The Icerigger Trilogy: Icerigger, Mission to Moulokin, and The Deluge Drivers by Alan Dean Foster
“Don’t fret,” said Ethan cheerily. “It won’t make any difference.”
At least the weather proved predictable. The receding storm held a little longer than the tran had expected, but by mid-morning the same familiar westwind gale had regained sway.
Ethan chatted with Budjir as the squire helped raise a fresh case of crude nails from the hold.
“Quite a storm we had, wasn’t it? How often does it get that bad?”
“Oh, that was a very light storm, sir,” the squire replied, his open peasant face devoid of duplicity. “Tis but bad luck we were caught out on the ice. Soon the real storms will begin.” He walked forward with the case, leaving Ethan thinking cold thoughts.
With the prow of the raft buried in the dead stavanzer and the rear runners holding firm, the Slanderscree was high enough off the ice at the bow for men to work underneath. Nevertheless, timbers and blocks were cut and placed to further reinforce the bow and assure that it would not collapse on the men working below at a sudden shift in the wind. Soon sounds of hammering and sawing, pounding and scraping rose above the gale.
Ta-hoding leaned over the side and grunted his pleasure. “At this rate we may be on our way before another day has passed. That is wondrous metal that your strange skyboat was made of, Sir Ethan. Even steel would have broken and twisted on that impact.”
“There are ways you might obtain more of it, you know,” said Ethan thoughtfully, beginning to enjoy himself. Shop talk! “Also ways to make it into things you need, easily and quickly. You have some things of manufacture that might do well in trade … nothing extraordinary of course … among my people. Your fine woodwork, for example. And such as this coat of hessavar. And other things.”
He looked over to where a group of crewmen were removing—excavating would be a better term—the enormous tusks of the dead stavanzer.
“Those teeth, for another example. What are they used for, anyway? Surely not for defense.”
“Eh?” Ta-hoding had been dividing his attention between Ethan and the repairs. “Oh, naturally not. The stavanzer has no enemies. The avaer are used for digging up the ice to get at the roots and the rich grenloen of the pika-pedan.”
That was simple enough. He had more questions, but they were interrupted by a shout from the mainmast lookout.
“Sail on the horizon!” Then, seconds later, “Many sails!”
“Convoy?” bellowed the captain loud enough to make Ethan wince. There was silence above. Other eyes turned from their work to stare at the basket atop the mast. Below, repairs slowed as the word was passed.
“Too far!” came the eventual answering shout. “But ’tis too many! And the pattern is not right!”
September was just coming on deck. Ethan met him halfway to the stern.
“Company, lad?”
“Looks like it, Skua. Ta-hoding thinks it might be a merchant fleet. The lookout isn’t so sure. I guess you could meet anyone out here.”
The repairs continued, but the metalworkers, carpenters, and supervisors kept throwing uneasy glances at the northeast horizon. They worked a little faster.
Word came up that the starboard runner had been straightened and the bent bolts replaced. The new foremast was already in place and other tran were retying the rigging and setting in new sail. Work was proceeding apace on the broken port runner. Then came a cry from the lookout that stopped everything.
“The Gods mock us! Tis the Horde, the Horde that comes!”
Hunnar uttered a violent oath and launched a vicious kick at the rail. Extended in anger, his chiv cut triple gashes in the wood. He whirled and stalked off to inform Balavere. September was shaking his head.
“Now if that isn’t just the loveliest thing,” he groaned.
“How could they have known to follow us?” cried Ethan. “How?”
“Ah, I’m not at all sure this meeting is by design, young feller. They’ve probably been running, running. Just our bad luck they ran this way. They may think we’re just another big merchant ship … They’ll recognize us when they get close enough, all right.”
“We could take down the banner,” Ethan suggested, “and let Ta-hoding and some of the crew try to bluff it out.”
“Bluff what out? Young feller, you don’t understand. If this were only a two-man raft bound with cargo of firewood for the ol’ homestead, or twice as big as us and loaded with silks and precious metals, they’d still swarm all over it. It may make a difference to Sagyanak that we are who we are, but it won’t to us. Result’ll be the same as if we’d never met them before. We’re still prey. Damnation!”
Soldiers were swarming into the rigging, crossbowmen taking up their posts in the three lookout baskets. Archers stationed themselves along the rail. Tarps were removed from the three small catapults that were useless against gutorrbyn. The complement of the Slanderscree now bent all energy toward preparing an unfriendly welcome for their unwanted visitors.
All except the repair crew, who worked faster than ever.
Hunnar stared across the stern. The rafts were now close enough to count, and he was doing just that.
“Too many. A shred, a short tailing of their former selves, but too many for a single ship, even this one.” He muttered another few choice curses. “If they could fix that venier runner we could outrun them easily!” He noticed Ethan’s inquiring gaze. “No, Sir Ethan. We will never be ready in time. The men will work until they are discovered by those, but they cannot make repairs while under attack. Perhaps …” his voice dropped to a mumble as he glared at the oncoming rafts, “we may even finish her this time, at least.”
Something sounded wrong to Ethan. He found it.
“Her?”
Hunnar looked down at him in surprise. “Why, yes. Did you not know? The Scourge is a woman.”
On board her tattered, shaken grand raft, a shadow of its former magnificence, Sagyanak the Death received the word of her lookouts. Yes, the runners of the oddly formed stalled vessel were truly made of metal the color and sheen of the demons’ sky-boat. And the Sofoldian banner flew from her masthead.
She smiled a half-toothless, ferocious smile.
The young warrior on her right stiffened as she turned to him. “Norsvik, I want as many taken alive as possible, do you hear? Even should it cost a few more of the People. These should be kept as healthy and undamaged as is manageable—so that they may last long.”
“It shall be as you say, Great One.” The warrior bowed and left the room.
Sagyanak placed wrinkled, clawed fingers together and began to stroke the arm of her throne. It was built of the bones of those she had vanquished. Soon she would add another set to the elaborately enscrolled frame. Perhaps even some demon-bones.
She wondered with interest if they would scream as did a normal man. That was a good question for the Mad One.
“They’re leaving the rafts,” said Hunnar, protecting his eyes from the high sun with a paw.
“I’m kind of surprised they don’t try to board us from their own rafts,” admitted Ethan.
“Well, young feller, I’m sure they’ve got their reasons. For one thing,” and he squinted as the wind shoved at his goggles, “none of those rafts look to be in good shape. In addition to what Hunnar’s folk did to ’em, that storm couldn’t have done ’em any good, either … And remember what Hunnar told us about these folk being able to move better on chiv than most rafts.”
The Horde poured onto the ice. They didn’t cover it with their numbers this time, and when, finally, they began to move forward, their yelling and chanting did not deafen. Or maybe they knew who rode the strange craft before them and their relative quiet was indicative not of lack of spirit but of terrible purpose.
They charged without pause. A hail of grappling hooks and scaling ladders hit the sides of the stalled raft. Soon Ethan was swinging his sword with the same lack of expertise but determination he had displayed on the walls of Wannome.
September ran one warrior through the chest, p
Bleeding and torn, they fell to the ice. But their companions didn’t falter. Again the catapults fired and more nomads were knocked unmoving or moaning to the frozen sea.
“It doesn’t frighten them anymore!” Ethan shouted over the confusion.
Several times it seemed certain the barbarians would swarm onto the deck and overwhelm them. Several times the archers and spearmen were forced back from the rail or cut down. Only the constant rain of crossbow bolts from the tran in the masts closed off the breakthroughs, sealed the temporary gaps.
The battle continued all day, the tran and men on the ship fighting off wave after wave of attackers. Only when the ice had begun to devour the sun did they at last give up and retreat.
Not caring who noticed, Ethan sank exhausted to the deck. His sword clattered beside him.
Hunnar headed forward, no doubt to confer with Balavere and compare losses. The general had taken a bad arrow wound in the shoulder but had remained on deck throughout the fight.
September looked subdued and worried as he wiped his broadax.
“No miracles impending here, lad. Unless Williams can turn these sails into posigrav repellers. Shame I don’t believe in magic. To have come this far, have worked this hard … only to end up hamburger in the hands of a bunch of washed-up primitive alien bandits like these …” He shook his head, the great nose dipping and bobbing, and surveyed the corpse-laden deck. “Looks like we’ve lost at least half our complement. I think we’ll have to press a sword on du Kane, and his daughter, too.”
“How badly did we hurt them?” asked Ethan tiredly.
“Bad, young feller, bad. But not nearly bad enough. Tomorrow they’ll be all over us. If they should decide to break down that unrepaired runner or to fire the ship …”
“I’d have thought they’d have tried that already. Wonder why they haven’t?”
“Why, lad, this raft’s the fastest thing short of an air-car on this planet. I’d think she’d want it in one piece, this Sagyanak, if she can get it.” He paused, staring into the distance. “Ah, take a look.”
Ethan scrambled painfully to his feet. A ring of nomads, half of the surviving force, were drawn up in a broad circle around the Slanderscree. The rest were returning to the rafts. Archers at the ready rested near the bow, just out of range of crossbow.
“They’ve seen the busted runner,” said September. “And they’re not about to let us fix it, not by the Horse’s Head, what? Any work party we put over the side will get cut to pieces. Somehow we’re going to have to get that thing fixed so’s we can make a break tomorrow. No way we can stand off another all-day assault. We’re almost out of our pacific schoolmaster’s bombs, too.”
It was a grim group that gathered in the captain’s cabin that night.
“There it stands, sirs,” concluded Hunnar. He’d just repeated, with embellishments, what he’d told Ethan earlier. “As is apparent, our chances of repulsing the vermin’s next attack is, realistically speaking, very low. We have few thunder-packages left, few crossbow bolts, and far too few men. When the bombs and bolts run out, they will have us. We must try to break away. Yet we cannot get a crew safely outside to repair the runner.”
“The starboard runner is completely repaired and repositioned,” added Suaxus-dal-Jagger. “I would say that the other would collapse the moment any pressure is put on it. Truly, we cannot move unless it is fixed.”
The raft’s plan was laid out on the table in front of them. Now Ta-hoding, who’d been listening quietly while studying the schematic, spoke up.
“There is one thing that might be tried, sirs.”
“At this point all suggestions are welcome ones, captain,” said Balavere, holding his shoulder.
Ta-hoding leaned forward and ran a finger over the diagram. “We might chop through the flooring around the central runner brace here, and here. Our craftsmen could then work safely from within the raft. Possibly even part way outside, for the enemy will surely be looking only for men trying to slip over the side.”
“Can the runner be fixed from inside?” asked Ethan.
He was disappointed at Ta-hoding’s negative gesture. The captain continued. “Not very well, nor permanently, no. There is no way to perform the necessary final metalwork. But a temporary hold might be fastened through the bolt-holes with double-thick cable, which could then be lashed and tightened around the interior bracing.”
“Sounds not firm,” mused Balavere. “Would it hold at all?”
Ta-hoding made the tran equivalent of a shrug with his eyes.
“There is no way to predict, noble sir. Such an arrangement could hold fast for days. Or it could snap, as the squire says, the moment pressure is put to it.”
“I’m placing this in your hands, captain. Do you think it will hold?”
Ta-hoding hedged, obviously not fond of being put on the spot. Finally, “I would think for a morning, certainly. The cable should be strong enough to handle that much friction, if it is made very tight and does not work loose too quickly. Yes, I would stake my life, it will hold for a morning-time. I will stake my life to it.”
“A safe wager, captain,” said Hunnar. “If you are wrong there will be none of us about to collect. Can this be made ready by morning?”
“Not if we sit here jabbering all night,” broke in Balavere excitedly. “Captain, see to your men and to your repairs. And mind they proceed quietly. We have no wish to arouse the animals’ curiosity.”
Ta-hoding nodded and departed at as close to a run as Ethan had ever seen him use, the schematic of the ship held tightly in his paws.
“Then sirs, if that is all there is to be decided upon …”
“Your pardon, General, but that is not all,” said September. “Let’s say we make the repair secretly and in time. Let’s say further that this jury-rigged setup of the captain’s actually holds together. We pull free of that meat-mountain and start running into the wind. I assume we can make better time into the wind than they?”
“No question of it,” said Balavere.
“All right then, we show them our fundament and laugh ourselves silly as they disappear astern. What’s to prevent them from following doggedly in our tracks … this thing does leave tracks … and catching up with us as soon as that temporary hitch does fail?”
Balavere thought, hesitated. “We must take that chance. Likely we can lose them. Or, not knowing the precariousness of our situation, they may believe we are beyond overtaking.”
“And they may not,” September countered. He looked around the table. This awkward thought which the big man had raised refused to run away and hide. It demanded an answer, and no one had any.
“I beg your pardon, noble sirs,” said Eer-Meesach from the quiet end of the table. “I am not often involved in matters military, I know, and would prefer to shun this one. But I have had a thought. We may have other allies in this.”
“Don’t talk in riddles, wise one,” admonished Balavere. “I am too tired for games, and my shoulder hurts.”
“Very well. Tis a risk, and a considerable one. But as seems certain, our lives are balanced on the blade of fate as this ship is on those runners. One more risk should not drive us onto it any deeper …”
XII
ONE THING, ETHAN REFLECTED moodily the next morning, was that the wind wakes you quickly on this world. There’s no dawdling in bed. Right now he’d happily sign away a year of his life for a modest comfortese bed, which he would immediately set at roasting level before freezing the controls.
He turned and eyed the bow warily. The sailors had withdrawn to the rear half of the ship. Everyone huddled behind something solid in the pre-dawn chill.
There was a violent explosion. A fountain of ra
At least they’d had the pleasure of rudely waking the entire enemy camp. He took a deep breath, but cut it in the middle. Now that the gigantic carcass was laid open to the air, the smell of internal decay slowly permeated the entire ship despite the untiring efforts of the wind to sweep it away.
There was a cry from the lookout and then everyone was running for the stern.
A small cluster of four … no, five barbarians had broken from the circle and were chivaning slowly toward the motionless Slanderscree, moving in single file. They appeared to be unarmed.
“Parley party,” Hunnar explained laconically. “I do not believe we have anything to discuss with them.”
“I beg to differ, friend Hunnar,” said September. “We’ve as much to say to them as we possibly can think of, and for as long as we can say it without becoming obvious. We can gain time for that work crew. They still may not finish in time, but every minute we can stave off the final attack …” He left the rest unsaid.
One of the nomads was helped—none too gently—over the railing. Balavere and the others clustered around him.
The envoy’s once-magnificent helmet had a bad dent on one side. His leather frontispiece was cut and stained. But he seemed neither tired nor disenchanted, as Ethan had hoped. He spoke directly to Balavere without formal by-play.
“The Scourge would hold converse with those among you who lead. I am Haldur the Talker. I and my three lieutenants will remain here as hostages in bond for those you send.” As he spoke, three more of the nomad party were being helped on deck.
“We agree to the terms,” said Balavere, after a quick conference with Hunnar.
“Suaxus, make one of the noan ready.” The squire moved to do so.
The Slanderscree carried two of the little rafts, or noan, to serve as lifeboats or scout vessels as occasion demanded. Now one was being lowered over the side to serve as transportation for them all—but mainly for the human members of the parley party, who would only slide and slow the others on the ice. Three of the Slanderscree’s crew came along to handle the sail and steering.