Alan Foster - The Icerigger Trilogy

“About time,” she grumbled. “Damned inefficient.”

“Might be a hunting party,” September added cheerfully.

“Natives!” blurted Williams excitedly. “How marvelous! I must try to note as much as possible. My students will be fascinated.” He seemed utterly oblivious to the fact that he might be some other student’s main course before the day was out.

“Do you think they’ll be friendly?” asked du Kane hesitantly.

“Not much we can do if they’re not,” said Colette coldly.

“Might even be cannibals,” added September, apparently determined to lighten the atmosphere. “Lad, you’ve had the tapes, you do the talkin’. I’ll stand to your right and try to look friendly. Williams, you take his left, since you had a tape too.”

“If the dialect isn’t too thick, I should be able to understand them pretty good, too,” piped Walther.

“I assumed that,” September replied. “You stay in the back and keep your mouth shut.”

“I couldn’t try anything,” said the little man, hurt. “You all understand as much as I.”

“It’s not your language that worries me, it’s your ravishing appearance. It’s sufficiently distorted to frighten even a well-balanced primitive. I’d rather show a little surface symmetry until we know them better. They might be skittish. We can’t take a chance on frightening away potential help.”

Walther grumbled but couldn’t find an argument to counter with.

September turned to the du Kanes. “With all due respect, neither of you understands the language. So you stay behind us, too.” That seemed to suit the two cosmopolitan travelers quite well.

“Everyone knows his or her place, then? Good!” He turned to Ethan. “All right, young feller-me-lad, it’s yours.”

Ethan put a hand on the door latch, spoke to September.

“Know any good opening lines for interspecies contact? They’ve probably never seen a human being before.”

“No but hum a few bars and I’ll wing it.” He chuckled, shoved. “Now get going.”

Fortunately Ethan had already opened the door. The shove might have sent him through it.

SIR HUNNAR REDBEARD SQUINTED hard, but they were still too far away to make out the number of figures standing next to the mass of odd shaping. It truly seemed to be made of metal.

When Eer-Meesach had come running into the Great Hall babbling his hysterical tale of a fiery thing of metal falling from the sky, Hunnar had been one of the skeptical ones.

The wizard had insisted that his telescope told him the outside of the thing was at least coated with solid metal that shone like a dancer’s tiara. And on top of that, he’d insisted he’d seen two creatures emerge from the metal and walk onto the island.

Now he could see it for himself and he momentarily forgot about the creatures. So much metal! If it were as good as steel it would be a valuable prize indeed. They would need every scrap they could gather if the Longax’s plan to contest the Horde were to pass in Council.

It would be crucial to deal correctly with the strange beings. It would also be nice merely to chivan up and lop off a few heads. But not necessarily practical. For one thing, Eer-Meesach would never forgive him. Hunnar made a Sign. He didn’t want his bed turned into a rollicking Gutorrbyn in the midst of a mating.

Also, any beings who could make that much metal stay up in the sky might be able to do unpleasant things to a person. No doubt they knew the value of their metal.

One thought had troubled him all the way out from Wannome. Could they be gods? Gray-maned, omnipotent, immortal gods? It could not yet be ruled out.

However, the wizard’s description of the way in which their craft had descended implied lack of control by infallible immortals. Rather it sounded more like cubs caught on a runaway sled.

But he would reserve his final judgment until after viewing. That would please his teachers.

But so much metal!

He stared at the fallen thing. One fact seemed certain. Whatever they were, their eyesight seemed as good as his own. A group of them appeared to be assembling just outside the ship—he’d reluctantly come to consider it a vessel of sorts. They were standing on the edge of the island. This in itself was an odd thing to do. But by voluntarily restricting themselves to land, they might be making a friendly gesture. Hunnar had the right idea but the wrong reason.

He grinned ferociously. It might mean that these strangers were afraid to do battle with him. Otherwise they would have come out to meet him.

There were five… no, six of the beings. It looked like only one was built along warrior lines. Better and better.

“Suaxus!” he shouted to his first lieutenant, “break left! Vasen, Smjör, with him!” He turned, eating air. “Budjir, break right with Avyeh and Hivell!”

The nine tran immediately split into three groups. They would make a three-pronged approach. Not only was it a sensible precaution, it should also impress their visitors. He’d given Suaxus the left and slightly less wind. The squire was impatient and something of a problem, but basically one of the soundest in training.

And you, Hunnar? Whose grandfather are you, eh? Maturity, he reminded himself, was not necessarily a function of age.

He signaled. On one side of the arrowhead formation, three tran abruptly dropped their left arms. The tough membrane that stretched from wrist to hip folded and the three soldiers leaned slightly to the left. The wind pushed hard and steady into the right wing as three sets of claw-blades dug hard into the ice. The squire and two soldiers made a neat sixty-degree turn to port. Budjir and his men duplicated the maneuver to starboard.

They were getting close already and Hunnar wondered if he’d delayed too long.

“Hafel down!” he ordered his companions. They all lowered their arms and cut speed. It wouldn’t do for them to reach their objective in advance of their flanking companions. Certainly Eer-Meesach and possibly the Landgrave himself were watching from the wizard’s tower. This was no time for sloppiness.

“And be careful when you brake!” he added. Greeting their visitors with a shower of sharp ice-chips would not be facile diplomacy either.

His lance felt light in his right paw. They were almost on top of the strangers, who’d made nothing resembling a hostile move. They were pink-faced and seemed a surprisingly light color, except for one who was a dark brown. While their color varied from individual to individual, by and large it was like that of a fresh-born cub.

He saw Suaxus approaching rapidly from the left and let out his own wings a little more. Budjir would notice the speed-up and match pace perfectly. Looking ahead to the strangers, Hunnar could not make out a single sword, axe, lance, even a knife. Of course, he reminded himself, there could be fifty others armed to the teeth hiding within the metal bottle.

Still, if they wanted to fight they’d have to move from land to ice, and Hunnar had both wind and sun behind him. Let them try something! These first six, at least, would go down like a herd of mewing hoppers.

Be careful, idiot! You’re not thinking diplomatically again. Then the time for daydreaming was past.

“Up lances!” he commanded loudly, “and brake in!”

Suaxus and Budjir arrived almost simultaneously. Neatly done, he complimented himself. Anyone in the castle observing the maneuver couldn’t be anything but pleased.

Hunnar and his men raised their weapons to the perpendicular, turned slightly left, and dug in. Torn free by the sharp claws of the tran soldiers, a shower of ice fragments flew in a glittering cascade to the left. They missed the aliens completely. A couple of them flinched, but the ones in front held proper ground.