He stood, gathering up his armoured cap. "I've told you, Slann, I've no need to hear your children's 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 mortals 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 my life for a Slann's 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, there's 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."
Erik's interest stirred. "You are moving from fable to fact, Slann. Show me the map."
Cotza grinned, throat wobbling. "I don't have it. I've 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.
Kislev's 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 Governor's 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 shark teeth draped the crude dragon's head at its prow. The corpse of a whale bumped against the hull.
Erik found the boat's 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 yacht."
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 Erik's shoulder. Erik was flensing a man-sized slab of meat; whale epidermis lay at his feet like discarded clothes. 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. "We'll dock soon."
Erik grinned at Bjorn, feeling dried blood crackle over his face. "Thanks."
Bjorn snorted and clapped Erik's 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 water's fresh here; we're 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 man's 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 bridge's 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 hubbub; 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 our credit. You coming?"
"Don't wait for me."
Bjorn nodded, showing no curiosity; then, with 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 minarets. Effete, Erik decided. It was surrounded by a wall of granite twice Erik's 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 Governor's 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 crisscrossed 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 Erik's 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 Erik's arms to his sides. Erik felt his ribs grind, his lungs strain. He gripped the handle of his axe with fingers that pounded with trapped blood.
Think, he told himself. Use his strength 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 the pain found its way to the giant's brain. He roared. Erik's 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 giant's grasp; he wrapped his arms about his head before he could hit the palace wall - but, as he'd 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 voices, the clatter of footsteps.
He grinned into the darkness. He hefted the axe in his hand. He had maybe seconds. Working by instinct 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 Erik's 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. I've expected you, Norseman."
Erik stared wildly around 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 you're 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 Governor's 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 didn't slow. He sailed off the bridge and smashed into the water a body's-length 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. We've got work to do." And he handed Erik a rope.
Erik sighed and struggled to his feet.
On his return to Ragnar Erik made for Cotza's 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 Governor's accusation of betrayal.
Suddenly he was disgusted with himself. He turned to leave.
Cotza rasped: "Wait! Norseman, where are you going?"