THE ICE KING
MICHAEL SCOTT ROHAN
www.sfgateway.com
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In the last years of the twentieth century (as Wells might have put it), Gollancz, Britain’s oldest and most distinguished science fiction imprint, created the SF and Fantasy Masterworks series. Dedicated to re-publishing the English language’s finest works of SF and Fantasy, most of which were languishing out of print at the time, they were – and remain – landmark lists, consummately fulfilling the original mission statement:
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Contents
Title Page
Gateway Introduction
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Website
Also By Michael Scott Rohan
Author Bio
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
THROUGH THE narrow rock opening the wind came screaming off the sea, flattening the undergrowth and the flames of the bonfire until it roared in answer. Wood cracked explosively, lashing showers of sparks into the eddying air. Against the sudden light the horned head stood out sharply, tossing this way and that among the little knot of struggling figures. The circle of watchers bellowed and jeered as they fought, panting and cursing, to force it forward. But all the voices, and the terrified bleating of the beast, were swallowed up in the wind’s whine and the answering rumble of surf far below. The tall tree swayed and bent back against the sheltering cliff face, its boughs rattling in a clacking rhythm. The things that hung from them seemed to be dancing to it.
The sound, or the sudden waft of corruption that went with it, maddened the struggling ram still further. The black face ducked down and jerked up violently, twisting to one side. One horn scored a jagged, welling line across a bare chest, and flicked red droplets hissing into the fire. The man fell back with a yelp, and the shrilling beast half leapt, pawing frantically at the empty air.
Another horned shape swept across the circle of light, huge and upright, stooping over the beast before it could break loose. Careless of the flailing horns, an arm snaked under the neck and around, tightened, and jerked sharply back, catching the ram’s head in the crook of the elbow and choking it instantly silent. The beast threw all its weight forward, but the arm was a broad, immovable collar. Two men pinioned its legs, and the horned figure jerked the quivering creature into the air; instantly it was half conscious. He took a few clumsy steps forward with his burden, and the circle round the fire swayed forward with him. The man with the gouged chest sat up, moaning. No one paid him any attention. Another two steps, and the horned figure was at the flat rock under the tree, throwing a fantastic shadow across it. He hefted the huge ram as if to hurl it down, then dumped it more gently onto the rock. It lay twisting feebly.
He gestured, and two figures little shorter than himself strode out of the circle. One held a length of rope and a tall staff, cloth-bound at the top, the other a great logging axe. The horned figure snatched the staff impatiently, twitching the rags off the gleaming blade and into the man’s face. He ducked, and looped his rope around the ram’s neck, pulling it smoothly together till it vanished into the fleece, then let it hang loosely from his hands. There was a rippling murmur from the watchers. The horned figure struck the rock a ringing blow with his spear-butt, and then again, more lightly, tapping out a softly regular rhythm. He began to chant in time with it, and the watchers echoed him raggedly. The fire flickered and swirled as figures circled it, faster and faster, feet drumming the earth. The chant grew louder, the horned helmet bobbing and swaying till sweat ran from beneath it, gleaming across neck and shoulders. Swaying wisps of smoke whirled out of the fire, rasping at eyes and nostrils. The ram, aroused, began to twist and kick. The horned figure shouted, and the watchers crowded suddenly around the rock. The rope-holder braced a foot against the rock, tensed, and heaved. The loop snapped taut, and the ram’s body jerked with the force of it, drawing the neck right out beyond the enveloping wool. The axe swept up into the shivering leaves overhead; the spear whirled in the horned figure’s hand till its blade pointed down, and in that instant thrust hard. There was an exultant yell from the watchers as the axehead clipped the leaves apart in its downward plunge – then a leaden, snapping sound, a gritty metallic ring, and the rope-holder fell backwards. The watchers sprang aside from the leaping sprays of red; again the fire hissed and sizzled. The horned man was probing with his spear, as if picking out some delicacy. He jabbed sharply, then raised the spear at arm’s length, staring at it almost dreamily as the impaled head rose above his own. He grinned suddenly and whirled it around over the heads of the onlookers, spraying the ones who didn’t move fast enough. He swung right round, shouting, and in the same movement swept the speartip high into the tree, slicing off twigs and leaves and fragments of what hung among them. With a meaty thud the head was impaled on a broken branch. He jerked the spear free and bayed out a single word, the others echoing him, a name and a defiance flung in the face of the seawind. Then they cheered as the carcase was gutted over the stone, and two of the men began to skin it roughly; stakes for the spit were already being set up by the fire. But the horned man stood for an instant, gazing up into the tree. Then he turned, and with a wild yell hurled the heavy spear into the air, high over the others’ heads, across the bonfire. The flames roared up to meet it, filling the whole glade with light.
Far below, out on the choppy waters of the estuary, the man in the small dory saw the faintest flicker of light high on the cliff face, swelling and fading in a moment. He laughed.
‘Some berk out on the paths!’ he remarked to the big black German Shepherd beside him. ‘Need more’n a torch to be safe up there, an’ all. Where some folk’ll go for a bit of –’ He broke off, swinging the wheel around to send the little boat into the lee of the huge structure that straddled the centre of the channel.
‘Talking of torches …’ He pulled the tazer from his belt and swept it across the dark, choppy water ahead. The truck-tyre fenders lining the jetty gleamed wetly black in the beam, and he twirled the wheel one-handed to bring the little boat smoothly alongside, right under the sign that read:
SAITHEBY SHIP EXCAVATION
by the
FERN FARM PROJECT
NO UNAUTHORISED LANDINGS
ON THIS DAM AT ANY TIME
>
WARNING: GUARD DOGS PATROL NIGHTLY
‘Which means you,’ he grunted to the dog as he looped the painter round a handy upright. ‘So ’op to it.’ Even in the shelter of the coffer-dam’s high seawall there was plenty of swell to bounce the little craft around, and the dog had a difficult jump. That seemed to disturb it, and it stood whimpering at the edge as if about to leap back again.
‘ ’Ere, don’t you bloody dare!’ barked the guard, and hastily swung himself up after it – too hastily, because he missed his footing on the spray-soaked metal ribbing and fell with a crash that rang hollowly through the jetty and wakened odd echoes in the dam. The dog jumped and hunched, snarling. The guard was so startled he forgot to swear.
‘What’s up wi’ you, then, you great soft pillock? Fine bloody guard dog you’re turning out to be.’ He hauled himself painfully off the soaking walkway. ‘C’mere and get a leash on you, then – c’mon.’
He pulled the walkie-talkie from his belt and thumbed it on; the light glowed and static whispered. He clicked it off and replaced it, looking up at the looming bulk of the dam. He sniffed, and checked over the tazer as well – but only the flashlight button. He was careful not to touch the two others, the ones in line with the two stubby barrels under the light. He knew only too well what the barbed dart-tips inside could do. Satisfied, he swung the beam round to the ramp that led up to the dam, unlocked the gate, and urged the dog through. It went willingly enough, trotting at his side as usual, but when they reached the walkway at the top it plunged ahead suddenly, straining at the lead, and stopped short, quivering. The guard felt the lead shake with the tension in the animal’s body; he heard it sniff and growl faintly, and bent down to put a hand on its harness. It jumped at the touch.
‘Eh, boy, eh,’ he whispered. ‘What’s all this, then? If there’s someone there why don’t you come right out an’ bark like you’re bloody trained to? Eh? Shall I let you go find it, eh? Eh?’ He flicked open the quick-release catch, but the dog did not spring forward as he expected. It stood, still tense, still sniffing at the turbulent air. Puzzled, the guard swept the high-powered torch beam all across the top of the dam, and up and down the levels of scaffolding that supported the seawall. Nothing moved except the dancing shadows, and here and there a tarpaulin flapping in the wind. The only sound came from the dark pit at his feet – the soft patter of the sprayer system. He leant over the single railing and turned the beam downwards; the fountaining mist of water iridesced like a rainbow before it drifted down onto the dark, hummocked shape at the centre.
Quite a bit of it clear now, thought the guard. Looks like some bloody great whale, all buried in the mud – He winced as the wind turned, and the stench of the exposed estuary bed – dead seaweed, dead fish and centuries of sewage from the town that flanked it – struck him in the face. ‘Aw God – smells like it, too. That what’s worrying you, boy? Can’t say as I blame you. Come on, let’s have yer leash on again. Too cold to linger. Get our rounds done – slope off ’ome sharpish. Must be mad, them all, diggin’ away in that shit’eap. Be lucky if they don’t catch something. Serve ’em right, too. Past’s dead. Should let it be – who needs it?’ He looked up, as the briefest flicker of pale light on the cliffs caught his eye, but it was already gone. He snorted, and looked down into the unbroken darkness of the pit.
‘Thousand years it’s been down there. Could’ve left it another thousand, for all the difference it makes.’
‘… and now local news, and a special report from Saitheby, where the Fern Farm archaeological project has once again been making headlines. Two years ago they came up with the only known remains of a pagan Viking temple. Today they’ve chalked up another first, in a rather unusual spot. From the middle of the Saithe Estuary, Tom Latimer reports …’
A raucous cheer went up from the dig workers gathered round the TV screen. Latimer acknowledged it with a wave of his beer can and his best weather-worn grin. He was glad he’d decided to spend the evening with the diggers, partly because they were the best company he could hope for in a town that rolled up its pavements after six, but mainly because of a very foxy lady called Pru Ravenshead, now sitting just out of grab range and smiling. Latimer liked English girls, especially English girls with a tasty dash of blue blood. A rugged Aussie newshound with tales to tell from all the world’s trouble spots was just what she needed – even if said newshound was beginning the long slide into middle age. Experience. Girls like Pru valued it.
The setting had him a bit nonplussed, though. The diggers’ quarters had all the heady luxury of a north London squat. It had been some Victorian fatcat’s house during Saitheby’s brief fling as a fashionable resort; in harder times it had been turned into offices for the local council, and about ten years ago it had been gradually abandoned and neglected until even the mice moved out. It had walls, a floor, and most of a roof, but not much else – the diggers slept on the floor, and lived off sticks of furniture the thrift shops had thrown out. Proof that archaeologists were universally nuts – as if he needed any more! Even Pru. She had a home of her own, the bloody great manor her folks had up at Fern Farm. What did she need to come down here for? Not even a TV – he’d had to bring his monitor in from the van. Now, in their so-called common room, he lounged in the doubtful comfort of a clapped-out armchair, dodging the broken spring he’d been warned about, and cursed the mess the local news editor had made of his material. At least they’d left his commentary alone.
‘It’s more than a thousand years since the Saitheby ship caught fire and sank into the chilly waters of the Saithe Estuary,’ said his own voice. The wide-angle shot over the dam had worked well, at least. ‘Over the centuries the ship, turned right over on its belly, sank deep into the preserving mud, its back broken, its upper timbers scattered. And there it stayed, until just over a year ago a team of archaeologists from the Fern Farm site tracked it down at last. Massive funding came from the British Museum and from Rayner College, Texas, which is running the project. The team used it to build this dam, and started to pump out the water that barred the way to an astonishing archaeological first.’
On the screen, figures were moving along the planked walkways in the shadow of the towering seawall, anonymous in their yellow oilskins. A perpetual mist of fine spray drifted across the exposed estuary mud, half concealing the bewildering array of timbers, markers and multicoloured tags that was the Saitheby Viking ship.
‘This morning the team began the tricky job of moving the ship, timber by timber, to its new home at the Saitheby Museum …’
The camera moved in to frame a long, low mound flanked by a wooden catwalk, glistening with mud in the hazy light. Oilskinned diggers were kneeling along it, chatting to each other and occasionally glancing along at the great slab of a man who stood at the far end. A swift change of shot showed him in close-up, gesticulating furiously at the crane operator up on the dam wall as a web of chains and canvas was lowered into position. Looking up, he shook his hood back to reveal an almost classically handsome young face, given a hint of toughness by a nose that had obviously been broken and reset, and by the concentrated intensity of his expression, lips compressed and blue eyes glittering under heavy eyebrows.
‘Let’s ’ear it for J.R.!’ suggested a raucous Liverpudlian voice from the back of the common room. ‘ ’Ip, ’ip –’ At least three other diggers replied with a resounding Bronx cheer.
‘Handling this critical stage of the operation was site supervisor Jay Colby, of Rayner College. The first and most crucial part of the ship to be moved was the main section of its keel – a single oak timber more than thirty feet long, mud-soaked, waterlogged, and ready to crack apart under its own weight at any minute …’
The camera pulled back to show the diggers very gingerly easing the heavy keel out of the mud and sliding it onto the cradle, inch by painful inch. Equally slowly the crane cable was taking up the slack, lifting the cradle into shape around the great dark beam, until at last the cable and support chains
quivered with the tension and a hair-thin line of daylight suddenly showed under the enshrouded shape. The diggers hastily slid their fingers into the gap, steadying, supporting, almost caressing the delicate weight. Inches, a foot, knee-high – the diggers were rising to their feet now, with infinite care – waist-high, chest-high …
‘To begin with, it all went by the book. But then …’
The crane was taking the actual weight, but the diggers had to prevent the mass of timber from shifting or twisting. They were having to reach up to it now as it swung over their heads towards the waiting preservation tank. One overreached, slid on the muddy catwalk, and lost his footing; his neighbour spared a hand to try and steady him, and lost his footing, too. They fell heavily, knocking into the next along. She staggered, stayed upright, but lost her grip on the keel. There was a faint moan of stressed timber, and suddenly the massive beam was turning with the torque of the tautened cable, ponderously slewing over and down and beginning, with dreamlike, unstoppable slowness, to slide out of the tilted cradle.
Even on the screen, it made some of the audience gasp. Latimer smirked to himself. There was a sudden rush, a massive figure bowling the panicky diggers aside, darting under the falling end of the beam – Colby, catching it, holding it, bowing down under that immense weight. The camera jerked slightly, then zoomed in on him as his wide shoulders split the heavy oilskins at the seams. His face was purple, rigid with effort as he struggled to hold back the ancient weight of wood. Balanced as he was on the edge of a teetering catwalk, it didn’t look possible.
‘Like holding up a house!’ someone muttered. Colby was visibly shaking with the effort, but the beam slid no further. In the instant before the diggers collected their wits and ran to help him it almost seemed to move back slightly. Then other hands caught it, and Colby’s face relaxed. The camera moved back to show him and the other diggers gently manoeuvring the laden cradle down into the tank.
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