The Frozen God

by Robert Holdstock

  She deflected the swinging axe and cut again at Donwayne’s belly. He laughed, driving her back towards the mist, to where the charga waited. And all the while that awful, chilling laughter bubbled from his throat.

  Spellbinder shouted something, and she turned, glimpsing the dark warrior-wizard close behind her. He was moving along the edge of the mist, sprinkling some powder from one of the little pouches he carried over the pustulent grass. He stepped back, calling for her to avoid the farther edges of the macabre meadow, then began to move his hands, chanting some incantation.

  There was a sudden flash of light, and all down the line of powder bright flame jumped towards the sky. Clear and blue it burned, hiding the mist behind a shimmering barrier of luminescence that drove the Storm-runners back in fear. The tsabeen, too, appeared frightened by that mystic flame, for they rose into the air, quitting their perches, and began to flutter back and forth through the red-lit sky above the scene of battle. Whatever magic Spellbinder had wrought affected only the ice demons, for while they seemed shut out by the blue fire, Spellbinder, the bird, Raven and Donwayne appeared closed in beneath the invisible dome.

  Spellbinder stood back, his sword drawn and face troubled, but he made no effort to air Raven. It was, she thought, as if he communed with the bird—which also remained aloof—agreeing that this was her struggle, and hers alone. That suited her desire well enough: Donwayne was hers; her very soul cried out for revenge, and satisfaction might come only from the knowledge that it was her blade, hers alone, that brought him down in bloody ruin.

  The whistling axe called her full attention back to the golem.

  He—it—appeared undeterred by Spellbinder’s wizardry, advancing stiff-legged towards her, the axe now raised to cut down, to cleave her skull. Warily, she gave ground. This was no swift battle, but a fight that demanded excesses of cunning, a plenitude of trickery and forethought if she was to destroy Belthis’ undead helper. Speed, she knew, was on her side, and she chose to use that slight advantage.

  Deliberately, she allowed Donwayne to move within axe range, feinting a defence. The golem grunted. She saw the tendons in his arms flex and tighten for the downstroke. She pretended to stumble. The axe cut air, hacking divots from the gangrenous soil as she threw herself to the side.

  Like a striking snake her blade flickered out, cut, withdrew. The golem’s calves gaped open, slashed to the bone. Ropes of tendon and sinew showed within the cuts and she waited for Donwayne to topple down: hamstrung.

  Instead, he paused, turning unsteadily, as if wary of his ground. Then he laughted and moved towards her again, a little slower, but otherwise unhampered by the crippling blows. Raven shifted backwards, cursing as the axe drove her towards the blood-red stream.

  Spellbinder shouted: “Ware the water! Avoid the stream!”

  She glanced behind her, then jumped quickly to the side as a heavy thread of blood-like liquid oozed up from the surface like some obscene tentacle. It lurched over the shallow bank, question about on the grass, then, as if sensing that she was out of reach, withdrew. The trees, too, she saw, were thrusting loathsome tendrils out over the water, their tips waving and exuding droplets of some sticky substance that elongated and fell into the stream. A sweet, putrescent odour hung upon the air, cloying and evil. Indeed, the closer she came to that hideous orchard, the more powerful seemed the malignancy of this ghoulish place.

  She ran a few steps beside the gruesome water, feeling old bones snap beneath her booted feet, then cut in again towards the centre of the clearing.

  Donwayne halted, waiting for her to stop, then began again to shamble forwards, axe at the ready.

  Raven watched him come, her mind working furiously. Suddenly, she recalled how she had broken his grip when first he seized her. Perhaps the golem did have a weakness, for all his undying, undead strength. She tossed her sabre to her left hand and drew a throwing star from her belt. Her arm curved across her midriff, wrist curling inwards. Donwayne moved relentlessly onwards. Her arm sprang out, wrist snapping the star away in glittering flight, straight at the golem’s face. The skullish head jerked back too late, too slow to avoid the razor-edged missile. Spinning, the stare tore into Donwayne’s eye socket, sinking up to half its diameter in the red orb.

  And Donwayne screamed.

  It was a sound to chill the blood, that scream; somehow worse than his horrible laughter, more terrifying than his obscene threats; a shrill, piercing ululation of soul-deep agony. So ghastly was it, that Raven paused with the second star balanced in her hand, watching.

  The golem dropped his axe, his hands scrabbling madly at his face. His mouth gaped wide, the ruined cheek flapping as he shook his head from side to side. He tugged the star loose, letting it fall to the grass, and from the place where his eye had been there spilled a great tear of ichorous liquid, all black and thick. It dribbled slowly down his cheek, leaving a slimy trail like a great slug. His screaming echoed around the awful meadow, ringing from the rocks and the ice until it seemed to fill the air as might the wailing of a soul in torment in the deepest pit of the netherworld.

  Raven stood, watching, waiting as the corpse-creature drew back his lips in a ghastly smile, the scream fading to a slow, gurgling groan. His head twisted and the remaining eye glowered, baleful and bright from his ravaged face. He stumbled towards her, axe forgotten, hands out-thrust to settle claw-like fingers around her throat.

  She hurled the second star.

  And again Karl ir Donwayne screamed.

  And again the star ruined his sight.

  And again a great globule of the dark ichor slugged down his face.

  And Raven transferred her blade to her right hand as the golem, screaming still, broke into a shambling run, straight towards her.

  She waited until he was close, then cut with the Tirwand sabre, deep into his chest. Sightless, like some massive blind colossus, Donwayne turned after the sound of her footsteps. For a moment Raven thought that he saw still, but then she realised he followed her by ears and instinct alone, jerking his head about as her feet rattled the bones decorating that devils’ playground.

  She pricked him with sword’s tip, darting out of reach before he could clutch the blade, shouting for him to pursue her as she moved steadily back towards the blood-red stream.

  The golem shuffled after her, arms spread wide, black tears seeping thickly from his ghastly visage. Behind her the weird stream began to send out glutinous creepers and she halted on its near bank. A streamer of red curled towards her feet. She glanced across at the horrible trees, then back at Donwayne’s loathsome figure.

  class=“i”The answers may come only from the frozen lips of the Frozen God…Because He may give you that which you seek…

  Then perhaps this hellish garden, this river of evil might resolve her vengeance. Perhaps. She spun round, tensing her legs, and launched herself in a wild leap straight across the sanguine rivulet.

  Out-thrustings of the stuff reached up to grasp at her heels, and as she landed on the farther bank, the trees rustled and shook in obscene semblance of life. Crepuscular tendrils reached for her and she hacked wildly at the vile protuberances. They cut like butter, though where a creeper fell, it began to wriggle towards her and she stamped upon them, ignoring the fetid reek that burst forth form their pulping.

  Donwayne, hearing the sounds of her blade and boots rushed onwards. He splashed into the stream, and the sluggish fluid became agitated. It was though it sensed the openings in his body, recognised his weakness, for where before he had crossed the bloody trickle as another man might pass through clear water, now the stuff reached up to grip his limbs. Thick streamers rose to block his path, curling about his legs and waist. He struck at the surface with his hands, and tendrils of the malodorous stuff encircled his wrists, climbing up his arms.

  Raven dodged the excrescences thrusting at her from the stunted trees and leaped back across the stream. The turgid liquid was swirling about Donwayne’s hips now, great dripping ten
tacles flowing upwards across his belly and chest. Where her blade had opened flesh the blood-red liquid thrust tongues of pulsing hideousness into the golem’s body, the ghastly stuff growing black as it sucked on his insides.

  Donwayne screamed afresh as he realised what was happening, and tore his arms loose from the awful grip. Slowly, like a wounded behemoth, he forced a way through the lusting rivulet. Whatever intelligence had remained with him after death was almost gone now, and instead of turning to the bank, he began to move up-stream to where the viscous brook sprang from amongst the ruddy stone. Slow was his progress, for the river sought to hold him back and his very passage, though spurred by madness, caused great hunks of flesh to rip loose from his body, exposing white bone and dark, decayed viscera.

  Raven watched as he came to the dark cleft in the rocks and, with one last despairing effort, dragged his body up towards the ominous hole. He disappeared inside and for some time his screaming echoed hollow from within the cavern. Then it gurgled away into silence and, slowly, the ghoulish stream quieted its hideous contortions.

  Suppressing a shudder of revulsion, she turned and walked wearily back to where Spellbinder and the bird waited in silence.

  The dark warrior appeared solemn, his pale face drawn with loathing of their surroundings.

  “Come,” he said quickly, “we must find the Frozen God swiftly, lest he wake before we can silence him forever.”

  Raven nodded without speaking and, after wiping her blade on the grass, fell into step beside her companion. The bird spread its wings and rose into the air, croaking as though commanding them to follow after. It darted across the hellish meadow, then paused, dropping back to the ground. When Raven and Spellbinder reached its position they saw the trumpet the golem had carried laying on the sward. Spellbinder lifted the instrument, knotting the cord where Raven’s sword had cut it through, and hung the thing about his neck.

  “Mayhap,” he said thoughtfully, “we shall find a use for this on our return.”

  Raven smiled. “On our return? Or if?”

  Spellbinder grinned back. “We shall see,” he murmured. “For now our faith must rest in blade and fortune. So it goes.”

  And in the black, rune-symbolled tent, the spectre that was the extension of Tanash’s demonic mind stirred in anger and in fear, his voice shrilling to stir Belthis from his blasphemous preparations.

  “Swift and swift, mage. Danger threatens close.”

  Belthis looked up, pale eyes narrowed. “What stirs you, god? Do you sense something?”

  “I sense a great threat,” wailed Tanash. “I sense doom closing fast.”

  Belthis closed his eyes, mumbling a guttural sentence as his withered and clawish hands fluttered above a bassinet from which there issued a foul-smelling smoke.

  “By Goril’s Eyes!” His voice was alarmed now. “Donwayne is gone. I cannot sense him.”

  “Aye, mage,” snarled Tanash, “your precious guardian has failed. The way rests open to my prison.”

  “It cannot be,” grumbled Belthis. “No blade can harm the golem, nor sorcery overcome him. It is not possible.”

  “All is possible,” snapped the god’s ghost, “and I tell you the way is open!”

  Belthis continued to make his passes above the bassinet, his eyes tight shut now, and his lips working in soundless invocation. At last, prompted by the shrilling of the spectre, he shook his head and turned away.

  “Aye, you are right. Donwayne is gone and all our plans stand in jeopardy. Though I know not how, Raven and Spellbinder must have penetrated that grotto where your body rests and vanquished the lemure.” Abruptly, he turned from the reeking basket and began to gather about him those devices by which he worked his evil magic. “No matter. It will take them time enough to find your substance, and if we set to swiftly we shall deliver them a surprise they do not bargain on.”

  “Hurry,” snarled Tanash, “for I swear that if you fail, I shall use my last moments to rip the very soul from your withered breast.”

  A hush fell upon the ice-bound meadow as Raven and Spellbinder hurried after the bird. It was as though the trees themselves, the stream, and all the horrors of that ghastly place drew in their breath, waiting in trepidation for the outcome of the desperate, daring venture. An awful, palpable sense of menace lay heavy in the air as the bird came to rest upon a jutting outcrop of stone that hung like the arm of a gallows above the narrow cave mouth.

  It croaked once and settled above their heads as they went in, remaining, sentinel-like, upon the rock.

  The cave extended deep into the mountain, its walls bathed in gloomy red light that seemed to emanate from the stream. Of Donwayne there was no sigh, and Raven wondered if at last her vengeance was satisfied for she could not see how even a golem could survive the horrible ministrations of that flesh-eating river of death. She picked her way with care, following Spellbinder along a narrow ledge that ran down the cavern a short height above the loathsome out-pouring. The stream attempted to send up oozing red feelers to entrap them, but they passed by too swiftly, hurrying deep into the bowels of the earth.

  After a while the passage disgorged into a larger cave where clumps of leprous fungus hung from walls and roof, glowing with a pale, silvery light. All around this amphitheatre openings showed dark, and at each entrance there stood silent figures.

  Raven started as she saw them, for they were armoured from head to toe, and each one carried sword, battle-axe or mace. The colourings of their mail and cuirasses shone bright and their weapons appeared sharp-edged and new. Not one moved, though each looked poised for battle, like superbly wrought statues.

  “I think,” said Spellbinder softly, “that Astara left these as watching over her son’s prison. Best stay behind me, for we must risk the passing of one.”

  He went forward slowly, following the stream to where it disappeared into the opening facing them. Here stood a massive warrior, all green and orange, with a huge black mace grounded between his feet. Half the height of a tall man was that mace, its head all set round with spikes long as a man’s fingers. Spellbinder halted some distance from the figure and reached a little sack out from his belt-pouch. Carefully, he measured a pinch of some glittering powdery stuff into his palm and blew gently upon the dust. Then, with Raven close on his heels, he went forwards. The warrior in green and orange stirred, armour creaking slightly as the mace lifted. Dust drifted from the great ugly ball of spikes and from the featureless helmet there issued a deep, commanding voice.

  “Go back,” it said. “Go back or die.”

  “We cannot,” answered Spellbinder. “Tanash stirs and we must halt his waking.”

  “Go back,” repeated the warrior, the mace lifting higher. “Go back or die.”

  Suddenly Spellbinder ran forwards, tossing the powder up at the blank helmet. There was a flash, and about the casque hung a cloud of shining smoke. The warrior swung his mace, but blindly, carelessly. Spellbinder avoided the blow with ease, and ran past the automaton. The mace struck rock, sparking fire from the stone, and Raven followed her companion into the tunnel. They ran onwards through red-lighted gloom and the warrior fell silent, resuming his former position.

  After a while they came to another cavern, larger than the first, where fire gushed from a crack stretching the full width of the place. Again Spellbinder rummaged in his pouch, this time producing a little stick of dark wood. This he tossed into the flames, which died instantly so that they were able to leap the gap before the fire started up again.

  Raven wondered how many more barriers stood between them and the Frozen God—and if Spellbinder could overcome them all. Of the return journey she preferred not to think; let that bridge, she decided, be crossed as it showed.

  They went on, still following the blood-red stream, and came to a gigantic cavern all lit with unearthly light and filled with a thick, pungent odour as of decaying flesh.

  The floor of that place was smooth as finest marble and of a milky translucent substance a
kin to that which formed the walls of Tywah. It glowed faintly in the light shed by the fungus, which seemed to drop, rather than grow, from roof and walls so distant as to be little more than luminescent shapes. Within the material of the floor, gleaming clear through the pearly stuff, was black metal, twisted to form rune-lettering that neither Spellbinder or Raven could understand. And across the floor, confined within a channel upon the sides of which were graved yet more runes, though in smaller scripting, ran the blood-red stream.

  Raven’s eyes smarted in the fetid atmosphere, and Spellbinder coughed, as though to clear his throat of the offensive stench, their gaze tracing the stream to the centre of the vast chamber.

  There, raised up on a tiered pyramid, was a gleaming, radiant dais. The stream emanated from the dais, running sluggish and thick over the steps of the pyramid. They approached it, sensing as they did, the awful menace, the raw, atavistic hatred that filled the air. The pyramid was three times the height of a man, and composed of different coloured materials. Its base was of the same stuff as the floor, the next step all black, the next red, then dazzling gold, a deep purple, glittering silver, verdant green, warm orange, dark umber, palest blue, mauve, shimmering violet, and finally a cloudy, sombre grey. More runes were carved on the upper surface of the steps, and about the pyramid the air was cold.

  It grew colder still as they climbed upwards. So cold that they began to shiver, and Raven felt ice forming in her hair, her breath a gush of steam from between trembling, chilled lips. Her sword felt icy in her hand and as she mounted towards the dais, it became heavy, weighing down her arm.

  Spellbinder appeared, in equal measure, to be affected by the pyramid, for his breath came in labored heavings from his mouth and his feet dragged heavy, as if hauling the weight of chains.