The Frozen God

by Robert Holdstock

  Spellbinder, himself impressed by the enormity of the wastes, broke her reverie. He rummaged in one of the panniers, extracting two curious masks of soft leather. Shaped to the contours of a face were those masks, stretched out to accommodate nostrils, with tiny holes punched through allow for breathing and narrow slits cut for vision. They were of a dull blackness, and beneath the eye-slits the leather was thickened so that a kind of shelf protruded out below the eyes. Narr had warned them of the blindness that might come from staring too long at the snow, and the masks were the best protection he could offer.

  Raven took one, pushing her hood loose from her head so that she might lace the mask in place over her face.

  Then, looking like two dark-visaged ghosts, they continued down the slope to the edge of the great snow sea.

  Here the air felt warmer, for the wind was lost on the heights above them, and though the horses breath plumed streamers of bluish vapor into the still air, both animals and riders felt easier. The snow was firm, the going surer than it had been over the slippery lichen of the plateau, and the absence of that biting wind seemed to encourage the shaggy horses so that they broke willingly into a brisk trot, snickering their enjoyment of this welcome release of energy.

  There had been no sighting of the bird since that first, brief glimpse earlier in the day, and so they headed northwards for no better reason than that it appeared the most obvious direction. They rode easily, breaking, now and again, into wild gallops for sheer pleasure, the joy of swift running over that smooth lawn of whiteness. A curious ecstasy filled them both as they breathed in air so pure, so crisp that it rendered them heady and reckless. It was as though care was lifted from them, the burden of their quest left behind on the plateau. They continued in that fashion until shadow fell over the snows and the sudden lessening of the warmth reminded them that night must soon fall.

  They reined in, remembered another of Narr’s gloomy warnings. There was, he had told them, a strange lightening of the spirit, a kind of delirium, that was said to afflict those travelers daring to adventure into the Cold Lands. Losing all sense of distance and passing time, they grew carless, content to traverse the wastes without cognisance of the dangers, reckless of their safety. And in that delirium—ice fever, Narr had called it—they might wander alone over the snowfields, forgetting food, spurning shelter until they died, frozen or starved, or victim of some hidden crevasse, or one of the fabled snow demons.

  That sombre thought sobered them both and they set to constructing a shelter as they had been taught, by carrying blocks of the hard-packed ice to build a wall behind which the horses might shelter. They fed the animals and set up the tent, blowing the little stove to fresh life and setting meat to cook as the light waned.

  For a time, a clear twilight fell upon the snowfields. Strange lights danced across the sky, red as the sun went down, now yellow, now blue; suddenly sparkling green and deep purple, magenta and silver, alive. Then the lights faded, dulling as deepest cobalt spread like spilling dye over the heavens. The moon appeared, larger than was usual, shedding a cold, silvery radiance over their camp.

  They ate in silence, watching the transformation until only the moon’s illumination remained, then crawled inside the tent.

  Wrapped in their cloaks, they slept almost immediately.

  Deep was that slumber, undisturbed by dreams; so deep that they were slow to hear the screaming. When it did force its way through the silence of their rest they came instantly awake, reaching for their weapons even as Spellbinder tore loose the inner lacings of the tent’s entrance.

  Outside, the moon was hidden behind a great bank of cloud so that only the natural luminosity of the snow lit the night. The screaming rang shrill in that darkness, accompanied by the fearful stamping of the terrified horses. Raven lifted her sword, peering round for sight of attackers. She could see none, though the horses continued to bellow their fear and plunged, rearing and kicking, against their tether-line.

  “There!” Spellbinder pointed with his blade. “Over the horses.”

  Raven looked up. Against the dark sky she made out a dim, dark shape that fluttered and darted about the farthest animal. It was impossible to discern the exact contours of the creature, though she thought she saw wide, angular wings extending outwards from a narrow body, spindly limbs reaching down towards the horse’s neck. With Spellbinder at her side, she ran across the glistening snow and began to slash savagely at the winged creature.

  The thing flapped its wings, lifting itself from the horse, and she saw that it was man-like in appearance, the wings growing from narrow shoulders, unnaturally long arms reaching out from a thin body such as might belong to a half-starved boy. It shrieked a high-pitched cry and darted at her face. As she swung her sword in a curving arc above her head, she saw talons slash towards her, the glint of pointed teeth in a wide and slitted mouth. Then the creature howled again as Tirwand steel sliced across its forearm. Spellbinder thrust upwards, seeking to drive his sword into the flying beat’s belly, but it moved too fast, beating leathery wings as it strove to gain height. Raven hacked at its legs, cutting one, before it flew out of reach and was lost in the darkness.

  “So Narr’s tales of monsters contained some substance.” She wiped her blade clean of thing, sweet-smelling blood. “Will there be more, think you?”

  Spellbinder looked up. “It seems not, though more may come. Let’s look to the horses. After that, we’d best mount guard for what remains of the night.”

  The moved to check the animals and found one sorely hurt. About its face and neck there were deep cuts from which blood oozed in thick droplets, matting the dense hair and obviously causing the luckless beast considerable pain. On one side of its throat the cuts were deeper, as though the flying thing had sought to tear open the arteries and release the life from the horse. Spellbinder cleansed the wounds as best he could, and set bandages to staunch the bleeding, but it appeared doubtful that the animal would survive.

  In the morning, they found it resting on its side, its eyes glazed and its chest heaving laboriously with the effort of breathing.

  There was naught they could do for the beast, save end its suffering, and Spellbinder slit its throat with one clean sweep of his sword. Then, cursing their poor fortune, they set to distributing its load amongst the other animals. The bulk of the stuff they set upon the remaining pack animal, but their own mounts were forced to carry some of the gear and the extra weight slowed them as they struck off through the snow.

  They kept a careful watch throughout the day, alert now to the credibility of Narr’s warnings, and wary of further attack by whatever monsters might inhabit the snowfields.

  No attack, came, however, and the day passed uneventfully, the horses plodding resolutely on over the flat and even expanse of shimmering snow. When they stopped for the night they tethered the horses close by the tent and agreed on a pattern of guard-duty. Spellbinder took the first watch, waking Raven half-way through the night to take her turn at the lonely vigil.

  The night was clearer and twice she thought dark shapes were to be seen, flitting across the face of the moon. Once she thought they drifted closer and tensed the string of the great Kragg longbow in readiness to loose a shaft should they approach within bow-range. But there was no attack and she woke Spellbinder at dawn to eat and saddle the horses.

  Two more days passed and still there was no sign of life. No more of the flying creatures were seen, nor any other beasts. The snowfields, which, for the first two hundred or so klis, had remained smooth became increasingly broken. Wide bands of soft, clinging whiteness intersected the firmer terrain, sometimes reaching high as the horses’ bellies and forcing them to a labored walk. Crevasses showed, dark and menacing, like great, gaping mouths waiting to suck them in. These they skirted around, often riding for many klis before they reached the ending of the great slits and swinging back to their original direction. Mounds of ice, solid as hard stone, blocked their path, increasing in size as they mov
ed farther to the North. Large as large boulders at first, the obstructions grew to the dimensions of houses, then larger still until they found themselves winding through a maze of ravines flanked around by glacial peaks.

  The food they had brought with them, and the fodder for their animals, depleted steadily, for both travelers and mounts were forced to eat heartily to combat the growing cold.

  Each morning they found their tent near-covered with fresh snowfall, and were forced to dig a path to the tethered horses. Colder, and still colder, grew the wastes, frosting furs and hair with glittering crystals of ice. Each inhalation of that bitter air drove needles of cold fire into mouths and lungs and they avoided speaking for the discomfort it caused. But still, remorseless, they moved northwards.

  On the sixth day they rounded the flank of a snow-mountain and found themselves in a wide avenue of hard-packed snow.

  The avenue stretched out before them, several klis across and heading arrow-straight to the north. Some distance away it was obscured by a swathe of mist that, as they rode closer they saw emanated from a cleft to the East. Warmer air seemed to drive across their path, the splits on either side of the avenue filled with mist. Thick it was, and bluish-grey in colour, obscuring vision so that they passed a length of cord between their horses for fear of losing one another in the dimness. Spellbinder led the way, holding close against the edge of the snow-mountain as they slowed to a ponderous walking pace.

  Hard as it was to see in that mist, so sound was deadened and Raven had the eerie feeling of riding through some submarine world, as through their trail had brought them beneath the surface of an ice lake.

  Sound, when it came, was curiously shocking, a hard intrusion on the thick silence.

  There was, at first, a kind of rumbling, as though snow avalanched before them. They halted, listening; and reconised some semblance of speech in the noise. They rode forwards with drawn swords. The rumbling became a babble of throaty cries, part snarling, part roaring. Then they heard a different sound. There was a bellow, as if a warrior shouted his battle-cry. They discovered a faint glow and rode towards it as the sounds grew louder. The light grew brighter as they approached and dim shapes could be seen, grey and shambling as they moved through the mist. It was not possible to count those shapes, nor could the two companions be sure if they were men, or some new variety of snow monster. But the figure backed against the face of an ice cliff was clearly human.

  Tall it was, and clad in some kind of blue armour that bore a scarlet design on the chest. A scarlet helmet covered the dace, dark were blood blackened the brightness, and a straight, wide-bladed sword of the black Quwhon metal spun a defensive pattern before the figure. The sword was clutched in a double-handed grip and as it thrust and hacked, so the light shifted, for the radiance emanated from a glowing bulb strapped around the left wrist.

  Raven shrugged her cloak from her shoulders, pushing the fur back to leave her arms clear. Spellbinder let the cord securing the pack horse to his saddle fall free. Together they rode headlong for the circle of light.

  A shape loomed out of the mist to Raven’s left and she cut at a huge, pointed head that gaped slavering jaws filled with curved fangs on a level with her hip. The blade sliced matted hair and crimson flood spilled over the creature’s shoulders so that it roared and collapsed, clawing at the wound. A second monster sprang to block her path and she turned her horse, driving the sword deep into a wide, furred chest. Her momentum drove the blade clear through the beast and it scrabbled madly at the sharp edges before she thundered past, dragging the weapon free.

  Briefly, she glimpsed Spellbinder hack down at another monster, saw his horse rear up to smash hooves into the face of a fresh attacker. Then she was alongside the warrior in blue and scarlet, swinging her sword to cleave the spine of a monster that threatened to seize him as he stabbed at a wounded thing that crawled bloodily towards his feet.

  The strange warrior rammed his broadsword through the creature’s ribs and turned to face three more of the ape-like beasts. He cut to right and left, and Raven saw that he was weary, his blows wounding the monsters without killing them. One turned towards her and she saw, in the light of the warrior’s strange bulb, a snarling, bestial face, all grey fur and gaping mouth beneath tiny, reddened eyes and broad, flaring nostrils. The head was set on a short, thick neck that merged with enormous shoulders from which swung massive arms and huge, clawed hands. Grey fur matted and stinking, covered the beast, and its legs were bowed like mossy tree trunks, the great splayed feet the roots.

  She slashed at the creature, carving a crimson line across its chest, then parried a swing that would have gutted her horse had it landed, and cut downwards to scythe one paw from the outflung arm.

  Spellbinder rode into the light, driving his sword through the neck of another monster so that it spun round and choked on its own blood. He withdrew the blade and cut again, swiping head loose from shoulders to bounce away into the mist.

  Rave dispatched the other thing and turned to the blue armoured warrior.

  As though enthused by their presence, he renewed his attack, driving the remaining monsters backwards. Ribs broke beneath his blade and the creature howled, its yell ended suddenly as broadsword smote down to sunder skill and breast-bone, adding a fresh spill of blood to those stains already staining his armour.

  He turned towards them as the creature toppled over and shouted something they could not understand. Then, realizing they were unaware of his meaning, he pointed up the avenue, motioning for them to follow him.

  “Wait!” Raven shouted. “There is another horse.”

  The warrior waved his sword again, obviously urging them to hurry, and she turned her mount, galloping back to the pack horse.

  More of the grey creatures ran from her approach, but when she reached the place where they had left the horse, it was gone. A great red stain showed darkly on the snow, and patches of hide were scattered about. The snow was churned as though hoofs had pounded, and a slick of blood disappeared into the mist. Cursing, Raven turned about and cantered towards the light.

  She found Spellbinder and the mysterious warrior mounted together on the dark man’s horse and called for them to lead the way up the avenue. They rode without speaking until they were clear of the bank of mist, then the armoured figure slapped at Spellbinder’s shoulder, indicating they should halt. They reined in, peering nervously backwards. The mist appeared bound by the confines of the lateral clefts, ending abruptly as it had begun, and seeming to mark the limits of the grey-furred creatures’ territory. They could see shambling shapes moving within the fog, but none seemed prepared to venture out of it and their newfound companion dismounted with a confidence that reassured them of their safety—albeit temporary.

  The warrior sheathed his heavy sword in a harness set about his shoulders, and touched the globe on his wrist. The radiance dulled, revealing a half-sphere of milky, crystalline material, fastened like a bracelet about his gauntlet. Still without speaking, he tugged at the fastenings of his helmet, drawing the casque free to reveal his face.

  It was unlike any either Raven or Spellbinder had seen.

  Human it was, of that they were sure when they looked into the golden eyes, for they could discern gratitude there, and curiosity, despite the strange shaping. The eyes were slanted, angling down towards either side of a slender nose, the pupils vertical ovoids of deepest blue. The face was pointed, a wide forehead sporting vee-shaped brows of fine, grey hair, the mouth a narrow line that followed the downward angling of the face to end just above a thin, but firm-looking, chin. A circlet of black metal held back long, grey hair that shone sleekly in the wintry light, exposing long and pointed ears that were devoid of lobes. The skin was of a golden hue, though there was an underlying tone of grey that give it the same sleek aspect as the hair.

  The mouth smiled unmistakably and the warrior began to speak.

  Raven shook her head, wrinkling her brow in puzzlement as she pointed to her own mouth
. The warrior, whose voice was soft, almost a whisper, smiled again and spoke in a different tongue.

  Spellbinder raised a hand and the man fell silent. The warrior-magician then spoke slowly in the language of the Southern Kingdoms. The strange man shook his head and Spellbinder switched to the lingua franca of the West. Again the man indicated his puzzlement. Spellbinder questioned him in the dialect of Karhsaam, and again met with no success. He next tried the Kragg tongue, for although the disparate folk of the outer world shared a single accepted language, each people had their own dialect.

  And this time the warrior smiled and replied in a fluting, but understandable, tone.

  “I thank you,” he said. “Sore pressed I was, and looked to fail but for your intervention.”

  He looked back towards the mist, nodding slowly, as if he was ensuring its placement.

  “Had you not come, I think the charga would have feasted on my bones.”

  “Charga?” asked Raven. “Are they those things we fought?”

  “Aye,” replied the warrior. “Charga, we call them. In your tongue, Storm-runners. They inhabit the snows, venturing out when the ice mists swirl or cloud hides the sun. Little love of light have they, preferring the gloom of their caves, or the grey of the mists. These,” he touched the globe on his wrist, “are usually sufficient to drive them back into their darkness, but the lust for flesh—and their numbers—emboldens them at times. But forgive me! The battle robbed me of my courtesy—I am Garan na Vohl, knight of Tywah.”

  “Spellbinder, so men call me,” came the reply. “My companion: Raven.”

  “I bid you thanks and welcome,” said Garan na Vohl solemnly. “My blood is your blood, my heat yours for the asking.”

  Raven laughed: “Little taste have we for blood, friend Garan, lest it be that of an enemy.”