Free Elak of Atlantis by Henry Kuttner

right, slanting toward the river, attempting to outflank the Northmen.
    “What’s this?” Velia asked. “The Vikings can ride as fast as our men. Why—”
    Across the river the enemy had seen Elak’s move, and their flanks moved outward—but not far. A great shout arose far to the left, and, a moment later, a thunderous roar came from the right. Over the ridge, on both wings of the Viking army, rode warriors, streaming down the slopes, swords and lances gleaming in the sunlight.
    “Hira—and Dalan!” Lycon said. “They outflanked the Northmen in the night. They’ll give us a chance to cross Monra.”
    Now the strategy was evident; a thin line of warriors held the bank of the river, their bowmen keeping the enemy engaged. And the rear ranks of Cyrena galloped to left and right, racing into Monra River, plunging across it and up the steep shores in the face of a hail of arrows and steel. They could not have succeeded had it not been for Hira and Dalan, whose warriors spread ruin and confusion in the Viking flanks.
    “We’ve crossed,” Elak barked, eyes agleam. “Now we’re on equal ground—it’s strength, not strategy, that counts now we’ve crossed Monra. Come on!” He turned to a great white charger that stood nearby, stamping his impatience, his hoofs striking fire from the rocks underfoot. With one leap Elak was in the saddle.
    Upright in the stirrups,shouting, rapier unsheathed, he thundered down the slope, and behind him rode Lycon and Velia—down to the water’s edge, into Monra River, foam splashing high as they charged across. A roar went up from the warriors—and the next moment, driven back by the impetus of Elak’s forces, slashing and thrusting at his heels, the Northmen gave way up the slope, desperately contending each inch of ground lost.
    Then there was nothing but a red maelstrom of hewing and cutting, ax and sword and strongly driven spear; screaming of horses that galloped by with riders clinging with one hand and warring with the other; horses plunging and dying in a welter of thunderous crimson ruin—giant men fighting and falling and slaying as they fell.
    Raven banners toppled. Shouts of “
Odin! Thor with us!
” mingled with roars of “
Cyrena! Cyrena!
” Elak thrust and thrust again, guiding his steed with one hand as it stumbled and leaped over knots of prostrate, struggling men and still, bloody bodies. Above the ranks that surrounded him he saw the Druid’s head nodding and swaying far to the right, and a great sword hewed steadily about Dalan, cutting a wide swath of corpses. And ahead, in the front rank of the Viking army, rode Guthrum, red beard flaming, moving like a towering pestilence among men whose helms and heads were crushed by his bloody ax.
    “Thor! Thor with us!”
    “
Cyrena!
”
    Sweat and bloodsmeared Elak’s face. He tried to find Lycon and Velia, knew it was impossible in the melee. A Viking rode at him yelling, spear leveled; the white warhorse leaped forward and aside at Elak’s urging. The spear point grazed his cheek as he swayed aside, and his blade sank deep into the Northman’s hairy throat. He whipped it out, steel singing, thrust at a new foe.
    The sun rose higher, and the reek of spilled gore mingled with the stench of sweat. At the top of the ridge the Vikings rallied, knowing that if they were driven past it they were lost. And like a massacre King Guthrum raged among his enemies, his ax rising and falling steadily, rhythmically, dreadful as the hammer of the Northmen’s god Thor. The army of Cyrena was checked—driven back a little down the slope.
    “Forward!” Elak spurred his charger, sent it leaping against the mad horde that swept down Skull Valley. “
Cyrena! Ho, Cyrena!
” His rapier darted out like a snake striking, and its touch was as deadly. A Viking fell, screaming his death cry.
    And Elak’s voice caught his army as it hesitated on the brink of retreat that led to destruction. One man, mad with valor, facing an