The Icerigger Trilogy

by Alan Dean Foster

  “How many?” inquired Hunnar firmly. “How many will you need, Sir Skua? Tis certainly a bold undertaking for only the finest of knights.”

  “I think no more than twenty,” replied September thoughtfully. “Ten to pull the oil raft and ten to act as escort. Also, see that everyone is outfitted in armor and outer dress taken from captured material. At night, even a superficial disguise can make all the difference. As for myself, well, we’ll have to figure out something else.”

  “And for me,” added Ethan with finality.

  “Get me a helmet with a low front,” the big man concluded. He turned to Ethan as the table dissolved in a buzz of conversation.

  “Listen, young feller-me-lad. There’s no need for you to take part in this. It’s going to be the middle of the night out there. The temperature will be down in the Pit’s own level and cold enough to sear the skin off your face if your heater breaks down. If someone got blown away on a night like that we’d never find him again.”

  Ethan considered. The last night-expedition he’d been on had been in the company of a delightful young lady on the colony world of Gestalt. She’d spent a balmy moonlit night introducing him to certain exquisite variants on Church theologies. Her conversion of him was short, but ecstatic.

  Now there was the bare clean surface of a different sort of world. A man would freeze to death in seconds without special defenses. The cold bit into your teeth like an old dentist’s probe.

  “I’m going.”

  “On your own head be it, young feller.”

  “I’m going, too,” came a voice from the back of the hall. Everyone turned quietly. Ethan stood to see over the wide shoulders of one of the nobles.

  Darmuka Brownoak, prefect of Wannome, walked slowly toward them, patiently buckling on his silver-inlaid armor.

  At night the open icefield seemed more than ever like a white desert. They’d gone over the mountain pass and arrived at a deserted little icefront town on the south side of Sofold. Hopefully, no enemy sentry had seen them depart from the single tiny pier.

  Ethan lay on his stomach, the odd-shaped armor digging uncomfortably into his ribs, and dug his gloved fingers into the rough wood of the sled. The splendid barbarian helmet jounced awkwardly on his head, held there by facemask and straps. Goggles protected his eyeballs from freezing.

  Ten Sofoldian soldiers pulled the sled, set in waist harness five on either side. The wind was almost directly behind them and they’d shot off at a speed that literally pulled the breath from Ethan’s lungs. Even the wind seemed stronger than usual tonight. At least the flared helmet gave him some protection. Now if it would only stop chafing.

  Laboriously he turned his head, the fur-lined metal scraping against the wood, and managed a glimpse of the lights shining within the magical castle of Wannome. It rode the sheer south cliff of the island like a dream.

  But they were running for other lights, a thousand times as many lights, scattered among the barbarians’ unending expanse of camp. It made an endless gleaming parade to south and east.

  “Now remember, lad,” September had explained to him, “if anyone speaks to you, play like you’re deaf and dumb. Let Hunnar and his two knights do all the talking.” Ethan had barely managed a half-frozen nod.

  If they were intercepted, their story was to be that they’d been one of the small patrols which had been raiding the deserted towns and villages in hope of uncovering some forgotten cache of foodstuffs, utensils, or anything else worth carrying off. They’d broken into an underground warehouse half full of supplies—barrels of vol oil, for example—and had spent too much time guzzling the small stock of good liquor they’d found. Before they knew it, the ice-that-ate-the-sun had performed its ugly act. Now they were trying to sneak back to camp before captain-killer Slattunved could discover their absence.

  As the official surveyor of shifty stories, Ethan had picked over the plot and pronounced it at least plausible. He knew a decent sales pitch when he heard one.

  Still, one wrong gesture, one word out of place, and they’d go down under ten thousand aroused nomads.

  “There, I think I can see it, young feller.”

  Ethan looked up, squinted through his goggles. Sure enough, a black silhouette loomed against the speckled sky. There was no mistaking the outline of the great catapult. All of a sudden, then, they began to slow.

  One of the unharnessed knights dropped his right wing a little, skated close to the sled.

  “Careful now. A patrol comes.”

  Below the howl of the wind—at least 60 kph, he thought, shivering—he could make out Hunnar and the other knights scraping ice as they strove to brake to a halt. He lowered the helmet over his facemask, pulled his arms tight up against his sides, and tucked his hands under his chest, flattening himself to the cold wood.

  Up ahead he could hear Hunnar speaking in gruff tones to someone unseen, explaining the provisioning party’s strange luck in turning up a great supply of oil for the Scourge’s tent, but no food to speak of.

  Then he heard one of the barbarians ask, in a strange dialect, “What about those two?”

  He could imagine the feet coming closer, a hand lifting off the helmet. Then a cry of shocked surprise at the sight of his alien face… and surely their presence was known to the enemy after yesterday’s battle on the wall. A sudden swift descent of the sharp blade, cries, spurting blood…

  “Oh, them?” countered Hunnar smoothly. “Well, the dwarf there is so ashamed of his small size that he tried to down twice the reedle of any of us. Even dipping him in fresh melt had no effect. The other one had just enough to make him think he was a gutorrbyn. He tried to fly off the roof of some dirtgrubber’s barn. He flew all right—straight down.”

  There was a tense pause. Then the patrol leader let loose a hoarse series of jerking laughs.

  Eventually he managed to contain himself. “Tis best you get them back to camp, then,” he finally snorted, “before your captain does find them, or he’ll skin them alive. If Death-Treader should breach the walls of the Insane Ones, we will attack tomorrow.”

  “Truly,” replied Hunnar, “they would be forever sorrowful should they miss the Sack.”

  There was another short exchange of pleasantries, too low for Ethan to hear. Then they were moving forward once more, though much slower this time. He raised his head just slightly, saw that they were alone on the ice again. The patrol had evidently continued on its way westward, tacking into the wind.

  “Everything linear?” whispered September so sharply that Ethan nearly lost his grip on the sled. He’d completely forgotten about his big companion. September had lain like a dead man throughout the entire exchange.

  “You wouldn’t think to have any trouble talking,” he replied, “but my stomach’s halfway up into my throat.” September chuckled. “For a minute there, when he asked about ‘those two,’ I saw myself spread across the ice like bread-dough.”

  “You’re lucky,” replied September, “I was so busy organizing things before we pushed off that I forgot to go to the john.”

  The meeting with the patrol must have been an omen, for they didn’t encounter another soul the rest of the way. An attack by night was apparently as unthinkable to the nomads as it had been to the cultured coterie of knights back in the castle.

  All but one of the guards at the great siege-engine were enjoying a deep sleep in the several tents at its base. These were pegged into the ice and benefited from the windbreak the catapult provided.

  The one duty guard observed their approach and chivaned over, completely unsuspecting. He was probably curious as to what a group of his fellows were doing out on the ice so late at night with a raft full of barrels and two unmoving bodies.

  Hunnar met him. He offered him the same explanation he’d given the patrol leader, explaining their partly successful raid. Then he presented the other with a “stolen” sweet-stick. The guard accepted it with thanks.

  “Death-Treader did well today,” Hunnar sa
id conversationally. “Would that I had been closer, to better see the fear on the faces of those stupid towndwellers.” The last word Hunnar uttered in the contemptuous tone the barbarians held for anyone fool enough to live in one place instead of moving free with the wind.

  “The crew had some difficulty ranging him today,” admitted the guard, “but all will be perfected for tomorrow. We will surely breach the walls, perhaps in several places. Some say it will not even be necessary to attack. With their walls down, the fools may finally realize their impossible position and surrender. That will be even better.” He grinned horribly. “There will be more prisoners to play with.”

  “True,” Hunnar agreed. “But I hear the strain on Death-Treader was great today.” He pointed upward. “Is that not a crack in the bindings I see? There, on the Arm. After not having worked for so long, it may have rotted.”

  The guard turned to look. “I see no crack. But wait, Death-Treader was used only four kuvits ago, in practice for the usual care.” He started to whirl, his voice rising. “Who—?”

  Hunnar’s dirk went right through his throat, ripping up into the larynx. The guard choked on the blood, staggered, and sank to the ice without a cry. Hunnar wiped the blade on his leggings.

  “That’s it, young feller!” said September, scrambling to his feet and slapping Ethan on the shoulder. “Let’s go!”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d just as soon skip this part. I’ll stay here.”

  “Oh.” September looked at him understandingly in the dark. “I know, my lad. No problem.”

  Ethan and four others began unloading the raft. Hunnar, September, and the other knights and soldiers entered the tents on the far side of the catapult and silently set about the bloody job of disposing of the sleeping guards. By the time they’d finished their grisly work, Ethan and his companions were already scrambling up into the wood and fiber framework.

  “Pass it up!” he yelled down, holding tight to the superstructure with both legs. The wind tore and battered at him, angrily trying to sweep him off his perch.

  “Quickly now!” sounded Hunnar’s voice. They were very close to the main body of the nomad camp.

  Thick, syrupy vol oil was ladled over the wood, bracings, and bindings until the oleaginous mess became dangerous to walk on. The aromatic stink seemed sufficient to wake the dead. Fortunately, the wind carried most of it away.

  There was a shout in the distance. Two of the knights stopped passing oil upward and ran toward the source. They returned a few moments later.

  “Two,” one of the knights told Hunnar and September. “Officers. Apparently they were just returning to their tents. I don’t know if they could tell who we were, but they must know there aren’t supposed to be people climbing on the moydra at night. They ran before we could reach them.”

  A few minutes later this was confirmed by yells, queries, and concerned shouts from within the nomad encampment. The noise multiplied rapidly.

  “Off, off, get off!” ordered September frantically. Slipping and sliding on the greasy wood, Ethan and the other soldiers scrambled down to the ice.

  A dozen torches were readied. They’d been well soaked in oil and the wind wouldn’t quench them. They were thrust in a circle at September, who paused momentarily.

  “It’s not the highest product of our technology, nor the one I’d like to have right now, but I’m glad we’ve got it.” He held out Hellespont du Kane’s expensive, filagreed, iridium-plated lighter.

  One torch and then another blazed, stark shadows exploding onto the ice. The shouts behind them grew louder. One of the non-torch-bearing knights had moved toward the encampment. Now he turned to shout back at them.

  “Hurry! Someone comes.”

  “Scatter them well, mind,” ordered September. Twelve arms spun, released in unison. Only two of the blazing brands were blown out. With the wind behind them, the others carried well up into the superstructure.

  They seemed to flicker there, tiny spots of isolated flame. For a horrible moment Ethan feared they wouldn’t catch and the whole risk had been taken for nothing. Then, almost together, they went up.

  With a roar that briefly drowned the wind and the rising shouts from the camp, the great wooden frame virtually exploded into orange flame so brilliant that the little knot of watching humans and tran were forced to shield their eyes.

  “Onto the sled now, young feller!” bellowed September, giving Ethan a shove and not trying to keep his voice down. The tran took up their harnesses and in a moment they were speeding northward and west in a wide curve that should bring them back to Wannome and in through the main gate. If they didn’t make the curve, Ethan reflected, they’d plow full bore into the far side of the enemy encampment.

  Now it didn’t matter if every sentry in the camp was alerted. The howls and shrieks of rudely awakened nomad soldiers sounded loud in their ears as they raced before the wind, building speed. Cautiously, keeping a tight grip on the raft, Ethan turned on his side to look behind them.

  A tower of flavescent orange, crackling and splitting, clawed at the black sky like a mad thing, while the wind tore away ragged shreds of its head and swept them westward.

  He could make out small dark shapes silhouetted against the base of the pyre.

  “Look at it burn, look at it burn!” he yelled to September almost boyishly.

  “No need to shout, young feller. I’m right here.” He too was on his side, looking rearward. “Poor chaps don’t seem to know what hit ’em, what?”

  Something whizzed overhead.

  “Whup! I withdraw any sympathy. Seems they do.” A second arrow thunked into the base of the raft. “Damn!” the big man muttered. “Wish I’d thought to bring one crossbow.” He turned and hollered to Hunnar who was chivaning alongside.

  “Leave us if you have to, Hunnar! This thing slows you.”

  “Not a chance, my friend.”

  September looked ahead, then back into the night. “You’ll never make it with us.”

  “Tis as good a time and place to die as any,” the knight replied easily. Then, ignoring September’s curses, he let himself fall slightly behind the raft.

  Ethan put his hand on his sword hilt. He peered desperately into the darkness, but couldn’t determine how many were following them. There seemed to be more than twenty, in any case.

  Something struck September on the side of the head and dropped him as though poleaxed.

  Ethan turned, alarmed. “Skua! Are you hurt bad?”

  “Relax, young feller.” The big man propped himself up on one elbow, felt his head. “That smarts. Good thing they made these helmets tough. Goddamn arrows.” Ethan peered closer, saw the dent in the metal just above the forehead. If September had been a tran he’d have lost an ear.

  Their pursuers were close enough now for Ethan to make out individuals. There was something surreal in watching them move closer and closer with painful slowness, as they made up distance lost on the clumsy sled.

  A couple of other soldiers had dropped back to form a rear guard. Now they were flailing behind themselves with swords and axes, trying to run and fight at once.

  One of the pursuers shoved a long pike forward, caught a Sofoldian soldier in a wing. The barbarian jerked and the soldier, pulled off balance, fell to the ice. He vanished beneath the enemy and the night as they sped on.

  One of the nomads had gained the end of the raft. He grabbed hold of the wood, thrust forward with a spear. September brought his sword down—he’d left the heavy ax behind in the castle. The thick wood of the spear shaft shattered. The other cursed, swung the wood hilt first. September parried it, slashed, and opened an ugly cut on the barbarian’s arm. He dropped away from the raft, clutching at the bleeding limb.

  It was growing crowded around the sled. One of the harnessed soldiers was down, a dead weight dragging them back. The others were too pressed to cut him loose. It was becoming impossible to keep speed and fight at the same time.

  They were circling in to
ward the harbor gate now. Ethan did some quick figuring. They’d never make it. They’d be overpowered before they got close. Perhaps the du Kanes and Williams might eventually make it safely to the settlement

  One nomad chivaned in from the west and fairly flew onto the raft. Ethan swung clumsily with his sword but it only glanced off the other’s armor. The broad muscular body hit September, knife at the ready, and the two grappled on the pitching, swaying sled. The other was trying to pull the big man off the raft onto the ice.

  Desperately Ethan reached over. He caught September’s leg just in time to prevent that fatal roll. Out of the sweat-distorted corner of an eye he saw another of the enemy move in close to the stern of the sled, spear held ready.

  He was trying to decide whether to let September go to parry the spear or hope that his armor would ward off the first thrust, when something hit the barbarian with such force that he was almost cut in half. In a microsecond the confusion surrounding them had multiplied tenfold.

  September had managed to break free of his persistent assailant and had shoved him from the sled. He gave Ethan an exhausted smile.

  “What’s going on?” asked Ethan bewilderedly.

  “That fella was tough!” gasped the big man. “They must be sortieing from the city!”

  Yes, now Ethan could recognize the armor of the Sofoldian troops as they swept and battered away the sled’s pursuers. Minutes later they dashed under the gate chain and nets and were inside the cold womb of the harbor. The wind shrank to a bearable gale. Utterly winded himself, Ethan collapsed on the sled, not caring if he fell off. He tugged off the uncomfortable barbarian helmet and slung it far out onto the ice.

  He lay there as they moved slowly toward the Landgrave’s pier and the cheering nocturnal crowd. While the hysterical populace screamed and sang, he stared up at the strange stars and tried to guess which one was home.

  When they finally tied up to the dock and were greeted by the Landgrave himself, not even September could explain why Ethan was crying.