The Frozen God

by Robert Holdstock

  His fellow priests nodded their assent, concealing masks bobbing.

  “The ways of the gods are strange,” answered Spellbinder. “Their thoughts revealed to men but rarely. Astara has chosen this way. Would you deny her?”

  Before any might answer he turned his back, setting hands to the crystal. His lips moved and Raven saw him trace a pattern in the air above the stone. No other saw the movement, but as he finished the crystal shone again and he smiled secretively.

  “Now,” he said, voice louder in the awed silence that filled the chamber with the relighting of the crystal, “let each one of you step forward in turn and place his hands upon Astara’s stone. Those who love her shall pass unharmed. Her enemies shall die in a fashion too awful to describe.”

  There was a pause, a hissing intake of breath, then Erhkol set his hands to the stone. Raven saw Spellbinder’s fingers flutter briefly: the crystal shone bright. The lord of Tywah stepped back, looking to the Koh na Vanna to take their turn.

  Garz tugged his black robes about him and came forwards. Again the movement of Spellbinder’s fingers. Again that brief glow. And the priest sighed and moved to the side of the room. Turgan took his turn, then Narahk. Ylkar came towards the crystal.

  Paused. Stretched out one hand.

  Then screamed.

  “Tanash!”

  Spellbinder’s smile was triumphant. “Take him!” he shouted.

  Ylkar spun around as the guards moved in. “Karmak! In the name of Tanash, aid me!”

  Na Zel snatched sword and dirk from his weapon-belt. Struck to either side, felling a temple guard with each blow. Spellbinder raised his hands, shaping words. Karmak na Zel flipped the dirk in his hand and threw the slender-bladed knife, arrow-straight, at the dark warrior’s throat.

  Raven’s right hand flicked out like the tongue of a striking serpent. A throwing star glittered in the air. Struck na Zel’s blade, deflecting it. The dirk was turned in its path, though it imbedded deep in Spellbinder’s shoulder, striking between armour and neck so that the man gasped and choked on the words he was mouthing, staggering back as the traitorous warrior carved a path to the door, cut through to the steps beyond.

  Stilled by the enormity of the revelation, the Quwhonians let both conspirators reach the stairs. Raven, battle-instincts rampant now, sprang headlong over the crystal, knocking priests and nobles carelessly aside. She reached the steps and saw Karmak na Zel turn behind the safety of the twisting staircase. Ylkar, hampered by his long robe, was slower. She took the steps three at a time, never pausing to wonder how she could see in what had previously been total darkness.

  Ylkar reached the turn.

  Raven closed behind him.

  The priest glanced back.

  Raven’s blade thrust upwards.

  Ylkar screamed.

  The Tirwand steel clove deep between his ribs and a great spout of crimson blood pumped forth over Raven’s hand. She withdrew the sword.

  “Tanash!” screamed the traitor.

  Raven thrust again, skewering Ylkar, driving the steel into his belly, twisting viciously as she tugged the sword loose, breaking ribs and tearing entrails in her fury.

  “Tanash,” gasped the priest.

  And then his words were hidden behind a froth of blood that spilled from his mouth and stained his robes. He clutched at this sundered heart, dying, and his eyes opened with an awful light, the horrible knowledge of his fate.

  “No,” he gasped. Then, “No! No!”

  His face became grey and the ice frosted upon his lashes and lips. His skin seemed to stiffen, as if instantaneously frozen; the gouting blood pouring from mouth and belly crystallised and he died, his face contorted with horror. Raven kicked his body aside, racing headlong up the stairs in pursuit of Karmak na Zel.

  At the head, she found a temple guard, skull split. At the entrance to the place, two more, cut down by the fleeing traitor. Beyond the gate a third guard clutched his stomach, trying to hold in the blood let out by Karmak’s sword. He lifted one hand, all slick with spillage, and pointed down the avenue. Down to the entrance to the tunnel that connected the city with Tywah Gate.

  Raven left him where he lay, running wild after na Zel.

  She raced down the avenue, leaping over shrubbery and flames, oblivious to the danger of the tsabeen, intent only on killing the traitor warrior.

  And then, as she ran, there came a great shout from the southern wall and she paused, turning. All along one section of the great wall men and war machines tumbled down as though blow away by some vast wind; the wall itself seemed to tremble and shake as though buffeted by gigantic blows, and a crack appeared in the smooth, translucent surface.

  All riven with ice and with fire was that crack, and it grew wider as she watched, spreading, widening, until it was deep enough to admit a man. Then wider still it grew, glowing blood red as chunks of tumbling masonry crashed to the ground below, and a whole huge section fell inwards, smashing down, carrying men with it, crushing them beneath its weight.

  And through the gap came Tanash in blood and fury, towering over the defenders, bellowing, screaming his hate and blood-lust as he stamped warriors down into the ground, tore men apart with his claws, ripped at them with his fanged jaws.

  And behind him came a screaming horde of Camargian barbarians, the vanguard of the dreadful army intent on razing Tywah.

  Fifteen

  “Each footstep is a beginning; and an end. There is no road: only the journeying.”

  The Books of Kharwhan

  Raven halted, confused.

  Tanash strode up from the wall, rending men as he stalked in bloody death and red ruin through the streets. Through the great split in Tywah’s supposedly-impregnable wall she could see a road of ice stretching out over the lake, across it a dark stain of barbarian infantry rushing to invest the city. As yet, the Quwhonian soldiery might stem that tide, for the Frozen God seemed more concerned with wreaking bloody ruin upon the city than with widening the ice road.

  But if Karmak na Zel should open the tunnel…

  Undecided, she paused. And turned in gratitude as Garan na Vohl came up beside her.

  “Spellbinder lives,” he said. “Already calling for his sword. Where is na Zel gone?”

  Raven pointed to the tunnel entrance. “There. I think he seeks to open a way for more of his friends.”

  “I’ll halt him.” Garan hefted his broadsword in anticipation. “Will you with me, or to the wall?”

  “To the wall,” answered Raven. “I’ve a debt yet to settle with Tanash.”

  “Astara guide us both,” shouted Garan. And ran towards the tunnel.

  Raven turned to the gap. Tanash stood there, rending the defenders like puppets, stamping them down beneath his great clawed feet. She wondered if it was possible to fight a god and win. And then, as though showing her the way to victory, there appeared in the sky above the Frozen God the dark shape of the bird, the black-winged guardian, her ally.

  It fluttered above Tanash’s head, and the god looked up, snarling. The bird spiraled in the smoky air, darted down, then up again, beak opened wide as a harsh cry sprang forth, as if summoning Raven—its namesake—to the combat.

  She laughed; a wild, battle-mad cry, and began to run to where Tanash waited.

  Karmak na Zel reached the inner entrance to the tunnel and pushed through the guards. He shouted for them to lend their blades to defence of the breached wall, waiting until only those few men set permanently to manning the final bastion were gone. Then he drew his sword an struck down the remainder.

  Five soldiers died beneath his treacherous blade, cut down from behind as they waited on his orders.

  He killed the last of them as the entrance to the room containing the apparatus that would open, from inside the city, the portals of Tywah Gate. Then he dropped his word and began to turn the wheel that, connected down the length of the tunnel, would give ingress to the waiting barbarians. The great wheel turned slowly, for it was long since
the Gate had been opened, and even the sophistication of Tywah must bow to the stiffening of time.

  But, remorseless, it turned…

  And those luckless defenders stationed beyond the lake saw their betrayal…

  And died beneath the wave of Camargians and charga that flooded in like some relentless sea of ravaging hate…

  Karmak na Zel laughed and slumped back, exulting in the horror he had wrought and the soon-promised reward he should gain from his monstrous god…

  And then choked on his laughter as Garan na Vohl strode through the doorway, broadsword clasped firm in his hands, death shining bright in his deep blue eyes.

  “Traitor!” was all Garan said as the sword swung down at Karmak.

  Na Zel twisted to the side, avoiding the blow, and Garan’s blade struck sparks from the metal wheel. The traitor turned, grasping his own weapon, swinging it round with a wild shout to cut at na Vohl’s side.

  Garan parried the swing, turning it down and away as he hefted his sword back to strike at Karmak’s legs.

  “Fool!” bellowed na Zel. “Do you think to stand against Tanash? Give in; I shall kill you swift.”

  Garan cut at na Zel’s face. Felt his stroke blocked, blade driven back by insane strength, saw his former friend’s face all twisted with mad glee.

  “Hellspawn!” he grunted. “Did you forget Grannach? The manner of his death? Did you see Ylkar’s face when he died?”

  “I shall not die,” screamed na Zel. “Tanash offers immortal life.”

  “Everlasting death,” snarled Garan. “Death undying! Torment down all the ages of eternity.”

  “No!” shouted na Zel, twirling his sword about his head. “No!”

  Garan backed away, driven by the insane strength of Karmak’s madness. He saw the wheel turned open, yet saw no way to reach it. And from the tunnel he could now hear the wild gibbering of the charga, the echo of feet and paws and hooves on the flags of the under-lake passageway.

  Na Zel drove onwards, and Garan knew that his move must come now, or fail for all time. He fell to his knees, cucking under the traitor’s darting blade.

  The sword struck his helmet. He groaned, feeling blood burst from his temple. And swung his own blade to cut savagely at Karmak’s knees. Na Zel staggered. Garan hefted the sword back, driving it hard against the traitor’s armoured ribs. Na Zel gasped and his blade dropped. Garan drew his own weapon back. Then thrust it forwards with all his waning strength behind the blow.

  Karmak na Zel screamed and his hands opened, dropping his sword, as blood spurted from his mouth. Garan’s blade protruded from his back, stuck through clear to the hilt, all covered with gore where it jutted out beyond the conspirator’s armour.

  Garan rolled aside as na Zel pitched over. He sprang to his feet, oblivious to the strange frosting of ice that covered the traitor’s body as he died, and reached for the levers that would open the flood-gates of Tywah Tunnel.

  He fell across the levers, eyes clouding with spilled blood, mind misted by his wound, and let his body’s weight turn them.

  He held on to consciousness just long enough to know that the levers were open, the gates spilling Tywah Lake into the passageway, then fell to the floor beside the icy body of Karmak na Zel…

  And beneath the lake there opened a roaring wound that spilled water in a cataclysmic flood into the tunnel. Foaming, turbulent, it spilled out like the ravaging wash of some elemental force, cleansing the passageway of barbarians and charga with god-like dispassion. Bodies were tossed and torn in the face of that fury, men drowned and monsters riven, their corpses bobbed like corks up through the entrances to Tywah Gate and Tywah city, thrown into the air to flop, lifeless, back into the bloody, murky stream, thickening the surface with a miasma of sodden death that floated like scum upon the now-impenetrable void of the under-lake passage.

  And as death filled the tunnel beneath the lake, so death faced Raven beneath Tywah’s walls.

  Between fortification and inner fence there was a cleared area, as though both Tywah and Camargia fell back in awe at the daring of the slender woman who strode out to meet the horrible shape of the Frozen God. Clad in her black armour of mail and Xand hide, she was, hair falling free from unhelmed head, sword in hand and smile on lips. The shirt of mail covered her from neck to hips; leaving arms naked, save for the silver torque, the gleaming bracelet. Legs, likewise, were clad only in the tall black boots of Yr leather, exposing tanned, smooth thighs. She wore the sleeve-shield upon her left arm, carried the Tirwand sabre in her right hand, the girdle of throwing stars about her slim waist.

  And wild, brave hope in her stormy blue eyes.

  Tanash stood half as high again, all green-grey skin and curving talons, red eyes staring in angry disbelief from that hideous face that was mostly fang-thick mouth.

  Blood dripped from his fangs, more from his claws, and all about him, thick in the air, there wafted that stench of death, the odour of the charnel house that was his black soul.

  He tossed aside the body of a soldier, bones broken and sucked dry, and he laughed.

  Raven waited until he was done, then spoke.

  “Your power is ended, Tanash.” She looked up to where the black bird perched, high above them; waiting. “I shall slay you, god though you be.”

  The Frozen God flexed his claws, staring at her in surprise at her courage. He glanced up at the bird, assuring himself that it remained onlooker rather than combatant.

  “What?” he bellowed. “You little womanling will slay me? You tried that once before, and found it a task too hopeless to attempt. Then you needed that bird to save you. Now it sits and watches. Can you face me alone, woman?”

  He began to walk towards her, and where his feet struck the grass, he left great prints, all frosted round with ice, the fronds blackened as though killed by unspeakable cold.

  Raven waited for his approach, tensed ready.

  She felt a coldness creep over her, and shivered.

  Then, as one granted revelation in its fullest sense, she felt a power fill her, a strength that she knew could overcome Tanash. Doubt faded and her arm grew strong, lifting the Tirwand sabre to point the blade at the advancing god.

  The blade shone bright, seeming limned with fantastical light, radiant with an icy glow that was yet warm to her hand.

  Be strong, whispered a voice within her mind, for I am with you and will guide your arm.

  Unthinking, she ran in, cutting at the god, who gasped and jumped back.

  “What, Tanash?” she cried, laughing in her turn. “Are you afraid?”

  The Frozen God threw back his head and screamed. His arms spread wide and he ran at her, bellowing.

  She side-stepped, slashing at his legs. And now her ice-rimmed blade cut flesh where before it had glanced off remorseless hide. Tanash screamed—in pain now, not fury—and staggered, his feet leaving slicks of blood on the blackened grass.

  Raven stood her ground, realising that Astara had become as one with her, had filled her with a supernatural strength that could—would—face Tanash and defeat him. She had, now, no need of Spellbinder’s magics, no need of aid from the bird; only her own true blade and her belief in the goddess. She gripped the sword and felt a wild joy fill her.

  “Come, Tanash,” she shouted. “Come and die.”

  The Frozen God struck at her, and she deflected the blow as she would the thrust of a sword, shouting triumphantly as fresh blood gouted from a severed finger.

  Tanash paused, staring in amazement at his wounds. There was, on his hideous face, an expression of total disbelief, of complete inability to believe what was happening to him. Raven used that instant to step in, slicing a quivering fold of skin from his belly.

  Tanash sprang back, holding himself, mouth open and a wavering cry bursting form his lips.

  “Astara!” he screamed shrilly, “Astara! Let me sleep again. Not die!”

  “No!” The words came unbidden from Raven’s mouth, spike by a being other than herself
, coming from a realm beyond the now of Tywah and this bloody battle-ground, from another sphere, where mighty forces gathered to quell and destroy an errant god. “No! You must die, Tanash. Your ambition vaunts too high. You chose your path and now must follow it to the end. Die, Tanash. Know death’s kiss, know that embrace from which not even a god may turn away. Die, my son!”

  And the Frozen God cowered like a whipped child, scorned by its mother, chastised for its misdemeanors. And Raven stepped in, slashing and hacking, driving the Tirawand sabre deep into the now-yielding flesh of Tanash and laughing as great chunks of his hide fell away and dark blood gouted forth. Again and again she cut at him, forcing him back until he stood against the inner fence and gave up all effort at defence. She lopped off one out-thrust paw, struck back to split his belly. Carved a ragged line across his face, an open gash in his cheek. Cut through chest and thighs and groin until the god tumbled down, choking on his own blood.

  She halted, watching as Tanash rolled screaming over the grass, a great black-crimson smear spreading out all around him.

  Then she raised the sabre in both hands and drove it down through his chest, right up to the hilt, pinning him like some massive insect to the ground.

  And Tanash screamed one last time and died.

  Raven stepped back, panting. She felt that mystic strength that had been Astara depart from her, leaving her weak and trembling. She stared at the writhing figure transfixed on her blade, and there echoed in her mind a faint rustling of soundless voice.

  It is done…The Frozen God is killed…it is done…

  Before her, Tanash’s twisting stilled, his one good hand ceased its clawing and fell down on to the grass. His mouth gaped open, blood frothing from his lips. His mottled hide took on the colour of drying straw, became all frosty with ice crystals that crackled and glittered over his skin. His flesh blackened and began to steam, falling away from the bones to expose glistening entrails, fetid viscera that tumbled loose from his gaping ribs. Then the bones, too, crumbled, and dissolved as though eaten by the poisons that had composed his mind and body. The stink of his dying drove Ravne back, one hand clutched to her face, eyes watering as the great corpse decomposed and vanished.