She stared as pale light filtered over the upper rim of the ice mountains, realising that dawn was breaking, that the struggle had lasted all through the night. Spellbinder remained cumbent, lifeless. And still bird and god fought on.
The light grew brighter and the bird seemed to gather strength. It swooped down, faster than a stooping hawk, seized Tanash and lifted him high into the brightening sky, massive wings beating as the god bellowed in fury and in fear. Up and up they went, up towards the rim of the peaks, then beyond until they were gone from sight.
Spellbinder stirred. Raven touched him, and felt his forehead ice-cold, all beaded with frosty sweat. He groaned, turning his head to the side. She saw his face and gasped in horror.
His natural paleness had become a grave-pallor, the skin drawn taut over his bones so that cheeks appeared sucked-in over gritted teeth. His eyes were reddened holes, the pupils tiny pricks of deepest blue, almost black, in sunken sockets. His neck was all stretched tight, cords of muscle standing stark from the whiteness, and his hair hung lank and soaked in sweat about his head.
Cautiously she turned him on his back, holding him to her as if to drive her own body warmth into his chilled and shrunken frame.
He trembled as she held him, like a child in the grip of fever, and she feared that he might bite out his tongue. She cradled him gently, stilling the tremors, crooning soft and stroking his face. And slowly recognition came into his eyes and the pupils expanded to their normal size, the shuddering eased and slowed, and he looked up, helplessly, at her worried face.
“Are they gone?”
His voice was a croak, hoarse as the bird’s own cry.
“They are gone,” nodded Raven. “The bird carried Tanash across the mountains.”
“We must follow.” He tried to rise, but was too weak. “The spell is broken now and Tanash lives still. I could not hold it long enough.”
A tear ran from his eye as if he deemed himself a failure.
“You saved us,” murmured Raven. “Now you must rest.”
“No. There is no time. I cannot sustain the bird longer at so great a size, yet Tanash lives still. He will go to Tywah. We must go after him.”
“But Tywah must surely fall if Tanash goes against the city,” said Raven. “If your sorcery and the bird’s attack cannot, together, defeat him, what can we do?”
“There must be a way,” husked Spellbinder. “Did you not feel Astara stir? I sought to fight her son with my own magics, but when they proved too weak a power entered me, enabled me to enter the spirit of the bird. Thus it was I could drive off the Frozen God, and so it may be that I can slay him. In Tywah she shall stand closer still to Astara, enjoin her full strength in the combat.”
“And die for it?” said Raven bitterly. “If the aid of gods and goddesses takes such a toll, how can you hope to survive? Why do they not keep their quarrels to themselves?”
Spellbinder essayed a smile, a faint semblance of his usual self.
“Question not the gods, Raven,” he whispered. “Men raised Tanash from his slumber and his mother is angry at their intervention. The gods take little notice of the differences between men. Good; evil, these are differences beneath the attention of those who inhabit the upper spheres. Their paws, we; playthings I sometimes think, but there is naught we may do about it. Our feet are set upon the road and we must follow where it leads.”
“So be it,” shrugged Raven, recognising that he would not be swayed from his chosen course, nor, indeed, overly eager to quit the fight at this late time. “To Tywah we go, to face whatever awaits us there. But first, we shall eat, and you shall gather strength. If that should fail to satisfy these careless gods, then let them notify their displeasure to me.”
Spellbinder smiled, watching as she strode over to the gleevahs, soothing the restless animals with soft words. Soon there was the tasty smell of cooking food in the air, and strong wine to strengthen him for the greater battle ahead.
And after a while, with Raven in the lead and her companion slumped, half asleep in his saddle, they set out across the snow, riding back the way they had come. Back to Tywah and the Frozen God.
Thirteen
“Wherefore complain that the road is hard? Should that deter you, avoid journeying.”
The Books of Kharwhan
Garan na Vohl stared out across the torch-lit snow. From his vantage point in Tywah Gae he was above the roiling mist that surrounded the keep, but now and again, through the burnished greyness, he caught sight of the Storm-runners clustering around the portals. The remorseless thudding of their ram went unheard, for by now it was a part of the general battle-noise, a constant reverberation that shuddered and shook through the Gate like the steady ticking of a metronome. Fire drove the creatures back, but it was impossible to maintain a constant flow of liquid flame from the upper windows, and immediately the fire ceased so the charga returned to their battering.
He looked to the east, to where the main part of the Camargian horde was bivouacked, and his slanted eyes grew worried, the corners of his thin-lipped mouth tugging down. Over there the catapults strummed a counterpoint to the charga’s ram, spinning stones and fire-balls out across the lake. In themselves the machines afforded him little concern, more worrisome was the band of ice forming on the surface of the water. Tywah Lake had never frozen—but then Tywah had never been threatened before and to protest the present circumstances on the basis of past acceptances was, he knew, a fool’s game. He ran a slender hand through his fine, grey hair, thinking of the fools huddled complacently behind the walls of the city, Erhkol, he knew, was more worried than he would admit, but even the lord of Tywah was bound by the dictums of the Koh na Vann, and that damnable council of faint-hearted priests refused to accept the facts.
The facts as Garan saw them were relatively simple. The barbarian army had somehow obtained the aid of a sorcerer powerful enough to threaten Tywah. The expanding ice proved that, had been emphasizing its argument for days now as it extended relentlessly out from the shore. A faint layer of transparent fragility at first, it was not strong enough to bear the weight of mounted men—as the barbarians who pranced upon it daily too delight in showing them. Already they had rolled their war-engines on to the stuff, losing one in the process, though now two great onagers rested there, and if it continued to spread it must, eventually, ring them to the walls.
Perhaps then, Garan thought cynically, the priests would accept the facts. When Camargians walked the streets and fair Tywah went down in red ruin.
Another fact was the strange behavior of barbarians and beasts, the noticeable change in their tactics. The charga worked in unison now, acting with totally uncharacteristic accord, replacing the gleevahs around Tywah Gate and setting to their ramming like disciplined soldiery. Twice had the Quwhonians sallied forth to drive the ice demons back, and twice had the Storm-runners drawn them out from the keep before attacking. Seven warriors had died in those sorties—more from their wounds, later—but most had been dragged down and held prisoner. The thought soured Garan’s mouth. Their screaming had gone on and on, as though they died in ways too horrible to contemplate. And now, on the edge of the encampment, the Camargians were building something, a structure that shone bone-white in the sun, that was ringed by night with torches, and guarded as if held in great awe. As yet it was too distant and too small to be sure of the building materials, but Garan had sworn to himself that he would die on his own sword before he let them take him alive.
He turned from the narrow window with a sigh. Raven and Spellbinder had given him a little hope, had seemed to offer an answer to the odious problem, perhaps even a solution, but they—surely—must be dead now. Whether or not they had reached their destination, they had been absent so long that it was pointless to anticipate their return. Somewhere to the West their bones must rest on the snow. A sad end: they had been good friends.
He set a hand to the hilt of his sword, stroking absently at the facets of the pommel. When the time ca
me he hoped that he might use it well, give the barbarians some small taste of Tywah’s fury before they overwhelmed him.
In another part of the city musings of a different kind were bruited.
Lanna, Karmak na Zel and Ylkar shared wine in the chambers of the princess. The room was high, part of a tower built into the eastern wing of Erhkol’s palace that was reserved for Lanna’s use. Tall windows of multi-coloured glass looked out over the city, though the conspirator’s eyes went more frequently to the locked door than to the magnificent view, and their voices were held to a secretive whispering.
“When?” asked Lanna. “Will it be soon?”
Ylkar nodded. “Aye, my lady: soon. With Tanash come amongst the Camargians the siege must now swing in their favour.”
“That we know,” said Karmak na Zel irritably, “but why does he delay? Surely he is able to overcome Tyway alone. Or is the power of the Frozen God less than we had believed?”
Ylkar gasped, fear paling his face, and Lanna cast nervous eyes in the warrior’s direction, colour draining from her golden-skinned features.
“Guard your tongue,” snapped the priest. “Your thoughts, too. There is more to these affairs than sword-work; more than you can know.”
“Oh, I know of your priestly ranting, Ylkar.” The soldier slapped a hand against the table, rattling the goblets so that wine spilled thick and red over the lacquered surface. “And since Jebulus-Belthis appeared to us, I have noticed that you promote yourself above us, claim communion with the mage.”
“And why not?” snarled Ylkar. “Was it not I who studied the forbidden books that showed us the way to Tanash’s side? Was it not my researching that gave shape and form to your ambition? Did I not lead you to that black gate through which the god will come?”
“Aye,”grunted Karmak reluctantly, “that you did. I cannot argue. But you are not required to face the barbarians, nor man Tywah Gate. I risk my life as this pretence goes on, while you skulk safe within the walls.”
“Skulk safe?” spluttered the priest, his eyes bulging with anger. “Do you deem it safe to tend the Snow Queen’s crystal? Can your battle-blunted mind grasp the danger of exposing my thoughts to that device? Do you dare call that skulking safe?”
“Fagh! You juggle words.” Na Zel waved a dismissive hand. “The Snow Queen forfeits her power here. Were she so great would she not have contained Tanash in his prison? She could not: the Frozen God is free. I ask only why he delays our victory.”
“Ever were you raddled with impatience, Karmak,” came the answer. “That which you cannot understand, you dismiss. I tell you that these affairs of sorcery are infinitely more complex than your soldierly mind might grasp.”
“Or mode more devious to vaunt your pride yet higher,” grated na Zel. “Nine days have passed since Tanash joined the horde, yet still the siege drags on.”
“Aye, and it may well be nine times nine more,” said the priest, “until Tanash himself deems the hour right. Belthis himself told us that the god was weakened in his fight for freedom. Those accursed outworlders employed forces greater than any we had expected, though I suspect they were aided by Astara. Her power here is weakened, certainly, but it is not gone from this place. Why, it is only those incantations Belthis taught me that shield my thoughts from the crystal. Were it not for those spells, I should stand exposed to my fellow priests—aye, and suffer the consequences.
“Tanash recoups his strength in readiness for the fight. When he is full recovered, then will he come against Tywah. Already he sends the ice against the lake, but as yet that is all he can do. When the time is ripe, then will he come to thrown down Astara and all her followers, and exalt us to those positions we desire.”
“Wait, Karmak,” agreed Lanna. “We have waited thus long, can we not bide a little longer?”
Karmak na Zel shrugged and sipped his wine. “If we must,” he said, sourly.
“come,” murmured Erhkol’s ambitious sister, “there are ways to spend time’s passage, to sooth your impatience. Shall I show them to you?”
Na Zel drained his goblet, smiling now. “Aye, lady. Show me.”
Lanna rose to her feet, hips swaying to some lascivious, silent tune, and reached behind her slender neck to the fastenings of her gown. The gossamer silk rustled as it slid from her body, but neither man heard the whisper of sound for their eyes were fastened on her nudity as she writhed before them.
“Come,” she husked, “come with me.”
As one the priest and the soldier followed her into the bed-chamber.
Belthis, too, was grown impatient with his demonic ally. He had anticipated the arrival of the Frozen God, known that Tanash was broken free of his imprisonment, but beyond that he had been forced to wait in a mounting fury of impatience.
The little spectre he had conjured with his magics disappeared on the god’s awakening, and for reasons he could not comprehend there was no further emanation of Tanash’s mind. In similar fashion, all linkage with the golem that was Karl ir Donwayne had ceased, and when the mage sought to conjure a vision of the god’s lair he found only the roiling vacuums of total chaos. Of Raven and Spellbinder, likewise, he could find no sign, and this he chose to interpret as helpful to his cause. There were, of course, limitations to his power—to any sorcery—but the utter absence, the negation, of any metaphysical indication of their presence upon the snow gave him sound reason to presume them dead.
Then Tanash had entered camp, all bloodied and in such temper that seven Camargian’s had fallen to his paws before Belthis could calm him and ascertain the course of events.
Since that gory arrival the god had brooded, nursing his wounds and demanding human flesh to satisfy his appetite. His demands had been met, though the ranks of the barbarian army were somewhat depleted as a result and the fellows of those unfortunates chosen by Zirkan Camargan muttered amongst themselves. The Quwhonian prisoners had served to fill out that awful diet and Tanash was mollified by the starting of the temple. Already the walls of bone rose higher than a man’s head, and would lift higher still when Tywah fell.
When the Frozen God chose to exercise his powers…
Belthis wiped lumpy bread about a greasy plate, chewing slowly on the tasteless morsel as he looked across the tent at the sullen figure of the immortal. Strange creatures, gods; intransigent in their dealings. It was difficult to impress upon them the inevitable differences in attitude occasioned by mans’ relatively short life-span. Tanash, for example, was careless of delay, aloof to the Camargians demands that the attack be pressed home with dispatch. He appeared perfectly content to wait, though for what Belthis could not say. The warlock swallowed the bread and poured a bone beaker full of the thin barbarian wine, letting his evil mind roam free over the possibilities—the alternatives—of his situation.
As yet he held the horde in sway, awed by his communication with their deity, Narramin. But there was a limit to their forbearance, and if Tanash did not act soon they might well quit the siege, for lengthy battles were not to their liking and they had spent many days already watching Tywah. Should they choose to desert the field, Belthis had little doubt but that the god would move in anger against them: a path he wished to avoid, for his plans required such a horde as the Camargians provided.
He could, he thought, side with the barbarians, lead them westwards or south to easier conquests. But that would leave Tywah to his rear, and he had no desire to risk counter-attack; nor, indeed, to leave even one crumb of civilisation untouched upon the table of his conquests. More important, such a move might well make an enemy of the Frozen God and though Belthis felt confident that his sorceries were now strong enough to protect him from Tanash’s wrath, he preferred to use the god as a helper.
So, he decided, it was incumbent upon him to stir Tanash to action.
He lowered the beaker and began to speak.
“The horde grows restless, Tanash. They long to penetrate the city and enlarge your temple with the bones of the slain.”
“Let them wait.” The god’s voice was a moody rumble. “Fortunate for them that their petty designs coincide with my own.”
“They seek only to serve you, to glorify you.” Belthis’s voice became wheedling, oily. “Would you deny them their worship?”
“They can worship all they desire,” chuckled Tanash. “If they love me so much, then let them give their own bones to the temple.”
“Have they not done so already?” countered the warlock. “Do they not love you so well that they give of their own kind to raise the walls?”
The god belched, picking a fragment of bone from his fangs.
“I bend the ice itself to their purpose. Do they dare ask more of me?”
“They ask only that you take that which is rightfully yours,” replied Belthis. “They seek to bring you in glory into Tywah. To destroy for all time the last temple of your mother, Astara.”
The barb—carefully chosen by the cunning mage—struck home. Tanash looked up, his red eyes sparking with horrible fire, and he lifted one great paw to point a blood-sheened talon at Belthis.
“Your tongue treads a dangerous maze, warlock. Walk carefully, lest I forget that magic you wrap about your little body and overcome it all with my fury. Doubt not that I could: the book is not the ultimate defence.”
“Of course.” Belthis bowed his mottled head. “Your power is limitless, Great One. I ask only when you will be ready to face your mother.”
“When the time is come,” grunted the god. “Until then, be still. Astara is no weak thing, that she will allow her temple to be trampled down, though destroy it I shall. And her with it. Until then: wwait.”
“Of a surety,” murmured Belthis. “But how long?”
“Soon,” snarled Tanash. “Soon.”
Fourteen
“Be not surprised when the latter part of your road proves the hardest. It is but the ascent to a summit of new beginnings.”
The Frozen God Page 15
