Alan Foster - The Icerigger Trilogy

“Pass it up!” he yelled down, holding tight to the superstructure with both legs. The wind tore and battered at him, angrily trying to sweep him off his perch.

“Quickly now!” sounded Hunnar’s voice. They were very close to the main body of the nomad camp.

Thick, syrupy vol oil was ladled over the wood, bracings, and bindings until the oleaginous mess became dangerous to walk on. The aromatic stink seemed sufficient to wake the dead. Fortunately, the wind carried most of it away.

There was a shout in the distance. Two of the knights stopped passing oil upward and ran toward the source. They returned a few moments later.

“Two,” one of the knights told Hunnar and September. “Officers. Apparently they were just returning to their tents. I don’t know if they could tell who we were, but they must know there aren’t supposed to be people climbing on the moydra at night. They ran before we could reach them.”

A few minutes later this was confirmed by yells, queries, and concerned shouts from within the nomad encampment. The noise multiplied rapidly.

“Off, off, get off!” ordered September frantically. Slipping and sliding on the greasy wood, Ethan and the other soldiers scrambled down to the ice.

A dozen torches were readied. They’d been well soaked in oil and the wind wouldn’t quench them. They were thrust in a circle at September, who paused momentarily.

“It’s not the highest product of our technology, nor the one I’d like to have right now, but I’m glad we’ve got it.” He held out Hellespont du Kane’s expensive, filagreed, iridium-plated lighter.

One torch and then another blazed, stark shadows exploding onto the ice. The shouts behind them grew louder. One of the non-torch-bearing knights had moved toward the encampment. Now he turned to shout back at them.

“Hurry! Someone comes.”

“Scatter them well, mind,” ordered September. Twelve arms spun, released in unison. Only two of the blazing brands were blown out. With the wind behind them, the others carried well up into the superstructure.

They seemed to flicker there, tiny spots of isolated flame. For a horrible moment Ethan feared they wouldn’t catch and the whole risk had been taken for nothing. Then, almost together, they went up.

With a roar that briefly drowned the wind and the rising shouts from the camp, the great wooden frame virtually exploded into orange flame so brilliant that the little knot of watching humans and tran were forced to shield their eyes.

“Onto the sled now, young feller!” bellowed September, giving Ethan a shove and not trying to keep his voice down. The tran took up their harnesses and in a moment they were speeding northward and west in a wide curve that should bring them back to Wannome and in through the main gate. If they didn’t make the curve, Ethan reflected, they’d plow full bore into the far side of the enemy encampment.

Now it didn’t matter if every sentry in the camp was alerted. The howls and shrieks of rudely awakened nomad soldiers sounded loud in their ears as they raced before the wind, building speed. Cautiously, keeping a tight grip on the raft, Ethan turned on his side to look behind them.

A tower of flavescent orange, crackling and splitting, clawed at the black sky like a mad thing, while the wind tore away ragged shreds of its head and swept them westward.

He could make out small dark shapes silhouetted against the base of the pyre.

“Look at it burn, look at it burn!” he yelled to September almost boyishly.

“No need to shout, young feller. I’m right here.” He too was on his side, looking rearward. “Poor chaps don’t seem to know what hit ’em, what?”

Something whizzed overhead.

“Whup! I withdraw any sympathy. Seems they do.” A second arrow thunked into the base of the raft. “Damn!” the big man muttered. “Wish I’d thought to bring one crossbow.” He turned and hollered to Hunnar who was chivaning alongside.

“Leave us if you have to, Hunnar! This thing slows you.”

“Not a chance, my friend.”

September looked ahead, then back into the night. “You’ll never make it with us.”

“Tis as good a time and place to die as any,” the knight replied easily. Then, ignoring September’s curses, he let himself fall slightly behind the raft.

Ethan put his hand on his sword hilt. He peered desperately into the darkness, but couldn’t determine how many were following them. There seemed to be more than twenty, in any case.

Something struck September on the side of the head and dropped him as though poleaxed.

Ethan turned, alarmed. “Skua! Are you hurt bad?”

“Relax, young feller.” The big man propped himself up on one elbow, felt his head. “That smarts. Good thing they made these helmets tough. Goddamn arrows.” Ethan peered closer, saw the dent in the metal just above the forehead. If September had been a tran he’d have lost an ear.

Their pursuers were close enough now for Ethan to make out individuals. There was something surreal in watching them move closer and closer with painful slowness, as they made up distance lost on the clumsy sled.

A couple of other soldiers had dropped back to form a rear guard. Now they were flailing behind themselves with swords and axes, trying to run and fight at once.

One of the pursuers shoved a long pike forward, caught a Sofoldian soldier in a wing. The barbarian jerked and the soldier, pulled off balance, fell to the ice. He vanished beneath the enemy and the night as they sped on.

One of the nomads had gained the end of the raft. He grabbed hold of the wood, thrust forward with a spear. September brought his sword down—he’d left the heavy ax behind in the castle. The thick wood of the spear shaft shattered. The other cursed, swung the wood hilt first. September parried it, slashed, and opened an ugly cut on the barbarian’s arm. He dropped away from the raft, clutching at the bleeding limb.

It was growing crowded around the sled. One of the harnessed soldiers was down, a dead weight dragging them back. The others were too pressed to cut him loose. It was becoming impossible to keep speed and fight at the same time.

They were circling in toward the harbor gate now. Ethan did some quick figuring. They’d never make it. They’d be overpowered before they got close. Perhaps the du Kanes and Williams might eventually make it safely to the settlement

One nomad chivaned in from the west and fairly flew onto the raft. Ethan swung clumsily with his sword but it only glanced off the other’s armor. The broad muscular body hit September, knife at the ready, and the two grappled on the pitching, swaying sled. The other was trying to pull the big man off the raft onto the ice.

Desperately Ethan reached over. He caught September’s leg just in time to prevent that fatal roll. Out of the sweat-distorted corner of an eye he saw another of the enemy move in close to the stern of the sled, spear held ready.

He was trying to decide whether to let September go to parry the spear or hope that his armor would ward off the first thrust, when something hit the barbarian with such force that he was almost cut in half. In a microsecond the confusion surrounding them had multiplied tenfold.

September had managed to break free of his persistent assailant and had shoved him from the sled. He gave Ethan an exhausted smile.

“What’s going on?” asked Ethan bewilderedly.

“That fella was tough!” gasped the big man. “They must be sortieing from the city!”

Yes, now Ethan could recognize the armor of the Sofoldian troops as they swept and battered away the sled’s pursuers. Minutes later they dashed under the gate chain and nets and were inside the cold womb of the harbor. The wind shrank to a bearable gale. Utterly winded himself, Ethan collapsed on the sled, not caring if he fell off. He tugged off the uncomfortable barbarian helmet and slung it far out onto the ice.