuriousfanciesWhereofIamcommander,WithaburningspearandahorseofairTothewildernessIwander.—"TomO'Bedlam'sSong,"Anonymous     1Never...

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