Alan Foster - The Icerigger Trilogy

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, pulled his ax free, and yelled instructions to the tran at the miniature catapults. There was a simultaneous release of celluloid tension. Four small smoking bundles arched out over the ice. A shower of glass and iron shrapnel and blinding powder exploded in the middle ranks of the attackers.

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.”