Death God's Doom

by E.C. Tubb

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Space Opera

Synopsis

There was something eerie about the storm . . . The blizzard had risen too fast, the wind howling as if from the throat of a rabid dog . . .the entire world had turned into a featureless hell of ubiquitous white. A world in which Malkar knew himself . . . to be completely lost.

Release date: September 29, 2011

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 128

Sample

There was something eerie about the storm. The yammering wind seemed to scream the frenzied curses of men long dead and the
swirling flakes of snow were disconsolate ghosts trying to find a measure of peace. The blizzard had risen too fast, the wind
howling as if from the throat of a rabid dog, the snow blasting over the plain and forest, loading branches until they snapped,
clogging trails and hiding landmarks until the entire world had turned into a featureless hell of ubiquitous white. A world
in which Malkar knew himself to be completely lost.


The horse stumbled and he steadied it with a practiced hand. Beneath the touch of his heavy gauntlet it snorted, restless,
ears pricked and eyes wild beneath their overhang of snow. An eddy of wind caused the flakes to dance in leaping abandon,
the white cloud funnelling so that the immediate area became clear, the wind a sobbing echo dirging between the crusted trees – an echo taken up and repeated with blood-chilling significance.


The horse reared, snorting vapour from its flaring nostrils.

“Steady!” Malkar’s left hand was firm on the reins. With his right he caressed the animal’s neck as his eyes probed the trees.
Between the boles snow gusted like shivering mist forming a curtain impossible to penetrate. Again came the echo, long, haunting,
filled with the promise of savage violence. He felt his nerves tense and the hairs prickled at the base of his skull. More
than snow drifted between the trees.


The storm blasted with renewed violence, hard-driven snow blinding both man and beast, the screaming fury of the wind drowning
out the lupine howling. But they were out there in the white hell, gaunt grey shapes hugging the ground, red eyes and feral
jaws wide with slavering hunger.


Malkar touched his heels to the sides of his shivering horse. “Up!” he commanded. “Move, lad! If darkness catches us in the
forest we are both dead!”


The stallion laid back its ears as if understanding the urgency in the grim voice of its owner. Snow spattered from its fetlocks
as it lunged ahead. The trees grew thicker, giving them added protection from the blizzard but affording thicker cover for
the wolves. Stumbling, the horse almost fell. By sheer strength Malkar retained his seat, forced the animal upright, urged
it on its way. Ahead, somewhere, must lie a clearing, a habitation perhaps, a place to halt and make a stand.


A howl sounded from the right. It was answered from the left and to the rear. A barely seen shape darted across their path,
the scent of the wolf causing the stallion to rear and paw the air. Malkar turned as instinct pricked its warning. From the
right a grey shadow rose from the snow and leapt at his throat, jaws gaping in silent ferocity, eyes matching the savage gleam
of fangs.


He smashed outward with his gauntleted hand, the heavy glove cracking against the wolf’s head and knocking the animal back
and down. Clamping his teeth on the reins he drew sword and dagger. A second wolf sprang from the left and fell, howling,
his muzzle shorn by razor-edged steel. Malkar felt a weight at his rear, turned, smashed a snarling shape from the haunches
of his mount. Blood reddened the snow from the torn side of the stallion. Maddened by the scent the wolves poured from the
forest in a tide of ravening fury.


Malkar met them with equal rage. Steel whined above the yammer of the wind as he slashed with his sword, the delicately curved
blade barely pausing as it bit through fur and flesh and bone. Beneath him the horse reared, its hooves smashing a grey shape
to broken redness and then, bunching its muscles, the stallion bolted through the trees.


Desperately Malkar fought to retain his seat, knees clamped to the heaving flanks, eyes narrowed as he searched the forest
ahead. Would the trees never end? A flicker of light shone abruptly to his left. It came again, a leaping flame in the gathering
darkness, vanishing as trees occluded the view, appearing again as they fell away to either side.


Malkar bared his teeth in a triumphant snarl as he guided the horse towards the light. The going was easier now, the danger
all to the rear, and the great muscles of the stallion would carry them both clear of the slavering pack. He relaxed a little and
then, suddenly, was hurtling through the air as the horse trod in a hidden hole and toppled to its knees.


He rolled as he landed, head tucked low, snow flying as he let forward momentum absorb the shock of impact. Immediately he
sprang to his feet, snatched up sword and dagger and ran back to where the horse threshed in terror amid a circle of wolves.
The dagger slashed as a grey, almost invisible shape launched itself at his throat, the beast falling in a puddle of blood
and entrails. Another died to the kiss of the sword, the head springing from the body, blood tracing a thick wetness across
the snow. A third choked on the heel of his boot and a fourth died with a severed spine as the stallion screamed in rage and
pain.


A wolf had it by the throat. Another had sunk its fangs into the heaving flank. A third loped forward to share in the kill.
Malkar yelled and ran forward, sword and dagger glinting blurs as he wove a curtain of edged and pointed protection around
the horse and himself. Blood spattered the snow as he slashed the stallion free from its attackers, grey fur gaping with ugly
wounds, the hungry snarling turning to whines and the gasping rattle of death.


Malkar thrust the dagger between his teeth as the stallion regained its feet. It reared, fighting to escape, back legs kicking
with murderous fury. Grimly he clung to the bridle as he fought to remount. Fangs sank into his heel as he climbed into the
saddle. He tore free, chopping downwards with his sword, and kicked at another snarling muzzle. Ramming his heels into the
sweating flanks he sent the stallion down the wide swath between the trees towards the beckoning light.


The animal was hurt. The steady rhythm of its progress broken by a jarring limp, the injured leg unable to carry the weight.
Tensely Malkar looked behind. The wolves were still following intent on making their kill. He turned, looking ahead. The light
was brighter now, seeming to rise as they climbed a slope in the clearing. The crest lay a little ahead, but the horse was
too slow, the wolves too close. They might barely make the crest. They could even get a little beyond. He knew they could
never reach the light.


Slipping from the saddle he dragged at the reins, urging the beast to a faster gait now relieved of his weight. They reached the crest and began the descent towards the light and the
building squatting darkly beneath. Behind them, on the ridge of the crest, a line of grey shadows lifted their muzzles and
howled. One loped over the edge and began to descend then yelped in sudden pain to turn and run back to its fellows. It seemed
as if an invisible barrier had reared itself between the wolves and their intended prey.


Malkar relaxed, smiling, recognising the effects of benign sorcery. Halting he examined the injured leg of the stallion. The
fetlock was swollen, the animal snorting with pain as he probed, favouring the limb as he rose. A bad sprain but nothing that
time would not cure.


“All right, boy,” he soothed. “We’re safe now. Just a little further and we can both enjoy some comfort.”

Malkar ran his hand over the arched neck as he talked to ease the animal’s fear then, taking the bridle, led the beast towards
the beckoning light.


* * * * * *

It came from a beacon surmounting a tower rearing high above the building. A gate opened as Malkar approached, spilling light
and warmth into the storm. It closed behind him as he led the stallion into a broad area smelling of sweat, manure and urine.
The normal scents of a place that held stables, but there were other smells, fainter, just as familiar. He had stumbled on
an inn.


“Welcome stranger!” A big, tall, round-bellied man stepped forward as the gate slammed shut. He wore a stained leather apron
and, in the light of flambeaux, his hairless face was ruddy and smiling. “My name is Stargash. I own this hostelry.”


“I have seen few more welcome sights,” said Malkar. “Your beacon was a veritable star of hope.”

“We do what we can,” said Stargash modestly. He glanced at the stallion. “You must have travelled far and hard. Your beast
shows signs of that.”


“Treat him well,” said Malkar. “A bucket of mulled ale laced with poppy juice. Hot blankets and a double measure of grain.”
He reached out, caressed the soft muzzle. “He is hurt,” he added. “His wounds need to be treated and his fetlock is sprained. If you have someone skilled in such matters I will gladly pay his fee.”


Stargash clapped his hands and a young man led the horse away. “All will be attended to,” he promised. “You are a lover of
horses?”


Malkar shrugged. “He saved my life. Food, warmth and attention is a small enough return.”

“True, but if you wish to ride within a span of days you must use another mount. Only a fool would push a beast beyond its
capacity and, my friend, I do not think you are a fool.”


“I am glad of that,” said Malkar dryly.

Stargash’s smile grew even wider as his eyes searched his guest. He looked at the high boots. The solid material of the breeks,
the worn brigandine, the wide belt hugging the narrow waist supporting the sheathed sword and dagger in their ornamented scabbards.
Rising his eyes lingered on the square jaw, the firm mouth, the deep-set eyes of winter grey, hard and level beneath the rim
of the Phaddocian helmet.


No soft merchant this or itinerant trader. No magician or wandering sorcerer. He was too tall, too hard and lean for sedentary
life. Too old for a scholar and too young for a sage. The weapons and ruthless stamp of mouth and eyes spoke of only one thing.


“A mercenary,” said Stargash. “A soldier of fortune. Your name, friend?”

“Malkar.”

“Of?”

“Meard.”

“A man of the world,” said the innkeeper, unoffended. “Well, there are many who make no claim as to country, rather to be
thought of as citizens of the world, so to speak, but I question no man as long as he troubles none and can settle his reckoning.
Now, master, a cup of wine to wash the taste of death from your mouth. A hot bath to ease the ache of travel from your bones.”
He clapped his hands to summon a youth. “Take the gentleman’s cloak for drying,” he ordered, and then, to Malkar, “A wild
boar turns on the spit and vegetables and bread are for the taking. Beneath my roof no man need hunger or thirst.”


“You are a trusting man,” said Malkar softly. “How can you be sure I will not vanish before the dawn?”

“You have a beast in the stable. A fine animal for mount or stud. If you leave it remains to settle your debt.” A laugh boomed
from the big man’s chest. “And who would be such a fool as to leave the comfort and security of this place in such a storm?”


“A desperate man,” said Malkar evenly. “And if I had no horse?”

“You would find certain difficulties in your path. Rainbow’s End is not without its safeguards.”

Malkar nodded. “And for which I am grateful. I ask merely from curiosity. I have money,” he assured and added, musing: “Rainbow’s
End. An odd name for an inn. Legend has it that a pot of gold is to be found in such a place. Maybe this is it?”


A hardness touched the innkeeper’s mouth. “Maybe.”

“A snug spot on the crossing of busy trails. Many must pass and all would linger. Are you not afraid that some might try and
wrest what you have gained with your hard work and sweat from your grasp?”


“I have eleven wives and thirty sons – a score fully grown. Many others eat at my tables at my cost. Robbers would not find
it easy to take what is mine.”


And, as the man had hinted, there would be other protection. Sorcery to build invisible shields. He remembered the crest and
the frustrated howling of the wolves. Stargash was no fool and if others were tempted to think otherwise they would have a
rude awakening.


* * * * * *

Refreshed by his bath Malkar slipped his dagger in his boot and left weapon-belt, sword, helmet and brigandine in his room
before making his way to the great common room below. A soft shirt of lizard skin framed the iron tendons of his throat, the
scales winking like g. . .