He found a handhold to pull himself up the steep slope at the edge of the berg.
“Damnation, it’s cold!”
Still, the exertion of climbing up the ice shelf served to warm his body long enough to find shelter from the biting wind in a hollow between two pinnacles of clear green ice.
Even there his clothing quickly froze fast to the ice upon which he sat. As soon as he’d regained his breath he pried himself free and set out to climb to higher ground. It was a clear, cold day and by staying in the sun as much as possible, he kept a little warmth within.
Enough to survive.
For a while, at least.
“A mistake? Well, maybe so, but better than being strangled, I still think,” he said aloud to himself.
As much to keep from freezing as anything, Murdan explored the iceberg, slowly circling clockwise, spiraling higher and higher with each turn.
The floe was perhaps a mile across, irregularly round, and it rose a hundred feet in the air at its jagged crest—a large area to cover on treacherous footing.
Where was this state prisoner chained to the ice in punishment for some real or fancied crime against Grand Blizzardmaker and his Rellings?
Entirely possible his particular portion has already sloughed off and floated away, I suppose, thought the Historian to himself.
“Hello? I thought I saw something dark moving up there!”
Although he stood in the blustery wind and searched the area above him carefully for some minutes, whatever it had been didn’t reappear. He made a fourth and a fifth circuit of the floe, slipping and sliding constantly on the ice, more than once in danger of sliding back down the slope into the sea.
The short autumn day was fast closing down into night. The waxing half-moon was already in the sky and a curtain of ice-bright stars twinkled above him. He used his eyes to watch his step and look for the chained prisoner, but his mind was busy thinking how to survive the coming night as the wind picked up and temperatures plunged.
rs
At the start of his sixth lap, now well above the heaving waves of the Strait of Athermoral, Murdan stumbled upon a deep cleft hidden under a cliff. It was as good as he would find for shelter, he realized at once, and he used the very last light of day to explore within.
Fifty steps or so within it came to a dead end, but the air seemed not nearly so cold in here, and no wind entered.
If I could just find something to burn, he thought.
There might be driftwood on the shore, but it was too dark to go back and look for it now.
He tried lying down on an ice shelf at the back of the cave and found it surprisingly cozy, as long as he kept everything covered with his coat, hood, and scarf. Fortunately he’d dressed as warmly and waterproofed as possible for his ride from Morningside to Lexor, and despite the wetting he’d gotten aboard the guard ship from the crashing bow spray, his inner clothing had remained dry.
Murdan fumbled inside his coat until he found an inner pocket in which he had secreted a portion of his breakfast that morning—
bread and sweet rolls, some griddle cakes now grown cold and soggy but still powdered with sugar, a fist-sized chunk of some greasy sort of meat or other.
He fell to eating hungrily. It would freeze solid if he didn’t consume it soon.
“Oh, where are you wizards and magicians and sorcerers when one needs you?” he asked half-seriously. “Could use a fire-maker, right now!”
By the time he’d finished eating half of his tiny store, feeling rather warmer and better than before, it was fully dark within the cave. He walked to the mouth and looked out.
The waxing moon was near the horizon and the sky was crowded with hard, bright stars, more than he had ever seen, even from the tip of Middletower at Overhall on a midwinter’s night.
Returning to the far end of the cavern, he wrapped himself in his fur-lined cloak and settled himself to try to sleep. It was obvious that only a few days of this climate would be the death of him, but for the moment he felt confident and even rather optimistic.
Chaper Eight
Hoarling
Murdan was so exhausted with the events of the past few days that he didn’t pause to wonder about the unusual ice cave. If he had, he would have seen that it was smoothly rounded, wide, and high, and its floor perfectly level, looking as though it had been liquefied and then refrozen. There were no sharp points or angles as one might expect of ice calved violently from a massive mother glacier.
He awakened hours later to find himself still in deep darkness, lying on his back on the shelf carved from the ice—yet surprisingly warm!
He blinked, but the darkness was too thick. A tiny bit of light filtered through the thinner walls of ice at the front of the cave. It dimly outlined a fearsome figure, a huge, black hump that sniffed softly and rumbled like a regiment of skaters crossing a patch of rough ice.
“Who’s there?” the Historian cried sharply, sitting straight up.
“I am here!” said a cold, thin voice from the darkness. “The question is, who are you?
Murdan had not expected an answer to his question. He gathered his wits about him as he gathered his cloak. It was quite warm in the cave and he could hear melt-water dripping steadily from the overhead.
“Murdan of Overhall,” he said through clenched teeth. “Sent here as a prisoner by the Grand Blizzard-maker of the Rellings.”
“Ah, that explains a great deal,” said the voice, sounding considerably warmer at once. “Another prisoner of the snow-sloggers, eh?
Well, well!”
“And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” asked the Historian boldly.
“Whom! An educated, sophisticated gentleman! I’m surprised and even impressed,” the dark blob said. “Well, know then that I am Hoarling...”
“...the Ice Dragon?” finished Murdan in great surprise. “I’ve heard a lot about you, sir!”
“And I am truly flattered that Murdan of Overhall has remembered my name, mentioned by his friend and—what?—adviser? Servant? Retruance Constable, I mean!”
The Ice Dragon backed slowly out of the cave entrance—he filled it from side to side and blocked almost all the morning sunlight—so that he could see his visitor better.
“Well, now, what an honor!” the blue-and-white Dragon said quite sarcastically, which was his nature. “That old Great Windbreaker snagged you, eh? I knew he’d marched his snowmen south into Carolna.
How do you do? Pleased, I’m sure.”
“Vastly pleased, if just for the warmth of your presence,” said Murdan, now that there was enough light to see the beast.
Hoarling was somewhat smaller than either Retruance or Furbetrance, and of an overall deep ice blue color touched here and there with silver flashes. A handsome beast, Murdan thought, and somehow more dramatic looking than the Constables, with their lively red and gold and green scale patterns.
“I’m forced to give off heat to remain comfortably cold within,”
explained Hoarling. “Well, are you finished with my cave? I’ve been fishing all night and I’d like to relax a bit out of the heat of the day coming.”
“Yes, I was lucky enough to find your lair when I needed shelter. I thank you for your hospitality, Hoarling! It saved my life!”
“I doubt that. Although some men have managed to live a surprisingly long time on this hunk of ice, I find.”
“Ah, yes! The Rellings’ state prisoner! Is he still alive and chained to the berg, as I was told so gleefully and at such great length?”
Hoarling laughed a cloud of chilly mist at this and nodded his head. The mist clung to Murdan’s cloak and froze at once, coating him with powdery frost, even coating his eyebrows.
“Last time I checked he was still alive and swearing weakly,” said the Ice Dragon. “Move a bit more to the left, Lord Murdan, so I can slide by.”
They exchanged places in the cave mouth and the Dragon began backing into the cavern, tail first.
“Where is he, then?” inquired the Historian. “The state prisoner, I mean.”
The Dragon looked surprised but merely gestured up the slope with a silvery foreclaw. He yawned ostentatiously and lay down, cra-dling his frosted muzzle on his forelegs, and pretended to go to sleep.
“Well and well!” murmured Murdan softly, and he began to climb toward the top of the ice in the direction the Ice Dragon had indicated.
At the very peak he found a man dressed in oily sealskins and heavy, fur-lined boots and gloves, slumped against the pinnacle, either dead or asleep. Two long chains ran from his left wrist and his right ankle through an iron ring set in the vertical face of the peak.
“Hey there! Hello!” Murdan called as he approached.
The man stirred sluggishly and lifted his head.
Murdan slid to a shocked halt.
The face was pinched and blue with cold. His unkempt black beard was rimmed with hoarfrost, and his eyes were red from the wind.
But it was definitely the face of Lord Peter of Gantrell, the exiled enemy.
“Peter, old man!” Murdan cried out in pity, despite himself. He rushed forward after his first pause of surprise. “You’re the last person I ever expected to find in such a place!”
Peter’s whole body was wracked with convulsive shivers. He stared at the Historian but did not recognize him. His teeth chattered so that he couldn’t speak.
“Here, old man,” said Murdan, slipping off his fur-lined cloak and throwing it about his old enemy. “I’ve got some little to eat, too, if you can handle it.”
“F-f-f-food!” gargled Peter, bobbing his head with infinite weariness.
Murdan gently fed him bits of cold griddle cake smeared with congealed butter, and a handful of half-frozen grapes.
At first the chained man could hardly swallow, but the juice of the fruit seemed to provide enough moisture for his throat to function. In a few minutes he was holding a piece of fruitcake in both hands, careful not to drop a single raisin, and chewing rapidly.
Some color returned to his sickly blue face. His eyes focused on his rescuer and Murdan saw recognition—and then puzzlement, followed by terror—dawn in them.
“Murdan!” Peter croaked at last, leaning back against the ice wall behind him. “You’re here to save me!”
“Of course, Peter! But why were you treated thus? I mean, I assumed from what I learned and heard, you’d gone to the Rellings after you fled from Fall Sessions over four years ago. Our immediate as-sumption, when the Rellings marched into the kingdom, was it was your doingI”
Peter Gantrell nodded painfully.
“Partly true, I’m afraid. Laid it all out for him, the Relling War Chief. Have you met Blizzardmaker?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t,” Murdan told him, handing him the last cold pork sausage patty.
“Well, he lapped it up like...like maple candy! He asked all sorts of questions. He would put me back on my lost lands and restore my power in exchange for my assistance and guidance, he said. Ha!”
“And you went along with that? Planning to thwart him after he’d given you back the Gantrell lands...and maybe the Trusslo throne?”
“Yes, yes, of course!” said Peter, gesturing with his chained arm, causing the chain to rattle and ring against the ice. “I never intended him to take Eduard’s place on the Trusslo throne. GB will make a horrible, untrustworthy, wicked, cruel, drunken ruler! I’d never have allowed that, you know. But...”
“But you would take the throne yourself, eh? To save us from the Rellings! For I doubt Eduard would have survived the invasion, from what I’ve seen of the Rellings and their allies. Cold-blooded lot, for the most part!”
“I never let myself think of such an outcome. I was always content to be the power behind the throne, you know, Murdan.”
“I suppose that’s true,” conceded the other.
The sun had long since risen and the island had slowly revolved.
The side on which Gantrell was chained now faced east. The air had become comparatively warm.
“You always felt you could rule better than anyone else, I think,”
the Historian went on when the exiled nobleman didn’t reply to his last comment.
“But I’ve twice made such stupid botches of things! I surely have proved my silly, useless incompetence.”
Peter began to weep, hot tears scoring the grime and rime on his cheeks.
“And now I’ll die,” he moaned. “In a day or two, even if you can get me free of these chains, the berg will surely break up and we’ll all drown!”
Murdan patted him encouragingly on the shoulder.
“Now, now, don’t give up just yet, old boy. I’m here to help and there may be things we can do together to save ourselves, I think, given a little luck.”
“How much food did you bring?” asked Peter, sniffing back his tears. “How long can we survive, if the ice stays together that long?”
“Not much. Not long! In fact, food’s all but gone, now. So we’ll have to act at once!”
He examined the thin but obviously very strong steel links closely.
‘The ring in the wall is the weak point,” he decided. “Yank it out and we can slip the chain free, I think.”
“I’ve tried for days, until I lost all will and strength,” gasped Peter, beginning to take an interest in freedom. “It’s frozen solid and deep, very deep, I fear.”
“But the wind’s switching to the west and blowing warmer. I think the island must be floating southeast into warmer waters. If we both tug hard at it...”
They tried, but the ring continued to defy their best combined attempts. Gantrell was too weak to sustain the effort. Murdan brought him a handful of fresh snow—he had eaten all the snow within reach long since—and they rested and nibbled it for its water for a few minutes while they considered what to try next.
“Plume is nearby,” exclaimed Peter, remembering suddenly.
“He followed you here?”
“Yes, he found me when I was first at the Rellings’ winter camp and I vouched for him as my servant. When GB condemned me to this place just before marching on Carolna, Plume somehow managed to follow me. I sent him off yesterday to try to catch some fish or find some driftwood for a fire, but he hasn’t returned.”
“He was ever a sneak and a traitor,” muttered the Historian angrily. “He betrayed my trust over and over again, and allowed my people to be carried off into captivity!”
Peter at least had the grace to look ashamed and downcast at these bitter words.
“But a third pair of arms might just do the trick. You’d have to carry the chains with you, of course, until we can find a smith to strike them off.”
“He must be nearby—I mean, how far can a man walk on this forsaken chunk of ice?”
“Hmmm!” said Murdan. “He may have fallen off, or maybe he holed up as I did during the night. Perhaps I should go look for him.”
“Take your cloak!” Peter called as Murdan started to leave. ‘Til survive. It’s fairly warm, now.”
“I’ll keep warm just walking about,” Murdan assured him. “You must keep moving, too, now—as far as the chain will allow. Either way, Til be back in an hour or so.”
He began circling the peak again, this time in a downward spiral.
The sun shone too brightly. He squinted his eyes almost shut in order to see anything at all.
After a circle and a half he spotted a dark bit of something against the ice farther down the slope. Reaching it, he found it was a ragged bit of coat, and when he pulled it free from the surrounding crust, it revealed a hollowed-out place in the ice lined with pieces of driftwood and half-frozen codfish. The hole was filled with a startled and frightened renegade Accountant.
“Oh, good!” said Murdan, pulling Plume from his nest by the scruff of his neck. “You’ve got our breakfast and firewood, too. Now you can help pull Lord Peter free.”
“M-m-m-murdan?” his ex-employee said, stuttering
, though whether from fear or cold, Murdan couldn’t guess. “You here? You came to save me—us?”
“So it seems, despite all!” snorted the Historian. “Who else would go to that sort of trouble? Up now, man! Get the old blood flowing!
Let’s take this wood and fish to Peter’s perch. Somehow we’ll manage to get a good meal out of it and some much-needed warmth.”
He lead the shriveled and shivering little scribbler up the wet and crumbling slope, helping him carry a double armful of salt-bleached branches of trees and splintered timbers from long-lost ships. And somehow Plume had managed to catch three small cod.
“Fire first!” Murdan decided, forestalling Peter’s cries of relief at their reappearance. “Then some fish steaks, and then get you free.”
He produced sulfur matches in an oiled-silk pouch that usually contained his tobacco—all gone now—and in short order built a small, smoky fire. He laid the three cod right on the blaze to thaw enough to clean for cooking.
“Not that I couldn’t eat ‘em raw, frozen stiff and whole,” he grumbled good-naturedly. “Here, while that’s doing, let’s see if we can get you free, Peter.”
He and Plume—the latter willingly enough, it seemed—took grips on the chains near the iron ring in the wall and, with what little help Peter could give, began to pull and jerk and wrestle it back and forth.
At last the ring popped out of the ice and they all fell backward at the sudden release of tension.
The ring had an opening that had been buried in the ice. Once free, it was an easy matter to slip the chain out, freeing the exiled Gantrell.
Peter barely managed not to weep in gratitude. Plume stood by, looking rather pleased with himself but saying little. Murdan brushed his breeches free of snow and bits of wet ice and went to clean and dress the thawed codfish by the fire.
Plume and his master huddled close but—as only the Historian had a pocket knife, which he wouldn’t trust his former Accountant to use—they could but watch the preparations with great longing.
By the time he’d finished cleaning the catch the fire had died down somewhat, and he laid the thick, white filets right on the coals to broil.
“They’ll be more than a bit scorched, I fear,” he apologized. “But good to eat, anyway.”
Dragon Rescue Page 9
