The Frozen God

by Robert Holdstock

  The Books of Kharwhan

  There hung, in the air above Tywah, a great pall of seething black smoke. Like some massive sky-beast, it was, all lit with dancing lightning and noisy with the roll of thunder. Through that aerial maelstrom flew the grim, grey shapes of tsabeen, seemingly untroubled by the sky-born fury clashing about them. Clutched in their long-clawed hands they carried wicker baskets that added their own pungent effusions to the clouds, glowing red and yellow as the swift passage of the winged horrors stoked whatever hell-fires they contained. The tsabeen flew above the steam barrier still rising from the lake, swooping down over the walls of the city to discharge their cargoes on streets and roof-tops and people.

  And where the baskets landed, there burst forth flame that ran and blazed, unquenchable.

  Many were the leathery winged vampire things that fell to the arrows and javelins of the defenders, but for each tumbling body there came another, and then another, until the whole angry sky seemed filled with them and the fires appeared set to consume the city.

  About Tywah Gate the cloud seemed to drop down, shrouding the snow, mingling with the eerie mist surrounding the charga. Out of that hellish darkness there rang a great hammering sound that drowned even the yammering, blood-hungry gibbering of the Storm-runners. Within the darkness, the vile creatures bent their strength to the swinging of a slanted frame of beaten metal, the ram resisted the fire poured upon it by the defenders, its girders all bound around with brass and cured hides so that the charga beneath the roof were protected from heat and missiles alike. A hundred of them swung the ram, fifty to each side, slamming the steel-bound head against the portals of the Gate in deadly unison.

  To the east, all along the southern shore of Tywah Lake, the Camaragian catapults spat rocks across the water. Five of the war-engines, the largest of them all, rested upon the ice that now stretched out into the steam barrier. Impervious to the heat was that ice, its surface hard as the finest steel of Tirwand or Quwhon, and on it, all around the catapults, capered barbarians, screaming insults at the city.

  The main force hung back still, though poised for battle, ready to charge forth over the ice when, at last, it spanned the lake.

  The temple of bones now stood three times the height of three tall men, its upper reaches set round with grinning skulls from which there dripped a steady flow of blood, as though the empty sockets wept red tears of barbaric joy.

  And at the centre of the waiting horde, capering and bellowing, was Tanash.

  Belthis stood close by the leering god, robed in black furs, the silver circlet gleaming from beneath his hood, his lips drawn back in an ugly, triumphant smile. Around them both, though at a respectful distance, stood a ring of barbarian soldiers, a guard of honour. One of them, a man taller than his fellows with greased moustaches dropping to either side of his thin lips and his lank, black hair all bright with feathers and little ornaments of bone and silver, turned to Belthis.

  “How long, mage?” His voice was imperious, demanding.

  “Soon,” answered the warlock. “When the Frozen God is ready.”

  “Excellent,” said Zirkan Camargan, for this was none other than the leader of all the horde, “my blade grows thirsty for blood.”

  A great bubbling laugh rang from the lips of Tanash, and he spat a black gobbet on the snow. “Be patient, little man. My power waxes great; soon I shall lead you to that pillage you desire.”

  The Camargian bowed his head and set to studying his busy catapults. By Balan’s Bones! A god was a useful ally, but Narramin had that about him that could turn a man’s blood to water even at the moment of triumph.

  From the shelter of the ice hummocks to the rear of the noisy camp, Raven and Spellbinder stared in horror at the scene.

  “What now?” Raven’s voice was hushed, even though the clamour must shroud her words. “What change have we of fighting through that crowd?”

  “None,” replied her companion. “Sorcery must be our helpmate.”

  “With Tanash thus close?” she asked. “Will he not sense your spell-weaving?”

  “Mayhap,” nodded the dark warrior, “but chance-taking was ever our way, and you’ve not balked at gambling with a god ere now.”

  Raven smiled grimly and set a hand to Spellbinder’s shoulder.

  “Aye,” she said, “there’s truth in that. Let roll your wizard’s dice, then; we’ll see how they fall.”

  Her companion smiled in turn: “Whatever the outcome, the game was worth playing. Let’s hope that fortune and the friendly gods smile upon us.”

  He moved back to where the gleevahs waited, their great flanks gaunt now with hunger, a restless look in their dark eyes as they caught scent of battle. He stared out towards the lake, one hand pressed to his forehead, the other tracing a pattern in the air. His lips shaped words, though no sound came forth. Raven waited, soothing the nervous gleevahs, her eyes fixed firm upon the barbarian army.

  Spellbinder sighed, for he was still suffering the effects of their earlier confrontation, and the working of magic imposed a strain upon him.

  “So,” he muttered, “it is done. Now we must wait.”

  Raven was about to ask what it was they awaited, but she saw the answer before the words came. From within the steam-cloud shone a glimmer of light, growing brighter as it moved towards the shore, faster and faster, heading swift to the western edge of the lake. It burst into full view and she saw that it was the boat they had used to quit Tywah, though now all slimed with weed and dripping water.

  “Come!” shouted Spellbinder. “Fast, before they send men to cut us off.”

  She sprang astride the gleevah, goading the weary animal to a run, out over the ice, headlong for the boat that rushed towards them.

  Off to their right a cry went up and the Camargians charged in pursuit. But they were too slow, taken by surprise, and the two of them reached the shore and clambered into the little vessel. The gleevahs climbed in without persuasion, as though sensing the deadly alternative to prevarication. The boat moved back from the shore, turning of its own accord, as if guided by some giant hand. The sail hung limp and wet from the mast, but the craft swung about and scudded towards the island faster than the barbarian archers could nock arrows to bows.

  The cloud surrounding Tywah rolled back to let the boat through and the two adventurers relaxed somewhat as they drifted in to land.

  Soldiers awaited their arrival, wary of barbarian subterfuge, but they quickly recognised Raven and Spellbinder, and hurried them into the city to Erhkol’s palace.

  The lord of Tywah sat in council with his war-lords, his mouth opening in surprise as he recognised the outlanders he had thought dead. Garan na Vohl recovered his composure swifter than his companions, and forgot protocol in his excitement, leaping from his place beside Erhkol to clasp them to him, his thin face smiling.

  “Praise be to Astara,” he laughed. “We had thought you dead.”

  “Aye,” said Raven without preamble, “those dark wings brushed close, though darker saved us. Your Frozen God is loose and throws his might against you even now.”

  There was a rustle of surprise, a susurration of dissent, but Garan shouted down his fellows and turned to his leader.

  “How say you now, my lord? Will you heed their words, or shall we all fall beneath the claws of Tanash?”

  “I will listen,” said Erhkol. “Let them speak. And may the Snow Queen grant they give us answer to our problems.”

  They fell to discussion, Raven and Spellbinder outlining their adventures and their sighting of the Frozen God. Erhkol and his nobles were more attentive now, reluctantly admitting the grim reality of Tanash’s presence.

  “How can we fight a god?” asked one.

  “How would you combat the barbarians?” countered Spellbinder.

  “Why,” the reply was nervous, uncertain, “wait them out. Alone, they could never breach the walls.”

  “They are not alone,” said Raven sombrely. “They have allied themse
lves with Tanash.”

  The noble spread his hands in a despairing gesture. “Then we are lost.”

  Spellbinder shook his head. “Not so. Can you not learn from your enemies?”

  “Learn? What is there to learn from that rabble? Do you liken us to Camargian filth?”

  “Yes!” Raven slapped a fist irritably against her thigh. “Can you not see? Are you so entranced with your walled city, your superiority, that you become blind to the obvious?”

  “The obvious?” Erhkol stared at her, his eyes worried. “You speak in riddles when clear answers are our need.”

  “Should a man come against you wielding a sword,” said Spellbinder gently, “what would you do?”

  “Why, draw a sword in turn and fight him,” said Erhkol.

  “Aye: pit sword against sword. There’s your answer.”

  Garan na Vohl saw it first, and smiled. “Aye,” he murmured. “I have it now. Sword against sword; god against god. Or goddess.”

  “The Snow Queen!” gasped Erhkol. “We must call on Astara, ally ourselves with her.”

  A warrior shook his head, the one Raven and Spellbinder had met at Tywah Gate: Karmak na Zel.

  “How can we?” His voice was doubtful, resigned. “The Koh na Vanna have sought communion with Astara to no avail. The crystal remains silent. Astara has left us to fend alone.”

  “She helped us once,” said Spellbinder, “mayhap she will heed us again.”

  Na Zel voiced his doubts, supported by those nobles who had resigned themselves to defeat, but garan roused an equal number in support of the notion, swaying Erhkol in favour.

  “I cannot entertain much hope,” said the lord of Tywah, “but it appears that this straw is all we have left. Let us clutch it, and let us hope that Astara heeds our plea.”

  Even here, at the centre of Tywah, the ravages of the tsabeen were horribly evident. Rivulets of flame trickled through the streets, and from roofs and walls there fell gobbets of dripping fire. Citizens and soldiers joined forces to contain the flames, but there was an air of confusion, of waning hope apparent in their movements.

  It was a resignation shared by the members of the Koh na Vanna, whose lacklustre greeting seemed to reflect their despair.

  “We are deserted,” whispered Garz. “Her voice is silent.”

  “We have angered her,” shrugged Narahk. “She has left us to fend as best we may alone.”

  “Hope is gone,” said Turgan. “All that is left is death.

  “You presume too much,” added Ylkar. “If we—her chosen priests—cannot hear her voice, how will two outworlders gain her ear?”

  “Take us to the chamber of the crystal,” answered Spellbinder. “It may be that our voices ring louder than you whimpering.”

  “It will do no good,” grunted Ylkar. “Nothing will come of it.”

  “Doubt was ever the enemy of action,” murmured the dark warrior confidently. “You throw yourselfs down beneath Tanash’s heel before he has even lifted his foot.”

  The taunt stung the priests, and they began to mutter about blasphemy and outworlder arrogance, but Erhkol waved them to silence, ordering them to take Raven and Spellbinder to the chamber. Reluctant, the Koh na Vanna did as their ruler bid.

  It was quiet down there, deep beneath the city where the tumult from above went unheard, but the very stillness of the chamber seemed to presage loss, defeat. The great crystal was dulled, its previous luminescence departed so that it stood between the carved chairs, a great slab of opaque material seemingly devoid of its mysterious powers. Raven stared at the thing, wondering if the priests were right—if the force that was Astara had withdrawn to whatever realm she inhabited, leaving Tywah to fall to her son and his blood-thirsty allies.

  Spellbinder, too, appeared concerned, though his disquiet seemed less to do with the crystal than with the priests and nobles who crowded the chamber. He turned to Erhkol, murmuring quietly as the lord of Tywah nodded his silver-maned head. When he was finished, Erhkol turned about , calling for all to quit the chamber. There was a loud protest, but Erhkol was unmoved, shouting for the temple guards to seal the door until such time as the two outworlders should call for its opening.

  Spellbinder waited until they were alone, then turned to Raven and ushered her to the nearest chair.

  “What do you plan now?” she asked. “Will the crystal heed us without the help of the priests?”

  “I know not,” said Spellbinder, thoughtfully. “Only that we must act alone.”

  “How so?” she asked. “Surely you cannot suspect treachery.”

  “Why not?” said Spellbinder grimly. “Do you place such faith in the priest, the nobles, that you cannot entertain doubt as to their honesty? Remember that earlier I could not reach through the veil surrounding the crystal; there was that which blocked my mind. Again, when I sought to pierce that veil with wizardry something clouded my vision. It may well be so again, but I think not: these things depend—usually—on the presence of some powerful mentality. If such a mind rests amongst the Koh na Vanna or the nobles, then we shall foil its aims by acting in solitude.”

  Raven was shocked at the enormity of the treachery suggested by his statement.

  “Surely,” she said doubtfully, “no citizen of Tywah would risk communion with Tanash. What profit might there be in alliance with that demon-god?”

  “Ambition will oftimes outweigh reason,” answered Spellbinder. “Belthis binds his soul to the Frozen God. Why not the same insanity amongst these Quwhonians? Do you consider them removed from the temptations a god can lay before them?”

  Raven shook her head, her eyes growing cloudy at the thought of so vile a compact. Spellbinder saw that she accepted his point and moved to the chair facing hers. He sat down, staring at the crystal, his lips moving in silent invocation. Raven watched him, her mind a jumble of confusion. This oracular communion was strangely disturbing, for she remained unsure of the origins of those voices that came from the prophetic devices. That they offered knowledge, she could not deny; nor that their messages were other than beneficial to her personal desires. But in that very joindure of advice and desire, lay that aspect she found oddly suspect. It was not in her nature to bow to the will of another, yet there remained that lingering doubt as to the objectivity of the oracles. Did they simply outline a course of events, or did they seek to manipulate her with subtle words? What, indeed, was their source? That was a subject over which she had often wondered. Did those soundless voices emanate from gods? Or were they the voices of men? The sorcerer-priests of Kharwhan, acting through Spellbinder?

  Whatever the explanation, it was—as yet—denied her, for the crystal sprang to sudden, radiant life, filling the chamber with a blinding glow that seemed to wash through her mind, expelling doubts in the single flash.

  Spellbinder’s form faded behind that silvery glow and she shivered as a momentary cold filled the room.

  Images danced before her eyes, too fast for clear sight, leaving instead an impression of beautiful creatures, a sense of peace, of love and gentleness. Then red war filled the screen of her mind and she shuddered at the awfulness of the images. And slowly, like a nightmare taking for, the image of Tanash rose to the foreground, all bloody and hateful. She saw Tywah, falling to the barbarians, saw Tanash stride through the city, saw the walls of his awful temple augmented with fresh bones.

  And knew that this was the alternative to ignoring the crystal.

  And heard again that voice that was not a voice, rustling like soft snow-fall through her mind.

  Tanash lives…You were too late…He escaped you and now waxes mighty…Soon, he will cross the lake…Oh, had you gone to him sooner…

  “Do you hold that against us?” Had she spoken aloud, Raven’s tone would have been tinged with resentment. “You pit mortals against a god when your own power is too weak to hold him; would you blame us for that?”

  There is truth in what you say…Aye, you are right to upbraid me…Yet what has passed has p
assed and now Tanash comes…And Tywah must fall…

  “You gods are quick to falter,” thought Raven. “Do you forsake the fight so easily?”

  You do not understand….My strength is weakened here…My people grow complacent…There are those who turn to Tanash…They block my power, drain it…

  “Who are they?” Raven spoke aloud now; angry. “Tell me their names: they will die.”

  I cannot…Tanash shrouds them, hides them as thieves in the night. I cannot name them…Find them and perhaps I shall throw down my errant son…Find them…Find them soon, ere Tanash stalks the streets of Tywah…

  The voice faded and the crystal dulled again. Raven looked at Spellbinder, a question in her eyes.

  “I heard,” murmured the warrior-wizard, “and that along proves my suspicions. Now we must locate those forces that welcome Tanash.”

  “Easily said,” snapped Raven, “but harder done.”

  “Perhaps not,” said her companion, a smile forming on his tired features. “Mayhap where gods fail simply trickery can give the answer.”

  He sprang from his chair, calling for Raven to position herself behind the crystal, facing the door. He swung it open, calling for the waiting men to enter.

  “What passed?” asked Erhkol. “Did she speak to you?”

  “She did,” intoned Spellbinder, his voice solemn. “She told us of foul treachery within the city.”

  There was a gasp of shock and of refusal, and hands fell to swords, but Erhkol shouted for silence, waiting for Spellbinder to continue.

  “There is a test,” said the dark man in that same solemn tone, “that Astara would have each one take. There are traitors here, foul men who have given their souls to the Frozen God in vain seeking after dominance.” He watched their faces as he spoke. “Those souls are become abominations, whose very presence offends goddess and Tywah alike. Astara will show them to us in the way she has described to me.”

  “Why to you?” Ylkar spoke, his voice wary. “When she hides her face from her chosen council, why should she communicate with you?”