Icerigger

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Yet surely 'tis all a mistake, 'tis all unintentional!” he said cheerfully. “And now that we are truly made known to you, the Death expects prompt payment of the standard tribute ... with mayhap a few thousand additional foss by way of compensating for embarrassment and upset nerves at your unkind greeting.”

  The Landgrave leaned forward into the silence that followed and shook an old fist at the three.

  “Now listen well to me, butcher Olox. Yes, we know you. Those armed men on the wall who upset your nerves will do more, if you wish. Chain and net return as soon as your putrid self has taken leave of us. Then I can order this Hall cleaned thoroughly to remove the stench that will linger. Go back and tell your bug-master that the people of Sofold and the city of Wannome pay tribute no longer, lest you seek to collect a fortune in the edges of axe-blades and the points of spears!”

  The one called Olox had stiffened at the first word. Ethan felt he could count every hair on the ambassador's head. But, surprisingly, he said nothing and waited until the Landgrave had concluded his speech.

  “I have considered,” said Olox slowly when the Landgrave had leaned back, “and answer that I relish your every word, every syllable.”

  “I am glad,” grinned Kurdagh-Vlata. “Would you like to hear them again?”

  “'Twill not be necessary,” replied Olox the Butcher, “for each and every word has been forever set down in my mind. They will be repeated to the Death with every inflection, all timing, intact and exact.”

  “Good,” said the Landgrave. “Should you require any aid, do but send for it. I shall forward any lapses of memory in writing, with whatever suitable embellishments my courtiers can concoct.”

  “Then, Torsk Kurdagh-Vlata, Landgrave of Sofold, ruler of Wannome, I end thusly: put firm paw to sword and have an eye to your womenfolk, for when I next see you I will not find you so talkative, I think.”

  Cloak flying, the nomad general turned and strode from the Hall. His two servitors were hard pressed to match his stride without breaking into a run.

  No one moved. Then, from the far side of the silent hall. General Balavere's voice shook them all.

  “Well, will you sit there contemplating your fat bellies 'til doomsday? Get to your posts! See to your men!”

  The hall dissolved in a flurry of sudden activity and excited conversation.

  “Not quite as anticlimactic as I expected,” Ethan commented. “Was it, Hunnar? Hunnar?” He and September, turned together, but the knight had already slipped quietly away.

  The big man rubbed his face. “Gone to his own post, I suspect. Probably wanted to use the ice paths to move fast, take up position. He's in charge of the southeast third of the harbor wall, from the gate-tower to the castle. Didn't want to wait for us. We'd slow him to a walk and there are more important things on his mind now than courtesy.”

  Ethan turned, almost tripping over the sword strapped to his right leg. “I guess we should join him.”

  “Might as well.”

  The two humans passed small squads of troops running through the hallways or chivaning at seemingly reckless speeds down the stairway ice-paths. Most of the soldiers and militia were already on the wall.

  As they left the inner keep and walked along the outer battlements of the great castle, they could peer down into the courtyards. Gradually these filled with clumps of well-dressed civilians and many women and cubs.

  These were the wealthier country folk, evacuated from their impossible-to-defend homes about the island. They would spend the coming troubles in the relative comfort and safety of the castle itself. The great majority of country refugees would have to make do with the facilities available in the town.

  Those would be badly overcrowded, but while food and heat held out there would be no problem. And according to Hunnar, Wannome had little to fear in those respects. Everyone would be uncomfortable, but they'd manage.

  They passed through another long, dark hallway, rounded a bend, and nearly collided with a troop of archers who were moving to higher positions within the castle. Another turn and they were out in the brilliant sunlight and familiar, constant wind.

  They jogged easily along the broad top of the wall that sheltered the harbor, protected the city. There seemed to be an archer or pikeman at every slot in the stone. At regular intervals there was a war-tower, through which they ran huffing cold clouds. Ethan could see one and sometimes two crossbowmen perched atop each tower. They seemed woefully few.

  They were approaching the great gate now. The Great Chain was in place, enmeshed in a spider's nightmare of anti-personnel netting. Hunnar should be commanding this section.

  Halfway down the wall September had grunted with satisfaction and tapped Ethan on the shoulder.

  “Have a look, lad, to our left.”

  Ethan peered over the wall and saw nothing for a moment but the harbor itself. Then he spotted what the big man was referring to.

  Halfway off the ice on the far side of the harbor lay the crumpled hulk of their lifeboat.

  “How...?” began Ethan.

  September smiled. “Balavere said he'd see to it. Told him it would be a sensible precaution if they expected to hold on to it, so he ordered out a dozen merchant rafts to drag it in. They must have had a helluva time getting it free. Once it was moving I expect it slid along okay. Thank the No-Spaces for this ice! If they'd had to pull it over any kind of rough country they couldn't have moved it half a kilometer.”

  “I wonder,” mused Ethan as he dodged a long pole designed for pushing off scaling ladders, “if Sagyanak even knows about it.”

  “Well, it wouldn't startle me,” September replied. “You'd think the Sofoldians would have tried to camouflage it from the eyes of that envoy. I suppose they figure it doesn't matter in the long run.”

  “You think Olox saw it, then!”

  “Don't let appearances fool you, lad. That character might have been constructed like a senile grizzly, but he had weasel eyes. I watched him close. While the Landgrave was feeding him insults he was taking in the armor and attitude of every knight and noble in that hall. Probably had time to count the percentage of metal weapons, too. That's one advantage the Sofoldians do have, a decent supply of bronze and iron weapons. If we get through this...” He paused. “I hear you had a look-see through their foundry.”

  Ethan nodded. He was getting winded from the long run. September didn't seem fazed. The younger man felt an unreasoning discomfort at this and tried to seem fresher.

  “Then you know they've got plenty of heat available. A lot more than I guessed. Good access to volcanic chimneys, and those windmills too. I think I might be able to rig an electrodyne forge, by Contusion! Scrap a few parts from the boat... Yes, if we survive this we might leave the Sofoldians a way to work that duralloy after all. Ah, there he is.”

  They slowed to a walk. Hunnar was resting at a pikeman's slot, staring out across the ice. They carefully crossed the icepath that ran down the center of the wall-top. He turned at their approach.

  “Well my friends, before very long we shall discover things.”

  “Don't look so moody. What are they about?” September asked.

  Hunnar turned away. “Have a look for yourselves.” He moved over and the two humans were treated to an uninterrupted view of the icefield.

  Between the barbarian rafts little white could be seen. The ice was covered with shifting, sparkling, multi-colored furry bodies. Swords, shields, bucklers, and helmets flashed like night sky in the heavy sunlight. The Horde was leaving the rafts.

  “There's a slight crosswind up from the south,” Hunnar informed them, glancing at the sky. “I expect the main body will come from that direction. They'll slant due west and then up at us. The brunt of the attack will fall on this line.”

  Sure enough, clumps of nomad troops began to detach themselves from the main mass and tacking against the wind to gain distance to the west.

  Ethan saw that they stood nearly at the end of the wall. The Gre
at Gate Tower was to their immediate left, another battle tower to their right. He looked back the way they'd come. All along the wall, curving back to the castle like a gray snake, there was motion. Knights strove to adjust their men in accordance with the enemy's movements, made last minute changes, hopeful preparations.

  “Will they attack only this section of wall?” asked Ethan a little apprehensively.

  “That would be foolish. As they outnumber us by so many, they will assault the entire length of the harbor in strength, hoping to find a point we have vacated or weakened. Otherwise we could concentrate our strength here alone and have a better chance of beating them off. But they can spread themselves thin and still outmatch us four and five to one at every kijat. 'Tis merely that from this side they will have slightly better wind, therefore better speed and maneuverability... Also, we must keep troops to guard the mountain passes. They may try a thrust there, though I doubt it. Still, some of our strength must stay there, though Sagyanak has no reason to resort to subtlety. They will come to us with great confidence.”

  He paused and looked at September. “Friend Skua, you have no weapon.”

  “Why bless my soul, so I don't! Forgot the damn sword.” He turned and hurried to the battle tower on their right.

  “I see you carry a sword, friend Ethan. Can you use it?”

  “I guess I'm going to learn in a hurry. I'd feel a lot better with a nice new wide-aperture laser.”

  “I should feel better if you had one of your magical weapons, too,” the knight replied, managing a slight grin stared out across the ice. The raft-head was growing huge, horns to south- and northwest. Half to himself, he muttered, “There will be archery fire to cover, despite the wind. Will they try to move in close and shoot linear, or stay above us and fire downwind? Distance or accuracy?” He shook his helmeted, red-maned head uncertainly.

  September reappeared, carrying the biggest battle-ax Ethan had ever seen. Of course, he didn't have a working knowledge of such devices, but it looked godawful big to him. It was double-bladed and made of black iron. September swung it back and forth and over his head and behind his shoulders, mimicking an action of a long-vanished terran sport.

  A number of the men-at-arms gave a cheer when they saw the ease with which their alien-ally handled the monstrous cleaver.

  “You throw that axe around like a cub's toy, friend September,” said Hunnar admiringly.

  “Well,” said September, taking a friendly swipe with it at Ethan and nearly giving the salesman heart failure, “I'm not much on thrusting, but I appreciate finesse. So I tried to select something suitable to my delicate sensibilities.”

  Hunnar stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, then let out a jerking trannish laugh.

  “I see. You joke. You will tell it in more direct fashion to our verminous friends when they come over the wall.”

  “I'll be as entertaining as possible,” September promised. He took a deep breath. “When are they going to get on about it? Or do we wait until after lunch?”

  The answer came several minutes later in the form of a low basso rumbling from across the ice. It sounded like distant thunder. Ethan thought he could detect an odd swirl of motion near the big raft, but it was too far off to make out details.

  A weird sound was that deep drone. It reached right down inside a man and caressed the bones.

  “The Margyudan,” explained Hunnar quietly. “That means no quarter and no prisoners. Well, we expected no less.”

  Hunnar's men stood frozen at their stations along the wall. Ethan could understand their feelings. Death made its own music.

  Surprisingly, it was September and not the memory-stuffed Ethan who was able to identify the sound.

  “I've heard something like this on Terra and a few other worlds,” he said, “only on a much smaller scale. On Terra they call it a bull-roarer. The natives of the northern continent on G'Dim call it a Dane. But this version must be much, much bigger to carry this far against the wind. Come to think of it, the device itself night be wind-powered.”

  Abruptly, the sound ceased. Ethan could hear himself breathing. Only the wind moved. Only the wind talked. Ethan drew his sword, the rasp of metal against scabbard gratingly loud.

  The peace was split asunder by a monstrous howling from all sides. Ethan had never heard the like before. It came from everywhere, had no one source. And the enemy was barely in sight, since they were moving far west to gain wind.

  “Working themselves up good and proper, what?” September whispered. “I expect when they've huffed and puffed themselves into a really fine old-fashioned frenzy, they'll come at us.”

  The howling and moaning continued for ten minutes, and seemed more like an hour. Then there was a single great simultaneous bellow that shook the stones of the wall. A living gray blanket, the limitless mass began to move toward them. They came in a wide, easy curve up from the southwest, slanting up into the wind.

  Soon he could pick out individual figures within the Horde. No two sets of armor looked the same, contrasting with the formal uniforms of the Sofoldian soldiery. The more garish the better, it seemed. Many of those in the forefront carried scaling ladders. Others held long knotted ropes with bone or metal grapnels on the end.

  “Down!” roared Hunnar unexpectedly. Along the wall the defenders hugged themselves to the stone, trying to bury themselves in their armor. A hail of arrows, like the flight of a billion bees, came sailing over to clatter against the stones. There were a few screams from somewhere down the wall.

  One arrow came whizzing through the slot a few centimeters in front of Ethan's scrunched-up face. It shot across the stone to hit the far side of the parapet, ricocheted back to die against the heel of his boot and lie peacefully next to the leather. The bone tip was shattered.

  Another angry swarm hummed overhead. It occurred to him that despite four years of university, another year of advanced sales training, and on-the-job experience, he was utterly helpless in the face of a bunch of hysterical primitives.

  There was very little time for thought. Hunnar yelled, “Up now!” and Ethan stood, turned.

  He was confronted almost immediately by a snarling face framed in metal and leather and a pair of slitted yellow eyes that stared hypnotically into his own. He stood frozen in shock, unable to move, the sword dangling limply from one hand. The nomad raised a heavy mace in seeming slow motion over his head while Ethan watched, unmoving.

  A long pike thrust out of nowhere and skewered the other through the chest. It gurgled, coughing blood, and dropped from view. That broke the ennui that had coated Ethan. Another minute and he was swinging his own sword rhythmically, jabbing and slashing and cutting at anything that showed itself above the clean gray stone. He never did have a chance to thank the pikeman who'd saved his life.

  The yelling and shrieking, crying and bellowing drowned any coherent speech. In one harried moment he got a glimpse of September. Roaring like a pride-leader, the white-haired old giant was swinging the monstrous ax in great arcs, lopping off hands, arms, and heads like a thresher taking up wheat.

  Hunnar seemed to be everywhere, dropping alongside for a quick thrust with his own sword, stepping back and running down the wall to rearrange a line of spearmen, offering encouragement to the fighting and solace to the wounded, always appearing where the fighting was heaviest, red beard bobbing in and out of the morass of blood and fur, receiving information from down the wall and offering some of his own.

  All along the harbor wall lights were blinking demandingly as both Sofoldian and nomad flashers threw silent tirades of anger and agony at each other. Carnage was reported by peaceful sunlight.

  Ethan thrust forward again, felt something hard and cold along his right side. September saw him falter and was at his side in a minute. He caught Ethan as the younger man staggered, dazed.

  “Where you hit young feller?” he asked anxiously. He had to shout to make himself understood over the noise.

  “I ... I don't know.�
�� Really, he didn't. He'd felt something strike, but he wasn't weak or faint. He looked down at himself, felt his body. Nothing. September had him turn slowly and examined his back. Ethan heard, “Bless my soul!” for the second time that day.

  “Don't keep me in suspense,” said Ethan tightly. “What is it?”

  He felt a tugging at his back. September grunted once. Then he was grinning and showing Ethan a long barbarian arrow. “This was sticking out the back of your tunic, three quarters through. Must have gone right down your sleeve. Sonuvabitch.”

  Ethan wanted to say something appropriately clever, but didn't get the chance. In the next minute it seemed that a solid wall of screeching, howling nomads were swarming over the top of the wall. In places some of the enemy had actually attained the top and were fighting inside. But reinforcements, using the ice-paths to move quickly along the wall, chivaned up and down to repair such cracks in the line.

  Then, abruptly, the screams and bellows of defiance turned to howls of frustration. The great mass of enemy troops was moving backwards and down, retreating across the ice. Yells of derision accompanied them, along with arrows and crossbow bolts.

  September walked over to Ethan, pulled his helmet off, and slung it across the wall. It bounced off the stone with a metallic chink. His face was red and running with sweat. A tiny trickle of blood ran down one cheek, dribbled lazily off his chin. The huge ax was stained crimson.

  “You're bleeding,” said Ethan.

  “Eh?” September paused, put a hand to his face, brought away. “So I am. Well, just a scratch, it is. Right now, young feller-me-lad, I'm too tired to care.” He let out a long, exhausted breath.

  “I had a dozen brand-new pocket medikits in my baggage,” began Ethan, but September waved him off and frowned.

  “I've had enough of listening to you talk about the marvelous trade goods we haven't got, young feller.”