The Frozen God

by Robert Holdstock

  Only a glistening smear of foul-smelling blood was left, that and Raven’s sword, sticking up all bloody from the trampled grass.

  She took it in her hand, raising it high above her head as she turned and shouted in to the awe-struck silence.

  “Tanash is dead! The Frozen God is killed!”

  There came a great murmuring from the crowd, and Quwhonians turned in angry silence upon the barbarians, driving them back through the breach in Tywah’s walls, back to the shore of the lake, where the ice bridge was already melting, back into the water that swiftly grew red with their blood.

  Raven watched the carnage from a distance, choosing to let the Quwhonians settle this latter part of their struggle in their own fashion. Spellbinder joined her, right arm slung across his chest in a gaily-coloured scarf.

  “So,” he murmured, “Tanash is dead.”

  “Aye,” she said quietly. “There is much to this business of gods and oracles that I do not understand, but something loaned me strength for that last battle.”

  “If it is yet done,” replied Spellbinder. “Look.”

  She turned to where he pointed, and saw a lissome figure running fast across the grass, chasing after those last Camargians to quit the walls. She recognised Erhkol’s sister, Lanna, and wondered why the woman should flee in such abject haste. Then she heard the beat of wings above her, looked up to see the bird lift from its perch and go darting down at the running figure.

  It struck like a falling hawk, lancing claws deep into Lanna’s scalp. The woman screamed, falling down as the bird drove at her. Again and yet again it attacked, hacking with ivory beak, tearing with razor-talons, until Lanna’s head and face were all ruined and bloody and she slumped, dead.

  Now, whispered a snow-voice, it is all done…

  Several days went by before the tunnel might be drained of water and of bodies, and when it was finally clear and the first armed parties ventured out on to the snow, they found only the remnants of the barbarian encampment. Gone were the gaudy pavilions, gone the charga and the tsabeen and the herds of wild gleevahs. Gone the wild warriors. All that was left was a stinking creation of blood-soaked bones that were pulled down and burned.

  That was all that was left. That, and the memory of the Frozen God and his minions.

  Of Belthis there was no sign at all, though they found, upon the snow, the tattered remnants of a black tent, all stained with blood. The ice at that spot was stained with gore and littered with fragments of broken bone, all crushed and shattered so that it was impossible to tell if they belonged to one man or to many. Raven would have gone in pursuit of the retreating barbarians, but Spellbinder held her back. The horde, for all that it was defeated and fleeing to its homeland beyond the ice, was still a potent force, and Erhkol, his confidence restored by victory, would not commit his men to the chase. There was, indeed, sense to his decision, for Tywah was sore damaged by the attack and fires still burned in the streets. Men were needed to seal the breach in the wall, to refurbish the burned and broken buildings.

  Reluctantly, Raven gave way. Perhaps, on some future occasion, she would again meet the warlock and that time slay him. For now it must be sufficient that his dreams of conquest were shattered and—if he lived still—he ran like some whipped cur to that distant land from whence the Camargians had come.

  Perhaps, one day, she might travel there to seek him out. If gods and fortune willed it so.

  For now there was feasting, orations and dancing. In honour of the two outworlders in whose hadns had rested the fate of Tywah, perhaps of all Quwhon. They sat at Erhkol’s right hand, honoured guests, feted heroes, lauded by priests and nobles alike. And for a time it was pleasurable to them to relax in this fashion, to spend their days in company with Garan na Vohl, a silken bandage about his gleaming grey hair, their nights passed in Erhkol’s palace listening to the praise that was heaped upon them.

  But after a while it grew tiresome and Raven felt again that restlessness that ever dogged her footsteps. On one such night, replete with wine and with food, she lay abed, Spellbinder beside her, and looked from the window over the moonlit roofs of glittering Tywah. A shape caught her eye, beating silent across the face of the moon, and she heard a raucous cry, demanding, summoning. She watched the great black bird wing close past her window, uttering again that lonely stridency that tugged at her, and then it was gone, swirling away into the night.

  “Aye,” murmured Spellbinder, sensing her thoughts, “soon we must be gone. Not for us, this soft living, but the road with all its joys and dangers. A sword grows old if left overlong in the scabbard, and there’s yet work for out blades.”

  Raven drew him towards her, kissing him, gently at first, then fiercer. And in that kiss there was a wild freedom, a promise of things to come.

  Epilogue

  The wind stirred again, restless, tugging gently at the limp sail, wafting that sweet odour thick across the water. A fish jumped, disturbing the featureless tranquility of the azure sea. The old man looked towards it, absently brushing a strand of silvered hair from his forehead, dropping his wrinkled hand back to the hilt of the silver sword. He stared out over the silent ocean, his ageless blue eyes peering into the heat haze, to where the land must lay, too distant to see. Whether he sought a glimpse of the coastline or peered into the memories of his past, the seamen could not tell. Nor cared overmuch: they had heard his tales before, and while they were amusing enough, few there were who believed him. Still, his coin was honest enough, and if he wished to buy his passage with decent gold they could afford him the charity of listening.

  He lowered his seamed face, eyes filled now with a longing he sought to hide from them, looking down at het sword, at the golden hilt and the green stone surmounting the pommel.

  “Aye,” he said quietly, and his voice was weary, lonely now, “that was how it happened. Long and long again, when greater forces than wind and wave moved over the world. A different world it was, then, when men dared to dream and fought to make those dreams come true.”

  A sailor shifted, seeking a more comfortable position. He was half-asleep, lulled by the heat and the slow motion of the barque, lulled by the oldster’s hypnotic voice. He smiled, his eyes closed, wondering if the old man would go on to tell another story. For surely these were but stories? Entertainments with which to idle away a few hours in lazy dreaming of might-have-been ages. These lose kingdoms and querulous gods were nothing more than the fabrications of a mind still active in an aged body. Surely. He opened his eyes a fraction, studying the old man. Tattered robes and a severed hand, all wrapped in rags. One more wanderer, journeying from place to place with his tales to win him a bed and a bowl of food, sometimes a few coins. The sword, though, that was a curious note: that blade was of fine steel, unlike any made nowadays. That struck a discord with the man’s appearance.

  “Oh, I know you doubt me.” The voice was a faint rustle of sound now, the words spoken more for the ancient’s own satisfaction than to persuade his listeners. “The dreams are dead. The dreamers with them. The palaces are gone and wonder is a forgotten thing. What do you want, you new folk? A good catch? Nets full for tomorrow’s market? It was different once, when we world-shapers wandered down the roadways of our destiny. But the dream we built birthed this world of yours, and perhaps that is how it was meant to be. Perhaps this quiet world of yours is the natural successor to our chaos.”

  He glanced up at the mast, and a faint smile passed over his thin features.

  “The wind will start up soon and carry us in to land. The merchants will flock to buy your fish and I shall go on my way, and after a while you will forget my words. So it goes.

  He fell silent, and as his voice trailed off so the breeze grew stronger, filling the sail. The fishermen jumped to their feet, the old man forgotten as they sprang to their positions, turning the boat into the wind, steering for the distant, invisible coastline.

  And the old man touched the sword again, a smile creasing his mouth.


  “But I remember,” he whispered. “I remember it all; and while I remember, she lives still. So it goes.”

  THE END