The Icerigger Trilogy

by Alan Dean Foster

  The Slanderscree began to back free of the dead mountain. Ethan was sure he could hear a slight metallic groan from forward and belowdecks. He ignored it. Maybe it would go away. Whatever it was, the roped-together runner did not buckle.

  Fires erupted in the encirclement on all sides of the raft as stockpiled wood was ignited. Rafts of dried wood soaked in oil were made ready to be pushed against the ponderous, slowly-moving great raft. Here and there torchbearers began to move toward the ship.

  But at the same time, other nomads were beginning to slip back down their boarding ropes, stumble off the ladders. They fought against those pressing forward.

  The torchbearers got halfway to the turning raft, now dripping warriors from its sides.

  “There, I see them!” Ethan yelled. September turned too, and then Hunnar, and then the few of the enemy who still fought.

  Far off in the distance eastward, a tiny clump of steel-gray bumps hove into view, like a herd of great whales. Except that the slightest of these was greater than the greatest whale that had ever swum Terra’s seas.

  Adamantine sunlight encountered thin paired strips of white and flashed. The sound of thunder floated ominously over the glass-earth.

  Ta-hoding ignored the occasional arrows which still flew over the deck and scrambled for the wheel. Another sailor joined him. Now there were four sets of powerful arms pulling at the fifth runner, two above and two below deck. Ethan watched the captain’s suety face swell as he strained to get the ship clear of the corpse.

  They would only need seconds to pick up wind and start southward. There was no question of running into the wind now. Against it they could outrun the Horde, but not the herd. They might get out of their path. They had to get out of their path.

  Utter confusion extended invisible claws, gripped the barbarian ranks as the word was passed. Spears and axes and torches were dropped as the remaining nomads spread their dan and chivaned for their lives. A few of the barbarian rafts were struggling with reduced crews to pull out their ice-anchors and get under sail as well. It was impossible to tell at that distance, but Ethan supposed many of those anchors were being cut free.

  The majority of the nomads seemed determined to gain the distance to the rafts, the only homes they’d ever known. A few, less concerned, scattered in all directions, though it was hard going against the wind, or north, or south. A few milled about aimlessly. Others were trampled under chiv by their hysterical fellows.

  Hunnar was growling low in his throat, glancing from the sails to the straining captain, then astern.

  “Get her nose around, Ta! Get her nose around!”

  Now the herd was close enough for Ethan to discern individuals. Close enough to see the long, gargantuan tusks curved partway back into the cavernous mouths. Even battling wind-noise, their thunder dominated as they inhaled cubic liters of air, forced it out of the fleshy jets near their rear.

  The tran of the Slanderscree fought like demons to put on every centimeter of sail. There was a crackling and snapping. The still shattered bowsprit turned with agonizing patience to the south. Nearly free now of the attentions of the Horde, she began to move.

  She passed the half-putrid corpse with nail-biting slowness—the corpse whose rotting stink had drawn the furious, bellowing herd from feeding grounds far over the horizon to gather and mourn over one of their dead.

  Just as Eer-Meesach had said it would.

  Ethan found himself pounding the rail with a fist.

  “Move, ship, move! Please move!” Rippling wave-thunder drowned out all sounds now, hammered relentlessly against his eardrums. Prayers went unheard.

  A few, a very few, of the barbarian rafts had put on sail. The rest were trying.

  The herd moved in slow motion upon the rafts. With them. Among them.

  Through them.

  There were no more rafts.

  The Slanderscree was pulling away as her sails ate wind. The bad runner held for a minute, then a second, and another, until it was forgotten in other concerns. Ethan stood frozen to the rail as the herd approached at an incredible pace. They were moving at least 100 kph—into the wind!

  What remained of the once omnipotent Horde of the Scourge vanished beneath several million kilos of gray flesh, became a red-brown smear on the shining ice.

  The herd drew closer. For a second time Ethan gazed down the throat of Leviathan.

  It paused, froze in space.

  Began to recede.

  “They’re stopping at the body,” murmured Hunnar finally, long after they were safely away southward. He had to clear his throat once before the words came out. “Thank all the Gods!”

  “It didn’t look like many of them managed to escape,” said Ethan.

  “No,” agreed Hunnar, curiously unemotional. “Not many.”

  “Cubs, too,” continued Ethan, his voice dropping to a barely audible mutter.

  September showed no such concern. He was rubbing both hands together and chatting with sailors and soldiers, as happy as if a freshly baked cake had exited the oven without falling. Hunnar was leaning over the stern, straining to pick out shapes among the rapidly receding forms.

  “I didn’t see Sagyanak’s raft in those final seconds. Could the devil-bitch have escaped again?”

  “Sorry to kill all the bad dreams you half-hoped to have, friend Hunnar,” said September. He grabbed at his hood as a sudden gust of wind threatened to tear it off. “I did.”

  “What do they do with the dead young one, the stavanzers? Now that they’ve found it?” asked Ethan.

  “If the wizard’s information is accurate, and it has been thus far,” the knight replied, “then the thunder-eaters will remain with the dead for several days. I have never seen such a thing myself. Supposedly they prod the body with their tusks, nudge it every so often in the apparent hope that they may stir it to life once again… Eventually, some inner desire satisfied, they will move off, never to return to that spot again. Or perhaps they merely grow hungry. None know for certain. Among my people, at least, the observation of the thunder-eater’s habits from close range ’tis not over-popular. And thunder-eaters do not die often.”

  “I don’t wonder at your caution.” Ethan noticed that Ta-hoding was only a short breath from total collapse, now that the Slanderscree was out of danger. A sweaty heap of fur and flesh, the captain had sunk to the deck next to the big wheel. He stared into nothingness. All his efforts seemed directed to following each breath with another.

  “Noble animals,” Ethan mumbled.

  “What?” September came over. “Those supra-nourished grotesque herbivores? Get a hold on your self, lad!”

  Ethan sighed. “Skua, sometimes I think you have no poetry in your soul.”

  “Now as to that, young feller-me-lad, firstly you’d have to establish the existence of the latter. And you’re one to talk!” He sniffed with exaggerated force. The resultant supercilious pose was so comical that Ethan couldn’t keep from laughing. “You kindly explain to me, lad, the poetry in volume buying or discount pricing.”

  Ethan started to do just that, but had to pause in the middle of the first sentence.

  Why did someone have to keep reminding him of where he wasn’t?

  XIII

  THERE WAS LITTLE NEW to look at as the raft continued to devour the kilometers. The journey rapidly became a dull cycle of rising, pacing the too-familiar deck, talking, eating, and returning to sleep. The humans, in one respect, were fortunate. They had the added extra task of fighting to stay that one step ahead of frostbite.

  They’d entered a new region, filled with innumerable small islands. Many rose nearly perpendicular from the ice—dark, black stone, the stumps and cores of long-eroded volcanos. They served to break the monotony of flat horizon, but just barely, since the next was much like its predecessor.

  A few of the islands were inhabited. Tiny villages clung precariously to the cliffs.

  Occasionally a small raft or party of wandering hunters would parall
el the Slanderscree for a few dozen meters. The dialect here differed from that of Sofold. Ta-hoding, a good merchant, was able to converse with them like a neighbor. After the first few encounters, even Ethan and the other humans could make themselves understood, though they lacked the captain’s fluency.

  The Trannish language had a universal planetary base, then. Local variations did not preclude adequate communication between widely scattered groups. Another plus as far as trade and commerce were concerned.

  No matter how skilled or strong, the locals rapidly dropped behind, unable to match the big raft’s speed.

  Things grew so dull that Ethan found himself wishing for another storm—but not a Rifs. That bored he wasn’t.

  He got it.

  After the third consecutive day of freezing wind and even a little razor-sharp sleet, he was damning himself for a romantic idiot and praying for a return to the clear sameness of days before. Anything for a reprise of calm weather!

  Constant maneuvering in the high wind had finally cracked several of the top cross-spars and weakened the repaired foremast. Ta-hoding also wanted to fix the still-amputated bowsprit, and there was no telling what the storm had done to the awkwardly repaired runner. They still had a long way to go and you couldn’t tell when you’d need every square centimeter of sail and solid, dependable runners.

  The little informal council met once again—on a much less anxious note than the last time. Suggestions were easily made, as easily rejected. It was finally agreed that they would take the time to put in at the first town or village which offered the raft protection from the westwind, a decent harbor.

  Ethan was on deck the next morning when the lookout gave the cry, so he was one of the first to see the monastery of Evonin-ta-ban. He joined Ta-hoding as the refuge came into full view, shining dark in the light of the fast-rising sun.

  “Odd-looking sort of place,” said Ethan. “What is it? We haven’t passed anything like it before. Surely it’s not a hunting or farming community.”

  “I do not know what it is, noble sir,” the captain replied uneasily. “Truly, I have ne’er seen the likes of it before. But Dagstev, the lookout, was right about the harbor. It looks to be sufficient… at this distance, anyhow. There do not appear to be any ships within, so it cannot be a trading community. Very, very strange. Perhaps… perhaps we’d best not land here, noble sir.”

  “Glassfeathers. You’ve got to learn to face the cosmos with a more open mind, Ta-hoding. One of these days you may even skippership between the stars.”

  The captain’s reply was direct and left no room for semantic nitpicking.

  “Not if all the devils that ever were got behind me and pushed, Sir Ethan!”

  “Why not, captain? Your own ancestors probably had the power of flight.”

  “And had the good sense to give it up, too,” Ta-hoding countered religiously. “Give me a good ship with sharp runners, smooth ice beneath her keel, and a strong wind astern and I’ll be quite satisfied. I leave the skies to those who wish them. And say nothing about their sanity, however questionable.” He concluded on a note of finality and commenced barking landing orders to the crew. The Slanderscree was angling for the harbor entrance and Ethan decided to leave the captain alone.

  One by one the wide sails were reefed in. He went below, roused September from his lingering breakfast and informed Hunnar, the du Kanes, and several others of their incipient landfall.

  Hunnar joined him and they ascended to the bow. Together they stared over the broken bowsprit.

  “Ta-hoding said he’d never seen anything like it, Hunnar.”

  “Nor have I, friend Ethan, nor have I. But I find its aspect only unusual, not threatening. Though whoever built it surely had an eye to its defense. It seems impregnable. A strange place indeed.”

  Such as it was, the harbor was simply a natural gap in the crust of the island. Fingers of dark, worn rock extended on two sides to embrace the slowing Slanderscree.

  Except for some flat land to the right of the harbor, the entire island consisted of several sheer, jagged peaks that shot straight out of the ice to a height of four and five hundred meters.

  Low vegetation struggled in the shelter of the shadowy cliff-face. A band of the ever-present pika-pina was just visible as they entered the harbor, extending from the west side of the mountains into the wind. The flat area to their right appeared to be under intensive cultivation.

  Three-quarters of the way up the vertical basalt, cradled in a notch between the two highest peaks, sat an odd jumble of multi-tiered structures which seemed to grow from the naked stone. The architecture was elaborate, far more so than anything Ethan had observed to date.

  Turrets and battlements he knew from Wannome, but these buildings also boasted spires, minarets, and even true domes—the first he’d seen on the planet. What looked to be a long, surprisingly spacious series of ramps and stairs began near the base of the cliff and ascended via a number of switchbacks to the lowest of the precariously situated structures.

  The single dock gave every indication of being carefully kept and maintained, if not often used. There were no ships tied up to it and none in the harbor. But the preservation and nearby cultivated fields were signs that the place was inhabited. At least they’d have a place to tie up and could forgo the trouble of utilizing the bulky ice-anchors. In the lee of the skytickling crags there was hardly a hint of wind. It was almost calm.

  September joined them silently, staring upwards until he risked a neck-crick.

  “Whoever put that pile of vertiginous masonry together, friend Hunnar, spent more than spare time at it. Without the aid of lifters and impellers, and in this climate, I’ll not hesitate in calling it a tremendous piece of raw engineering. Going to be a respectable hike to the front door.”

  “You think we’ll be going today?” asked Ethan. “I could not venture a prediction,” put in Hunnar hastily, before the big man could verbally commit them to another arduous enterprise. “But if you will lower your eyes you will see that our arrival has not gone unobserved.”

  A figure was coming toward the dock from the base of the stairway. Apparently male, the tran’s stride was purposeful but not hurried. Open greeting, or forewarned is forearmed, mused Ethan. They watched the native with interest.

  He seemed in no way unusual. While his beard was longer than Hunnar’s and whiter than Balavere’s, the welcoming committee of one showed no other signs of advanced age. He was of average trannish height and built slimmer than most of the tran on board the raft.

  He wore only a long white fur, done up in a sort of toga arrangement, instead of the now familiar tran outer garment that snapped closed at the shoulders. It and its wearer were devoid of personal ornamentation—unless you counted the body-length staff in his right paw.

  At first Ethan thought it was wood, but as the native came closer he saw that it had been carved from some porous green stone. More importantly, the tran didn’t seem the least bit afraid of them. That suggested once again either honest friendliness or the presence of ten thousand spearmen hidden in the rocks. As it developed, the more reasonable guess was correct.

  The landing ramp was put across. Hunnar, Ethan, and September debarked while the sailors and soldiers on deck and in the rigging continued their tasks. Each kept a curious eye on their oddly-clad host’s approach.

  Ethan was thinking it would be a good idea to have Ta-hoding present to handle any language difficulties. As it developed, the captain’s linguistic abilities weren’t needed.

  “I am Fahdig, gentlesirs,” he said. “And this is the monastery of Evonin-ta-ban. You are welcome here.”

  “Our thanks,” replied Hunnar. “I hight Sir Hunnar Redbeard, and these,” he indicated the two humans, “are visitors from a far place, noblemen of another land: Sir September and Sir Fortune. We ask to remain within your protecting harbor for a few days to effect needed repairs. If there is a harbor fee we can pay…”

  The other gestured with the stone
staff.

  “There is no fee. The facilities of the monastery are open to any reasoning man. Few have ever been turned away wanting. But it is for the Brotherhood to decide and not I.”

  “I didn’t know you had religious orders,” whispered Ethan to Hunnar. The staff-bearer overheard.

  “Know I not what you mean, strange knight. The Brotherhood is an association of free spirits and minds, gathered in this place to preserve the knowledge and histories of the universe against the onslaughts of the Dark One. We are scholars, sir, not sycophants.”

  “Starseeds,” mumbled Ethan. “Wait til Williams and Eer-Meesach find out we’ve stumbled onto a local society of researchers.”

  September’s comment was blunt. “Frankly, I couldn’t give a damn about how they built rafts or grew pika-pina on this ice cube a couple of thousand years ago. That’s the sort of thing you’re likely to find in these old storehouses of ‘knowledge.’ Useless trivia. Religious nuts, all right!” All of which, of course, was declaimed carefully in Terranglo. “They just worship something other than a supernatural being, is all. Doesn’t change their style from religious fanaticism to enlightened guardianship.”

  “Well, they don’t seem very fanatical to me,” Ethan countered in Terranglo, as Hunnar continued to exchange pleasantries and information with their host.

  “Maybe it’s not obvious, but…” September grunted. He looked heavenward to where windswept towers and steeples had been hewn into the naked rock. “Anyhow I’d like a look-see inside their cubby. I admire good workmanship no matter what the source.”

  September didn’t have to translate his request. Unbidden, Fahdig had invited them to accompany him to the monastery for the Brotherhood’s ruling.

  “I hope they keep the haggling to a minimum,” September grumbled undiplomatically in Trannish. “I, at least, am still in a hurry.”