The ship sailed on, with the crew convinced of their skipper’s outstanding luck. The weather was good, the wind strong and steady, and they made excellent speed. The ice was clear of glaciers or other obstructions as long as they followed old Rorsefne’s chart closely, and thus they were able to sail both day and night.
One day, as Arflane stood with Ur quart on the bridge, they saw a glow on the horizon that resembled the first signs of dawn. Arflane checked the big old chronometer in the wheelhouse. The time was a few minutes before six bells in the middle watch - three in the morning.
Arflane rejoined Urquart on the bridge. The harpooner’s face was troubled. He sniffed the air, turning his head this way and that, his flat bone earrings swinging. Arflane could smell nothing.
‘Do you know what it means?’ he asked Urquart.
Urquart grunted and rubbed at his chin. As the ship sped closer to the source of the reddish light Arflane himself began to notice a slight difference in the smell of the air, but he could not define it.
Without a word Urquart left the bridge and began to walk forward, hefting his harpoon up and down in his right hand. He seemed unusually nervous.
Within an hour the glow on the horizon filled half the sky and illuminated the ice with blood-red light. It was a bizarre sight; the smell on the breeze had become much stronger; an acrid, musty odour that was entirely unfamiliar to Arflane. He, too, began to feel troubled. The air seemed to be warmer, the whole deck awash with the strange light. Ivory beams, belaying pins, hatch covers, and the whale skulls in the prow all reflected it; the face of the helmsman in the wheelhouse was stained red, as were the features of the men on watch, who looked questioningly up at him. Night was virtually turned to day, though overhead the sky was pitch black - blacker than it normally seemed, now that it contrasted with the lurid glare ahead.
Hinsen came out on to deck and climbed the companionway to stand beside Arflane. ‘What is it, sir?’ He shuddered violently and moistened his lips.
Arflane ignored him, re-entered the wheelhouse, and consulted Rorsefne’s map. He had not been using the old man’s original, but a clearer copy. Now he unrolled the original and peered at it in the red, shifting light from the horizon. Hinsen joined him, staring over his shoulder at the chart.
‘Damn,’ Arflane murmured. ‘It’s here and we ignored it. The writing’s so hard to read. Can you see what it says, Mr Hinsen?’
Hinsen’s lips moved as he tried to make out the tiny printed words that Rorsefne had inscribed in his failing hand before he died. He shook his head and gave a weak smile of apology. ‘Sorry, sir.’
Arflane tapped two fingers on the chart. ‘We need a scholar for this.’
‘Manfred Rorsefne, sir? I think he might be something of a scholar.’
‘Fetch him, please, Mr Hinsen.’
Hinsen nodded and left the wheelhouse. The air bore an unmistakable stink now. Arflane found it hard to breathe, for it carried dust that clogged his mouth and throat.
The light, now tinged with yellow, was unstable. It flickered over the ice and the swiftly travelling ship. Sometimes part of the schooner was in shadow, sometimes it was illuminated completely. Arflane was reminded of something that had frightened him long ago. He was beginning to guess the meaning of old Rorsefne’s script well before Manfred Rorsefne, rubbing at his eyes with one finger, appeared in the wheelhouse.
‘It’s like a great fire,’ he said, and glanced down at the chart Arflane was trying to show him. Arflane pointed to the word.
‘Can you make that out? Can you read your uncle’s writing better than us?’
Manfred frowned for a moment and then his face cleared. ‘Fire mountains,’ he said. He looked at Arflane with some anxiety, his air of insouciance gone completely.
‘Fire . . .’ Arflane too made no attempt to disguise the horror he felt. Fire, in the mythology of the ice, was the archenemy of the Ice Mother. Fire was evil. Fire destroyed. It melted the ice. It warmed things that should naturally be cold.
‘We’d better throw out the grapples, captain,’ Hinsen said thickly.
But Arflane was consulting the chart. He shook his head. ‘We’ll be all right, Mr Hinsen, I hope. This course takes us through the fire mountains, as far as I can tell. We don’t get close to them at all - not enough to endanger ourselves at any rate. Rorsefne’s chart’s been good up to now. We’ll hold our course.’
Hinsen looked at him nervously but said nothing.
Manfred Rorsefne’s initial anxiety seemed over. He was looking at the horizon with a certain curiosity. ‘Flaming mountains,’ he exclaimed. ‘What wonders we’re finding, captain!’
‘I’ll be happier when this particular wonder’s past,’ Arflane said with an attempt at humour. He cleared his throat twice, slapped his hand against his leg, and paced about the wheelhouse. The helmsman’s face caught his attention; it was a parody of fear. Arflane forgot his own nervousness in his laughter at the sight. He slapped the helmsman on the shoulder. ‘Cheer up, man. We’ll sail miles to starboard of the nearest if that chart’s accurate!’ Rorsefne joined in his laughter and even Hinsen began to smile.
‘I’ll take the wheel, sir, if you like,’ Hinsen said. Arflane nodded and tapped the helmsman’s arm.
‘All right, lad,’ Arflane told him as Hinsen took over. ‘You get below. You don’t want to be blinded.’
He went out on to the bridge, his face tense as he looked towards the horizon.
Soon they could see the individual mountains silhouetted in the distance. Red and yellow flames and rolling black smoke spouted from their craters and luminous crimson lava streamed down their sides; the heat was appalling and the poisoned air stung and clogged their lungs. From time to time a cloud of smoke would drift across the ship, making strange patterns of light and shadow on the decks and sails. The earth shook slightly and across the ice came the distant rumble of the volcanoes.
The scene was so unfamiliar to them that they could hardly believe in its reality; it was like a nightmare landscape. Though the night was turned almost as bright as day and they could see for miles in all directions, the light was lurid and shifted constantly, and when not obscured by the smoke they could make out the dark sky with the stars and the moon clearly visible.
Arflane noticed that the others were sweating as much as he. He looked for Urquart and saw the outline of the harpooner forward, unmistakable with his barbed lance held close to his body. He left the bridge and moved through the weird light towards Urquart, his shadow huge and distorted.
Before he reached the harpooner, he saw him fall to both knees on the deck near the prow. The harpoon was allowed to fall in front of him. Arflane hurried forward and saw, even in that light, that Urquart’s face was as pale as the ice. The man was muttering to himself and his body was racked by violent shuddering; his eyes were firmly shut. Perhaps it was the nature of the light, but on his knees Urquart looked impossibly small, as if the fire had melted him. Arflane touched his shoulder, astounded by this change in a man whom he regarded as the soul of courage and self-control.
‘Urquart? Are you ill?’
The lids opened, revealing prominent whites and rolling orbs. The savage features, scarred by wind, snow, and frostbite, twitched.
To Arflane the display was almost a betrayal; he had looked to Urquart as his model. He reached out and grasped the man’s broad shoulders, shaking him ferociously. ‘Urquart! Come on, man! Pull yourself out of this!’
The eyes fell shut and the strange muttering continued; Arflane furiously smacked the harpooner across the face with the back of his hand. ‘Urquart!
Urquart flinched at the blow but did nothing; then he flung himself face forward on the deck, spreadeagled as if in cringing obeisance to the fire. Arflane turned, wondering why so many emotions in him should be disturbed. He strode rapidly back to the bridge, saying nothing to Manfred Rorsefne as he rejoined him. Men were coming out on deck now; they looked both frightened and fascinated as they recognized the sourc
e of the light and the stink.
Arflane raised the megaphone to his lips.
‘Back to your berths, lads. We’re sailing well away from the mountains and we’ll be through them by dawn. Back below. I want you fresh for your duties in the morning.’
Reluctantly, muttering among themselves, the sailors began to drift back below decks. As the last little knot of men climbed the companionway to their quarters, Janek Ulsenn emerged from below the bridge. He glanced quickly at Arflane and then moved along the deck to stand by the mizzen mast. Petchnyoff came out a few seconds later and also began to make his way towards the mizzen. Arflane bawled at him through the megaphone.
‘To your berth, Mr Petchnyoff! It’s not your turn on watch. The passengers can do what they want - but you’ve your duty to remember.’
Petchnyoff paused, then glared at Arflane defiantly. Arflane motioned with the megaphone. ‘We don’t need your help, thanks. Get back to your cabin.’
Petchnyoff now turned towards Ulsenn, as if expecting orders. Ulsenn signed with his hand and in poor grace Petchnyoff went back below. Shortly afterwards Ulsenn followed him. Arflane reflected that they were probably nursing their imagined wrongs together, but as long as there were no more incidents to affect the voyage he did not care what the two men said to each other.
A little while later he ordered the watch changed and gave orders to the new look-outs to keep a special eye open for any sign of an ice break or the steam that would indicate one of the small warm lakes fed by underground geysers that would doubtless occur in this region. That done, he decided to get some sleep himself. Hinsen had been roused well before his turn on watch was due to begin, so Manfred Rorsefne agreed to share the morning watch with him.
Before he opened the door of his cabin, Arflane glanced back along the deck. The red, shadowy light played over Urquart’s still prone figure as if in a victory dance. Arflane rubbed at his beard, hesitated, then went into his cabin and closed the door firmly behind him. He stripped off his coat and laid it on the lid of his chest, then went to the water barrel in one corner and poured water into a bowl, washing himself clean of the sweat and dust that covered him. The image of Urquart preyed on his mind; he could not understand why the man should be so affected by the fire mountains. Naturally, since fire was their ancient enemy, they were all disturbed by it, but Urquart’s fear was hysterical.
Arflane drew off his boots and leggings and washed the rest of his body. Then he lay down on the wide bunk, finding it difficult to sleep. Finally he fell into a fitful doze, rising as soon as the cook knocked on the door with his breakfast. He ate little, washed again and dressed, then went out on deck, noticing at once that Urquart was no longer there.
The morning was overcast and in the distance the fire mountains could still be seen; in the daylight they did not look so alarming. He saw that the sails had been blackened by the smoke and that the whole deck was smothered in a light, clinging grey ash.
The ship was moving slowly, the runners hampered by the ash that also covered the ice for miles around, but the fire mountains were well behind them. Arflane dragged his body up to the bridge, feeling tired and ill. The men on deck and in the yards were also moving with apparent lethargy. Doubtless they were all suffering from the effects of the fumes they had inhaled the night before.
Petchnyoff met him on the bridge. The first officer was taking his turn on watch and made no attempt to greet him; Arflane ignored him, went into the wheelhouse, and took a megaphone from the wall. He returned to the bridge and called to the bosun, who was on duty on the middle deck. ‘Let’s get this craft shipshape, bosun. I want this filth cleaned off every surface and every inch of sail as soon as you like.’
Fydur acknowledged Arflane’s order with a movement of his hand. ‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘You’d better get the grappling anchors over the side,’ Arflane continued. ‘We’ll rest in our lines for today while she’s cleaned. There must be warm ponds somewhere.
We’ll send out a party to find them and bring us back some seal meat.’
Fydur brightened up at the prospect of fresh meat. ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ he said emphatically.
Since they had been becalmed Fydur seemed to have avoided the company of Ulsenn and Petchnyoff, and Arflane was sure the bosun was no longer in league with them.
At Fydur’s instructions the sails were taken in and the grappling anchors heaved over the side so that their sharp barbs dug into the ice, gradually slowing the ship to a stop. Then a party of mooring hands was sent over to drive in the pegs and secure the Ice Spirit until she was ready to sail.
As soon as the men were working on cleaning the schooner and volunteers had been called to form an expedition to look for the warm ponds and the seals that would inevitably be there, Arflane went below and knocked on the door of Urquart’s small cabin. There was a stirring sound and a heavy thump from within, but no reply.
‘Urquart,’ Arflane said hesitantly. ‘May I enter? It’s Arflane.’
Another noise from the cabin and the door was flung open, revealing Urquart standing, glaring. The harpooner was stripped to the waist. His long, sinewy arms were covered in tiny tattoos and his muscled torso seemed to be a mass of white scars. But it was the fresh wound across his upper arm that Arflane noticed. He frowned and pointed to it.
‘How did this happen?’
Urquart grunted and stepped backwards into the crowded cabin that was little bigger than a cupboard. His chest of belongings filled one bulkhead and the other was occupied by the bunk. Furs were scattered over the bunk and on the floor. Urquart’s harpoon stood against the opposite bulkhead, dominating the tiny cabin. A knife lay on top of the chest and beside it was a bowl of blood.
Then Arflane realized the truth, that Urquart had been letting his blood for the Ice Mother. It was a custom that had almost died out in recent generations. When a man had blasphemed or otherwise offended the Ice Mother, he let his blood and poured it into the ice, giving the deity some of his warmth and life. Arflane wondered what particular blasphemy Urquart felt he had committed; though doubtless it was something to do with his hysteria of the previous night.
Arflane nodded enquiringly at the bowl. Urquart shrugged. He seemed to have regained his composure.
Arflane leaned against the bunk. ‘What happened last night?’ he asked as casually as he could. ‘Did you offend against the Mother?’
Urquart turned his back and began to pull on his matted furs. ‘I was weak,’ he grunted. ‘I lay down in fear of the enemy.’
‘It offered us no harm,’ Arflane told him.
‘I know the harm it offered,’ Urquart said. ‘I have done what I think I should do. I hope it is enough.’ He tied the thongs of his coat and went to the porthole, opening it; then he picked up the bowl and flung the blood through the opening to the ice beyond.
Closing the porthole, he threw the bowl back on top of the chest, crossed to grasp his harpoon and then paused, his face as rigid as ever, waiting for Arflane to let him pass.
Arflane remained where he was.
‘I ask only in a spirit of comradeship, Urquart,’ he said. ‘If you could tell me about last night . . .’
‘You should know,’ Urquart growled. ‘You are Her chosen one, not I.’ The harpooner was referring to the Ice Mother, but Arflane was still puzzled. However, it was evident that Urquart did not intend to say anything more.
Arflane turned and walked into the gangway. Urquart followed him, stooping a little to avoid striking his head on the beams. They went out on deck. Urquart strode forward without a word and began to climb the rigging of the foremast. Arflane watched him until he reached the upper yards, his harpoon still cradled in his arm, to hang in the rigging and stare back at the fire mountains that were now so far away.
Arflane gestured impatiently, feeling offended at the other’s surliness, and went back to the bridge.
By evening the ship had been cleaned of every sign of the ash that had fouled her, but the hunting par
ty had not returned. Arflane wished that he had given them more explicit instructions and told them to return before dusk, but he had not expected any difficulty locating a pond. They had taken a small sailboat and should have made good speed; now the Ice Spirit would have to wait until they returned and it was unlikely that they would travel at night, which meant that the next morning would doubtless be wasted as well. Arflane was to take the middle watch again and would need to be on duty at midnight. He decided, as the watch rang the four bells terminating the first dog watch, that he would try to sleep to catch up on the rest he had been unable to get the previous night.
The evening was quiet as he took one quick tour around the deck before going to his cabin. There were a few muffled sounds of men working, a little subdued conversation, but nothing to disturb the air of peace about the ship.
Arflane glanced up as he reached the foredeck. Urquart was still there, hanging as if frozen in the rigging. It was more difficult to understand the strange harpooner than Arflane had thought. Now he was too tired to bother. He walked back towards the bridge and entered his cabin. He was soon asleep.
16 The Attack
Automatically, Arflane awoke as seven bells were struck above, giving him half an hour before his spell on watch. He washed and dressed and prepared to leave his cabin by the outer door; then a knock came on the door that opened on the gangway between decks.
‘Enter,’ he said brusquely.
The handle turned and Ulrica Ulsenn stood facing him. Her face was slightly flushed but she looked at him squarely. He began to smile, opening his arms to take her, but she shook her head as she closed the door behind her.
‘My husband is planning - with Petchnyoff - to -murder you, Konrad.’ She pressed her hand against her forehead. ‘I overheard him talking with Petchnyoff in his cabin. Their idea is to kill you and bury your body in the ice tonight.’
She looked at him steadily. ‘I came to tell you,’ she said, almost defiantly.
Arflane folded his arms across his chest and smiled. ‘Thanks. Petchnyoff knows it’s my turn on watch soon. They’ll doubtless try to do it when I’m taking my tour around the deck. I wondered if they had that in mind. Well . . .’ He went over to his chest, took out the belt that held his scabbarded flenching cutlass, and buckled it on. ‘Perhaps this will end it, at last.’
The Complete Ice Schooner Page 15
