The Frozen God

by Robert Holdstock

  The priest closed his eyes, as though concentrating.

  “Who are you?”

  The barbarian’s voice was guttural but clear, seemingly unhindered by the mask. “I am Lint’sam Grannach, karravel of the seventeenth squadron of the Legions of Zirkan Camargan.”

  “And who is Zirkan Camargan?”

  “The Karhl of Karhis, the Blood-Letter, the Chosen One.”

  “Where do you come from?”

  “Beyond the ice. From our home-land, Camargia.”

  “Why have you come?”

  “It was written. We were told. It was time.”

  “Told? By whom?”

  “By Jebulus.”

  “Who is Jebulus?”

  “The One Who is Many, the Scourge.”

  “And is this Jebulus a greater man than Camargan?”

  “He is the Reader of the Book, Keeper of the Secret, Jebulus guides our souls; Zirkan Camargan, our swords.”

  “So Jebulus told you to come here. Why?”

  “Because it is time.”

  “Time? For what?”

  “To tear down the palaces of the ungodly. To wash clean their streets in honest blood.”

  “And Jebulus read this in the book you speak of?”

  “Aye. We must build a road of bones and a shrine of skulls, that the Old One may come again.”

  “Who is the Old One?”

  “Narramin, Lord of the World and all beyond.”

  “What is the book?”

  “The Book of Narramin, that Jebulus brought back to us.”

  “So Jebulus serves Narramin, whose book told you to come against us?”

  “Aye. He Who Is Many read to us from the Book and set our feet upon the road of blood.”

  “Where does this road lead you?”

  “Everywhere. Wherever there are those who oppose Narramin, there must we go, to build temples of their bones to the glory of Narramin.”

  The lights flickered again and Ylkar sprang back from the silver mask as though its touch burned. Lint’sam Grannach groaned, his chest beginning to heave as if pain lanced his body. The muscles in his arms bulged and he jerked, his body writhing beneath the confining straps. Suddenly his right arm flew up, tearing the manacle from the milky altar. He reached across, drawing the mask from his face, and sat up. The straps tore apart. He grasped the second manacle, ripping it loose, then reached down to free his legs. His face was contorted, lips drawn back from yellow teeth in a feral snarl, his eyes blood red and bulging. Spittle flecked his lips and chin, and from his open mouth there came a low, furious bellowing.

  A priest moved to restrain him, chanting some incantation. The barbarian swung one arm, dashing the black-robed figure to the floor. The priest fell heavily, a thread of blood dribbling from beneath his casque.

  GRannach leapt clear of the altar, crouching with wide-spread arms, more beast than man now, his narrowed, blood-shot eyes peering round. He grunted, dashing at the onlookers. Garan na Vohl was closest to him, a narrow-bladed rapier halfway from the scabbard. Grannach seized the sword beneath the decorative bucket, snapping the black-steel as casually as he might break a dry twig. He grasped the Quwhonian and tossed him aside as a careless child throws away an old doll. He darted towards Raven.

  Raven side-stepped, her blade flashing out to carve a bloody line across the barbarian’s ribs. He seemed not to notice. From his other side Spellbinder slashed at his legs, attempting to hamstring the bestial figure. Crimson lips opened on Grannach’s calves, bone exposed beneath threads of severed muscle, cut ligaments. He paused, tottered a moment, then fell on his face. Spellbinder stepped back, his blade poised. Incredibly, the man began to drag his body forwards, foam spuming from his mouth. Raven cut down at one outflung hand, lopping fingers and thumb from the palm. Grannach lashed out, spraying blood across the chamber and throwing Raven off balance. Spellbinder jumped in, driving his sword deep into the barbarian’s shoulder. The man ignored the thrust, crawling on as though he felt no pain. Spellbinder cut again, severing the cords binding arm to shoulder. Grannach rolled on his side and began to wriggle forwards, teeth snapping, leaving a trail of blood across the flags of the chamber.

  Erhkol, unarmed, was backed against a wall, his face pale with horror as he gazed at the bloody bundle writhing like some obscene worm upon the floor.

  Raven came to her feet, lifting her sword in a two-handed grip above the hideous body. She drove down, ramming the blade clear through Grannach’s back. The point hit the floor beneath the barbarian and a shock ran through Raven’s arms. Grannach twisted, jerking the sword from her grip. Blood gushed from his mouth, but he crawled on with the stained blade stick out from between his shoulders.

  Spellbinder shouted for Raven to stand back, hacking at the man’s neck. Once, twice, thrice, he cut at the bunched muscles, each blow driving deeper through flesh and bone until Grannach’s head rolled loose from his shoulders. A great flood of crimson burst from the wound, washing over Erhkol’s feet as the severed head bounced over the flags.

  The body shuddered and stilled, but when they looked at the head, red eyes glared back. The teeth ground furiously together, and then, from the blood-stained lips there came a great, deep voice.

  “Narramin comes! Beware!”

  Awe-struck silence filled the chamber together with a great cold, as though ice crusted the walls, freezing blood and minds with the horror of that awful, insensate oracle. Grannach’s skull breathed one last, gusting sigh, and the reeking ordour of a charnel-house filled the room. So powerful was that stink, so vile, that Raven felt her gorge rise.

  Across the chamber a priest lifted his mask, vomiting. The others stood quiet, hands clenched to touch thumbs against foreheads and lips. Garan na Vohl stared, gape-mouthed, at the ragged corpse, and Erhkol’s lips moved silently, white as his face.

  The skull glared a moment longer, then the eyes went blank, the blood-shot redness fading to unnatural white. Frost formed upon the yellow, bloodied skin and crackling crystals froze the blood still dripping from the parted lips.

  “Swift!” barked Spellbinder, his voice husky with foreboding. “Burn that thing, lest this Narramin find some further use for it.”

  Eight

  “Night falls swift upon the lonely highway, and dangers fill the shadows. Let knowledge be the traveller’s torch.”

  The Books of Kharwhan

  Ylkar paced nervously about the room, his restlessness irritating Lanna. Karmak na Zel seemed more calm, thoughtful, as if he sought to wrest some profitable usage from the priest’s grim account.

  “Narramin is clearly Tanash,” he murmured speculatively. “And these Camargians dance to his tune.”

  “Aye,” nodded Ylkar, “that much came to me during the questioning. But why should Tanash turn against us? Have we not sought to re-establish him? Why send these hordes to slay us?”

  “Perhaps,” murmured na Zel, “the Frozen God does not plan to harm we three. Perhaps he seeks only to destroy those who adhere to the Snow Queen.”

  “Yes,” said Lanna, seizing upon the straw of home, “that must be his plan. He sends us help. We must ally ourselves with the barbarians.”

  “The swords of those wild men know not the difference between follower and foe,” snapped Ylkar. “Ally with them? Why, they’d as life set our heads to grinning atop their banners as befriend us.”

  “Mayhap,” said na Zel, “that would be the case if we approached bald-faced. But what if we offered them some prize in return?”

  “You speak of bargains as though you planned to treat with some stall-holder in the market,” grunted Ylkar. “By Tanash! You did not see that thing crawling in its own blood. You were not there when the head—severed!—spoke. Had you felt that cold or smelled that loathsome stink you would be less sanguine. Alliance! Pah!”

  “Methinks our priestly friend grows afeared,” murmured Lanna, her voice silky and evil. “Mayhap his faith in the Frozen God wanes.”

  “No! I swear it: no,”
yelped the priest. “My Tanash freeze my soul if I lie! I swear to you both, my faith is strong as ever.”

  “Then why this childish driveling?” asked Karmak na Zel. “We knew when firs tyou found the ancient book of Tanash that the Frozen God was capricious. You knew the dangers—physical and spiritual—that we should risk were we to follow his course.”

  “Aye,” sighed Ylkar, “and my ambition vaunts as strong now as did it then. I still seek the dominance of Tanash, myself his chief priest.”

  “Then be strong,” urged Lanna. “He points us a way: the barbarians follow his road, we must become—are become—fellow-travellers.”

  “The road is set with dangers greater than you know, lady,” replied Ylkar. “I had thought to preserve our safety with my spells, but now I wonder…mayhap we unleash forces more lethal than we know.”

  “Fagh! You mewl like some weaning child,” snarled na Zel. “Me, I’d climb a mountain of bones to gain the throne of Tywah. Aye! And build it first. With Erhkol’s skull atop the summit.”

  “Well-said, warrior,” complimented Lanna, her own courage emboldened by the soldier’s cynical bravery. “We’ve set our feet upon the path and gone too far for turning back.”

  Ylkar filled a crystal goblet with sweet, yellow wine. He drained it in one gulp and poured another.

  “I am not saying that we turn back,” he muttered, “only that we proceed with caution. Where the road turns dark, let the traveler feel his way. If Tanash wills that we treat with the Camargians, then so be it, But first, let us be sure.”

  “How?” asked na Zel. “How can we know?”

  “The barbarian spoke of a mage before he died.” Ylkar blanched at the memory of that hideous death. “Jebulus, he called him. He spoke of a book that set the hordes to marching. Mayhap that book is the key we seek, the opening to Tanash’s prison.”

  “Mayhap,” agreed na Zel, “but what of it? If this Jebulus holds the book, he holds it ringed round with barbarian swords. How might we secure the thing without first dealing with the hordes?”

  “You think ever in terms of steel,” said Ylkar. “It seems your mind is bound tight as your armour.”

  Na Zal made an angry gesture, one hand moving to his rapier, as if he would spit his fellow conspirator for his insolence. The priest smiled, regaining some measure of his former composure.

  “Listen,” he said softly, “there are other ways than that of the sword. This Jebulus is a mage, is he not?”

  “Clearly,” said Lanna, intrigued.

  Na Zel nodded, his teeth clamped tight on his anger.

  “A mage of considerable power,” continued Ylkar. “It may be that I can speak with him.” He brushed aside the question forming on na Zel’s lips. “Oh, not by any ordinary means. I would not venture amongst the barbarians even should I have access through Tywah Gate. No, I speak of those methods available only to one of like persuasion. Should Tanash wish it so, he might open a way through the spirit world that my mind might blend with that of Jebulus. That being so, we might well hold your parley with no threat of physical danger.”

  “Is your power sufficient?” asked na Zel, anger forgotten. “Can you make firm coin on this boast?”

  Ylkar ignored the slight: “Aye. It will be hard, but I believe it can be done.”

  “What of your fellow priests?” na Zel sounded dubious. “Will they not sense such and exchange?”

  “They are too busy,” grunted Ylkar. “Even now they sit in council with Erhkol, brooding over today’s happenings. I evaded such maundering by claiming hurt from the questioning. They know me to be the strongest of them all, but think me awearied from the psychic blast of Grannach’s revivement. None will expect to see me until morning.”

  “Then set to,” urged Lanna. “Unravel the mystery of this Jebulus and his book.”

  “Aye,” added na Zel, “I grow tired of waiting. Open the gate and loose Tanash from his bonds.”

  In some considerable trepidation—for he recognised, now, the enormity of what he attempted—Ylkar began his preparations.

  In Erhkol’s glittering palace Raven and Spellbinder sat with the Koh na Vanna.

  It was indication of the situation’s gravity that the priests had removed their ceremonial masks, showing their care-worn faces to the outworlders, faces on which time’s marking seemed further by frowns of worry, the dullness of eyes in long need of rest.

  The night was well advanced, in bitter contrast to their planning, for they found themselves unable to agree a common cause. Narahk had accepted Spellbinder’s warning that thee lurked within Tywah itself some promulgation of Tanash’s evil will, but Garz and Turgan refused to countenance so dire a threat. And no matter how convincingly this dark warrior-wizard put his arguments, the two priests turned deaf ears to his blandishments. Raven was mostly silent, aware that her companion knew better how to handle purblind priests than she; and Erhkol sat the fence, undecided.

  Concerted effort, urged Spellbinder, was their only hope. Whatever power had brought the Camargians to besiege the city must be found and faced. To achieve that end, they must all bend their wills to locating Jebulus—or Narramin himself—and seek to destroy the threat at its source.

  Turgan and Garz fought shy of such confrontation, maintaining that Astara must still hold her errant son in check, that to establish mental linkage would be to open the gates to Tanash. Better, they claimed, to sit tight behind the impregnable walls and let the plans of the Frozen God founder there. The barbarians could not hope to breach the defences and soon must depart, or starve.

  When Spellbinder warned that the dark powers he sensed in the city might find some means of opening Tywah Gate, they laughed, dismissing his foreboding. The gate, they said, was firm as the city: inviolate and unassailable. Should it fall, there were still the flood-locks to render the tunnels impassable, still the burning lake to prevent water-borne invasion.

  For every argument put forward by Spellbinder or Narahk, Turgan and Garz produced a counter. Tywah had never fallen. Nothing could cross the lake. No army could hope to breach Tywah Gate. The city held sufficient food to last out any siege. The Snow Queen would not desert her people. Tanash was impotent, a prisoner. They were safe, had only to wait: an out-world wander could hardly be expected to understand that.

  The meeting broke down into useless recriminations and Erhkol, his eyes red-rimmed for want of sleep, called an end to it.

  Raven and Spellbinder left the palace for Garan’s home. Dawn was breaking as they threaded their way through the gaily-bedecked streets, a pale filtering of sunlight breaking through the mist. Faintly, they heard the rumble of the catapults, the thud of stone on walls, but it was as though the sounds came from far off, shrouded behind a blanket of blind indifference, of stubborn self-satisfaction. They found their bed and threw themselves down, too weary to talk, anxious only for sleep.

  Yet sleep was hard to find, for their thoughts tossed on a stormy sea of troubled doubts and half-formed fears. It was as if the shade of Narramin—Tanash—stalked the waking streets, his malignant presence souring the balm of rest.

  And in a red-lit chamber deep beneath the streets, where slime mouldered on the walls and torches threw a gloomy light over a hunched and ugly idol, Ylkar communed with Jebulus.

  Karmak na Zel and Lanna sprawled, barely conscious, on the filthy floor. Their naked bodies were sheened with sweat and the effusions of their orgiastic worship. Pinioned upon the squat body of the thakur was the form of a young girl. Her hair hung down over the leering face of the totem, the golden locks sticky where they mingled with the blood still dripping from her lifeless corpse.

  And from the very air their formed a shape…

  Robed it was, long folds of grubby silk falling about a body twisted over with age and evil practices. A bald pate glistened in the torch light, shadows playing over a face seamed with age, cadaverous, yet alert, suspicious anger sparking bright from yellow eyes.

  “Who calls me?” rasped a voice to match
the spectre’s appearance. “Who calls Jebulus?”

  Ylkar gave formal reply.

  “Why? Do you seek to curry favour with Narramin-Tanash? Would you have Jebulus of the Many Shapes intercede for you?”

  Ylkar mumbled his assent.

  “So,” husked the ghost-figure, “what return would you offer on this haggling? What morsel do you proffer that will tempt Jebulus to aid you in your petty bargaining?”

  Ylkar thought for a moment.

  Then: “There are two outworlders come amongst us. Already they stir defiance of Tanash amongst the people and have taken one of your army—Lint’sam Grannach—prisoner, that he might be questioned.” Ylkar hoped the mage’s ghost would not divine that it had been him who asked the questions. “I offer them as sacrifice.”

  “Two?” whispered the spirit. “You deem two sufficient?”

  Ylkar spoke hurriedly.

  “There is much power in them, Great Jebulus. One is a warrior and wizard both, a man of some potency in the magical arts. The draining of his strength might profit you. The woman is…”

  “Woman?” The shape leaned closer, growing stronger. “How is this woman called?”

  “Raven,” said Ylkar. “The man calls himself Spellbinder.”

  Unholy laughter filled the chamber and Ylkar clutched at his head, covering his ears for fear the sound would split his skull.

  “Raven! Spellbinder!” The spectre bayed like some blood-maddened wolf. “At last! At last they come to meet Belthis!”

  Nine

  “Guard carefully the torch that guides you through the night, lest that which threatens your path extinguish it.”

  The Books of Kharwhan

  Raven woken with a cry, one hand starting for the sword she had set beside the bed. Sweat beaded her face and her eyes darted about the bedroom as though seeking an intruder. She blinked in the sunlight that flooded the chamber, drawing an arm across her lips as might someone seeking to wipe away the taste of soured wine.