The Frozen God

by Robert Holdstock

  He turned to the woman.

  She was, he supposed, beautiful in outworld terms. Yes, even a man of Tywah, accustomed to the elfin loveliness of his own women, must admit that. The mane of golden hair cascading about her face was bright as any growing from a Quwhonian skull; the eyes, for all their outlander set, were of an intriguing colour, now blue, now green-grey as they flitted calming from mask to mask. The face was firm, regular, wide cheekbones stretching smooth, honey-tanned skin above a full-lipped, sensuous mouth, a rounded chin. Her body was less hidden than that of her companion, breasts pushing at flimsy silk, the nipples outlined beneath the material, hips flowing, round and smooth, into long legs clad fetchingly in the borrowed pantaloons.

  Idly, Erhkol wondered what it might be like to bed her. Then decided it would be a thankless pleasure should she argue: there was fire in the depths of those eyes, a near-hidden strength in that lithe body. She too, he realised, was armed—that belt around her waist…the little, star-shaped ornaments were not decoration, but weapons.

  He smiled behind his mask: a woman perhaps as deadly as she was lovely. Fascinating.

  He looked away, suddenly aware that Garz was speaking to him.

  “…danger. We must ascertain their purpose, lord. They may be in the employ of the barbarians. Let us consult the crystal.”

  Na Vohl moved to proest, but Erhkol raised a languid finger, motioning the knight to silence.

  “How say you others?”

  “Garz is right,” rustled Turgan, his old voice dry as the wind.

  “Aye.” Narahk’s mask bobbed his agreement. “Let the crystal decide.”

  “The word of na Vohl is enough for me,” said Ylkar. “Were they spies, they would have a thankless task. What good might they accomplish here? How can they return to their comrades? I say we welcome them as honest friends.”

  “No!” Garz sounded unusually excited. “The barbarians wield strange powers. These two may have some secret means of opening our gates.”

  “We can ill afford the luxury of blind trust,” added Narahk. “That they crossed the ice suggests a power few outworlders possess. Mayhap the charga and the tsabeen let them through. Mayhap the fight at Tywah Gate was planned to still our doubts.”

  “Let them face the crystal,” whispered old Turgan.

  “So be it,” said Erhkol. “Take them to the crystal. Should they prove friendly to our cause, then bring them back to my palace.”

  Garz called out, and men emerged from the shadows to ring the two round with lowered pikes. Erhkol watched them go from the council chamber in silence. When the last of the priests had left the hall he slipped once hand beneath his mask and began to scratch his face. He hoped the outworlders would survive the crystal: they might have an answer to the problem of the siege.

  Raven pushed irritably at a pike that threatened to skewer her ribs, wondering what was going on. Clearly some argument had taken place and she was to be held under guard—or to be given to these faceless creatures in black. She turned to Garan na Vahol, calling out a question.

  Garan answered in the Kragg dialect, “They are taking you to the temple of the Snow Queen, where you must face Her crystal. There is doubt of your intentions. The crystal will decide. Be strong!”

  “This crystal,” she asked, “What might it do?”

  “It will plumb your minds,” called Garan, “to discover the truth.”

  “You speak as though it might harm us,” said Spellbinder doubtfully.

  “Aye,” replied Garan. “If it likes not what it finds, it will suck you dry as a storm-blown corpse.”

  “So it goes,” muttered the dark man cynically. “Trust was ever in short supply in this world of ours.”

  They came to a doorway and two soldiers moved to block the path, halting Garan as he attempted to follow them into the passage-way beyond. He called something, but his words were lost behind the echoes of the marching guards.

  The corridor was dark, lit by faint globes that gave off a wan, blue radiance, and it sloped downwards, curving around in a spiral descent that led deep into the earth. The four priests walked ahead, their robes rustling, and the guards prodded Raven and Spellbinder after them. The descent grew steeper, so that they were forced to increase their pace, and the curves became tighter, twisting round and round in dizzying confusion. Raven’s head began to spin and she found it was impossible to estimate how deep they had penetrated.

  At last the confusing corridor flattened out, straightening, and they passed beneath a low arch, its lintel glowing with unrecognisable hieroglyphs. Beyond was a chamber so dark that the air seemed solid, pressing in upon them. It was warm, and some indefinable sound hummed softly all around them.

  The guards—who appeared unhampered by darkness or descent—led them through the stygian blackness.

  Somethjng jarred against Raven’s legs, and she felt herself spun round; a shove against her chest. She fell backwards, collapsing into a chair. Metal snapped about her wrists and ankles, and when she tried to move she found herself held tight to the contours of the seat.

  Brilliance flooded the chamber and she shut her eyes against the glare, ducking her head until the patterns dancing across the interior of her lids faded. Cautiously, she opened her eyes a fraction, staring down. She was held firm on a chair of opaque crystal, swirls of blue and yellow light shifting, seemingly at random, within the stuff. When she looked up she saw Spellbinder held fast in a similar chair, facing her across the bulk of a huge, translucent fragment of green-veined, jewel-like crystal.

  The great stone pulsated with light, giving off a dazzling radiance that made it difficult to define its exact shape.

  The four priests, their masks blindingly bright with reflected light, stood about the stone, murmuring softly in their own language.

  The guards withdrew. Spellbinder looked up, a careless smile upon his lips.

  Raven smiled back, feigning a casual disregard for the ceremony taking place before her.

  “Well,” she asked loudly, “what questions will this crystal of yours ask us?”

  There was no answer from the robed figures, only a quickening of their incantation, a rising susurration of sound. It grew in pitch and in volume until it seemed to fill the chamber like the rising crescendo of massed fylar harps. Louder and louder grew the chanting, reverberating about the room, ringing from walls to floor and ceiling to a level far greater than any natural cause might produce. Raven’s head began to spin, the chanting dinning against her ears so that they ached and she swallowed to ease the pressure.

  Tears formed unbidden in her eyes, running down her cheeks. She saw Spellbinder shake his head, his knuckles white where he gripped the arms of his seat.

  The sound grew louder still.

  Raven nipped a fold of flesh between her teeth, biting. The pain brought her back, somewhat, to her senses, and she tasted salty blood on her tongue.

  The chanting mounted, filling the chamber with a great solid spasm of noise.

  The crystal seemed to shudder, its surfaces writhing as though in ecstasy at the sound.

  Louder. And louder still. Light sparked and danced over her eyes. The black robes became grey, then blue, then a misty, near-transparent colour, a shifting, silvery shimmer.

  She could no longer see Spellbinder, only the crystal. Bright, glowing, growing.

  Louder, larger, brighter. Sound and vision became one, increasing until she thought her skull must burst and spill her life into the all-embracing incandescence that filled the chamber, filled the world, filled her mind.

  There was pain and she fought against it, knowing it to come from outside herself. But it was too much to bear, it filled her, consumed her. She opened her mouth, screaming. But there was no sound. Only brightness. She thought her eyes must be burned from her head, melted, blinded.

  Then a voice spoke within her mind.

  Silent it was, wordless as the Stone of Quell, though the words were there, probing, demanding, plucking answers form h
er angry, hurting brain.

  You are Raven…

  “Go away. Leave me.”

  You seek a dead man. Karl ir Donwayne. Dead, yet alive. Strange…

  “In the name of the All Mother, leave me be!”

  No. The Mother holds no sway here. Here is the domain of the Snow Queen, of the Frozen God…You wonder if another lives: Belthis. A mage. Perhaps he does…You must ascertain that of your own resources…

  “I saw him die.”

  You saw Donwayne die. Death does not always mean an end to live…There is more…You follow a path…Unclear…Mistted…What path? Do other gods venture into the Cold Lands?…No matter. You cannot harm Quwhon…

  “I wish no harm. I follow my own road. Go away.”

  Yet that road might bring harm…Might sway the balance…You are dangerous, Raven…Chaos shrouds you as the mist, the Storm-runners…The Frozen God…Seek the Frozen God, Raven…present yourself at His court…If you dare…If you can.

  “I know no Frozen God. Where is his court?”

  He knows you, Raven…He awaits you…He waits where the sky falls down upon the ice and the demons of the ice frolic amongst the bones of men…Find Him there…if you can…

  “Why? Why should I seek a god I know not?”

  Because you must…Because it is the way…Because there are questions that have been asked…Because the answers may come only from the frozen lips of the Frozen God…Because He may give that which you seek…Go…Find the Frozen God…Or give your bones to the ice…

  The voice that was not a voice died away and she felt a great cold steal through her, as though a wind from some distant ice-hell lanced her belly and her bones. There was light, again that piercing sound.

  Then only the chanting of the black-robed priests and the gleaming crystal, now visible again. She stared about her, conscious of sweat upon her brow and lips. The priests ended their sing-song murmuring and the manacles sprang, of their own accord, from her wrists, from Spellbinder’s, too, as the dark man looked up, his eyes reddened, his hair matted with perspiration.

  “Come,” intoned a priest. “The Lord Erhkol awaits you. Give thanks to the Snow Queen that you still live.”

  Six

  “To give direction to a traveler is to dispense coinage of little value. To offer guidance, that is a valuable gift.”

  The Books of Kharwhan

  Garan na Vohl met them at the palace gates, a smile of relief creasing his narrow features. There was, in his eyes, a look of awe mingled with pride and pleasure at their safe return from the chamber of the crystal. Such was his excitement that he called a greeting in his own tongue. Then gasped in surprise as Raven answered in the same language.

  The words were out before she realised what was happening, and she cast a curious glance at Spellbinder. The dark warrior offered no explanation, only shrugged, seemingly occupied with his own, private thoughts.

  “Those whom the Snow Queen accepts may oftimes find themselves rewarded with Her favour.”

  The fluting voice came from one of the masked priests and Raven nodded, accepting that the strange crystal had worked some inexplicable magic within her mind. There was, in any event, no time to question the priest any further, for they were already within the opulence of the palace.

  As the temple of the Koh na Vanna had been dark, so was Erhkol’s bright, a great, fantastical edifice of glittering passages and shining halls. A myriad of colours shone from walls and windows, light sparkling over fountains of delicately-perfumed water that reflected rainbows over gay tapestries and gaudy paintings. Statues were scattered randomly about the place, and chambers opened on to covered gardens where birds sang and tiny animals played amongst the branches of trees. Attendants, their robes bright as their surroundings, watched the party move towards the centre of the place, falling into step behind the priests, their sibilant murmuring, mingling with the tinkle of fountains, the trilling of the birds and the chatter of the little animals.

  The impromptu procession came to a high-arched doorway, the silver frame set with jewels, and entered into a vast hall, its floor tiled with diamond-shapes of gold and silver. Around the walls stood musicians and servants, their faces lit by the sunlight shining in through a great dome of transparent material. At the centre of the room was a fur-covered dais on which Erhkol lounged, surrounded by women. He had removed his mask, revealing an aquiline profile topped by a mane of silver hair. He beckoned them nearer, indicating that they should seat themselves close by him.

  Wine was served and the ruler of Tywah lifted his goblet in a toast.

  “Welcome, strangers,” he said. “I am glad that the Snow Queen saw fit to grant Her blessing.”

  “She gave also the gift of speech,” murmured a priest.

  “Aye, Narahk,” said Erhkol casually, “it would seem those suspicions of yours were unfounded. Now you may leave us.”

  The priests withdrew and Erhkol turned to Raven and Spellbinder.

  “You must forgive us our testing of you.” There was scant hint of apology in his voice. “But these are troubled times in Quwhon.”

  “Aye,” said Spellbinder, “so Garan explained.”

  “Yes,” said Erhkol, “told, too, of your meeting and your reason for coming here. Did the Snow Queen vouchsafe you knowledge that will aid your quest?”

  To Raven’s surprise Spellbinder shook his head, glancing at her as though to confirm an absence of information.

  She spoke: “The crystal told of a Frozen God…”

  She fell silent as a frightened gasp went up from the women and Erhkol’s smile faded abruptly from his lips. Even Garan na Vohl betrayed surprise with a hissing intake of breath.

  “The Frozen God?” Erhkol’s voice was, now, a low grumble of sound. “The Snow Queen spoke of the Frozen God?”

  “Aye,” nodded Raven, “that is so.” She paused a moment, recalling the words. “‘Seek the Frozen God…Where the sky falls down upon the ice,’ That is what she said.”

  She noticed that the attendants clenched their left hands into fists, touching thumbs to foreheads and lips as though in blessing, or supplication.

  “And do you know where to find him?” Loathing and fear were mixed in Erhkol’s voice. “Did the Snow Queen show you a way?”

  “No,” Raven shook her head, “only the words were given.”

  “Our lives are as the snow,” whispered Erhkol. “To be driven by the winds of fate or melted beneath the sun, as She wills it.”

  “What is this Frozen God?” Raven asked. “Is he enemy to Tywah?”

  Erhkol swallowed hard, as though steeling himself to speak of matters best left unsaid. He drained his goblet, and when he held it out to be refilled, the hands of the woman holding the jug trembled, spilling droplets of the ruby liquid upon the furs. Erhkol drank deep, his eyes clouded.

  “The Frozen God,” he said carefully, “is enemy to all life. For long has he rested silent, still, within his domain. We had all but forgotten him. Perhaps he stirs again.”

  He paused, then shouted for all but Raven, Spellbinder and Garan to leave him. When the room was empty he began to speak again.

  “What I now say must stay within the confines of these walls, for if such news should fall to common parlance our people would forsake the struggle and give themselves up to the barbarians. Better that than chance the wrath of the Frozen God. And yet,” thoughtfully, “you outworlders give service to other gods. Perhaps the Frozen God is not yet strong enough to stand against your blades. Listen, and may the Snow Queen protect us all: I will tell you of the Frozen God.”

  “Before the world began,” Erhkol whispered nervously, “there was an older realm. Perhaps not the first, perhaps one new spawning of time’s primeval life. The, there was sunshine and meadows where now lay the ice, brooks of sweet water and trees that bore gentle fruit. In this paradise lived the Elder Gods, kindly beings who found pleasure in their surroundings, in the companionship of their peers. In time, perhaps born of time itself, men ap
peared and worshipped the Elder Gods, who found such obeisance flattering. Then allowed the new-born men to live amongst the orchards and the meadows, keeping mostly to themselves. And for untold aeons so it remained.

  “But the Elder Gods, like men, bore children. And, like men, those superior beings found themselves prey to vanity, to ambition. Amongst the younger of the gods were three such—Shan, Zara, and Tanash—the sons and daughters of Vanyr, oldest of the Elder Gods. These children found the worship of men pleasing, encouraged it, glorying in the building of great temples in their name, in the organisation of elaborate ceremonies to honour them. In time they grew bored with simple ritual, demanding even greater excesses of devotion: orgies and blood sacrifices.

  “And thus they earned the anger of their wiser forebears.

  “There sprang up amongst the Elder Gods a mighty dissention, but Shan, Zara and Tanash refused to give up their games. They withdrew to the farthest ends of the earth, taking with them those men too steeped in decadence to forgo the obscene pleasures they offered.

  “They waited. And the men—who were short-lived and thus bred faster than the gods—multiplied. The triumvirate raised a great army, dedicated to the total destruction of all opposed to their draconian excesses. When they deemed the moment aright, the three Younger Gods went forth with their army to slay all those who dared to stand against them.

  “For time untold war waged.

  “Men, in their millions, died for the forsaken cause. Gods, too, fell in the struggle, for the triumvirate was young and strong. Vanyr, who had come to loathe his children for their wantonness, challenged Shan, his eldest son, to single combat, upon which would depend the fate of the world. Zara, who was in love with her brother and shared his bed, crept up upon the combat and aided Shan with trickery. Vanyr was slain, though even as he fell he destroyed his two wayward children.