In the Moons of Borea by Brian Lumley Page B

some of the full-grown men were almost seven. Silberhutte, for all his massive stature by Earth standards, was dwarfed by them!
    'Another effect of the low gravity, Henri?' the Warlord asked out of the corner of his mouth.
    'I would say so. By the same token their strength has probably not increased in proportion. Might even have been reduced ... I hope!'
    Now the Vikings crowded forward, eager to get a closer look at their visitors, still open-minded about Annahilde's assertions regarding these men come down from the sky. So they flew, did they? Well, so did midges! What other powers did they have? Surely the Wind-Walker's chosen ones must be of greater stature than these men? What proof was there that they were what the witch-wife said they were? They moved closer still, then —
    'Ho, there! Out of my way — move, man! Where are these strangers I heard the hag ranting about, these "emissaries of Ithaqua?"' The voice was a deep, drunken bass rumble issuing from behind the massed Vikings.
    As all eyes turned from the strangers and a way was cleared for the speaker, so Annahilde whispered: `Harold, the chief's son. He's a drunkard and a bully. Beware . . . !'

3 Ithaqua's Emissaries
    As large and foreboding as his voice — seven feet tall, with a middle like a barrel and a huge red face that well matched his tangled red hair and the blood in his pig eyes — Harold was a monster. He glanced once at the strangers, took a long draught from the jug he carried, then threw back his great head and burst into malicious laughter. His mirth was short-lived, however, and quickly gurgled into silence as he contemplated the two a second time. Now his peering inspection was much more thorough, more threatening; and while Harold was not as drunk as the Earthmen might have preferred, he certainly appeared to be all of the bully that Annahilde had named him.
    Finally he turned scornfully on the assembled Vikings and roared: 'A trick! You've been tricked, all of you. By these two, aye, and by the hag there . . Harold waved a massive hand in Annahilde's direction. 'Emissaries of Ithaqua, indeed! Why, only look at them! They're common men, can't you see that?'
    `But we all saw them fly in from the sea,' one of the younger men protested.
    Harold stepped over to the youth and dealt him a backhanded blow that sent him reeling. 'Fool! Oaf! It's Annahilde's work. She's blown her powder in your faces. You'd see anything she wanted you to see. Sent by Ithaqua, my backside! These two? They look more like men from the Isle of Mountains to me . . . and we all understand the witch-wife's interest in the Isle of Mountains . .
    Instantly Annahilde's sons, great hulking men in their late twenties, stepped forward and confronted Harold. At the same time a pair of surly looking brutes, Harold's cronies, took up positions flanking him. From one of these Harold snatched a spear whose shaft was thick as a man's wrist.
    `Stand aside, bitch-sons, for I've no quarrel with you two — not yet! Aside, I say, and let's see what these strangers are made of.'
    In the chief's absence Harold had a certain authority with the clan. With his cronies beside him and following his cryptic accusations — against Annahilde as well as the two strangers — it would have been purest folly for the witch-wife's sons to oppose him in earnest. Thus Erik and Rory reluctantly stood aside as de Marigny and Silberhutte separated and backed up against the hull of one of the beached longships.
    Quickly then, allowing no time for thought, Harold drew back his arm and made as if to throw his spear. Instead of hurling the weapon, however, he retained it in the ready position. Silberhutte — a born fighter and greatly experienced — merely froze and narrowed his eyes, waiting for the cast, knowing he could step out of the spear's flight path. De Marigny, on the other hand, for all he had learned in the plateau's arenas, was short on practical experience. He feinted, almost tripped, and in the