Andrew Offutt: The Sign of the Moonbow

Behind the drape lay the wall, with two feet of space between. There stood a night-dark robe surmounted by a noisome death’s head; around its neck gleamed a slim chain of silver and on the robe’s breast flashed the sigil of Danu, moon-points down. The undying wizard was otherwise unbound. Beside him stood a redbearded giant who looked nigh naked without ax or scalemail corselet or round Danish helm; in chains he was, and with a gag covering his mouth. Cormac saw that iron links secured Wulfhere’s wrists to his ankles, but without play enough to allow the Dane to get his fingers at his gag.

That scene Cormac mac Art saw all in the flash of a moment. There was no time for a sigh of relief at seeing Wulfhere alive and Thulsa Doom still immobilized by the Sign of the Moonbow; Tarmur Roag turned at the Gael’s shout and his pallid gaze fell on the dark man who raced at him with naked sword in hand.

At sight of him who had done such violence to his plans, the Moyturan wizard’s eyes seemed to spark yellow, as with leaping flames of hate. He gestured viciously, as if he were hurling some missile.

Was instinct saved mac Art; piratic weapon-man’s instinct caused him to lunge sideward. Materialized from nothingness, from the air itself and the arcane power of Tarmur Roag, a long shadow-spear drove at and past him.

In that desperate dodgery Cormac lost his footing. He fell, armour crashing and grating on the floor of glaucous stone.

Tarmur Roag whirled and with both hands whipped the Chain of Danu from around the neck of Thulsa Doom. He tossed it away, and plucked a dagger from a sheath up the sleeve of his silvery robe. Instantly the eyesockets of the skull blazed the red of witchfire on a foggy night. The will of the undying wizard had been returned to him-and with it returned his sheerest malevolence and lust for vengeance.

Cormac rose in time to see two things: the charging Moyturan weapon-man had swerved to attack him, not the wizard-and Wulfhere’s chains did not prevent him from lifting his hands as high as Tarmur Roag’s neck. The Dane grasped the mage by the throat with a suddenness and violence that jarred the dagger from Tarmur Roag’s hand.

The guardsman came on for Cormac. It’s no time I have for this interfering idiot , the Gael thought, angered at the delay. He took one step forward while he launched a sword-cut with such irresistible strength and savagery that it met his attacker’s stroke and sheared through his blade as though it had been cheese.

Half the traitor’s blade flew through the air to ring clanging and skirling on the floor. The other half completed its chop, though weakly; Cormac’s raging blow had nigh broken the man’s arm along with his sword. Now, just as viciously, Cormac kicked him up under the hem of his mailcoat, bashed him in the head with his buckler as the retching fellow started to fall, making sick noises. Then the Gael’s sword came whizzing back to cleave into the other’s face at the nose. The gory corpse sprawled and Cormac had to set a foot against it to free his blade of the Moyturan’s skull.

Tarmur Roag’s face had taken on colour for the first time in his life. It went red, then began to blacken. His eyes bulged and his tongue quivered out. His heels cleared the floor as Wulfhere lifted, and a great shudder went through the Moyturan mage. Then, as Thulsa Doom marshaled his senses and started past, the Dane swung that ugly corpse so as to stagger the ancient wreaker of evil.

Tarmur Roag’s body fell limply. Thulsa Doom rose from his knees and turned blazing red eye-pits on the giant. In the wizard’s bony hand was Tarmur’s dagger.

“ Wulfhere! Pig of a blood-bearded barbarian… for you I can spare a moment!”

A long sword of shining steel whizzed down in a blurring streak of silver. The dagger drove at Wulfhere-and was carried away with the arm that wielded it. No blood splashed as Thulsa Doom groaned and turned his awful faceless head toward his attacker.

With a second wild sweep that narrowly missed the Dane’s swelling chest, Cormac’s sword lifted the skull of Thulsa Doom from his shoulders. The flying death’s head struck a pillar, rebounded to the floor with a loud cracking sound, and rolled.

“HAIL THE QUEEN! RIORA REIGNS!”

Cormac recognized the bellowing voice; it was Balan, triumphant. He and his remaining men had defeated their erstwhile fellow guardsmen. And Tarmur Road lay dead. And the undying wizard was beheaded.

But he was not dead.

The headless, one-armed robe turned, stopped when its front was turned toward the yellow-white object that gleamed on the floor fifteen feet away.

Then Thulsa Doom started for his head.

Cormac was already striking away the chains that linked Wulfhere’s feet to the wall. On one knee then to sever the length that connected the Dane’s ankles, Cormac saw the horror that brought silence on all else who witnessed: the tall, headless robe bent, clutched up the skull, and set it upon the center of its shoulders. Instantly it adhered and was fast.

A ringing peal of satanic laughter burst from the death’s head mouth and echoed from the temple’s stone walls.

Then Thulsa Doom ran, with astonishing speed, toward the steps at whose top stood the Queen of Moytura.

Bellowing “Dithorba!” Cormac leaped after the undying wizard. Behind him, chains clinked as Wulfhere started to follow.

Dithorba had said he possessed but few talents beyond that of his strange travel-by-mind. At last he demonstrated; his was the Danu-given power of Cathbadh. A wall of flame leaped up a few feet in front of the running Thulsa Doom. Cormac saw that the fire rose not so high as those of the mage of Danu’s Isle, and was pale blue rather than yellow and orange. Nevertheless the fire-wall served its purpose. The skull-surmounted robe skidded to a stop and back-paced hurriedly.

“Attack!” Balan’s voice cried, and frozen Queen’s Guardsmen were mobilized… though only Balan and six others were on their feet.

Snarling, Thulsa Doom seemed to waver, to shimmer… and became a plaintively wailing Erris of Moytura.

Cormac was running, and his broad sweeping cut was already begun. Again he lopped off the head of the undying wizard. It rolled on the floor, a piteous sight to shake strong men: the head of a pretty young woman whose eyes and mouth gaped and whose lovely pale hair flew.

And then Erris’s head was a rattling, hairless, fleshless skull; the true head of Thulsa Doom.

Once again the robed body went for its severed head… but Wulfhere, charging past Cormac like an enraged bear, seized the headless body. Both fell, to roll wrestling, desperately seeking crippling holds. Cries rose as the robe vanished, and the flamehaired giant appeared to be wrestling with a huge growling shaggy bear…

And then Wulfhere fought a lashing, writhing serpent…

And then a woman, her with orange-red hair and green eyes, in leathern armour and tall, tall boots that rose up under her tunic, a woman who cried out, “Wulfhere, No! Wulfhere-”

Shaking like a wind-blown aspen, Cormac tore his pouch from his belt. Ruthlessly he spilled onto the temple floor the gifts he’d brought for a queen: garnets and emeralds, a great twinkling sapphire and two sunny amethysts, a necklace of coral and stones found only in Europe. The treasure of Doom-heim twinkled and sparkled on the stone floor. It was the sack Cormac mac Art needed, now.

A few steps he took, and caught up the death’s head of Thulsa Doom, and popped it into the leathern bag.

As he drew its strings, the wall of blue flame died without leaving so much as a smoke-smudge on the temple floor.

The Queen of Moytura descended the steps while Cormac mac Art strode toward them. Behind her came Dithorba. He carried a hammer, brought from the Inn of Red Rory.