Alan Foster - The Icerigger Trilogy

The flickering candles illuminated the map spread before them, but did nothing to lighten their spirits. Balavere, Hunnar, Ethan, and September sat at the table. They were joined by the Landgrave and several other of Sofold’s most important nobles, the latter forming Balavere’s general staff.

One of the nobles was using a long stick of polished wood to indicate crosses and circles on the map, gesturing here and there at the line representing the harbor wall.

“The wall has been nearly breached—here, here, and here. Severe damage to battlements has occurred here, here, here, and here. Wherever you see a sting sign there is minor damage of varying degree. This is not to mention our personnel casualties, nor the damage to the spirit of the men. There is some talk of surrender and throwing the city on the mercy of Sagyanak. It is small as yet, but will surely grow unless something is done.”

“Better to throw oneself on the sword,” said Balavere. “But I understand their talk. Tis intolerable to sit helplessly and watch one’s comrades flattened, unable to fight back.” He shook his great maned head.

“We cannot endure more than another two or perhaps three days of this bombardment before they will have weakened us at so many points that it will become impossible for us to keep them from the harbor. Then it will be all up.”

“So we must keep them out… somehow,” responded Hunnar tightly. “We could never survive an open battle on ice with them. We killed thousands today, but they still outnumber us badly. Do any think otherwise?” he concluded half hopefully.

No one saw fit to dispute this depressing bit of truth.

Finally Balavere gave a sigh and looked up. “Tis a poor leader who does not solicit advice when he himself has naught to offer. Gentlemen?”

One of the nobles spoke up immediately.

“Surely our technology is greater than that of these barbarian primitives! Can we not build ourselves a weapon of equal, if not greater power?”

“In a few malvet, most surely we could, Kellivar, replied Balavere. “But we need one in two days.”

“Could we not,” proposed one of the older nobles, “establish several of our own smaller moydra within range of their own? From there we could throw animal skins of burning oil onto it.”

“Have you seen how they surround it?” said Hunnar tiredly. “We could not disguise such a plan from them. We could never muster a protective force of sufficient strength to stave off an attack on such an advanced position.”

“Even if it were protected,” the noble added, “by all our new crossbowmen, who would have only a single small bit of ice to defend?”

“Well…” hesitated Hunnar. He looked questioningly at Balavere.

“The idea has merit, Tinyak,” the general replied. “Yet, should we fail to fire the barbarians’ engine quickly, even the crossbows would not be enough to prevent an encirclement. I cannot take the risk of losing them in such an enterprise. They were the difference on the walls yesterday.”

“By the Krokim’s tail, is it not understood that in a few days there will be no walls!” shouted one of the nobles.

“The way I see it,” said September calmly, “is pretty simple, if I might have leave to say a few words, noble sirs?”

“You proved yourself the equal or better of any at this table,” said the Landgrave, speaking for the first time. “We will give close attention to whatever you counsel.”

“All right then.” September leaned back in his chair, propped one foot on the table and began rocking back and forth. “Near as I can tell, there’s only one thing to do. That’s put on your warm woolies, friends, sneak out the dog-door, and set fire to that gimcrack by hand, yourselves, tonight.”

“Fighting at night is unmanly,” said one of the nobles disdainfully.

“So’s getting terminated by a fat slab of street paving,” September countered.

“Tis not worthy of a gentleman!” the other grumbled, less certainly this time. “At night.”

Ethan glanced around the table, saw the same indecision mirrored in the faces of others.

“Look,” said September, taking his foot off the table and leaning forward intently. “I’ve been amply supplied with the details of what this Sagyanak is going to do if and when the Horde gets in among your women and kids. You won’t have to worry about the fact that such atrocities will be conducted in an unmanly and ungentlemanly fashion, because none of you will be around to condemn it. That’s if you’re lucky… Now, you can try this long shot with me, because I intend to try it whether any of you come along or not. Or you can get around this question of etiquette by sending along some of your wives or mistresses in your place. I don’t think moral considerations will trouble them.”

“Everything we hold dear and true is at stake,” interrupted the Landgrave suddenly, “and there are still some among you who would sit at leisure and debate fine points of obscure protocol… Damn and hell!” He stood up, old and shaky all of a sudden. “Sir September and Sir Hunnar will take charge of an expedition to move against the enemy this very night. However, I will force no one to take part in this who would feel his honor forever impugned. Should the expedition be successful,” and here he looked hard at Hunnar, “and it must be successful… there will be no question as to the honor of those who went …

“General Balavere,” he continued, looking over at that stocky individual, “you will see to all necessary details. I must retire.”

They all stood. Staff in hand, the Landgrave walked off into the dark, trailing a pair of bodyguards. The others sat down, muttering. Gradually they all came to look expectantly across at the alien being who sat as equal in their council.

“How many?” inquired Hunnar firmly. “How many will you need, Sir Skua? Tis certainly a bold undertaking for only the finest of knights.”

“I think no more than twenty,” replied September thoughtfully. “Ten to pull the oil raft and ten to act as escort. Also, see that everyone is outfitted in armor and outer dress taken from captured material. At night, even a superficial disguise can make all the difference. As for myself, well, we’ll have to figure out something else.”

“And for me,” added Ethan with finality.

“Get me a helmet with a low front,” the big man concluded. He turned to Ethan as the table dissolved in a buzz of conversation.

“Listen, young feller-me-lad. There’s no need for you to take part in this. It’s going to be the middle of the night out there. The temperature will be down in the Pit’s own level and cold enough to sear the skin off your face if your heater breaks down. If someone got blown away on a night like that we’d never find him again.”

Ethan considered. The last night-expedition he’d been on had been in the company of a delightful young lady on the colony world of Gestalt. She’d spent a balmy moonlit night introducing him to certain exquisite variants on Church theologies. Her conversion of him was short, but ecstatic.

Now there was the bare clean surface of a different sort of world. A man would freeze to death in seconds without special defenses. The cold bit into your teeth like an old dentist’s probe.

“I’m going.”

“On your own head be it, young feller.”

“I’m going, too,” came a voice from the back of the hall. Everyone turned quietly. Ethan stood to see over the wide shoulders of one of the nobles.

Darmuka Brownoak, prefect of Wannome, walked slowly toward them, patiently buckling on his silver-inlaid armor.

At night the open icefield seemed more than ever like a white desert. They’d gone over the mountain pass and arrived at a deserted little icefront town on the south side of Sofold. Hopefully, no enemy sentry had seen them depart from the single tiny pier.