The Frozen God

by Robert Holdstock

  Many Have Tasted the Cold Steel of the Swordmistress’s Blade

  The first barbarian charged in with lowered pike. Raven deflected the barbed head with her sleeve-shield, slashing at the man’s arm. He wore mail beneath his furs, and her cut glanced useless off. Before he could strike back, the second guard was on her, swinging his pike in a wild lateral movement. She ducked under the blow closing with the barbarian and driving her sword up into his gaping mouth.

  The point rammed through his skull, piercing the brain to kill him instantly, but his jaw snapped shut, trapping the sabre. Before Raven could tug the blade free, the other pike smashed into her back…

  Raven

  The Frozen God

  Richard Kirk

  For Yvonne, who believed in it all.

  “To be is not to know, though both are gifts of surpassing value and should be treasured above all things.”

  —Jaarl, High-priest of Kharwhan

  Prologue

  Wind, sweet with the fetid odours of decaying fruit, brushed lazily against the patched and ragged sail hanging limp from the barques’s single mast. For a moment, a seaman glanced up, mumbling a curse as he realised the breeze lacked the strength to fill the lanteen sail. He turned his head, wiping salt sweat from his eyes as he looked out across the silent azure of the still sea. He reached for the water-skin beside him and dribbled a little moisture between lips cracked and burned by the relentless sun, then turned his gaze back to the old man propped against the mast, eyes half-closed against the iridescent glare of water and sky.

  How old the man was, it was impossible to tell. His hair was a mane of silver, falling loose over the threadbare folds of his robe, casing a face weathered by wind and sun, seamed about with a myriad wrinkled. It was the face of an ancient, or a sage, yet the eyes were blue and piercing and their gaze was bright and fierce as that of a hawk. For an instant the seaman studied the weapon the old man carried across his knees, his left hand set firm around the cracked leather of the scabbard. The hilt of the sword was bound round with gold wire, bright in the afternoon light, the pommel surmounted by a great green gem that shone and sparkled, lancing beams of aquamarine brilliance back at the sun. The seaman tugged his stained kilt closer about his loins, wondering about the sword, wondering about its value.

  The old man noticed his look and raised his right hand to touch the hilt. That hand was wrapped in a dirty cloth, the abrupt fore-shortening of its length indicating where fingers were gone, lopped off in some near-forgotten battle.

  A calm smile transformed his face for an instant, in a memory of how once he had looked.

  “The wind will come again,” he said slowly. “It always does. Ever it blows, and all we mortals may do is await is pleasure. Or its wrath. It has blown down all the lonely corridors of time since first we men crawled from the raw stuff of creation to become what we are now. It will blow across our bones when we are gone; it blows now over the bones of greater men than we, men long gone into the darkness of oblivion.”

  He paused, his ageless eyes turning to study the mariners sprawled about the deck. They answered his gaze with lazy indifference; perhaps one of his tales would help idle away the long hours during which they were becalmed.

  “There was a time when it blew strong and cold over a land lonelier than any you coast-hugging fishermen can imagine, a land of ice and fire where beasts, more bizarre than those sea-monsters you sometimes net, drank blood, tore flesh in cataclysmic fights with men you’ll never see; men who lived in palaces of ice and amethyst, supped wine from goblets of crystal and gold. Aye! That was a time much different, a time of heroes, when the world was young and a sword might shape the future…”

  He dabbled absently at the stump of his severed hand, as though the touch might awake dim memories. And into his eyes came a look of pain; of loss and longing.

  “That was the time of Raven. Swordmistress of Chaos, some called her; others, Chaos-bringer. To some she was a warrior; to others, a woman. A woman of honeyed gold and naked steel, soft as the softest courtesan, yet deadly as the scorpion’s sting. A woman to light up your eyes and fill your heart with desire—yet to touch her unbidden was to court death, for love and destruction went side-by-side where she walked.

  “This sword was hers, given her that she might wield it in the shaping of a new world, its usage taught her by those gone long and long ago into the dust. Argor…Gondar Lifebane…the one called Silver. They rode beside her, sword-companions, as we world-shapers carved our path through the mists of a dead age.

  “I knew her then. Shared her battles and her bed as a man shares the fabric of his destiny, and perhaps I knew her best of them all, for I was there at the beginning and at the end. Aye! I was there when the world shook and tumbled down upon itself into bloody ruin. Armageddon, some said it was; others called it Ragnarok. And mayhap it was; mayhap it is our destiny to see Armageddon come again and again until all is washed clean. Or gone forever.”

  He looked again at the sword, and at the stump of his hand.

  “But that is a tale for another day, another time. Much passed before that ravaging, when brother slew brother and friends fell upon one another with fire and sword. There was peace, sometimes, though that was a thing to be enjoyed as a thirsty man enjoys the brief swallowing of a depleted water-skin, knowing the thirst will soon come again. Then we pressed ever forwards, onwards, following the destiny of our fates towards the goal set out for us by powers we scarce understood and scarcer even dared to question. A good sword and a good companion, those were all we asked. All we dared hope for…”

  A sailor stirred restlessly, stretching out a hand for the water-skin. He wet his lips and passed the container on to the next man. The ancient shook his head when the skin was held in his direction; it was as though he had no need of water, could refresh himself in memories.

  “And once.” he continued softly, “we rode a path no man had trod before. A path that led us into the Cold Lands, through the freezing wastes of lost Quwhon to fight with men and Ice Demons. Listen; I will tell you of that journey…”

  One

  “To know the destination of a path may, at times, be to negate the purpose of traveling.”

  The Books of Kharwhan

  Great clouds of roiling black sprang like gigantic sky-beasts from the hidden reaches of Quwhon. Layer upon tumbling layer, they built an ethereal barrier across the sky, as though some god painted a boundary line through the heavens to mark the extent to which a man might penetrate the hidden land. A wind, howling like some vast and lonely wolf, drove the clouds onwards over the snow, darkening the beach until the sun itself was blotted out, curtained behind that cloud storm so that noon became as twilight and a greater cold settled over the dark sand.

  Far out to sea, the square sail of a wolf-boat filled with that wind and was lost, black against a deeper blackness, the low, lean shape of the craft scudding fleet over the waves. Soon the thing was gone, indistinguishable on the grey-green surface of the Worldheart Ocean, and the watchers turned away, hurrying for the shelter of the low, solid-looking huts that clustered tight against the rocks spilling down to meet the sea.

  Before they reached the huts the rain began, lashing the beach with an icy, stinging whiplash that tormented those parts not covered by the watchers’ heavy fur cloaks. They came to the closest of the huts and pushed inside, swinging shut the metal-studded door of wind-weathered timber, pulling across it a greater curtain of some waterproof material that deadened the screaming of the wind, sealed off the interior against the biting cold. Inside, the hut was warm, a fire blazing in a central hearth, giving both heat and light to the occupants, providing a means by which the dour-faced women might roast the meat set above t
he flames.

  The newcomers removed their cloaks, hanging the furs from pegs set into the stone walls before huddling about the fire, hands extended to draw in its life-giving warmth. Three there were, a woman and two men, as different in their aspect as was that lonely shore to the teeming, sun-kissed beaches of the distant Southern Kingdoms.

  The woman was near as tall as the men, lithe and full-breasted in her shirt of fine-woven mail, her hair a cascade of gold, gleaming red in the firelight as it tumbled about a face to take away a man’s breath. She wore close-fitted leggings of sleek, black skin set into high boots of soft Yr leather, and about her waist was a belt of bright and deadly throwing stars in the fashion of the western Xand riders. In addition to the stars, she wore a sword-girdle of black Xand leather, worked about with silver chasings that matched the filigree decorating her scabbard. And from the scabbard there protruded the golden hilt of a Tirwand sabre, its pommel set with a great green gemstone. Her arms were bare, save for a silver rogue high upon her right arm, and a curios shield that was strapped about her left fore-arm, moulded to the shape of her limb. The lower end extended over her hand, terminating in a point with sharpened edges such as might find employ in attack as easily as in defence. The device was an Ishkarian sleeve-shield, its workmanship further adding to the exotic appearance of the wearer.

  Once she had been called Su’uan. Now she was Raven. Then she had been a slave. Now she was a warrior.

  She accepted a mug of carven bone, sipping gratefully at the steaming contents as she glanced over at her two companions.

  One was a tall, slender man, his hair a flood of darkness over the glossy shoulders of his Xand-hide cuirasse and dark metal mail. He wore ebon boots of the same material as Raven’s: the carefully-worked leather obtained from the southern city of Yr. About his lean-hipped waist was a wide belt from which hung a dagger and a straight-bladed sword of black Quwhon steel. Where Raven was gold and silver and black, her companion was a figure of sombre hue, only his clear blue eyes, azure as a summer sky when the sun shines silver-gold, afforded colour to a face pale as his armouring was dark.

  The one was known as Spellbinder.

  The other man was Narr Skandersen and carried sufficient bulk to render Spellbinder whiplash thin in comparison. Red hair tumbled into red beard, matching the ruddy hue of a cheerful face grown thoughtful with the onset of the wind. He was clad in hairy leather and fur breeks, a heavy axe slung about his waist and metal-studded gauntlets laced around his thick wrists. His colouring and his clothing both spoke of his origins on the sea-girt northern island of Kragg.

  He drained his mug and waited until a woman filled it again before settling on a bench close by the fire.

  “I like it not.” His voice was a rumble such as mountains make when the earth shifts and avalanches tear loose. “It were better you had taken ship with the others, for no good can come of your staying. Less of your intent.”

  “Our presence seems to trouble you.” Raven’s voice was pitched low, though ice hung on her words. “Do you fear some danger we might bring down on your miserable holdings?”

  Anger rumbled deep in Narr Skandersen’s throat and his beefy hand moved instinctively towards the haft of his axe. Spellbinder moved to forestay the budding quarrel.

  “You speak without knowledge, Raven.” His voice was deep, but gentle; persuasive. “No man holds to shores of Quwhon if fear can slow his hand. By the same token, all such men must know the dangers of the land; fools are they who would have it otherwise.”

  “Aye,” nodded Skandersen, “that’s wisely said. And by the Mother! I know these shores better than most.”

  “And in that knowing,” said Spellbinder quickly, “can you help us. Gondar Lifebane would have it so.”

  “Yea, yea.” Skandersen slapped his fur-clad thing in agreement. “I know the esteem Gondar holds you in. Word came with the wolf-boat: “these two are hold-brothers, equal to any of Kragg. Aid them in whatever way they desire.” And I have done so. Did I not find you—near-starved and mostly frozen—amongst the wastes of the Ice River? Who brought you here? Nursed that mewling whore you saved for the Altan back to some semblance of life? Little love for Karhsaam have I, but I saved that painted doll, the Altana, and sent her back with your companions. Now I would save you from yourselves.”

  He paused, unused to so long a speech, and swallowed deep of the heated wine. Raven would have spoken had Spellbinder not motioned her to silence, waiting for Skandersen to continue.

  “Listen,” said the hold-master, “listen to the wolf wind.”

  He cocked his head to one said and, as though seeking to emphasise his warnings, the wind rose in fury. Like some ravening beast, yammering for prey, it whistled and screamed around the hut. Solid were those walls, but even their bulk, not the rough-hewn stone, nor heavy drapery, nor thick furs, could dull the keening. Warm was the fire, warming still the wine that spiced their bellies, but as they listened to that wind all within the hut shivered as though lanced with cold. For a moment there was silence within, then, as if to muffle their ears against the grim warning of the elements, the women set to preparing the food with a clatter of pans and knives louder than was necessary.

  “Aye,” said Skandersen, sombrely, “the sound of it alone can chill a man. Its breath can strip his bones and leave him a monument to the Snow Queen. I know it so; I have seen it so.

  “Listen: I have lived on these shores since first our craft was driven on to the Frozen Fangs. Five of we reivers lived out that shipwreck and, boatless, built a holding. Through one winter—as time is counted to the south, for her it is always winter—we ate fish and what few berries grew along the shore. When spring came, only three lived. Gondar it was who found us and brought us back to Kragg. We might have stayed there had we not happened upon a vein of the black Quwhon ore, a strike rich enough to tempt us back. Nine years ago was that, and not a sunset has passed since that I have not asked the all Mother if our choice was right. Oh, we grow wealthy enough; we have our mines and our smelts; our holding can grow food; we even have horses, brought from the Ice Wastes and accustomed to such climes. But when the wolf wind blows, my bones still chill.”

  “But you stay,” murmured Spellbinder. “And some have gone farther than the shores.”

  Narr SKandersen laughed. “Aye, some have. A f ew have returned, those half-mad with cold and the things they saw.”

  “What things?” asked Raven. “Surely there is nothing lives beyond this holding? Quwhon is reamed round with ice, what can live there?”

  “There are tales,” shrugged the old reiver. “Tales of creatures that do live amongst the eternal snow, such creatures as a man might dream of when sour wine has turned his belly, tales best forgotten, better still, left untold.”

  “A tale may be a marker-stone for the traveler,” said Spellbinder, “for surely it is better to know your path than to stumble blind through the night.”

  “Is there no holding you?” asked Narr. “Will you not think again? Stay here until the next wolf-boat puts in. Sail south to Kragg; to the Altanate, Ishkar. Anywhere, but Quwhon.”

  Raven shook her head. “I cannot, my friend. There is a man—a creature—I have sworn to kill. While chance there is that he has gone into the Frozen Lands, I must follow after.”

  “By all the gods of sea and storm!” grunted Narr. “You’ll leave your bones along the road, snow in the sockets of your eyes, frost for a covering of your ribs.”

  “If that is the way of it,” said Spellbinder evenly, “then so it goes. But go we must, and there can be no gainsaying of the quest.”

  “Fagh!” Narr tugged at his bear, his mouth down-turned. “If I cannot stay you with words of sense, then at least I can gird you with words of warning. Come eat; we’ll talk the while of Quwhon.”

  They settled to a table of rough wood, split trunks worked smooth with long hours beneath an adze and mounted cunningly on upright boles. The platters, too, were of wood, scoured with the gritty sand that
darkened the coastline of the northern shores. Forks, flat sections of resinous timber carved so that twin prongs extended from the handle, were set before them; and they used their daggers to carve the meat. Narr’s wife brought heavy bowls of steamed vegetables and a great loaf of stone-ground bread; his daughter, a fresh jug of the heated wine.

  Raven and Spellbinder ate with lusty appetites, for they were not yet fully recovered from their perilous voyage down the Ice River and, for now, cared only to eat and listen to the Kragg man’s story.

  “No man,” he began, “can truly say that he knows Quwhon…”

  North of the Worldheart Ocean the land was a waste of jumbled rock, a coastline so forbidding in its loneliness, attainable only by a the few jagged fjords such as opened on to Skandersen Beach, that few men cared to risk their lives in an attempt to penetrate the mysteries of the wasteland. Those few holdings that sprinkled eh shore were the domain of settlers from Kragg, rugged, relentless men such as Narr himself. They lived for love of loneliness and the black Quwhon steel much favoured in the softer lands of the south. Their existence was precarious, a tenuously-held balance of determination and hardiness off-setting the bleak grimness of their environs. Even those few settlers, bravest of the brave race, cared little to explore inland. Their holdings nestled like the habitations of sea-birds against the gloomy cliffs that built a wall of stone from East to West. Beyond the cliffs lay a wilderness of bare rock; beyond that, the snowfields, a limitless sea of ice, treacherous in summer, deadly in winter.

  Beyond the nearer limits of the snow, no man had dared to venture, for the settlers were a practical people and there was no profit in snow, less, still, in a lonely death. Few had skirted the edges of the great ice sea and those who had returned spoke of weird creatures, things belonging more to fable than to reality. They spoke of snowstorms and mists that brought with them fleeting glimpses of inhuman beasts, silent as the snow itself, yet at one with the land…creatures that fed on men and animals with equal relish. Of things that flew across the face of the moon, man-like, but winged as bats; of huge monsters that erupted from under the earth to rend and rip before disappearing back into the bowels of the ice leaving behind them only the bloodied remnants of their prey.