Norman Spinrad - The Iron Dream

Upon reaching the gully that led off into the Wood, Stopa did not hesitate, indeed hardly slackened speed. The motorcycle leaped off the paved roadway and onto the rough forest track and dashed off through the great dark sylvan corridors with the entire troop howling close behind it.

There followed a wild ride through the dark woods and over the irregular forest floor the like of which Feric would not have imagined in the most extravagant fancy.

Careening at exhilarating speed through the random aisles between the trees, bouncing and sliding over roots and rocks and all manner of underbrush, Stopa guided his steed with a sure instinct and a sense of dash and spirit that succeeded in putting Feric totally at his ease. It seemed as if destiny guided the motorcycle and Stopa on some level was aware of this; machine, rider, and passenger were a juggernaut of fate—swift, sure, unstoppable.

Though it seemed almost at every moment that the motorcycle would dash itself to pieces against some great looming tree or be flung headlong by a rock or pit or root, Feric was able to relax and enjoy the feeling of power and danger, the wind in his face, the mighty throb of the engine beneath him.

Indeed, he felt a certain regret when, after an hour or so of this demon’s ride, Stopa turned onto a rude path which a few minutes later debouched into a treeless hollow between two deeply wooded hills in which stood what was obviously the Avengers’ camp.

A dozen or so huts were scattered about the clearing in no particular order. They were small, primitive affairs; a few of the finer specimens boasted tin doors and small windows appropriated from wrecked steamers and gas cars.

There was one larger such hut, and two big sheds pieced together from rusty steel sheeting. Directly behind this small settlement was the mouth of a cave where a beaten path and scattered bits of debris gave evidence of human habitation. All in all a squalid camp that indicated only primitive knowledge of the builder’s art.

Stopa drove into the center of the encampment and brought his machine to a halt with a flourish, spinning it about in its own length as he kicked down the stand and cut the engine, so that it finished upright in a cloud of dust. Moments later, the others brought up their motorcycles in similar style.

Feric dismounted the moment the cycle halted and even before Stopa himself could step down, so as to deprive the Avenger leader of either forbidding him to do so or giving him the order. For his part, Stopa seemed to ignore the significance of this gesture. He simply dismounted, placed his hands on his hips, and glowered at his men while they climbed down from their machines and formed a rough semicircle facing their leader. A shaken and dazed Bogel wobbled forward out of this crew to Feric’s side.

“This is madness, Feric!” Bogel declared. “These savages will surely slay us and no doubt feast afterward on our remains. What a ride! What a foul midden this is!

What friends you have thrown us among!”

Feric shot Bogel a look of such blackness that the smaller man instantly fell silent, fairly trembling in his shoes. Bogel had a tendency to run off a bit at the mouth when silence was a stronger weapon than words. He needed more steel in his backbone as well.

“All right!” Stopa barked. “Don’t just stand around with your tongues hanging out! We’ve got a rite to hold!”

With that the Black Avengers sprang into action. A crew of them went off into the woods on some errand while others entered their huts and emerged bearing sheaves of great ten-foot torches, pointed at their nether ends. Two Avengers went to the oversized hut and returned rolling an enormous wooden keg. More of the great torches were fetched, until there were dozens of them lying in the center of the clearing. The party returned from the woods laden with branches and logs and began assembling the fuel for a large bonfire. The keg was stood up on end and the top removed, revealing an ocean of heavy brown ale. A cheer went up, and each Avenger dropped a wooden drinking horn into the keg, brought it up brimming, swallowed it down in one great draught, then refilled his horn for fortification while performing his duties. Thus invigored, the Avengers quickly staked out a large circle of torches centered on the great heap of faggots.

While this work was done, Stopa had stood silent and immobile beside Feric and Bogel, his hands on his hips in a lordly posture, neither deigning to join in the tasks, nor drinking his brew with the others. Now he went to his motorcycle, mounted it, and kicked the engine to life. As the cycle sprang forward, he leaned over and snatched a torch off the ground on the fly. This he ignited with a fire lighter. He then roared around the entire circle of torches at speed, firing each in turn, until the center of the Avenger camp was a blazing ring of torchlight casting tongues of flame and bright sparks up into the infinite forest darkness. Stopa then drove his machine into the ring of fire straight for the woodpile at its center. With one sudden breathtaking motion, he pivoted the howling motorcycle about his own right foot, instantly reversing its direction, while tossing his torch directly on the pyre, setting it aflame. He then brought his machine to a screeching halt by the keg of ale, dismounted, and thrust his head beneath the beery waves. He held his head under the foam for long moments, then withdrew, smacking his lips.

“Into the circle, you bugs!” he roared. “We’re going to find out whether we have a new brother tonight or a corpse.”

The Avengers gathered themselves in a group inside the circle of torches facing Stopa and the great crackling bonfire that now blazed behind him. As Feric led Bogel into the ring of fire, Bogel grimaced at him impishly and said: “Well, I suppose if I must die tonight, it might as well be in a blaze of glory. Apparently you share my taste.”

Feric clapped Bogel on the shoulder as they approached Stopa; despite certain limitations, there was no denying that Seph Bogel was made of the right stuff.

Stopa drew his huge truncheon and leaned insolently on it as if it were a cane. “All right, Feric Jaggar,” he shouted, “it’s all very simple. You’re inside the circle of fire; you leave as either an Avenger or a corpse. If you survive—which you won’t—you become an Avenger with the right to challenge me to fair combat. That’s the game, bug, all you have to do is survive the three ordeals—the Test of Water, the Test of Fire, and the Test of Steel. So let’s get started. Bring on the big horn.”

At this, a large, blond-bearded Avenger wearing a black jerkin emblazoned with a crimson swastika left the circle of torches. In a few moments, he returned bearing a drinking horn of truly heroic proportions. This huge vessel was hewn from a single block of dark-colored wood like the others, but it was a full three times their size, holding perhaps four or five standard tavern measures of ale, and carved all over with stags’ heads, eagles, swastikas, and rearing serpents.

Stopa took the great drinking horn, plunged it into the barrel of ale, and brought it up filled to overflowing and dripping with foam. He held the vessel aloft with both hands and declaimed: “Anyone who can’t drain this horn of ale without pausing for breath isn’t man enough to be an Avenger.”

He handed the horn of ale to Feric, then drew his pistol. So heavy was the drinking horn that Feric needed both hands to steady it.

“You drink it all down, Feric Jaggar,” Stopa said, “and you pass the Test of Water.” He cocked his pistol and pressed the muzzle directly to the base of Feric’s skull.

“But if you take one breath before it’s dry, it’ll be your last.”

Feric smiled bravely. “I must admit the ride made my throat somewhat dry,” he said. “I thank you for your magnanimous hospitality.”