Ice and Shadow

by Andre Norton

  Back and forth they wove through these gullies, sometimes seeming even to turn completely around. Ahead, against the sky, there was a rise of taller hills, mountains. As on the tundra Jofre could distinguish no path or road, or even markings, yet their leader did not falter and those who followed showed no lack of confidence in him.

  Once in such a land, Jofre thought, how did one win free again? And from what little they had been able to gather the Shattered Land was even more chaotic.

  They came to a halt at last, the off-worlders bone-shaken. Zurzal, because of his greater height, must have found it even a tougher ordeal, though he made no complaint. Here was a spring where water rippled through a crevice in the rocks and threaded down into a pool, which in turn fed a stream. There were gauzy winged things dancing over the water, prismatic colors glinting off their wings as if those were formed of fine lace set with tiny jewels.

  That rider who had shared his perch with I’On did not dismount as all the rest swung down. Once the other mounts were free they clustered around that leader which ambled at a much slower pace down the stream, leaving the rest of the party behind. The Skrem paid no attention to the off-worlders, rather gathered in a group about I’On, producing bags in which they rummaged to bring forth what looked like handfuls of dried grass. Two of their number went on hands and knees to the stream side and busied themselves flipping over the water-moistened rocks, now and then scooping up what looked like a pallid wriggling grub which they tossed over their shoulders, their finds eagerly pounced upon by their fellows. It would seem that this was a time to eat.

  Jofre had had enough training in living off the countryside on Asborgan to have tasted—without any pleasure but most stoically—insects and rough gathered herbs. But he was glad that for now they had their own trail rations.

  The mounts were being watered downstream and then turned to foraging on the most purplish of the bristle growth, chewing it vigorously until dark, slimy juice dribbled from their jaws. With a compressed meat biscuit in one hand Zurzal produced with the foreshortened other a square of nearly transparent stuff which had been folded into very tight compress but shook out into a wide strip which Jofre identified as that mapping of the ways on which the Zacathan had worked many hours from time to time ever since he had obtained from the dying spacer the coordinates the other had brought back from his ordeal on Lochan. But that Zurzal could make any sense of what was marked there was a wonder to the guard. This up-and-down land might present landmarks by the thousands to the educated eye, but those would exist for a native, and he doubted whether the spacer had been in a position to sight many.

  The Zacathan’s head came up and he was staring now at the north line of heights, which were like broken teeth gnawing at the sky. They seemed to be paralleling that line rather than heading directly towards it. But was it the boundary of the Shattered Land? Jofre was sure that even Zurzal could not tell.

  He got to his feet and walked up and down, to stretch muscles, battling the various aches and pains their riding had produced. His inner thighs felt raw, chafed by the constant pressure he had had to keep to hold his place. But if it were so for him, what had it been for Taynad?

  The girl sat with her back to a lichen-crusted stone. Her eyes were closed and there was that masklike quietude in her face which he could understand. One hand, holding a barely nibbled journey square, lay laxly across her knee and the other rested on Yan’s head.

  “Eat!” Jofre moved to stand so that his shadow fell across her and hid her from the rest of their company. “Without food, strength goes.” Even in his own ears his voice sounded rough and he must rouse her into seeking inner strength, for there could be no falling behind. He did not believe that the Skrem would in any way suit their form of travel to those in their company. While any Sister to Shadows had to be issha-tough, her own training had differed in places from his—and he did not know, could not judge how much. Why had she agreed to Zurzal’s offer? So far her communication skills had not been put to any testing. He stood in hesitation—there was a wish to somehow lend her strength now as he had when she had brought the Jat out of its catatonic seizure, yet he was at a loss how to do that. He knew very little of women—that was a subject on which none of the Masters ever dwelt, and before a boy gained puberty he was drilled and disciplined into control over the body’s desires.

  An issha who had well served on the missions, proved himself worthy to have his bloodline carried on, could be assigned to a mating by selection. Then he passed into another category of fighter, became a trainer, or an advisor. But otherwise women played no part in his life.

  It had been growing on him that there was indeed a difference between them, issha-trained though they were. She would have been as disciplined to meet him as a battle comrade only had they been on a double oathing. As a Jewelbright she was a warrior of an entirely different breed. He felt rough-handed, as unskilled as a boy at his first mustering in the arms court.

  However, he slipped down beside her now. The Jat stirred and looked at him. Reaching across the girl, who had not moved, Yan caught at Jofre’s hand, keeping its own grip also on Taynad.

  Heat, first a warmth and then a flame against his ribs. The stone from Qaw-en-itter—he knew it too well now to doubt that it was so making known its presence. Power? Jofre’s free hand slipped inside his girdle, his fingers closed on that source of warmth.

  Power—strength—his thought fastened on that. Flow of strength—he fought to draw upon it even as he had in the battle to win the Jat. And it was coming—up his arm—across his body—into that other hand—the paw which held him in such a grip. And beyond—though he could not trace it any further than Yan, he was sure that the Jat was channeling it into Taynad.

  Her eyes opened and focused on him. There was the faintest trace of a frown troubling the mask of her face.

  “Draw—” He spoke that single word as an order.

  The flow was continuing, not as heavy as it had been before, but steady. Then her hand jerked away from the Jat, breaking the chain.

  “Who—what are you?” She demanded that sharply, straightening her shoulders, pulling herself away from the rock support.

  “Issha feeds issha when there is need,” he returned, drawing his hand away from his girdle. Why would he not share the secret of his find with her? He could not tell except there seemed to be a guard on his tongue, a shutter in his mind when he thought of it.

  “It is well.” Once more she showed him the mask. “It seems I am too far, too long from the Lair.” He thought he could detect a measure of resentment in her speech and she was using the language of the Lair which had many inflections and subtle shadings. Yes, she could well resent the fact that she had displayed signs of fatigue.

  “It is always well to give.” He used the formal speech of an instructor. “Is it not written so in the Laws of Kale?”

  What answer she might have made to that he was not to know, for Zurzal roused from the studying of his flimsy map and there was the clatter of feet on gravel as their mounts headed back upstream in their direction.

  Remounted, their leader swung them on along the stream for a space and then there was a scramble up a slope and for the first time the dim marks of a true trail—which turned and twisted up into the heights beyond. This was far harder riding than even the gully wandering had been and the holds they must keep on the horns of their mounts in order not to slip from their seats crooked their fingers with aching cramps. Jofre concentrated on looking only at those horns and making sure that his hold was the best he could grip. To look out into the empty air, down, or even at the length of the slope ahead was disheartening.

  They hit at last what seemed to be a pass and on either side the rock walls towered. There was a searching wind, as chill as the tundra plain had been hot. Yet there was life of a sort clinging here, for both walls were festooned with weblike binding and Jofre, daring for the moment to look beyond his hands, saw a shaking of those lines. Climbing down was a ball-like
body, hardly to be distinguished from the rocks in color, legs as thin and apparently as supple as the webbing sprouting from under the round of its body.

  Jofre caught the sudden action of the Skrem bestriding the lead mount. Both he and I’On, seated behind, made throwing gestures. The ball thing gave a convulsive leap which left it dangling from the webbing by only two of its legs, the rest jerking frenziedly in the air. Protruding from the round back Jofre sighted two small shafts. Then the ball lost its last hold, fell squashily and was sent farther on by a kick from his own mount which nearly unseated him.

  There appeared to be no further danger as they won through the pass to the northern end. There their line of mounts halted, only those bearing riders gathering closer to the downward grade as if they consciously wished those they carried to see what lay ahead.

  What did was such a frozen convulsion of nature that Jofre, though he had somewhat been prepared for such a sight by the tapes, thought could hardly exist on any world.

  They called this the Shattered Land and they were very right in that description. It was all sharp ridges of rock, looking knife-sharp from above, with dark drops between. As if one of the Storm Gods of the old days had taken a sword half as wide as the sky and deliberately cut and recut the earth, turning soil where that weapon touched into the traps of blade-edged lava.

  How could any man find a way through such a country? The expedition which had come to grief here had been borne by flitter—though Jofre wondered about the downdrafts and wind changes over such a territory. But on foot? This was one of those impossible tasks given to the Older Heroes in order for them to achieve immortality. One could perhaps achieve a measure of that, to be sure, in another way, by simply dying here, Jofre thought.

  The mount bearing I’On as one rider had edged up beside the Zacathan.

  “Here is the country you seek, stranger. Now what do you seek in it?”

  Zurzal was busy with one of the belongings taken from his belt, a small oval into which he now most carefully inserted a pellet. He held it out towards that riven world.

  A moment later, to be heard even above the strange echoing cries of the wind through those broken vales below, came a small sharp sound. The Zacathan turned his hand slowly, with infinite care, and the signal strengthened.

  “What we seek lies there.” He pointed to the north.

  Though they could not see the Skrem’s eyes, Jofre thought that the alien might be staring at Zurzal’s instrument with surprise. He chittered and was answered by his fellow rider. Then he turned to Zurzal with another question.

  “How far?”

  “That we must learn for ourselves,” the Zacathan replied, “but the signal is strong. We cannot be too far.”

  One of the Deves joined them now, having dismounted. The wind whipped his cloak about, fluttering his head comb.

  “No one enters this.” He spoke the trade tongue but so heavily accented that it was difficult to understand.

  The Skrem shifted around on his mount. It seemed that the heavy head covering kept him from turning his head easily. He chittered and Zurzal’s com picked up his speech even though that was not directed to the off-worlders.

  “The Skrem ride where they will. We would see what this one seeks. If it is of value—so shall it be valued.”

  And without another word the rider seated before I’On pressed down on the horns of his beast and the creature took the first step down the line of broken ledges leading into the Shattered Land.

  CHAPTER 28

  WHAT MIGHT BE THE NATURE of Zurzal’s guide Jofre could not guess but certainly the attitude of the Zacathan would lead anyone to believe that he trusted in it implicitly. The guard thought back to that meeting with the dying man on Asborgan. Had what he had passed to Zurzal then come to lead them now?

  However, this was no country into which to venture as that night was drawing in. The broken, knife-edged lava remains formed a constant threat. From what Jofre could see bubbles must have formed in the molten rock, to burst, leaving jagged teeth to threaten any unwary step.

  Apparently the Skrem were well aware of this danger. Once they had reached the end of the downslope, they clustered on a semilevel space, making no move to enter the broken maze even though the signal Zurzal carried sent forth its constant assertion that what was to be sought did lie ahead.

  It was a cramped and uncomfortable camp they set up. The rugged lava flow provided some small shelter and once again the party separated naturally into three. While the off-worlders worked at getting their gear free from the baggage beasts they were left alone, each animal as it was unloaded moving away to join its fellows. The Skrem hunkered down without looking to their mounts, gathering in a knot about a spot of fire the Zacathan could have covered with his two hands.

  Between the Skrem and the off-worlders the two Deves found a resting place. They made no move toward any fire, only bundled their robes more tightly about them, and Jofre noted that they drew hoods from the folds of those robes over their heads as they settled back-to-back, one facing the Skrem gathering, one Zurzal’s party, as if they fully intended to keep full watch on all those they companied with.

  Zurzal himself moved around restlessly for a space, the instrument in his hand not only clicking in a broken rhythm as he turned this way and that, but giving forth a glow which grew the brighter as the daylight failed.

  At last he dropped down between Jofre and Taynad. “We must be closer than I reckoned.” He was hissing as he did when excited and the stir of his neck frill was constant, as if being ruffled by some wind.

  “This is bad land to cross.” Jofre had made his own close inspection of the edge of the way in which that guide would send them. To transverse those glasslike splinters would take time and very careful study of any path ahead.

  “But—there are flowers!” Taynad pointed.

  Indeed there was life here. That bristly growth which had covered the ground on the other side of the pass had changed to another kind of vegetation, closer in some ways to the tundra moss, yet with a characteristic very much its own. This did sprout thread-thin stems, hardly as long as a finger, so lifting high small white stars of flowers which seemed to lose no color in the closing dusk but rather to glow.

  Beyond a clump of these there appeared to emerge from rock itself tiny lacy fringed leaves of a faintly reddish hue. While above this display there winged minute flutterers that moved from one star flower to another, as might the night spirits of the oldest legends.

  Yan was entranced, moving away from Taynad and squatting down, now and then tentatively advancing a paw hand but never quite touching the display. Jofre picked up the faint touch of wonder which the Jat emitted. Then to the guard’s surprise Yan reached up and caught at his own dangling hand, while the tall-eared head moved up and right as if that pushed-in, wrinkled nose was picking up some scent. Yan scrambled up, not losing touch with Jofre, and pattered on along the rock. They came to a place where the lava wall was taller and there Yan halted and pointed with the free paw.

  Whatever attracted its attention must be above. Jofre moved closer to the surface of the wall, intent on a search for any such disastrous surprises as a webbing inhabited by the round ball bodies. But there was none to be seen.

  He loosed his hand from Yan’s grip and pulled himself up, to discover that he was now on the edge of a cup ringed about with the star flowers in thick profusion, so thick that he was aware of a delicate scent. And they were clustered about a bowl-sized pool of what appeared to be water though there was no sign of a spring, nor could there be in this land, he thought.

  They had filled their water canteens at the spring over the mountain, and he would not disturb this small pocket—nor could they be sure it might not be tainted by some mineral. But to look down upon it was like looking into a miniature garden, to his eyes nearly as beautiful as that exotic lounging place the Holder had kept.

  “Come,” he called softly but he need not have done so, for Yan’s summons must h
ave reached her before his and Taynad was already at the base of the wall finding a way to join him.

  A moment later her shoulder brushed against his. “It—is like the Moon Garden!” she exclaimed. “Perfect—as only the things made by the true spirit can be perfect. A thing to be fixed in memory forever!”

  Jofre had reached down and pulled up Yan, settling the small furred body against his as the Jat leaned forward in his hold and made a soft crooning sound which blended with what they looked upon and became a perfect part of it.

  “Food, explorers—” Zurzal’s hiss from below brought them back into the world of here and now and they returned to the rough base camp.

  They were careful with their supplies, rationing themselves strictly, being doubly saving of the water. The Skrem had not stirred far from their own chosen places and the two Deves still sat back-to-back. If they had eaten, it was in the shadow of their cloaks, a secret business.

  The off-worlders followed their now set pattern of dividing the night into thirds, one to keep watch during each. Zurzal took the first watch since he said he wished to check on both the scanner (which he would have to do by touch in this lack of light) and keep an eye on the guide.

  Jofre rolled in his covering, watching the shadowy movements of the Zacathan until sleep hit and he was caught in an ever-thickening darkness.

  However, there was no mindless rest awaiting him. There was a stirring—first of memories which became oddly distorted dreams and then suddenly cleared into a real pattern. Once more he lay among mountain rocks and there crept upon him an unseen enemy. He fought to still his body, to seem the soundly sleeping one until that skulker came within hand’s reach—There came a fumbling at his girdle—knife—

  Jofre was awake with the speed of a threatened issha in enemy territory. His left hand had shot out to tighten on the one who had come like a thief, tightened with a crushing force, and in instant reply there was a scream of pain which sounded not only in his ears but in his head.