Alan Foster - The Icerigger Trilogy

“We are most honored, noble sir and lady, that you have found time to inspect our poor—”

“Skip the flattery and formal self-deprecation,” smiled Ethan. He’d almost perfected the technique of smiling without revealing his teeth. “We just want to have a casual look around.”

Mulvakken was all business when it came to explaining the operation of the foundry. He even managed to get Colette interested. Ethan was impressed by the tran’s efficiency and knowledge. He’d make a fine district supervisor for a major mine.

While he preferred talking about finished products, he had to admit the foundry was fascinating.

In order to get close to the heat vents and geysers within the mountain, tran workers were first doused with ice water. Moving their arms and legs to keep the joints free, they soon wore jackets of transparent armor on torsos, arms, and legs. It gave Ethan the shivers just to watch it.

It was strange to see someone donning special outfits to retain the cold. Everything backwards. “Where are your mines?” he asked Mulvakken. “At the west end of the island, sir. Some of our shafts and tunnelings extend out even under the ice.”

“Don’t you have trouble digging into this super-permafrost?”

“Oh no, sir. The deeper we go, the softer it gets. And the miners are out of the wind. But the pika-pina is rooted in that end of the island. Cutting through the roots is worse than trying to cut through rock. Usually we just remove the dirt and work around the roots themselves. The ice is easily melted and the water removed… Sometimes we can cut through an old or weakened root here, a dying linkage there. But it is so entwined and grown upon itself that ’tis near impossible to separate one bit from another.

“Nor would we want to kill it. The pika-pina gives us food, while the metal gives us wealth.”

“An attack on that end of the island by an enemy would capture the mines, then,” said Ethan unnecessarily.

“Oh yes! But a lump of iron ore is a poor weapon, noble sir. Even were an enemy so inclined, and knowledgeable enough to work the mines, he could not with us continually harassing him. We’re well protected here in the mountains, sir, even better than the city folk.”

“Oh, I don’t know. This western slope doesn’t look so bad.”

“Perhaps not for you, sir. But I have heard you are built differently from us and that climbing uphill without wind aid does not give you as much difficulty.”

That was probably true, Ethan reflected.

He was examining the huge windmills that powered lathes and grindstones and brought air to the forges when he felt Colette’s hand on his arm.

“Oh look. There’s professor Williams.” She’d taken to calling him “professor” Williams now, though they didn’t know exactly what level of upper school he taught. He’d not volunteered the information. Sometime Ethan would have to ask.

The schoolmaster was seated at a table along with the ever-attending Eer-Meesach. Both were so engrossed in a pile of diagrams that they didn’t notice the arrivals until Ethan and Colette had stood behind them for several minutes.

“I’ll leave you, noble sir and lady, to the company of the wizards. I have much work to do. Tis sure no one knows how to put a decent edge on a sword these days.” Mulvakken gave them a bloodthirsty grin and bowed politely.

In other words, Ethan reflected wryly, I’ve wasted enough time showing you alien V.I.P.s around and it’s time I got back to some serious work. He waddled off in the direction of smoke, heat, and ringing noises.

“Well, Milliken. Eer-Meesach.”

“Greetings, sir and madame,” the wizard said with sprightly enthusiasm. His eyes were shining. “Your friend has been showing me many things. Great things. I haven’t been so excited since I was a famulus!”

“What have you been up to, Milliken?”

“Malmeevyn has been helping me with mechanical equivalents and local terminology. I’m not much of a fighter and thought I might be able to help some other way.”

“Nor am I,” said Ethan sincerely.

“Oh, but we all saw the way you handled Sir Hunnar that night.” He couldn’t keep the admiration out of his voice. “Even Mr. du Kane is a better fighter than I… But I did think I might be able to aid in other ways. I’ve read quite extensively, you know. I’ve been trying to help out the Wannomian armorers with an idea or two gleaned from terran and centaurian history. My first idea involved catapults, but both sides already understand and utilize the principle. Very powerful devices they have, too.”

“They’d have to be,” Ethan commented, “to do much in this wind.”

“Yes. Also swords, pikes, axes, lances, halberds—all kinds of things for cutting and stabbing. Spears and bows for throwing. But I’ve been working closely with Malmeevyn and the metal workers and I believe we’ve managed to come up with a couple of beneficial developments.”

He reached under the table and brought out an object the like of which Ethan had never seen.

It had a long, straight body of wood, with a short bow set on one end. There was also an obvious trigger and some sort of pulley and crank mechanism at the other end.

“Very interesting,” said Ethan, conscious of his historical cretinism. “What is it?”

“An ancient terran weapon. It’s called an arbalest, or crossbow.”

“A marvelous invention!” shouted the wizard, unable to contain himself. “I showed it to Leuva Sukonin’s son, a knight of archers. When I outdistanced his best bowman he fell on the icepath and nearly slid all the way into town!” The wizard chuckled at the memory.

“It can throw twenty to forty zuvits further than the finest archer,” Williams said, “and it’s more accurate and powerful besides. It cannot be loaded as fast, it’s true. But it will penetrate the thickest of leather-bronze shields at close range. I made the bows extremely tough. I think this version is more powerful than anything ever used on old Terra. These tran have truly awesome arm and shoulder muscles… from holding their dan against the wind, I suspect.”

Ethan hefted the weapon uncertainly. He tried the crank but could hardly budge it. “It’s impressive, all right. I don’t suppose you’ve succeeded in coming up with maybe a pocket laser or a nice portable thermonuclear device, hmmm? It would make things a lot simpler.”

“I’m afraid not” Williams smiled slightly. “But we are still working on other developments. I hope one or two will be ready in time to do some good.”

“That’s right” muttered Ethan, “—time.”

“No one’s said anything to me about time either,” protested Colette. “When is this Horde or monster or whatever due to arrive?”

“No one knows, Colette. It could be several malets yet. Or they might be sighted tomorrow morning. Hunnar says they might even decide to pass Sofold completely for another year. I can’t tell whether that possibility pleases or disappoints him. Now let’s have another look at that chap who does the interesting marketable scrollwork on the sword-hilts…”

In the weeks that followed Ethan got to know the people of Wannome as well as those of New Paris, Drallar, or Samstead. Preparations for battle continued apace, but the flow of commerce in the harbor never slackened. There was still no word of the Horde.

One evening he wondered if the whole story of the Horde mightn’t be a gigantic fraud—a cleverly concocted story designed to keep these useful and interesting strangers from the sky in Sofold. He quickly discarded that as a thought not only unworthy of people like Hunnar and Balavere and Malmeevyn, but also illogical. Although he wouldn’t put it past the Landgrave.

No, there’d been too much obvious passion displayed that night when the inhabitants of Sofold had determined to fight their tormentors instead of groveling to them—too spontaneous, too genuine, even in its alien setting, to be a mere dumb show created for such ignoble purpose.