The Icerigger Trilogy: Icerigger, Mission to Moulokin, and The Deluge Drivers by Alan Dean Foster
He leaned out, sticking his face into the wind again, and waved back at Hunnar. The knight would steer while he and September managed the sail.
The latch-piece that held the skate-boat to the lower cross-spar was a simple wooden pull. It was set into a pole which was based in the floor of the skate and the bottom of the spar. He noticed with satisfaction that it had been well greased. There would be no last-minute frantic tugging. The sail was harder to work, with only the single rope to keep it steady.
Two sailors from the big raft were on the tree-lance itself. They raised the lightning’s own sail in unison with the sail on the raft. Both began moving together. Somehow the two sailors kept their balance in the wind until the pure white lance-sail was up. They moved carefully to the sharpened end of the log, jumped free, and chivaned up to the raft where ready hands pulled them in. Since both raft and tow-raft were now moving at appreciable speeds, it was a delicate bit of work.
The sailors and soldiers on the raft carried pikes and bows, more for their psychological value than out of any expectation of usefulness. It wouldn’t do for a tran to go into battle weaponless. Not even if his only task was to watch and pray.
On the other hand, Ethan didn’t feel the need for even a very small dagger. Despite Hunnar’s expositions, he had only the vaguest idea what to expect. They were going to strike the stavanzer broadside. Hunnar would aim for the head. At his signal, a loud, sharp whistle, they would each release their skate-boats and shear off, to be picked up by the trailing, waiting rafts.
That was the theory.
Despite the obvious danger, Ethan couldn’t contain a certain perverse curiosity. He wanted very much to see what sort of land animal could take the wind-driven impact of a twenty-meter sharpened tree that weighed maybe half a ton without being killed outright. There was a certain wealthy collector of rare animals on Plutarch who might conceivably …
But, he reminded himself, they would break off long before that. His only glimpse of the thing would probably be brief and distant.
Still, stavanzers did die, Hunnar had informed them. Of what? Old age? How long did the virtually indestructable thunder-eaters live?
There was a jerk and he looked up. The raft had cast them loose and was already swinging south to get out of their path. The other two lances had cast off seconds earlier and were speeding down the unyielding sea ahead of them. He squinted through his goggles, isolated in a world of ice, wind, and wood.
Ahead, a green blur gradually took form and substance, grew larger. Their speed continued to increase as they ran wildly before the wind. Now he could make out the size of the pika-pedan compared to its pygmy cousin. His breath froze in his throat then. It wasn’t from the cold.
There was something moving on the outer edge of the green. Then he saw the thunder-eater, and was afraid.
The Great Old One was over a hundred meters long—a gigantic slate-gray mountain that heaved and pulsed like a great slug on the clean ice. Its back and sides were studded with grotesque ridges and spines, a bizarre living topography.
There were no legs, no arms, no visible limbs of any sort. The belly of that awesome bulk was a horny pad thicker than the skin of a starship, as tough, and worn smooth as glass. A mouth as wide as a driveship dock inhaled air which was expelled through two lifeboat-sized valves near the tail, moving it like a squid.
It moved slowly now. But Hunnar had told them tales of stampedes, like steel-gray storms. A herd would strike a small island and leave nothing but a greenish-brown stain against the ice.
He shrank. He was a dog—no, an ant—attacking a whale. Only this was bigger than the biggest whale that ever was. It expanded in all directions, all dimensions, like a tridee projection.
From the side of the biblical behemoth projected a tiny splinter of wood. It leaked crimson. One of the lightnings had struck home, then.
He couldn’t find any sign of the other and assumed it had missed. He was wrong. Later, a searching raft found part of the mast. That was all they ever found of raft and crew.
Somewhere, distantly, there was a shout, a whistle. Then a blackness grew ahead of him. Something dark as space at the Rim, gaping like a cave. A monstrous ebony cavern, two colossal stalactites of white hanging from the roof. Tons of vegetable matter vanished into that yawning abyss every day.
It was turning toward them, to the north. The wrong way. And they would miss.
Another, more distant, whistle sounded. The eager wind bit at it, tore it away. The latch rested tightly in both hands, sail forgotten now. Hunnar and September had cast free. But if he waited just a little longer, put a little more weight on the outside of the skate …
He stood. Bracing against the wind and the side of the skate, he leaned out over the ice, to his left. The huge lance began to shift, slowly, agonizingly, centimeters at a time, to port. Ethan leaned hard into the side, straining for just another millimeter of drift. Protesting wood shifted from its original course.
The black chasm grew until it blotted out ice, pika-pedan, sky. A dark hole swallowing the universe. It was opening and closing with a mechanical, slow-motion intensity, a ponderous cyclopean bellows. Above the wind came a dull roaring, like a dying stardrive. Eating air and excreting thunder, the stavanzer was moving.
Crosslatch … pull … whistle … get round … left … left … no, port-left … left-port? …!
The blood on his lower lip was beginning to freeze. Suddenly something or someone—he wasn’t sure it was he—jerked convulsively at the latch. The tiny skate-boat heeled far over on its side, almost touching the ice. He had to scramble to keep from falling out. Almost calmly he saw that he’d delayed too long. He would not clear the creature.
He would not clear the mouth.
It would be open when he reached it, he knew instinctively. A prayer would have been appropriate but what he mumbled instead was, “Move over, Jonah. Here I come.”
Then, startlingly, he missed, was past. He glimpsed an eye bigger than the whole skate-boat shooting past at blinding speed, black pupil like an onyx mirror reflecting his numbed stare. He was speeding past endless acres of roiling, heaving gray flesh.
The stavanzer’s mouth was enormous. The throat itself was not. Moving at nearly two hundred kph, the half-ton lance struck the back of that gaping maw. Several seconds passed while the impact traveled down miles of neurons. A shudder passed through the gargantuan bulk. The thunder-eater heaved the upper half of its body off the ice, an Everest of dimly felt agony. It dropped with a force that snapped Ethan’s speeding skate-boat off the ice like a coin on a taut blanket.
He sailed past an alien gray landscape, a vast confusion of ice and cold sky. Night came hard.
VIII
HE REMEMBERED VANILLA WAFERS. Then he opened his eyes and saw a familiar fur-framed face with a unique nose. September was staring at him anxiously. Other memories flooded in and he sighed. Likely there wasn’t a vanilla wafer within half a dozen parsecs of where he lay.
Where he lay was in his bed in his room in Wannome Castle. He tried to sit up and was made aware of a fascinating phenomenon. Every square centimeter of his body was putting in an impolite claim for attention.
“I,” he announced slowly, falling back onto the fur blanket someone had bunched beneath his head, “hurt. All over.”
“Not surprising, young feller-me-lad,” said September, the concern vanishing from his face. “But other than that, how are you feeling?”
Ethan chuckled. It was mentally satisfying, but it also compelled certain sections of self to protest violently. He followed the ensuing silence with a question of characteristic wit, scintillating brilliance.
“What happened?”
“Why didn’t you let go your latch when Hunnar gave the signal?” the big man asked instead of answering.
Ethan thought, remembered. “We would have missed. It was turning the wrong way and we would have missed. Shot right past …” He tried to rise again. September put a hand on his chest and gent
‘That particular beastie is no longer a problem. Lord, what a sight! I’ve seen a lot of big and biggests, lad, but that hunk of ugly meat tops them all. Couldn’t believe how fast something that big can move.”
“Hunnar told me, before.”
“I thought we’d seen the last of you for sure when you didn’t let loose with the rest of us,” September continued. “Gone forever down that unholy gullet. Oh, by the way, you turned it fair and proper. Took off southward with a roar you wouldn’t believe. Near to shake a man’s skin off, what? Though how it could even move with that log down its pipe I don’t know. Tough? Oh my, yes!”
“I don’t mean what happened to it. What about me?”
“Oh, you? Well, I didn’t see much myself, being a-scooting fast in the opposite direction. But there was a well-positioned lookout in the front-running raft. Said when the thing rose off the ice … unheard of thing to do … and whacked down, it tossed you into the air like a ballooning spider.
“You came down on the other side of the beast in the high pedan. That and the padding in the boat probably saved you. After contact, though, it was every chip and splinter for itself. If you’d landed on bare ice I expect we’d still be scraping up pieces of you. As it developed, you should have seen how much wood they pulled out of your skin. Good thing those survival parkas are tough. How you got out without busting anything, let alone everything, I’ll wonder over til my last days. You took a powerful sock in the head.”
“I feel tolerable now,” he lied. “How long have I been out?”
September grinned. “Off and on, about a week.”
“A wee—!”
“ ’Twas a near thing, I don’t mind telling you, lad,” he said solemnly. Then, more cheerfully, “Sure didn’t hurt our standing with these folk, though. I expect they consider you the greatest thing to come along since warm.” He scratched at his pants. “But it’s just as well you’re up … if not exactly about. It seems it’s time.”
If they’d just take the anvil off his head he’d feel almost decent.
“Time? What time?”
September slapped his head with a blow that would have taken an ordinary man’s head off.
“Idiot! Forgot you couldn’t understand anything while you were mumbling. Mumbled some weird things, too, you did. The Horde’s coming, of course. Captain from someplace called Yermi-yin pulled into the harbor yesterday on his way to somewhere unpronounceable. Stayed just long enough to give the Landgrave the word before skimming out again. Poor fella was as white as the ice. He headed due south and didn’t seem inclined to change course even when we told him he might run into a mad stavanzer. Alien or no, anyone could see he was plenty scared.”
Ethan determinedly heaved himself up on his elbows and found that without warning the room had gone triplicate … just like everything at the home office.
“Then I’ve got … to get ready. We’re going to fight, too …”
Again September eased him down into the mattress.
“You just lie there … alone, I’m afraid … and take it easy, young feller. They’re at least a week’s fast sail away. So there’s no need to run around screeching and squawking like a plucked poonu. Hunnar and Balavere are organizing the militia. The populace is storing grain, pika-pina, vol, and suchlike like crazy, for a siege. Everyone is doing what they’re supposed to. You’re supposed to rest.”
“Can they really stand a siege, Skua?”
September looked thoughtful. “Hunnar seems to think so. Says the enemy’s sure to crack mentally before the Sofoldians run out of anything vital. The general agrees with him, though he’s not as vocal about it. Crafty old bird … They’re even stockpiling firewood … although with those natural fur coats they’ve got they can do without it. Yes, when you start stockpiling luxuries I’d say that indicates a certain modicum of confidence … No, I don’t think there’ll be much of a siege. Just one double-helluva fight.”
“Hunnar seemed sure he could beat them.”
“According to that captain,” September mused, “they cover the ice from one end of the horizon to the other. I’ve been talking tactics with the general staff. I think I’ve made a few points. Frankly, any change in normal procedure ought to confuse that bunch. If this Sagyanak’s as stubborn as some of Sofold’s best, then we shouldn’t expect much new from the Horde … But it’s a new situation for the Sofoldians. They’re willing to try new ideas. Just takes a little subtle convincing, a bit of reasonable explanation. Also, Balavere threatened to crack a few heads … If I were in the spot they’re in, I’d be willing to experiment too. Wouldn’t you, me lad?”
“We are in their place,” replied Ethan quietly. September grunted.
The battle armor was clumsy and too large, but Hunnar had insisted Ethan wear it. The leather leggings jolted and pulled at each step and the bronze breastplate was an unrelenting drag at his chest.
He’d absolutely refused one of the flaring, ornate helmets, though. Even a child’s size wouldn’t have fit well. His head would ring around inside like a clapper in a bell. While it wasn’t designed for fighting, the parka at least wasn’t a burden.
The wind whistled around him. He walked back over to where Hunnar and September stood together at the edge of the High Tower. September was pointing into the distance.
They might have had a better and clearer view from the wizard’s telescope. But then they would see only one thing at a time. Besides, the learned miasma of the wizard’s chambers palled after a while, along with the very real one from aromatic chemicals and half-vivisected animals.
According to their long-since-departed informant, the Horde would appear out of the northeast. But for now there was only the invisible thread that divided cold-ice land from ice-cold sky.
“No sign of them, Hunnar?”
The knight paused in conversation with the big man and looked down at Ethan. “Your eyesight ’tis good as my own, Sir Ethan. Yet I do detect naught of the assembled swine.”
“Could they be circling to take you from the rear?” asked September. He scratched at a persistent itch with the edge of a big double-bladed sword.
Hunnar dropped a deprecating hand.
“No. They might try such a maneuver later, to annoy us if for naught else. But Sagyanak is unlike many barbarians. Nothing will be done without purpose … or so we are told. Still, any nomad is unpredictable.”
“Like you,” suggested Ethan.
“Perhaps, like me,” the knight replied, not upset by the comparison. “As I said, all it would accomplish would be to anger us—hardly a sound motive. No, they’ll parade up to the gates and make a fine show of themselves. They’ve no reason to think we’d be so foolish as to offer resistance.” He grinned wolfishly.
“What a surprise the Death is going to get! Perhaps the Scourge will rave and rant enough to burst a skull-side blood vessel. That would spare us the necessity of a formal execution.”
“Ah, there,” said September. “Isn’t that a sail? Or have I been dipping too deep into the reedle again?”
No, certainly that was a spot of blue far, far out on the ice. It grew, was joined by others of different size and shape and color. Every imaginable shade was represented in the concatenation of sails. Soon the far ice was a rainbow of barbaric coloring: magenta, umber, jet, crimson—there was a lot of crimson and other reds—azure, carnelian, sard …
Some of the sails were dyed in swatches of random color. Others boasted intricately designed motifs and mosaics. Some were woven, others painted—all of a bloodcurdling nature.
A few sported railings decorated with dull white trannish skulls.
They didn’t cover the ice as the captain had warned. But they filled a disconcerting portion of it.
“Must be nearly a thousand rafts out there,” murmured September. But the big man’s nonchalance fooled no one. Even he was a little awed.
“More than we expected,” Hunnar admitted. “Yet it only makes me gladder, f
Beating into the wind, the nomad fleet moved closer. One by one they took up position along four-deep lines. One by one the sails came down and ice anchors went out.
“Settling in for a relaxing stay,” September said.
Even at this distance, Ethan thought he could detect some rafts that were crowded with livestock, others with crates and supplies. It was a mobile city.
Soon all the sails were furled but one, which belonged to a small, rakishly set little raft. It lay alongside a huge ship with a double-storied, garishly painted central cabin. The small raft broke off and skimmed slowly for the harbor gate.
Ethan could make out toy figures straining at the mechanism that raised the obstructing nets and the Great Chain barrier.
“Parley raft,” said Hunnar with satisfaction. “The Landgrave and members of the Council should be preparing to receive it. Let’s go.”
They followed him down the winding stairs into the castle proper.
“This will be something to tell one’s grandcubs,” he said back over a shoulder.
They were not part of the official greeting committee. Also, it had been decided that it would be better if the Horde did not have a look at the humans until it could upset them the most. Let them think then, as some of the Sofoldians still did, that the aliens were gods or daemons, not just skinny tran with severe haircuts.
The musicians’ balcony was deserted and gave them an excellent view of the Great Hall. Down below, the Landgrave waited on his throne. This time he was dressed not in comfortable silks but in bronze and leather armor, steel helmet and breastplate. He was an impressive sight, but Ethan had to concede that Balavere or Hunnar or even Brownoak would have carried the royal armor with a good deal more effect.
Elfa, he noticed, was resplendent in armor of her own. No decolletage this time.