Brian Stableford - Asgard's Heart

I could not stand before the forces that were beating and wrenching at me from all sides, and fell to my knees. But my hands gripped the rail all the tighter, and I ducked my head, trying to make myself tiny and huddle into the angle made by the deck and the balustrade.

Once I could not see what was happening it did not feel so very awful, and the storm’s power seemed much diminished. But still the ship was tossed about in both the vertical and horizontal dimensions, and still there was the sense of vaporous fingers clutching at me, first to tear and then to choke, and I knew that my sword was as impotent as my mere hands to turn them back. I stretched out my legs, trying to hook my feet into small gaps in the wooden face where they might help to anchor me. The bow and the quiver which I had not yet tried to use were pinned beneath me, their awkward shapes digging into my flesh as I tried to force myself down on to the deck.

I could still see Myrlin clinging to the wheel, refusing to let his giant frame be cast down by the angry wind. I could not see the goddess, but as the moaning of the wind paused for a fleeting moment I heard her, screaming at the storm with all the wrath which she could rouse to meet it. She was not screaming wordlessly—nor, I quickly realised, was she screaming impotently. Although the wind’s imperious howl tried hard to reassert itself when the brief pause was done, it could only enter into competition with her, and it seemed almost as if her voice now drew strength from the maelstrom of sound which whirled about us, as if the turbulence which was shaking the very foundations of the world added to her power instead of undermining it.

I raised my head, gaining confidence that I did not need to shrivel myself up in search of a hidey-hole, wondering if I might not fight too, if only I had words to do it with. I opened my mouth, and found it full of rushing, strangling air, which drove from my mind any thought of trying to form a coherent sentence—but I would not be silenced, and I shouted against the wind with all my might.

There was a brief moment when it seemed that the shout might empty my lungs and leave me helpless in the grip of the wind, helping it in its determination to choke me, but such sound as I produced seemed only to need a spark to set it alight before it grew of its own accord, plundering the force of the storm which tried to staunch it. There was a moment’s struggle, a second’s balance, and then I found the power to sustain the shout, to amplify it, and turn it into a cry of triumph, and I realised that Myrlin was shouting too, and that his stentorian voice was somehow adding its support to mine as we laid down a carpet of sound on which the goddess’ words could dance… and the louder we shouted, the clearer her words became, and though they were in some primitive, forgotten language which I did not know, they had meaning enough to terrify the wind which had come to pluck us apart.

There surged through me a sense of triumphant authority as I realised what power I had on which to draw. Magic was there to be worked, and although I had no knowledge of its working, the necessity which was the mother of improvisation could bring it forth. I could defend myself, not only with the curious weightless sword but with the sheer force of wishful thinking.

For the first time in my life I felt truly free, a commander of circumstance.

The boat plunged through the tiny eye of the storm, through the arch of rosy fire, and came out the other side, bursting from the thick and ruddy cloud into the thinner, sparkling mist once more.

Water rained down upon us as we passed beneath the vortices which sucked the water up, but they could not close upon the sides of our craft, and could not break our oars—and the water was only water, which could not hurt us in the least.

Our howls of wrath extended themselves into a long ululating cry of pure elation, and when I had come to my feet I saw that we were all three looking back at the dying thing behind us, whose fury seemed now only to be consuming itself, as the red that was not like blood faded to a pastel shade of rose, and finally evaporated in the silver mist.

“Did I not tell you?” she called, when at last we stopped our yelling and drew breath. Her voice was cracked, and it was an effort for her now to speak, but the elation in her words was clear to be heard, and it was obvious that this was a conflict she was delighted to have won. We knew now that she had underestimated the enemy, but we had the compensating hope that we might have underestimated ourselves. She turned to face us, while I staggered to Myrlin’s side, and we both leant on the wheel while we watched the storm expire in the bubbling waters far behind our stern.

I gasped for breath, thinking to join in the round of mutual congratulation, when I saw the expression of joy which was in her eyes begin to die. She opened her mouth to say something more, and when no words came I knew that it was not simply shortness of breath that would not let them come.

I turned, quickly, steadying myself upon the wheel, to look beyond the bows of the ship, at whatever terror now was to be thrust into our path.

Had I never seen it before it would have been a dreadful sight, but it was something I knew from the dream I had had when concussion had freed that parasite which clung to the underside of my soul.

Sailing directly toward us out of the mist was a ship four times the size of our own, which stood twice as high in the water, and looked as if it would break us in two if it could ram us squarely.

Its hull was made from strangely-knotted strands whose nature and origin I could never have guessed, had I not had my dream—but in that dream I had not had to guess, and had known what it was.

This was the ship of the dead, whose timbers were made from the fingernails of corpses, which had continued to grow long after the bodies were safe in their tombs, and whose fine white sails were woven from hair of the same strange kind. On the deck were its crew, who were made from the bare bones of the resurrected dead, all skeleton and sinew, eyeless, lipless, and heartless, yet bearing arms and fervent with the lust for life.

To the horror of the sight itself was added a sudden thrill of panic, as I realised that here was a figment of my imagination, a nightmare based in the ancient stories I had recalled. Such images had been seized and appropriated, it seemed, by the tapeworm in my mind, and now they were accessible to the others, whose object was my destruction. A moment ago, I had felt such a power within me that I had almost reckoned myself a god. Now, I remembered all too well that in the riot of Gotterdammerung the gods had perished, wiped out by the giants and their macabre armies.

Myrlin’s huge hand cast me roughly aside as he sought to spin the wheel, but there was not a doubt in the world that he was already too late. Although he steered the ship into a turn as sharp as she could possibly take, all he could do was to make the collision a glancing one. Our gleaming spur barely had strength to scratch the hull of the other vessel, and although the gorgon’s head which was mounted on our prow stared with baleful eyes at the host assembled in its bows, the enemy warriors had no eyes of their own by which her power could be known.

And as the honest timbers of the one ship grated harshly against the eerie fabric of the other, those skeletal warriors were already swinging onsropes of silvery hair, pouring like a troop of horrid insects on to the deck of our small, frail craft.

It took some thirteen hours of driving through the dead world to reach the next drop-point. I hoped that it would take us a long way down, because the horizontal sort of journey was no fun, and didn’t take us a single centimetre closer to where we wanted to be. If we had to drive a thousand kilometres sideways just to reach a point which would only let us go a couple of kilometres downwards, the journey to the centre was going to be a very long one, and we’d all be old before we got there.