by J.A. Clement
~~~
Maran shook his head sadly as he continued. “The King waged war on the tribes nearest to him, and slaughter and blood washed over the land. There were those who opposed him, but many more who did not. Terror washes like a deadly tide before him, and fear of him makes strong men weak. His armies swelled with the assimilation of each tribe, and when all the tribes on the plain were conquered and all the plain burned, he attacked a city, and another, and still he is not content. He does not appear to want to hold that which he has conquered, but burns the land and the livestock, kills the people and leaves the earth smoking and barren behind him. It is rumoured that he seeks to end all life, and pare the whole world back to bare soil. His face is becoming more and more hideous to look at. He is hardly recognisable as human. Those nearest to him call him the Ice Lord. Several times in battle his body has received a fatal wound and has crumbled into dust, but always there is the black smoke which takes over another body. He they call the Ice Lord at any given point is merely the host in whose body those strange ribbons of black smoke reside. It always talks with the same voice, like blades over slate, and death and horror look out of its eyes. No-one knows what the black smoke is but it seems to be some sort of parasite, always looking for a new host body in which to take residence, and getting stronger with every new host.
“The Ice Lord has acquired a group of officers loyal to him. They call themselves the Ice Guard. He required them all to prove themselves by slaughtering their own friends and family so that they have no reason to hold back in battle. The wars are ever more horrific and country after country has fallen to them. If the Ice Lord and his armies are not to succeed in their quest for domination, something must be done.”
There was a silence in the hall after Maran finished speaking. A small crowd had drawn near to find out what tale Maran was telling, but this one had no happy ending for them.
The Clanfather of the Tusken Seal rolled his eyes. “We know that something must be done, lad. That’s why you find you us here in a hall together, Skral and unSkral alike.”
“UnSkral? You are too flattering.” The dry comment came from the Mother, whose matriarchal presence in the hall was greatly disconcerting to the warrior Skral, not least as she knew a surprisingly large amount about them and their language.
“No offence meant.”
“It would be pointless to take offence at such details in the face of the threat that faces us.” She shrugged. “Shantar and Skral working together is a twist of fate fit to make the gods laugh, but it must and will be so, for otherwise the world will drown in blood.”
“Indeed, and we are grateful for the hospitality of your halls,” the Potentate of Gai Ren chimed. “With so much of the world fleeing or in exile, there are few other places we could have gathered.”
“With the freedom of the seas left to us it matters little if all the rest of the world goes up in flames, for the Ice Lord shall not catch us with his potbellied sluggards of ships!” Edan’s friend was shushed in shocked tones and shoved back behind his father for daring to speak of any ships in such coarse tones.
“We have decisions to make without the benefit of your cheek, young Ranfrith!” Tusken Seal snapped. “Everyone, leave us be. That which we decide you need to know, we will tell you. Be about your business and leave us to ours!” The Clanfathers glared round them and with shuffling reluctance the people quietly exited.
When they were left to themselves again, the Mother continued. “The question is, how do we fight the Ice Lord? We cannot kill it – we can kill the body but it just takes over another and becomes stronger in the process. We cannot defeat armies of that size with the few fighters we have, either.”
“We can attack his ships.” Tusken Seal spoke reluctantly. His people valued little above a glorious death in battle, and this slow rearguard action felt shameful. “That young pup Ranfrith might be cheeky, but he has a point. On the sea we can sail better, faster, fight more artfully than the Ice Lord’s ships can; but he has endless numbers and we are few. At the moment it is all we can do to keep this island clear. We cannot engage him on the mainland.”
“I do not think that there is anything of this world that can contain or damage the Ice Lord, for he is not of it.”
Tusken Seal turned to the Mother with a grimace of distaste. “You have information on this?”
“Only that much. My sources can tell me little more than that.” She did not mention the dreams in which she had been shown his origins. It was another source of discord between the two peoples, so when she had information to impart she implied it was the work of spies and the Skral pretended that they believed that, and the decencies were preserved.
“If there is nothing of this world that can hurt him, are we to despair?” The Potentate gestured helplessly. “Surely we are not to give up?”
“Of course not! I said there was nothing of this world that could contain him, not that nothing could contain him.”
“What in seven hells do you mean, woman?” Tusken Seal was losing patience.
“The graveyard of ships to which yon young man has been has already supplied you with much. The ships that lie there now were not always rotten hulks.”
Tusken Seal leapt to his feet, outraged. “How dare you speak so of our clanhomes, the vessels of our spirits?”
The Mother held up her hand. “I meant no disrespect, Skral. These warrior spirits, you sent to them for guidance.”
“It is unseemly to talk of it in front of a woman!” Tusken Seal saw her expression and subsided slightly. “Yes, we did.”
“Have you asked them for more than guidance? Have you asked them for protection?”
“Protection?”
“Those ships are more than wood. They are life and battle and blood and clanspirit. For many lives of men, each ship there protected its clan from the storm, and from death in the waters. What is this if not a storm of mighty proportions? No weapons that are of this world can harm or contain the Ice Lord. It would be foolish not to ask for help from any who can give it. Ask the ships!”
“You have seen this?” Tusken Seal was frozen with the onset of sudden hope.
“My sources suggested it.” The Mother twinkled at him.
There was a silence, and then the Potentate spoke. “Let us send those who are best prepared to take up that guidance.”
“Warriors?” Tusken Seal cocked an eyebrow.
“Artificers and loresmen.” The Potentate looked from one to the other. “Men who will best understand and be able to communicate what they see, and men who can make whatever is needed to contain the Ice Lord. Who is your most cunning artificer?”
“Artificer?” Tusken Seal shrugged. “My people make weapons and ships of great beauty, but if you speak of gadgets and devices, we are not clever in that way.”
“Nor are the Shantar, especially.” The Mother nodded. “So shall we send the Maker here?”
The Potentate nodded agreement. “Lodden, would you be prepared to go to the ships' graveyard if we asked it of you?"
"Me?" Lodden was totally unprepared for this.
The Mother smiled at the look on his face. "Why don't you think it over?"
Returning to the food hall, Lodden sat down on his bench. “That was a lot to take in.”
“I am aware that much of it will be troublesome to your beliefs. If you do not believe in dreams or spirits, this must sound like madness to you.” Maran paused in thought. “I will not try to persuade you to believe, but you have dreamt all your life of the Circle and you have now found it. We have need of a man of your abilities. If you are amenable to going to the graveyard of ships with me and fashioning that which we are guided to make, you will be well paid, I will see to that-”
“Money is not the issue.” Lodden swilled the ale around in his tankard. “Your clansmen have taken me in, healed me, fed me – I owe them a blood-debt. If it can be repaid in this way, so much the better.”
“You will come to the graveyar
d?”
Lodden drank deeply before replying. “Bard, I think you and your people are mad to pay heed to dreams and spirits, but that is nothing to do with me. If we go on this wild-goose chase, I am fully convinced that we will come back empty-handed and looking more than a little foolish, but if it is important to your people that I go, then I will undertake to do so. After all, I have little else of interest to be getting on with, so yes, I will go along – if only to discover what quirk of fate has produced a Skral who acts like a sensible human being.”
They spent the next couple of days packing. The late spell of fine weather had finally passed. The sun hid and the clouds drew in. Without sunshine the shortness of the days was more pronounced and Lodden realised that autumn had finally surrendered to the icy fingers of winter. Alaera bustled between himself and Maran, finding out what clothes and supplies Lodden would need and taking him to the people who could provide them. Finally they met the Potentate, the Mother and a few of the Clanfathers for last-minute instructions.
While Lodden was in conversation with the Mother, Tusken Seal took Maran to one side. “You know how important this is, boy.”
“I do.”
“That which has long been treasured amongst the Skral, that which makes us Skral, all that will be lost if the Skral are lost with it.”
“I know it, Clanfather.”
Tusken Seal hesitated. “It is hard for us to say it but we have agreed, the other Clanfathers and I, that if the shipspirits wish it so, the Maker should be allowed to enter the Heart of Wood.”
Maran’s eyebrows shot up. “The world is indeed changing!”
“Aye, lad. I am too old to keep up with it.” Tusken Seal glanced over at the Mother. “But when races appoint women to lead them, and foreigners are allowed into our most sacred places, it must surely be the end of the world! Who knows what we will be faced with next?”
“If it is merely letting go of our traditions, we may count ourselves lucky, I suspect.”
Tusken Seal shot him a glance. “You know something?”
“No. I fear something. But I would not spread a fear until I know that it is not all in my imagination.”
Tusken Seal nodded. “Well, travel safely, and bring back what answers you can.”
Maran and Lodden made their farewells and, climbing onto the sled, they were off. The dogs were excited, and soon the Clan-halls disappeared from view behind them. Lodden, having never driven a sled before, was merely a passenger. Maran, a seasoned traveller, knew not to tire the dogs too much this early in the journey. He slowed them to a more sustainable pace and they made what progress they could, travelling as late into the evening as the light allowed.
The journey was arduous. The skies were dull and the wind vicious. The oiled leathers they wore kept the worst of the wind and drizzle off them, but the cold was insidious and made Lodden’s arm ache. Maran was hopeful that something would come of their mission, however, and his high spirits were infectious. Lodden listened to his tales and jokes and wondered at the exuberance of the young but the travelling was easier because of their enjoyment of each other’s company.
When they left the chilly plains, they changed the wheels for runners and set off into the snow and ice of central Skralland. When the evenings closed in, they sat round the fire and chatted about the people and cunning artifices that Lodden had seen, or Maran played the harp until his fingers were cold and stiff, when he would wrap it carefully in its cover and then sing songs of such beauty that they forgot about the night and the cold and the tiredness of the journey. Eventually the fire would burn low and they retired to their tent, huddling close in the cold so that they could set both sets of furs under them and both blankets over, and between the shared warmth of their bodies and the doubled warmth of their bedding, they slept through the icy nights as snug as children.
On the last morning, Lodden woke early. Warm and comfortable under the bedding, he lay contentedly. As light began to filter into the tent, he watched his companion’s face go from a silhouette to a living shape. Savouring every shade and contour, he was pierced through by the beauty of that face. As a craftsman, if ever he had carved something so perfect he would consider his life’s ambition reached. The hollows at temple and throat, the graceful feather touch of eyelashes on cheek – there was nothing that could be improved, for it was flawless.
In a world that had so suddenly filled with the ugliness of war this quiet, warm moment of peace was a balm to his soul. A potent mix of happiness and dismay filled him. No, he breathed to himself. Not now! Not this one! But his heart swelled inescapably. With utter inevitability, Lodden realised that he loved the bard, had loved him for some time, could not un-love him, no matter how hard he might try. He had tried not to fall in love at all, but he was drawn to Maran’s joy in life like a flower growing to the sun, and with as little choice.
How foolish it was, with the Ice Lord on his way. More foolish still, to allow himself to develop feelings for a Skral! Maran might not be a warrior but he was a Skral, and in this country love was a woman's indulgence. Between men there was fighting and drinking ale, and various combinations of the two, but nothing more intimate. Nothing! This would never, could never develop into anything. The thought was a thorn in his breast, but was balanced with the precarious happiness of being so close to the man who, he now realised, he loved. It was a dangerous pleasure though. He must never let it show.
For a moment he wanted to weep for the loss of Lyria – there, this would have been a happy ending, not the beginning of a sweet torture. But he would not do that right now. Sheltered in this one precious moment as the first rays of sun outside painted everything in the tent with a ruddy glow, Lodden was content just to gaze upon the young man who felt like the other half of his soul. No, he was more than content. He was happy.
Eventually Maran woke. He stretched luxuriously and shuddered at the cold outside the covers. “Another cold morning! Are you hungry?”
The day began, following the pattern of the previous three. They breakfasted and packed up the tent. Lodden swapped the knife fitting on his arm for a more generic one with two curved hooks which curved like fingers, and a straight bar that hooked between them like a spring. He struggled to pull up the pegs that held the oiled cloth of the tent in place. It was fine for holding things lightly, but he would need to fashion a stronger spring to get a better grip on things. The fitting gave and he staggered backwards. Possibly he would add leather pads to allow a better grip, or reshape the prongs. In any case, if he made a kind of wooden cradle to put the lower part of his arm in, something that cupped it from end to elbow, possibly he would be able to pull or push things with more force than was possible just relying on the leather straps. He dropped the peg into the pile next to him and went on to the next one. Maran watched unobtrusively, ready to help if asked but with instinctive sympathy letting the craftsman work to get things done.
Finally all was packed. Mounting the sled and hitching up the dogs, they set off again. For a time the sled was silent apart from the occasional yipping of the dogs and the swish of the sled over the snow.
Maran glanced across at his friend. “You’re quiet. Are you in pain?”
“Not from my arm. Distraction would be welcome though. Tell me of the Skrals. Tell me of your culture. It is so different to Lyria. There is so much that I do not understand.”
Maran laughed. “Ah, my friend, what can I tell you? We are warriors, we Skral. We have always been and I cannot imagine the day when Skrals lay down their weapons. Me, I am not a fighter and I’ve never felt this mad rage that turns Skrals into berserkers, madmen who do not notice wounds in battle and go to glory in short order. I would make a very poor warrior, but my weapons are not swords and axes. For the Skral, the bard is at once law-maker and lore-holder, wise man and Fool – we remember, we teach and we entertain. For our whole people, we remember what has gone before and what will come after, and we sing it at the Skral hearths so that each clan has the
memories of its forefathers to guide it. But fortunately for us, because all the warriors keep getting bashed on the helmets with axes, it rattles all the wisdom out of their skulls and so they need those of us who are too puny or too sensible to fight to give them the answers they need!”
“And what do you sing for them?”
“Of many things, my friend. Of the gods and their adventures, of clans and their histories, of the future and what it means to be Skral.” The merriment faded from his face. “And more recently, we sing the death songs of peoples and clans alike, of the death of all things and of what it is we fight for.”
“And what do you fight for?”
Maran was silent for a moment as the dogs yipped, the snow hissed and the cold bit at their cheeks. He reached up to wipe his eyes, which were watering from the icy air.
“We all fight for different things. Many are fighting for survival or revenge, because there is nothing else to do but surrender. The Skral are fighting because fighting is what they do, and they don’t know how else to react to all this death and war. But me, I fight for life. Not just to survive – I mean I fight for life and love and joy and sharing. Togetherness and compassion, all the things that make it worth being alive. These are what the Ice Lord would take from us. These are what his soldiers have lost, men who are already dead without realising it, who have lost what it is to be human. These are what we need to save from this unholy mess. And that is why I am heading across this frozen waste now, to do what I can in the service of life and hope. But you, Lodden, why do you fight?”
Lodden squinted in the harsh brightness as the sun came out from behind the clouds and glinted off the crystals across the snowfield. “I have seen my family and friends killed, my country burned and my livelihood taken from me. I have lost my arm to the unprovoked warmongering of the Ice Lord, and have fled into exile in fear of my life. I have survived this far on stubbornness. It was all very simple. But now I am losing my way.”
“Losing your way?”
“It is confusing in so many ways. My country has gone, its culture smashed to a million pieces and its people scattered, but here at the end of the world, all of that is lost amongst so much other destruction. I cannot see how it can end in any way other than death and burning for all of us – and yet it makes this today of ours so much clearer and more vivid that each glint of sun on the snow is as precious as gems. I am not thinking of anything else any more. The sled is whispering through the snow to a destination which is mysterious to me, and I am waiting for a task I was given in a dream. That is not a situation I have ever been in before.”
“You will not lose your way, my friend.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“My dear fellow, you are accompanied by the best bard in all Skralland!” Maran was only half in jest. “I will keep you on the right path.”
The sled bumped and jolted as they drew near to an immense snow-covered hill, and eventually Maran called the dogs to a halt. “From here we go on foot.”
The hill was cloven deeply, and they followed to the foot of the gap in the cliffs. The path wound inwards in wide, smooth curves.
Lodden frowned in thought. “The proportions are strange on this path, as if it were made for giants.”
“In a way, it was. It is after all the graveyard of ships. If the path were any smaller, how should they get through?”
They walked on through the long, wide path until it came out into a vast bowl-shaped valley. Snow lay thickly on the floor. As his eyes adjusted to the bright sunshine, Lodden saw that the sides of the bowl were made up of a series of terraces, covered with some kind of small hillocks. They were of different sizes but all were long and thin. Lodden suddenly realised just how many of them there were.
Here under the shroud of snow lay ships that had sheltered clans of the Skral for countless years. Some of those at the bottom had collapsed in on themselves with age but up on the higher terraces the ships were less battered. Then, at the top, four that were badly smashed, along with two burnt, blackened shells, shockingly dark against the snow.
There was no wind. It was very still and silent, but not an empty silence. A sense of raw outrage and grief clutched at Lodden’s throat as if he had no right to see those derelict hulls. He felt the weight of many watchful presences, and it was not a comfortable sensation.
“Come.”
Lodden followed his friend closely through the skeletal vessels, along the slowly widening road until it ended in a flat space where thirteen keels lay intertwined, the remains of their ribs so interwoven that it made an enclosure. They were ancient beyond belief. All Skral ships had a figurehead carved into the shape of some incredible beast, but these were so weathered that their shapes were long worn away. The only details that could be seen were the black glints deep in the eye-pits, which watched him, hostile.
Maran walked round the intertwined keels. “This is the Heart of Wood itself, and our most sacred place. Do as I do and follow.”
Warily, Lodden stepped over the keel to enter. As he did so, his clothing brushed against the uprights on either side of him and suddenly he was frozen in place.
“Skral ships, vessels of our spirits, I beg your attention.” Maran’s voice rang out, overloud in the silence. “This man is unSkral but he is not of those who have scarred our ships. He comes to aid us in our fight against the ship-killers. I pray you, let him pass.”
Slowly, reluctantly, Lodden felt himself released and stumbled forward into the Heart of Wood.
Maran held up a hand. “The ships have allowed much to let you enter. Best to stay silent and watch until summoned.”
Summoned? Lodden shifted uneasily. Until they had entered this valley he had believed that this was a waste of time, but he could feel the power here on his skin as if it were snowburn and his disbelief was fading fast. He took his place in the centre of the wooden structure next to Maran as the bard set polished metal mirrors to catch and focus the sunlight that slanted through the shattered ribs of wood. The beams of light were all focussed on the little pool of water in the exact centre of the Heart of Wood.
“Ships, guardians and protectors of our people, we have asked much counsel of you, and we have come away the wiser. Now we are in desperate straits. Country after country has fallen, whole peoples are slain and scattered, animals slaughtered and fields burned. No-one and nothing of this earth can stop the Ice Lord, and it is coming to this island to finish the Skral. Our armies are few and theirs are vast. They are not honourable fighters, nor will these be the fights to win us entry in to the Halls of the Forefathers. There is no glory in this war, only despair. This is not the way that the Skrals wish to leave the world.”
The sense of anguish and helplessness emanating from the ships became more intense now, searingly so.
Maran continued. “You have shown us that the Ice Lord wishes to bring about the end of the world. We cannot kill him, and nothing on this earth can even contain him. We are at a loss to know what to do or whether it is time simply to acknowledge that the Skral people have come to an end.
“We do not know what to do, and so we come to you. You are spirits, not of the earth. You have spent centuries protecting our people. Once again, we come to you for aid. Can you guide us? Can you guard us? We must find a way to stop this being from sending the whole world to such a death that the Halls of the Forefathers are closed to us forever.”
There was a silence. The wind hissed over the snow, and the sun glinted through the gaps in the wood. Where sunbeams hit the polished metal mirrors the bard had placed so carefully, it shed a soft light over the still pool in the middle of the circle of beams. And then one solitary drop of water fell from the arched wood, sparkling in the sunshine, and broke the mirror stillness of the pool beneath into a dance of colours. As the ripples faded and the water subsided into stillness again, there was something odd about that reflection. The colours were wrong.
Lodden watched, fascinated, as the picture slowly coa
lesced and this time it was not the reflected ship-skeletons criss-crossing above the pool...
“Lodden? Lodden, man, are you all right?”
The craftsman opened his eyes slowly. His vision swam and settled. A roofing of beams. The glare of the sun. Maran leaning over him. Lodden sat up with an effort. “What happened?”
“You tell me!” Maran helped him stand, and they staggered out of the Heart of Wood. “You looked in the pool, and you wept. Then you fell in a heap and I haven’t been able to get any sense out of you ever since. Are you well?”
“Yes... No... Why is it so cold?”
“It’s cold because you’ve been lying in the snow and the sun is nearly down. I hope that you have some answers, because the spirits didn’t tell me a damn thing.”
Lodden did not answer.
“Come on, let’s get back to the tent. If we have to, we’ll try again tomorrow.” Maran put an arm round his friend and took him back to the tent, where the bard lit a fire. He heated the last of the ale, and the two of them sat in silence. They ate some dried meat, fed the dogs, and as the sun fell below the horizon, clambered into the tent and rolled up in their furs to sleep, back to back.
For a while all was quiet but in the darkness, tears were coursing down Lodden’s cheeks and his breathing grew ragged with sobs.
“Lodden, tell me what you saw.” The furs went slack as Maran turned towards his friend. “Is it a lost cause? Will the world end?”
“No...”
Maran put his arms around the craftsman, holding him as he would a child.
Lodden wept unashamedly. Eventually he subsided and lay trying to make sense of it all. “They showed me Lyria, the fall of the Court and of a million other countries like my own. They showed me the death of a whole world, and the burning of the last green field. There were no plants or birds or animals, just that monster standing there. And when the plants were gone the air grew thin, and the creatures in the sea were poisoned and floated to the surface. Everything that was alive was destroyed utterly and when the world was a dead rock with stinging dust blowing in the wind, the body he was using fell to dust and black smoke expanded to choke even the air. That is the end to which will we come.” Lodden’s voice trembled.
“Is there nothing that we can do to stop this?”
“Yes. Yes, there is. There is the Heart of Wood, and there is the Circle.”
“What does that mean?”
Lodden cleared his throat and rolled out of his friend’s embrace, throwing off the covers to sit upright. He could not stand to be in Maran’s arms for a second longer. It was breaking his heart. And he could not tell his friend all of what he had seen. “They said that with a heart of wood and walls of water the Dragon’s Teeth by the clan-halls can be made into a trap from which the Ice Lord will be unable to escape. To protect the clans they once carried over the deeps, the ship-spirits have agreed to move. I am to rebuild the Heart of Wood within the Dragon’s Teeth.”
“To move them?” Maran paused for a long moment, awed. “I don’t know how we are to do that. And they have spoken to one who is not a Skral – such a thing has never been heard of! These are strange times, my friend....” He hesitated. “Was it the vision of the end of the world that caused you such sorrow?”
“No.” Lodden tried to keep his voice light but even to him it sounded full of tears. “No, that was only a part of it. There will be so much death and so many sacrifices to be made, win or lose. There is no happy ending, whoever wins. It makes me wonder why we are fighting.”
“How can you talk like that?” Maran flared, and it was the first real anger that the craftsman had ever seen in the bard. “Life is sacred! If what we do saves one life, it is worth everything! Remember that the countries are not dead yet – there will be bands of rebels and refugees scattered about in hiding. My people are sheltering many outlanders on this island alone. Once the terror has gone people will start reappearing from hills and mountains and woods, and from ships on the sea, and all sorts of places where they are hiding in fear for their lives. I have no idea how we are to get thirteen ship-skeletons from here to the plains in time, nor how we entice the Ice Lord into the Heart of Wood, but if this is what the spirits tell us, this we will do! And we will do it in defence of life, and hope, and happiness. And of love, Lodden.”
“Love?” Lodden stammered before he could stop himself.
“Yes, of love.”
Lodden was heartily thankful that the burning of his cheeks could not be seen in the dark.
“You Lyrians, you are a strange people, so open.” Maran sat up, pulling the furs close around him. “I think that is why you are such great craftsmen and artists, because your emotions are as finely-crafted as your sculptures. The Skral are not so. Among them, it is considered a little womanly just to be a bard because emotions, which are so important in what we do, are among the weapons of the woman. You, your emotions are not weapons but tools, and they put the heart into what you make. I think that you and I are as similar in some ways as we are different in others.”
“What do you mean?” Lodden could barely breathe. If Maran had been Lyrian, it would have been simple. He would have told the bard of the need that made his heart clench in his chest, and asked about the young man’s own feelings, and could have shared in that joy in life which made Maran so unique to him. However, Lodden had seen nothing on these cold islands which led him to believe that it was acceptable for men to look upon each other as anything but brothers or rivals.
“We are similar in our love for life, and in how we instil it into that which we make. I have only known you for a matter of days, but I feel that you and I fit together as neatly as the planks in a hull. We are as brothers born from the same birthing, my friend, and together I believe that we can do what a hundred thousand others have tried and failed. You and I, we can stop the Ice Lord.”
Lodden felt himself smiling despite the fact that he sensed that there was more to come.
“We are different, though, in that though I love you in my own way, I cannot love you as you wish to be loved. I am, for all that, a Skral. Many of my people will never have even heard of men who are in love. It is not the Skral way. I am sorry that I cannot return your regard as you would wish, for you deserve all the happiness in the world. It is only that I am not the man to give you that kind of love.” For a while they sat, quiet in the darkness.
Eventually Lodden spoke. “It does not come as a surprise that you do not share my inclinations. At this end of the world they seem to be considered shameful, for reasons that I do not understand. It saddens me greatly that a whole people should so restrict their chances of finding happiness, but happiness does not come solely from possession. I had no expectations that you would view it kindly...”
“Have I ever spoken harshly of love?”
“Far from it. But you should never expect a man to go contrary to his people’s values; only hope that it may be so.”
“And in this you are going against your own people’s values, are you not?” Maran teased gently.
Unseen, Lodden’s smile was bittersweet. “The Lyrians do not exist as a people any more. But, no, I am not going against our values. In Lyria there was much study of love – poems, ballads, discussions in salons, learned treatises and philosophical studies... The philosopher Anandel taught that there were many types of love. There is the passion that leads to the bed, the esteem that a child feels for a parent, the nurturing instinct that the parent feels for the child – so many kinds of love. But he also spoke of the twining of souls, which can be between people of any age or sex, and can include the pleasures of the bed or not.”
“That’s a fairly wide definition, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps, but it is the rarest of all the kinds of love. It is when a person meets another person and it is as if they are two halves of the same soul, when one person’s strengths complement the other’s weaknesses. Anandel says that when a person meets their soul-twin, he will be drawn to
wards him or her as the tide is drawn to the moon, naturally, unwittingly and utterly inevitably. When the beloved walks into a room it lifts the heart as if the sun came out from behind a cloud. Soul-twins go about the world in each other’s company because that is where they are happiest. That is the wisdom of Anandel, at least....” Lodden’s voice faltered.
“Your Anandel sounds to have been a wise man. Though we do not have names for the types of love as he does, or even recognise them as such, I cannot disagree with his definitions. Perhaps we Skral are not so unloving after all.” Maran mused. “We are no strangers to lust and passion, I grant you, and all know of the bonds between parent and child – but this soul-twining is something we would understand. Between Skrals it is a brotherly feeling, but many a warrior swears an oath with his true friend, a bond to make them shield-brothers. In battle they are like right hand and left hand, and there is not a Skral alive who would leave his shield-brother wounded on the field. Among we who are not warriors it is much less common, for there is less to bind us that closely, but still it happens sometimes. I believe it is similar to what you describe, though we lack the aid of philosophers to define it. As for myself, I have often thought that this pairing of the shield must be a wonderful thing. I have never been one to leap from one bed to the next, and this kind of love seems much more natural to me than the furies of lust that make madmen of those around me. This is the kind of love that I feel for you, brother.”
“Do you think that passion would awake in you if you met the right person to ignite it?” Lodden asked delicately.
There was a silence.
“In all truth, I don’t think that I am made for that sort of emotion. I have experimented a little with women, but I have never met a woman whose body I felt an urgent need for. I have never felt the need for a man’s body either. I am not driven by lust the way many people are. That is just my nature. I am sorry.”
“I understand,” Lodden replied dully. “There were also those of that nature in Lyria. I understand it better here, perhaps, than I did there.”
Maran reached forward and gripped Lodden’s shoulder in the darkness. “I do not lust after your body, Lodden, but I value your company and your friendship above that of anyone else of my acquaintance. I do believe that we are one heart in two bodies, one soul divided in two parts, and this will endure for all time. You offer me that which I cannot accept, but it is the lesser thing. If you can accept my limitations, do not ask me to be other than I am, for I cannot be what you wish."
Lodden had to swallow a few times to get past the lump that had risen in his throat. “My friend, if you understand that I love you and are comfortable that it is so, simply to spend time in your company would make me happy.”
“In that case, soul-twin by your definition and shield-brother by mine, it is good to have you in my heart.” Lodden exhaled, feeling as if he had been holding his breath all this time. He could not say how thankful he was that this had not alienated his friend.
Though the darkness masked Maran’s face, there was a smile in his voice as he continued, “Talking of no need for discomfort, it is quite cold now and in the morning we have to work out a way of transporting thirteen ancient and probably rather fragile ship-skeletons over four days’ travel to the Circle by the Clan-halls. I hope the spirits have given you some guidance on that matter as well!”
“There is more, I promise you, but let us sleep now and talk about it tomorrow.” Climbing under the furs again, Lodden treasured the touch of Maran’s back against his own.
The following morning, Lodden slept late. He woke to find the tent empty. From the sound of it, Maran was pottering about outside, humming to himself gently. He did not sound worried or as if their exchange the previous night had upset him. Lodden listened to him for a while, and allowed himself to relax. He did not know what to do, though. Happiness and sadness warred in his heart. He had found his soul-twin, finally – but the future which the shipspirits had let him glimpse bore down on them with heavy inevitability. Where it would end he did not know, but he was afraid that the bard’s light would be somehow quenched. Even so, he would not mention it until it was too close for doubt. Let him be merry and carefree till then, he prayed to those spirits which he felt brooding nearby. Let him laugh and be happy. I will tell him in time to prepare for it, but he should not have to live in fear in the meantime. He lay quiet, but though the weight of the ship-souls burned heavy in his mind, harsh as sun on the snow, they gave no answer no matter how hard he listened.
As he lay there, he realised the sounds of the morning had changed. Lodden sat up. Maran had stopped humming and the plain rang with the barking of dogs. There were other sounds as well – shouts and the snapping of material in the wind. Crawling out of the tent, he blinked in the sunlight.
“We have visitors, it would seem.” Maran was sitting by the fire over which he was boiling water. “But who? I’ve never seen their like – do you think it is the Ice Lord?”
Lodden shaded his eyes to look, and laughed out loud. “It is the Potentate, or at least some of his people.”
“How do you know?”
Lodden gestured at the strange craft out on the plain. “In Gai Ren they have deserts, great waterless seas of sand that stretch for mile after mile in undulating dunes. Their trade routes go right across the middle and every few weeks they put together a caravan, a great group of traders who all have goods to carry. In times long gone, they would assemble on beasts of burden, but the journey took week upon week. Sometimes there was a sandstorm, or the beasts died, or they ran out of water. A million things could go wrong, so being a cunning folk, they found a better way of travelling.”
“And that is?”
“As you see – ships that ride the sand. Only here they have put them on runners for the snow. They are light and fast, and if my eyes do not deceive me, there are thirteen of them.”
They watched the strange fleet come whipping across the snow to the cloven hill by which they stood, and as the ships got nearer, Maran and Lodden waved and shouted. The lead ship tacked as it got nearby, and dropped its sail. As the others followed suit, the momentum kept them skimming the last few yards until they drew up by the camp in a ragged line.
The Clanfather of the Tusken Seal was first to descend, laughing like a little boy. “Such speed! Your people are indeed cunning, Potentate. Those are exhilarating vessels!”
The Potentate was walking from the next ship down. “Your wind-sense is keen, my friend, to outrun a Gai Renese in his own craft. Alas, we will not be so swift on the way home, if we are laden more heavily, but there is not much that is as exhilarating as a good run in a sandship.”
“Or in this case, a snowship.” The Mother joined them.
Tusken Seal turned to Maran. “We were informed that you would need haulage. I for one am convinced that it is mistaken.” He glared at the Mother who rolled her eyes. “I was overruled, though I told them that there is nothing but snow in this area to haul.”
“Ships that run on land!” Maran breathed. “This is truly a place of wonders!”
Tusken Seal glared at the bard.
“It is true that we need help – but how on earth did you know?” Lodden was puzzled. “There is no-one but us for miles!”
“Well, that’s not strictly true, is it?” The Mother cocked an eye in the direction of the ships’ graveyard.
“Do you mean-?”
“I have you now!” Tusken Seal interrupted, overloud. “It is trained birds, is it not? Your messengers are trained birds!”
The Mother exhaled in exasperation. “Some might consider that a half-witted suggestion; but yes, that is exactly what my sources are. Birds.”
“You said it was spies before,” the Potentate objected.
“Yes I did, and I will continue to agree that my sources are whatever he needs to believe until such time as he can accept the truth.”
“You were saying?” Changing the subject pointedly, Tusken Seal turned to Lo
dden, who hesitated. The Clanfather might be advanced in years but he was still considerably taller than the slight craftsman and with his braided beard and bristling brows, he had an intimidating glare. Lodden was not at all sure that he was the right person to explain that they were to desecrate the Skral’s most sacred site.
“I think,” Maran’s voice cut through the hubbub of activity as the crews descended from their ships, “that you need to come with us.”
“All of us?” Tusken Seal was outraged. “Surely not the unSkral?”
“Yes, all of us.” The grave look on the bard’s face was unusual enough that the Clanfather acquiesced, and thirteen crews of three followed Maran and Lodden along the path as it wound into the hill. They paused in the centre in awed silence and, after asking the goodwill of the spirits, Maran stepped into the Heart of Wood, with the Clanfather of the Tusken Seal beside him.
“Heart of Wood, preservers of the Skrals, you have led Lodden to believe that we must move you from your long resting place here.” Maran was interrupted by shocked exclamations from the Skrals, but he held up a hand and they fell quiet. “We are here to do your will, but to move you we must break up the Heart of Wood, and we are afraid to set axe to you lest we do some damage. Show us how to proceed, of your kindness!”
Tusken Seal erupted. “Break up the Heart of Wood? Are you mad? I sent you out here to get answers, not to –”
There was a rumble, and Tusken Seal fell quiet.
“Stand back!” Lodden yelled as slowly, one of the intertwined keels leaned outwards and fell to the ground. Maran and Tusken Seal froze. The rumble and squeal of snow became louder as one by one, the other keels all began to splay outwards, toppling slowly – almost too slowly – to land in the snow with muffled thuds. A cloud of white snow obscured everything, and when it cleared, they all stood blinking in the sunlight.
“Well!” The Mother was the first to speak. “You did ask.”
Lodden gazed round at the keels in wonderment. “They could not have fallen. I saw how they all supported each other. It cannot be!”
“And yet it is,” Maran said softly.
“Aye – and even I cannot argue with this.” Tusken Seal let out a long breath. “It is the passing of an age. Come, all; we have much to do. Maran, I should know better than to have doubted you. Maker, tell us what you need.”
Lodden looked to the Potentate. “Sir, you know the capabilities of your craft better than I do. Is there one of your men who can supervise the loading of the keels when we get them out to you?”
“I shall do that.” The Potentate bowed his head slightly. “Sandships have been my particular delight for many years now. I know as well as any how the weight should be distributed.”
“Thank you. Mother?”
The Mother cast a measuring eye at the assembled Shantar. “We are a slight race. The Skrals will be able to carry more, and may wish to carry the keels themselves. Shall we clear the way of snow for you?”
“The Skrals will lift the keels. They are ours to carry.” Tusken Seal nodded appreciatively.
“You see, Clanfather? Brain and brawn can work together quite happily sometimes...”
Tusken Seal began to nod and suddenly realised he was being teased. “You are a terrible woman, Mother of the Shantar, but for all that, sometimes you are right. Skral, to me!”
And as the Shantar and the Gai Renese began to clear the snow from the road, Maran and Lodden set to work, with the willing help of the others.
It took many hours to disassemble the Heart of Wood, gently untangling the ribs of the ancient wood and loading the pieces on the sandships. Each of the Gai Renese vessels carried an ancient keel and as many of the crumbling ribs as could be salvaged. The shards that remained were set carefully along the lines of the original Heart of Wood, around the pool.
At the last, Lodden paused by the water but it was lifeless and his pleas went unanswered. He vowed to the watchful silence that he would play his part, then climbed onto the last sandship, where Maran was waiting.
“Hold on!” the Gai Renese Captain called, and they did, Lodden clinging onto the rail with both his hand and the double-hooked fitting. The wind was blowing briskly and with a final flourish a crewman shook the sail free. There was a quiet boom as the wind hit it, and then they were off, shooting across the glittering snow as the sun fell lower. Maran’s dogs had been settled on the sandship with them and they yipped in puzzlement and snuffed at the cold rush of air that whistled between the bars of the enclosure at the back of the ship.
At first there was a certain amount of tacking and changing to get the course just right, and then they settled down for the long run to the plains, skimming along the frozen snow so lightly that they barely seemed to break the icy crust. Everyone was quiet, either enjoying the run or lost in thought.
Maran and Lodden huddled under a fur, sitting on a spare sail at the front of the ship. There they were a little shielded from the bite of the frozen wind, and were out of the way of the crew, who would occasionally dart about making tiny adjustments, reading intricacies of the wind and correcting for them. Ahead and to either side, the other ships were dotted widely across the plain, each following its own path to a common destination. Lodden was quiet, savouring the touch of the bard’s side against his own as Maran put a companionable arm over his shoulder. Lodden unclipped the fitting from his false hand, so he could put his arm round the bard’s waist, leaning his head on Maran’s shoulder. Maran tucked the fur round them, and they sat comfortably. Lodden’s heart ached with longing for this moment to last forever, made the more poignant by the knowledge that his time with the bard would be so short.
The sun sank lower and disappeared behind the low-lying cloud. Slower the ships went and slower, and the ground became more and more bumpy until the crisp silence was broken by the sound of a Skral horn, winded three times.
“We stop for the night.” The Captain dropped the sail completely and allowed the ship to coast to a halt. He anchored it, roping it tightly to sharp poles on all four sides, and Maran let the dogs out. He and Lodden made a fuss of each of them in turn, and the hounds reared and dashed about gleefully, recalled only when he put down chopped meat for them.
“We should check that the keel is holding up under the stresses of the journey,” Lodden suggested. They lit a lantern in the frozen dusk and he tugged on each and every bit of the strapping. All were firm. The keel was safely stowed, and would not slide. “I’ll have a look at the others too.”
As they made their way across the snowfield, Maran asked softly, “Do you realise the magnitude of what we have done, my brother? Do you realise the importance of this day?”
“What do you mean?” Lodden trudged along next to him, keenly aware of the bard’s closeness.
“In all the ages of Skral, from the first Kings who are forgotten, to the last King who built the Halls of Lore, in all that time it has never happened that an outlander was even told of the existence of the Heart of Wood. And now not only have you been there, but the shipspirits have chosen you to take them back to the Dragon’s Teeth. It is unknown in our history and our lore. I do not know what to make of it.”
“I am honoured.”
“You are, certainly – but I suspect the rest of us are also honoured. For the ships to agree to be moved – well, it is a possibility we have never even considered.” They approached the next ship, where Skral stood at either end. “Standing guard, my friend?” Maran asked one of them.
“Truly. My mother was of the clan of the Snow Eagle and this was their clanhome. I recognise it from her tales. There are few others to see it home.”
Lodden went on to look at the keel while Maran talked to the guard. As he returned, the guard turned to him. “Maker, I would like to thank you. My mother spent many an hour telling the tales of our seven clanhomes, their names and the great glories won by my forefathers in these ships. I never expected to see one, but standing guard here, I am able to preserve the honou
r of a lost clan. I would not have had the clanhome of my mother’s people left unguarded. I am deeply in your debt.”
Lodden bowed to the man, and to the ship behind him. The Skral was clearly pleased, and as they walked away, Maran smiled. “Well done, Maker! We will have you a master of Skral etiquette yet!”
“He talks of the ship almost as if it were a person.”
“Almost, it is. Every Skral knows the names of the ships of his clan. We know their descriptions, how they sailed and where, and who sailed in them. We recite the names of ships and captains for a thousand years. These are not just vehicles. They have a sense of belonging, and of majesty. Yes, that is the word – majesty.” Maran thought about this for a moment while they trudged on to the next ship. “Lodden, tell me of a famous hero of your people, one from so long ago that that he is right on the edge of memory.”
Lodden considered this. “The first King Raghinan, perhaps. He was one of three brothers. An evil sorcerer from the desert kidnapped their beautiful younger sister Ysalia and laid waste to all the land. The youngest brother rode out to rescue her, but the sorcerer turned the boy into stone. The middle brother rode against the sorcerer, but was turned to stone as well. Finally King Raghinan went to her aid, and the sorcerer tried to turn him to stone, but King Raghinan turned his magic back on him with a highly polished shield. However, the shield shattered and the sorcerer threw a last spell with his dying breath, so that Raghinan was turned to stone as well. Ysalia took up residence there among her three stone brothers, but the sorcerer she chipped to pieces so that his evil should never again be released on the world. In time, her tears became a river, which watered the land so that it began to flower again, and the earth took into its breast the three statues, building up mountains around them. To this day, the horse lords say that if you climb Mount Raghinan in the first full moon in spring, you can hear Ysalia weeping for her loss. They say too that there is a cave on the mountain into which the shards of the sorcerer’s statue were cast, where they melted into a fiery lake.”
“And so the story ends?” Maran prompted him.
“Yes. The legend says that one day when their sister calls them, the brothers will wake from their sleep, and finally defeat the sorcerer.”
“Imagine that these brothers did awake and that all this was real, to the last word,” Maran suggested. “If King Raghinan himself walked in and spoke to you by name, and said that he was glad to see you and needed your help, it would be frightening, awe-inspiring... a great honour. That is how the Skral feel. Their clanhomes are speaking directly to them for the first time in a thousand years.”
“Ah.” Lodden digested this. “Then for Tusken Seal to allow us to dismantle the Heart of Wood...”
“You might as well have suggested poisoning Ysalia’s lake! Nothing on earth would have persuaded him to allow it – except the shipspirits indicating that this should be.”
“Then truly I am honoured.” Lodden stopped. “The shipspirits – they are in the keels?”
“We believe so.”
“Are they sentient? Do they speak?”
“That is a more difficult question, and one to which you will receive a different answer from every Skral you ask.” Maran kicked at a lump of snow, which disintegrated in a shower of white. “I think they hear and answer, but not as you and I answer each other. They have communicated with me in concepts and pictures, though, and I was never in any doubt of what they wanted to convey.”
“They did the same to me in the Heart of Wood,” Lodden agreed. “They do not speak out loud?”
“They are not humans. They do not use words as we do. And they are not made of the keels – they reside there.”
“They do not move? The figureheads I mean?”
“They are made of wood, my friend, and wood may flex in wind or sea but it does not move of itself.”
Lodden looked at the keel on the ship they were approaching, which had some kind of beast-head with glinting black eyes, deep-set. “Are you sure it isn’t watching me? That one has been staring all the way across.”
“Watching you? Ah, that’s a different matter.” And Maran went to chat with the guard, leaving Lodden paused in his tracks.
“I’m never sure if he’s making fun of me or not,” he told the figurehead irritably. “And why you’re staring at me I don’t know.” He held the lantern high and went to check on the strapping for the keel. One of the straps had broken and the keel was tilted precariously. A good jolt or so would have toppled it over into the snow, he thought, calling for help. It took some time to get the keel straightened and safely stowed again, and when all was done he returned to the figurehead. “Was that what you were trying to tell me?” he asked it softly, feeling like a fool. There was no answer, of course, but he walked away vaguely unsettled. It did not seem to be staring at him so much anymore.
Having checked on all the ships, Maran and Lodden sat around their fire for a time. Maran was lost in thought, staring into the flames.
“What is that?” Lodden asked at last.
“What is what?”
“That chanting. It comes and goes.” Lodden fell quiet, listening as another rhythmic songchant whispered through the frozen snow-silence.
“They are singing the old songs, the Lays of their clans. They are singing the names of all the clanhomes, to honour those that are with us.”
Lodden listened to the eerie strains. “What about this ship? Should we be singing to it?”
Maran sighed deeply. “Yes, we should. You recall me to my honour, brother. It is the clanhome of my people.” He stood and bowed to the keel. “I cannot give you full honour this night, shipspirit, but I will sing you the Lay of Aron.”
Lodden held out the bard’s harp, but the youth shook his head.
“We sing these unaccompanied, the breath through our throats like the wind in the sails of the ship. This is one of the shorter Lays and it tells of this clanhome, the fourth of its line. The figurehead at the front was once a great bear, and his name was Aron. We sing of his making, the captains who stood at his rudder, and the ships who fled at the sight of him.”
He composed himself for a moment, and then began to chant. The song was in a language Lodden did not understand, but he was carried away into a waking dream by the rhythmic beat of it underlying the chilly night. The melody stayed with him long afterwards, laced through with the tang of wood smoke, the heat of the fire on his face and the blue-black sky pierced with stars above him.
Eventually Maran fell silent. He bowed again to the ship and went back to his seat by the fire. Lodden was lost in fire-dreams of voyages and storms and sea-battles, but slowly they faded. The night was too cold to stop out long, and quietly they all filtered away to their beds, to lie shivering and fully-dressed beneath the furs.
Maran and Lodden went back to their tent, huddling back to back. Lodden wished that he could have turned to lie in Maran’s arms as they sometimes had done on the trip here, but he was more self-conscious now. The bard’s feelings were important to him, and he would not for worlds have made him feel uncomfortable, though it tore at his heart to be so close and not to be entwined as he longed to be.
“It’s colder than it has been.” Maran pulled the furs more closely over them. “It smells like snow.”
“Isn’t it a bit early for snow, even in this frozen rock of an island?”
“Yes. Yes it is.”
Lodden thought his friend was saying more, but he was so tired that it all became a part of the dream that he fell into, of snow and ships and blood and brightness.
When he awoke it was morning and the camp was busy with the sounds of activity. He had slept late again, and by the time they had packed away the tent it was time to go. He hated this continual weakness, especially when so little time was left to them, but the healers had told him that it would take a long time for his body to finish healing itself, and even now, any particular exertion left him weary and drained.
During the jo
urney that followed, Lodden sat silent for a long time. There was so much he did not want to think about. It was painful to know what lay ahead and he did not want to dismay the bard, but to keep the secret locked away from that perceptive young man was very difficult. Eventually he felt he must burst rather than keep silent.
“Maran, there’s something the spirits told me...” Lodden faltered. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but I must because it is about you.”
“Did the spirits tell you in the Heart of Wood?”
“Yes.”
“Do you not think that they would have told me if they wished me to know?”
“I don’t know... but this is important! This is something you have to know.”
“Are you so sure that I do not already have this knowledge?”
Lodden looked sharply at his soul-twin. For a moment the bard’s face was tinged with fear and sadness. “But how can you..?”
“How can I have some idea of what waits and still be cheerful?” Maran fiddled with the cover of his harp. “They haven’t told me for sure what will happen. I have a little choice left in the matter, and that is where the danger lies.” He leant a little closer to his friend. “If I decide that the worst will happen, that I will die or be taken by the Ice Guard, I will spend the next days and weeks thinking of all the horrible fates that could overtake me. If that happens, I will either dishonour myself by running, or at best simply freeze and have my fate overtake me. I may not be a warrior, but I am still a Skral and I wish to end my days with honour. And I do not wish to waste these last precious few days worrying about something I cannot avoid. How much better to savour every second of the time that is given to me, to understand what there is that is worth fighting for, and at the end of it to stride forward to my fate like a Skral.”
Lodden looked out over the frozen wastes, which suddenly seemed much drearier than before. “I honour your courage. It is far greater than mine. I wish you would run away now, that one good thing at least might escape the coming storm.” He tightened the elbow strap on his false arm, tucking the end under the buckle. “When you are gone, there will be nothing left for me in this world.”
“If the world is still here by then, my friend, we will need your help to rebuild it.” Maran nudged him gently. “And in the meantime, I need you to help me keep my spirits up. Let us not think of tomorrow. We have too little time to waste. Let us simply enjoy these hours, this day. We are bathed in glad sunshine, flying over the snow as if we have wings. Tiris would love this, if he were here – he would be racing us! Have you ever heard of anything as cunning as these ships, Lodden?”
Lodden swallowed hard. He knew what his companion needed and set himself to lift the mood, but despite his efforts to keep it light, he found it difficult to speak. “Yes.” He cleared his throat and tried again. “Yes, as it happens, I have.” He cleared his throat again and his voice became stronger as he fell into the telling of the old children’s tale.
