The Frozen God

by Robert Holdstock

  “It seems to me,” said the shade, “that there is much you do not know. But no matter. If I am to aid you I must know more, myself. How came you by the book?”

  “I was left for dead,” muttered Belthis, his town bitter. “Far to the east, where the Ice River flows from the Frozen Peaks. One follower I had, a dead man whose riven corpse I returned to life; a golem. Karl ir Donwayne, his name. He found me, broken and near death myself, upon the rocks. My magics saved me and Donwayne brought me to a place of safety, a cavern in which, as I recovered, I sensed great sorcery. There I found the Book of Tanash, hidden beneath a stone, its removal barred by spells. I broke those spells and freed the book. Then, aided by my powers, I travelled to distant Camargia, where—so said the book—Tanash was held in awe. I won the barbarians to my cause, though of themselves they are not strong enough for my purpose, and led them here, into Quwhon.”

  “Ah,” husked the wraith, “so we are in Quwhon.”

  “Aye. The Camargian hordes ring Tywah, to which city came the two of whom I spoke: Raven and Spellbinder. There are those within the walls who lust for dominance over their fellows, and through their worshipping of you made themselves known to me. They may well prove useful to our purpose, though they are few. They have, at least, warned me that the wizard and sword-mistress are gone from the city. To find you, I suspect, though I cannot encompass them within my vision for their passage appears hidden behind some shield of strength.”

  “The work of my mother, Astara,” rasped the shade of Tanash. “May her womb wither! She was ever on the side of you mewling men, vaunting her own power in enmity to mine.”

  The voice faltered and the smoky shape shifted as if troubled.

  “If they have taken that road your bargain may stand in jeopardy. My body still rests within the ice, and if they can find me ther, then it may be that they will also find the means to slay me.”

  “What? A god frightened?” Belthis, in his turn, chuckled. “Do you fear the freedom of death, Tanash? Might it be that you find, after all your boasting, some use for my bargain?”

  “Mock not, manling,” snarled the ghost-god. “There are times when even we Old Ones stand in need of aid.”

  “Aye, I counted on that,” smiled the mage, “and so made provision. The golem, Donwayne, is set to guard your prison. If Raven and Spellbinder are gone that way, they will find opposition more deadly than they anticipate set athwart their path.”

  “You please me, Belthis,” said Tanash. “Return me ot corporeal state and perhaps I shall enter into this bargain of yours.”

  “Oh, I shall,” whispered Belthis, “fear not on that score. Nor doubt the other, for I have studied the book close enough to know that I may bind you to my cause. After all, does not even a god desire to be worshipped? That I can offer you. Already the Camargians bow down before your likeness, and with your aid we shall bring all the world beneath our heel. Temples of bone shall we build in your honour, Tanash, and altars of skulls. Blood will fill the many cups of your sacrament and the soft, sweet bodies of virgin youth be yours for the asking. The world will reek of blood let out in your honour, and all I seek in return is kingship over all men.”

  From the misty figure there extended a long, prehensile tongue that flicked lasciviously about the thick lips.

  “Your promises tempt me, Belthis,” rasped Tanash. “Work your magics to unbind me from Astara’s fetters and I shell grant you that which you desire.”

  Raven woke from dreamless sleep to the enticing smell of hot food. Spellbinder was already about, crouched by the friendly glow of a cook fire, smiling as she emerged from the tent. The bodies of the slaughtered Storm-runners had been dragged some distance from the camp, and the satisfied murmurings of the two gleevahs indicated that the corpses had not been entirely wasted. The sun shone bright upon the snow, dazzling the eye where it struck the smooth face of the ice cliffs, calm, indifferent in its lonely majesty.

  They ate well, for they were hungry after the exertions of the night and knew not when they might eat again. Then, with filled bellies, they stowed their gear behind their saddles and set out northwards.

  For kli after empty kli they followed the scarp of the mountains without seeing any sign of an entry-point. Yet ingress there had to be, for the charga had come from somewhere—had gone back, presumably, the same way—though with leaving any sign of their passing. Raven poked at the cliff with her sword, hoping to find some concealed entrance, but her only reward was a jarred arm: the ice was solid as rock. She rode on in mounting ill-temper, for by now their situation was fast become desperate. Garan na Vohl had equipped them with a plentiful supply of cunningly-preserved foodstuffs, such as were unknown outside of Tywah, but even the mighty gleevahs could not carry a limitless supply and they stood in danger of finding themselves with insufficient provisions for the return journey.

  She cursed softly: to risk the facing of a god was, surely, endeavor enough to starve on the ice without even finding that god was rankest ignominy. Or would be, if their quest failed.

  Her poor humour was shared by Spellbinder, who rode in sombre silence, his eyes slitted against the sun’s glare, roaming restlessly over the blank face of the ice mountains.

  They saw the sun traverse the sky until it stood directly above them, and still there was no pass through the mountain peaks, only that unrelenting void of solid ice. Raven looked up at the burning orb, wondering how much longer they dared continue their north-bound journeying.

  And against the clarity of the blue-white heavens she saw a dark shape. Unclear at first, it swooped lower, and she strung her longbow, nocking an arrow in readiness against attack by day-flying tsabeen. She sighted on the speck, calling a warning to her companion. Spellbinder, too, looked up from his examination of the ice cliff. And shouted in joy.

  “Hold, Raven!” His voice echoed over the snow. “Do you not recognise a friend?”

  “Friend?” she queried. “What friends have we here, beyond ourselves and our swords?”

  Her question was answered with a harsh croaking, raucous and grating. To Raven’s ears it soundled like sweetest harp music, as pleasant as a balladeer’s fylar. She lowered her bow, smiling now.

  Lower and lower came the shape, wings limned in sunlight, pinions blazing red where the brilliance shone through night-black feathers. The cawing ran again from widespread ivory beak, and gleaming eyes regarded her with timeless, ageless knowledge. Once, twice and three times, the great black bird circled low about her head, its wings tumbling her hair, their beating stirring up the air so that it blew cold upon her face. Then, with a last cry, the avian flapped away before them, a glossy black shadow upon the relentless snow.

  As one, Raven and Spellbinder urged their gleevahs to a surging run, following after the bird, and the woman showed her joy.

  “Friend indeed! And what other friend need we with so trusted a companion to guide us?”

  On flew the bird, drawing the two warriors behind it as a magnet draws filings of steel, unswerving and swift, confident of their pursuit. For several klis they followed it, and then it dropped, wings spread wide to settle gently on the snow. They came up to where it stood, preening its feathers in apparent unconcern, and halted their gleevahs. The cliff appeared unbroken, as featureless as ever, yet the raven fixed them with a beady stare and croaked once, as if to urge them to some definite action. They dismounted and set to examining the great wall of ice.

  To Raven’s touch, it felt cold and smooth, forbidding and still impassable. But Spellbinder smiled, drawing off his gloves to press his naked palms flat against the blank surface. Then, as Raven watched, he drew a dagger from his belt and scribed a pattern on the ice. He murmured something too low for her to hear and stepped back.

  For an instant there was a silence, then, from the cliff of ice, there came a hissing sound and the pattern glowed as if lit by flame. Bright it shone, glowing as might iron heated in a fire. A trickle of moisture ran from the design, became a steady flow, a gr
owing rivulet of melting ice, washing down on to the snow as steam rose in clouds from the face of the cliff. The steam became dark, turned to smoke as the flames took hold, darting out little tongues of fire that spat and sizzled even as they consumed.

  The pattern expanded, spreading over the ice itself like the unfolding petals of some great red flower. Tall as a man, and wide as it was tall, it became, then larger still until it was higher than a reaching gleevah and broad enough to span the girth of four. The heat became intense, driving the watchers back with hands uplifted to protect their eyes against the glare. There was a flash, and the flames died, the pattern fading. Spellbinder stepped forwards again and set both hands flat upon the newly-blackened surface. He muttered. And with a tinkling as of shattered crystal, the ice wall fell apart, revealing a wide, dark opening.

  Instinctively, Raven drew her blade, anticipating a rush of Storm-runners—or worse. But nothing came, only a gust of cold air from the mouth of a tunnel that was dark and silent and still as the grave.

  “The way is open,” said Spellbinder quietly, “nor will it be closed easily. Let us proceed.”

  As if answering him—or showing the way was clear—the bird hurled itself into the air, darting arrow-sure into the black maw. Raven sprang to gleevah, jumping astride the beast with an eager, battle-ready smile. By all the gods of this ice-bound wilderness! Whatever action awaited them at the tunnel’s end, it must be preferable to wandering the snows. She urged the reluctant bear-beast onwards after the bird, conscious of Spellbinder following behind.

  And so they came to the lair of the Frozen God.

  Eleven

  “Of the road’s darkness there are two kinds: that which comes with the setting of the sun and that which afflicts the soul.”

  The Books of Kharwhan

  Through darkness they rode, urging the gleevahs onwards through a stygian blackness so total that it seemed almost solid, pressing against them as might a barrier of clinging cobwebs. Their blades were out and ready, for they momentarily anticipated some attack as they pursued the invisible bird down the tunnel.

  At last they saw light, a dim, ethereal shimmering that promised an ending to that depressing darkness. An ending to that, and a beginning of…what?

  At first it was mist, thick and grey as deepest sea-fog, through which moved hideous shapes, all staring red eyes and gaping, many-fanged jaws. The bird screamed a warning, striking to left and right with beak and razor talons, whirling about them as they employed swords and battle-trained gleevahs to hew a path through the lurking Storm-runners. Grey and dank as the mist itself were the charga, and present in numbers too great to oppose for long. Yet the bird led them onwards, and in a wild rush they broke through the monsters, emerging from the mist into a place of cold sunlight.

  They paused, expecting a further attack, for the charga stirred fretfully along the edges of the mist and tsabeen fluttered over their heads, screaming and cackling. Then, eerie as before, came the bugle note, calling the demons of the ice to heel. The tsabeen fluttered to vantage points high above them, settling with folded wings on ice and rock: the charga stood in a wide semi-circle, panting and drooling as though barely able to restrain their desire to rend and tear the flesh of the invaders.

  Again the clarion sounded, though of the bugler there was no sigh. They waited, assessing their position, the bird settling heavily upon Raven’s shoulder.

  Around the tunnel’s mouth, and all along the wall of the outer cliffs, the mist hung in swirling, malodorous curls. Above it lofted the peaks of the ice mountains, spurs and jagged tumbles of fallen stone and glittering ice extending in a vast circle to form a bowl that might be approached only from the sky or the tunnel. The rocks were of some strange reddish hue, almost bloody, and the sun, reflecting from them, tinged the ice—the very air itself—with the same bloodstained aspect. Beneath them was a carpet of grass, though unlike any grass they had seen before. It was as if each blade was poisoned, sprouting yellow-grey from black soil, like oozing pus from a rotted wound. Across this clearing, springing from a cleft in the fallen stone, ran a stream. Red as blood it was, and thick like blood, bubbles of gas plopping on its surface to release clouds of noxious stench into the air, and about its banks there grew horribly malformed trees. Twisted, leprous trunks bent over the stream as if the trailing foliage, clustered thick with cankerous growths of black and yellow and red, would reach down to drink from the loathsome waters. Gravid with swelling tumours were those trees, and shifting—though no breeze moved the heavy air—as might snakes, stirring in sleep. Tendrils of fleshy, pustulent creeper twisted and writhed, extending questing tips through the red-lit atmosphere in the direction of the newcomers. Around the trees, all along the stream, white bones littered the ground, and over those bones, crunching them beneath his feet, there came a man.

  He was tall, thick cords of muscle rippling beneath death-white skin, causing the scars that covered his near-naked body to writhe like serpents of yellow and puckered red. His hair was a matted spill of filthy, unnatural whiteness, falling about a death’s head face from which glared deep-sunk eyes, all bloody red and seamed round with horrible scar tissue. A golden trumpet hung at his waist, where a wide belt of black leather supported the folds of a stinking loincloth, and in his hands he carried a massive, crescent-bladed war-axe.

  We waded through the stream, emerging with legs all thick with slime so that behind him he left a trail of bloody footsteps, and halted, staring at them.

  Raven stared back, faint fingers of memory plucking at the strings of her mind. The weird figure opened his mouth to expose teeth all black and yellow. He smiled, reaching one hand up to touch his eyes, then down, across his throat. He threw back his head. Across his neck was a livid wound, all purple and twisted where skin had knit together over some awful cut. He lowered his head and Raven saw that his eyes were crimson where they should have been white, tiny, black pupils leering out from the gory pits.

  He spoke.

  “Do you not recognise me, Chaos-bringer? I remember you well enough.”

  His voice was thick and slurred, as though blood from the would across his throat clogged his tubes.

  And Raven started, her hand clenching tight about her sword.

  “Donwayne!” Her own voice, now, was thick, filled with hate. “Karl ir Donwaynw!”

  Dead, yet alive…Death does not always mean an end to life…

  The words of the Snow Queen’s crystal came back into her mind and she sprang from her gleevah, racing forwards even as Spellbinder yelled a warning and the black bird launched itself into the red air.

  “Aye,” mocked the creature that was Donwayne, “you do remember. Do you remember how you took out my eyes? Tore out my throat? Do you remember how I took you? Or how I killed those companions of yours?” He swung his axe, hefting the shaft back over his shoulder. “Now I shall kill you.”

  “Golem!” snarled Raven, moving in. “Corpse! Spawn of sorcery!”

  “Aye,” Donwayne laughed; a foul, bubbling sound. “Undead, I. Guardian of Tanash, and soon master of all his armies. Warlord of the world while your bones shall stay here to feed the servants of the Frozen God.”

  Raven screamed her hatred, slicing the Tirwand sabre viciously across the corpse-white stomach. Flesh parted with a soggy, sucking noise, but no blood spilled from the gaping wound, and Donwayne swung the great axe as though he felt no pain.

  Raven ducked under the swing, guarding her head with the sleeve-shield. She stabbed at the belly, driving the blade deep between ribs, twisting as she withdrew.

  Donwayne chuckled and brought the axe back in a sweeping, double-handed blow. Raven stepped inside the swing, taking the haft on her armour. The crescent-shaped head missed her ribs, but the sheer force of the stroke knocked her sideways, so that Donwayne was able to thrust an arm about her shoulders, tugging her close against his chest.

  His breath was foul upon her face and he laughed, ignoring the blade that yet gouged through his belly. H
e shortened his grip on the axe, drawing the blade towards him, intent on skewering the lower tip into her spine.

  “After I have killed you, I shall have Belthis make a golem of you.” Raven gagged on the ordure-stink of his exhalation. “A companion for me. I shall enjoy your body for all eternity. Yes! But first, know death.”

  Raven let her body sag limp, twisting to life the Ishkarian shield and ram the needle-point deep into the grinning face. Sharp-edged steel severed the drawn skin, cutting through flesh and muscles, grating on the teeth. She drove the shield sideways and out, slitting his face from jaw-joint to lips so that ragged tatters flapped loose and his voice grew thicker still. The shield tore clear and she thrust upwards, aiming for an eye.

  Donwayne turned his head, affording Raven a momentary respite. She pivoted, throwing all her weight against his chest, and he tottered back. Instantly, she broke free, feeling the axe grate hard upon her back and side as she spun away, tugging her sword clear.

  The golem gnashed his teeth, regaining his balance even as she hacked a great chunk of flesh from his chest. The axe swung to right and left in curving arcs, like a great, horizontal pendulum, and she cut savagely at the wrists. A finger flew off from Donwayne’s right hand, and a gash appeared across his left forearm. Skin peeled back from the wounds, but where blood should have gushed in draining torrents there was only dark flesh, the stink of decay. Flaps of skin hung down from Donwayne’s sundered cheek, and from his riven belly there exuded a slimy spill of pus and entrails.

  Raven moved back, worried now. The golem should be killed—would be, if he were mortal—but how to kill the undead? He was slowed, moving with heavy, almost ponderous deliberation, showing none of the battle-skill that had made him a weaponmaster in distant Lyand, far Karhsaam. But he had, she realised, no need of that skill; not now. What use the cat-quick reactions of a trained swordmaster—the battle reflexes, the hate, of a swordmistress—when the enemy was already dead? When all he need do was press home his attack, oblivious to mortal wounds, unbleeding, unkillable?