An instant’s silence was broken by a sudden rustle on the cobbles, and Olvar shouted. ‘There, another! Their ringleader! Stop you now, you bloody footpad—’
‘Down there!’ screamed Gille, his voice cracking. ‘Get him! Flatten him!’ And he too was haring down the dim bank in pursuit of the fleeing shadow, threshing through the dune grass barely ahead. To his own surprise, so was Kunrad, yelling and jeering in reaction to fright he hadn’t had time to recognise. Ahead of him Gille’s silhouette rose against the sky for an instant, then fell down flailing and cursing the seagrass.
Kunrad hauled him to his feet and they went slipping and skidding down the loose sand. Ahead of them feet splashed into the water, and they saw a silhouette threshing desperately away through the shallow pan, its thin limbs escaping its enveloping drapery, clearly visible against the pale saltbed. After it surged Olvar, a great black blot on the night, his cudgel raised like the hand of death. He had almost caught up to it, but the turgid half-evaporated salt was slowing him, and the shadow gained a breath or two. It whirled suddenly, a cloak flying wide, and seemed to crouch down, as if in terror. Olvar roared in triumph; and then he screamed.
Kunrad and Gille, a footfall from the water’s edge, saw it clearly in the dimness, as if a breath passed over the greenish face of the pan and changed it to glistening white. Even as their feet touched the brine, it no longer lapped but crunched and crackled, solid ice, and they skidded and fell across one another. Kunrad, winded, saw a ragged shape slide with skater’s speed across the frozen pan. Gille was on his feet faster, and sliding almost as surefooted in its wake. Kunrad, unable to shout, prayed the boy wouldn’t catch up; but it had already reached the far slope, and was scrambling spiderlike up the sandbank to the road. Gille poised a moment, still sliding, then sheathed his dagger and turned to the slumping figure of Olvar.
As a boy Kunrad, with his top-heavy build, had never been much use at ice-slides, and he took several falls before he reached them, more or less on all fours. Some ways away he heard Olvar groan, which eased his heart a little, ‘I was feared we’d find you the fattest icicle this side of the mountains!’ he panted. ‘Frozen to glass with the rest!’
‘We still might!’ said Gille anxiously. ‘The cold of this stuff! And it’s fast around his boots! If we don’t get him out quick, he’ll lose toes. Or worse!’ They were used to fierce Northland winters; they knew how fast flesh could succumb. Their own hands and feet were numbing by the second. Olvar, half fainting with the shock, couldn’t help himself. Kunrad seized his cudgel and swung it at the ice, but it only splintered a little before the club skidded.
‘This doesn’t make sense!’ protested Gille. ‘Brine’s hard to freeze, and this is the thickest I could imagine!’
‘Everything freezes!’ panted Kunrad. ‘Eventually! We’ll have to chop him free!’
Gille began hacking with his dagger, Kunrad with his sword. Now and again he turned it around and hammered with the heavy steel disc that balanced the hilt. The ice chipped and cracked, but too slowly. It was far too warm for the stuff naturally, and the surface was beginning to sweat; but it would not melt soon enough for Olvar. The big man had been shin-deep in the salty sludge when it froze, and his legs were held upright, but he was beginning to give at the knees. ‘Hold fast, Olvar!’ panted Gille. ‘Things’re bad enough without you falling on me!’
Olvar groaned. ‘Can’t feel anything – ’cept fire.’
Kunrad hacked away. ‘Can’t you move your feet, even a little?’
Olvar was evidently trying, but nothing gave. ‘Might as well be set in crystal,’ wheezed Gille, chipping away. ‘Could we get help?’
Kunrad gave an unhappy laugh. ‘In this town, at this hour, on such a cause? Damn!’ The hilt skidded. He reversed the sword and began hewing again. ‘And how would you know whom it was safe to ask?’
‘Well – how about him?’
On the path that led along the sea wall separating the pans there was a figure walking with the slow gait of age, and leaning on a heavy staff. ‘Hoi, old sir!’ shouted Kunrad. ‘Could you lend some help here?’
The walker turned, and came down off the path to the edge of the pan, tapping at it with his staff. ‘Ice on a fine spring night? As soon see ripe fruit in midwinter! How did this come to be?’ The voice was deep and stern, with a tone of command, and he wore a broad-brimmed hat, like a traveller. A retired captain, perhaps, or guard commander, thought Kunrad.
‘I don’t know any more than you! But this young man’s caught and in pain. If you could spare your prop a moment—’
To their astonishment the watcher stepped easily on to the ice and came towards them with the same slow stride. ‘You want my help, eh?’
‘Mind you don’t break your neck, sir!’ said Gille, moving as if to help.
‘I have been keeping my feet on the ice for many a year now, lad. Too many! But help, now, I do not often lend help. Help is something that must be paid for, in advance, perhaps.’
Kunrad looked at Olvar, and flushed with annoyance. The staff was steel-shod, just what they needed. ‘I haven’t much money, but I’ll spare you a little, if that’s what you want!’
‘Not at all,’ said the old man evenly. Eyes glinted in the shadow of the broad brim. ‘More than that is demanded, sometimes – a life, perhaps. Or a way of life. Sometimes more than the help is worth. Or the matter in which you seek it.’
Kunrad’s temper blazed, and he stalked forward, fighting for balance. ‘The matter is saving this lad from pain and maiming!’
‘Is it?’
Kunrad stopped dead. He could see the old man’s face clearly now, and it was an arresting one, an immense eagle nose set between eyes that shone like a young man’s, belying the grey of the brows above and flowing beard beneath. The thin hard lips twisted in a strange ironic smile. ‘Would he be here at all, if you had not brought him? Would he be in jeopardy now, if it were not for you? Is what you seek worth such a risk? In aiding you here, I aid that also. You ask a lot of me, and so it is only fair that I warn you of the price. Are you willing to pay?’
Gille tugged at his sleeve. ‘Look, I was brought too. And I’d say to Hella with answers, till we do what’s needful, and that’s prising my friend loose! Then we can bloody well philosophise!’
‘I would not trade this lad’s life to succeed in my quest,’ said Kunrad shakily. The old man’s assurance had unnerved him. ‘If that’s what you mean.’
‘Not precisely. He may still lose it. But you may lose also, even if you succeed – and gain even if you fail. Much depends on the manner.’
Kunrad drew a deep breath. ‘You know more than any honest man ought to.’
‘Do I? The name and face of Kunrad the Swordmaster are not wholly unknown throughout the North, nor the quest on which he has passed like a bushfire, leaving shame and anger in his wake. Such a determination is bound to attract attention, and interference. As it has here. That, at least, I may reverse.’
He lifted the heavy staff, and crashed its metal tip down against the frozen surface. Kunrad half expected it to turn to water again at the touch. It didn’t. Ice chips flew up, and one caught him stinging on the cheek. Again the staff struck, and again; and suddenly there was a great moaning, yawning crack, and with a loud explosive pop a crack lanced right across the saltpan. Olvar’s feet stirred suddenly and he fell, groaning, on to the protesting ice.
‘Get him to shore!’ said the old man. ‘Get his boots off and his blood flowing. He will be well enough, for now. And you, Mastersmith – remember the price!’
The old man turned and strode calmly back towards the shore. Gille, assisting the helpless Olvar, turned a pale face after him, and eyes that stared wide in the gloom. ‘Back then – when he talked about keeping his feet! Did he say ice – or Ice?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Kunrad vaguely, watching the tall figure dwindle against the soft sky-glow. He could hardly bring his mind to bear on what had happened. It could only have been min
utes, though it felt like endless hours. ‘I feel … I don’t know. Higher forces are in play here, maybe.’
He shivered. The ice-chill was numbing his feet even through his boots, but there was a deeper cold within him. Strange lights seemed to flicker a moment against the clouds, and he remembered the aurora crowning the Ice, the mountains and the valley, and Haldin. Resolve stiffened him, and practical common sense. ‘But nothing he said changes anything. If I don’t get back that armour, half my life is lost anyway. The better part. Come, let’s heave our horse-whale home!’
By the time they came back to the town Olvar, though still steadying himself on their shoulders beside their other bundles, was walking again, his heavy boots unlaced. He looked like any ordinary drunk between taverns, and nobody on the street stirred a hair, save some underclad young whores who felt Kunrad’s muscles and rumpled Gille’s hair. But for tonight he was past even them, thinking how attractive were home, hay and the love of a good woman. By silent consent none of them spoke of what had happened, or why. Time enough for that behind barred doors, with a much-needed drink or two. But the Sea Lady’s landlord met them at the step in a great frenzy of excitement.
‘Masters! Thank the Raven you’re returned! Cap’n Ceinor’s sent word his ship’s been attacked! Aye, even in the dock as it lay, with but a watch-crew aboard, and the bastards drove off only along of some other ships took an interest! Now he’s in a great passion and says he’s sailing at the hour after midnight, come wind, tide or yourselves. He’ll await you at the salt-jetty, down beside the pans – but not for long!’
‘My lad’s had a slight accident!’ said Kunrad, and the host’s eyes widened in shocked comprehension. ‘But we’ll be there! Mull him some wine, will you, while we make ready? My thanks!’
In the flurry of departure there was still no time for thinking. And maybe that was as well, Kunrad realised later; or they might never have gone at all.
And all things then, as the old tale makes plain, might have turned out very different. All then, and all that came after; even until the last withdrawing of the Great Ice – if withdrawn it truly is.
They hurried down the road to the jetty, reluctantly skirting the site of the attack, marked now only by the broken fence and a few smeared puddles, gleaming unpleasantly in the faint glow. The bodies of the attackers lay in the ditch on the other side, and probably would lie there till they stank too much to ignore. That he had slain three men of the five, and felled another, was yet another thought that Kunrad pushed aside for the present.
As he had hoped, there at the jetty’s end rose a tall sleek mast, its heavy square sail gleaming dully in the light of the rising moon.
‘Loose-furled, more like hanging from the yard!’ Olvar pointed out. ‘Ready to be let fall at a moment’s notice, though there’s little enough wind here inshore. In a fine haste, these lads!’
On the dock, barely visible among the rickety sheds, stood ten men with swords and axes, and Ceinor himself pacing back and forth on the encrusted planks. ‘So!’ he said between his teeth. ‘You made the tryst. Thought you might not have. There’s been dirty work on the path up yonder.’
‘We know,’ said Olvar. ‘We did it.’
Ceinor’s mouth lifted in a reptilian smile. The three of you? Not bad. Wish we’d had you aboard these three hours since. Now I’m short two good oarsmen, and we must row till we can pick up the sea breeze, so I’ll have to trouble the larger of you gentlemen …’
‘No, Olvar’s been hardly used,’ said Kunrad. ‘Must needs be you and I for now, Gille! For all that sting in your arm!’
‘I’ll get blisters!’ protested the young man, as he hurled his bag down among the woolsacks in the forward hold, and lurched down over the decking to the benches. ‘I’ll ruin my fine touch with incised work! You can’t expect me to sit on that bench, I’ve got delicate skin!’
‘Well, at least you know what to expect!’ said Ceinor. ‘As to the bench, think yourself lucky! On smaller craft you squat on your sea chest, and woe betide the man who’s done fancy carvings on his! Hands on the sweep thusly, lean back on your stroke with straight arms like that, and keep time with the chant! Ashore there! Get your arses aboard and to your places! Bosun, pole ’er off and we’re away!’
‘Poling away, skipper!’
The rowers barely clattered into their seats. The sleek hull wallowed as it swung out from the jetty. ‘Port side, pull!’ roared the bosun. ‘And – pull! And – pull!’
Kunrad’s arms creaked at the first strain of the oar, but his shoulders flexed and took it, and his great strength came into play. He leaned back on the stroke as Ceinor had showed him, and the heavy sweep groaned in its socket. ‘Starbr’d side, pull!’ yelled the captain. ‘And – pull! And – pull! And – keep the frigging time, boy! Pull!’
The landsmen felt the sudden lilt and lift as the Ravenswing’s bow turned into the waves, that instant of lurching instability in which it seems the boat will roll into the trough and capsize. Then there was the thump and slap as the crest passed beneath, and the bows swung up to ride the next one. It was exhilarating, in a way, but also very frightening for men who had never felt it before, and barely seen the great Sea. Only Olvar, sprawled in the stern with the helmsman, grinned and breathed deep. Gille was red in the face, while Kunrad was becoming uneasily aware that if he wasn’t so busy he might have other troubles. He fought his gorge down, breathed deep and leaned back with an ease which his fellow rowers noted. ‘Well run, smith!’ said Ceinor approvingly. ‘But hold the time now, that’s the trick. Start the chant, somebody!’
A young man with strangely yellow hair, some rows up, began to sing in a clear high voice, and the others took up the rolling, liquid song. It was in the sothran speech, but when Kunrad caught the accent the words became clear, and to Gille almost at once.
Nights of love, of love and bliss,
The southland breezes bearing,
Soft and warm as sunlit kiss
For shipmen homeward faring,
For every stroke a girl’s caress for every pain a pleasure,
For every surge a softer yet, a port with richer treasure,
And a mooring sure—
And a mooring sure
By a sunwarm shore,
By a sunwarm shore …
It sounded a strangely gentle song for such a bunch of roughnecks. The man in front of Kunrad had a bristle-ridden chin raked by huge knife-scars, and teeth like ancient monuments, complete with lichen, but there were tears running down his cheeks as he sang. Kunrad remembered hearing that the sothrans had a sentimental, musical side, but he hadn’t imagined it went this deep. Gille, once he got his breath and the drift of the subject matter, joined in with his own clear voice in elaborate harmonies, and improvised words when the chant faltered, though his images ran more to ripe fruit, deep valleys, and the scent of fresh-cut grasses. The crew seemed to like them.
In fact, Kunrad suspected, he was becoming the better rower. He had not half Kunrad’s strength, of course, but he was still a smith, and though he took little exercise save one, it seemed to keep him fit. More, he had the sense of rhythm that helped him minimise his effort, and a younger, suppler back. All the same, he was beginning to wince at every stroke, and not only from the cut on his arm.
‘We’ll make a man o’ you yet, young smith!’ said Ceinor approvingly, as he rolled easily back from the bows.
‘Hope not,’ said Gille between clenched teeth. ‘What would your sothran wives do for a change, then?’
Ceinor gave his cold chuckle. ‘Wear out that tongue o’ yours, for a start! They’ll chew you up and spit you out, boy!’
‘Not if I survive this! How much longer?’
‘Till we’re beyond the bay and in open sea. Maybe a half-hour, an hour.’
‘Hour!’
‘Sing, and you’ll make it less!’
‘Any minute now my arse is going to join in the chorus!’
‘Well, then you can really serenade our la
dies! Row on, laddie!’
It was only ten minutes later, as Ceinor must have expected, that the motion of the ship changed suddenly, to a wider, slower roll. Waves drummed against the hull, and little flashes of spray came over the gunwales and stung their faces. Ceinor gave a curt order, and the rowers shipped their oars. Gille slipped groaning from his bench, and Kunrad managed not to imitate him, just. They couldn’t stand properly with the new corkscrewing action of the ship, and as the sailors rushed to let fall, barging and swearing at them, they crawled gratefully astern to where Olvar sat beaming by the deck-lantern like some smug sea-idol, joking with the helmsman at his oar.
The sail rustled down and thudded taut, its laced strands of tarred line fluttering. ‘Watch the angle of them!’ said Olvar as they arrived beside him. ‘That’s how these sothrans measure how close to the wind they can go. Fine sailors in their way, though less comfortable offshore than we.’
‘Oh, we’re comfortable, are we?’ said Kunrad. ‘Glad you told me, lad.’
‘How long’s it going to go on rocking like this?’
Olvar shrugged. ‘Till journey’s end. Could blow livelier soon, mind you; there’s promise of it in the air!’
‘Swallow your prophecy and choke on it!’ groaned Gille. In the yellow lantern-light the green pallor was climbing his cheeks as if filling a bottle. ‘I’ve had enough shocks for one night!’
‘I doubt Olvar’d disagree with you there!’ said Kunrad feelingly.
There was a moment’s silence. Everything they had been able to ignore in the flurry of their departure, all the implications of what had happened, came rushing back to them like the sharp cold splashes of spray.
The Castle of the Winds Page 10
