Alan Foster - The Icerigger Trilogy

“Move, ship, move! Please move!” Rippling wave-thunder drowned out all sounds now, hammered relentlessly against his eardrums. Prayers went unheard.

A few, a very few, of the barbarian rafts had put on sail. The rest were trying.

The herd moved in slow motion upon the rafts. With them. Among them.

Through them.

There were no more rafts.

The Slanderscree was pulling away as her sails ate wind. The bad runner held for a minute, then a second, and another, until it was forgotten in other concerns. Ethan stood frozen to the rail as the herd approached at an incredible pace. They were moving at least 100 kph—into the wind!

What remained of the once omnipotent Horde of the Scourge vanished beneath several million kilos of gray flesh, became a red-brown smear on the shining ice.

The herd drew closer. For a second time Ethan gazed down the throat of Leviathan.

It paused, froze in space.

Began to recede.

“They’re stopping at the body,” murmured Hunnar finally, long after they were safely away southward. He had to clear his throat once before the words came out. “Thank all the Gods!”

“It didn’t look like many of them managed to escape,” said Ethan.

“No,” agreed Hunnar, curiously unemotional. “Not many.”

“Cubs, too,” continued Ethan, his voice dropping to a barely audible mutter.

September showed no such concern. He was rubbing both hands together and chatting with sailors and soldiers, as happy as if a freshly baked cake had exited the oven without falling. Hunnar was leaning over the stern, straining to pick out shapes among the rapidly receding forms.

“I didn’t see Sagyanak’s raft in those final seconds. Could the devil-bitch have escaped again?”

“Sorry to kill all the bad dreams you half-hoped to have, friend Hunnar,” said September. He grabbed at his hood as a sudden gust of wind threatened to tear it off. “I did.”

“What do they do with the dead young one, the stavanzers? Now that they’ve found it?” asked Ethan.

“If the wizard’s information is accurate, and it has been thus far,” the knight replied, “then the thunder-eaters will remain with the dead for several days. I have never seen such a thing myself. Supposedly they prod the body with their tusks, nudge it every so often in the apparent hope that they may stir it to life once again… Eventually, some inner desire satisfied, they will move off, never to return to that spot again. Or perhaps they merely grow hungry. None know for certain. Among my people, at least, the observation of the thunder-eater’s habits from close range ’tis not over-popular. And thunder-eaters do not die often.”

“I don’t wonder at your caution.” Ethan noticed that Ta-hoding was only a short breath from total collapse, now that the Slanderscree was out of danger. A sweaty heap of fur and flesh, the captain had sunk to the deck next to the big wheel. He stared into nothingness. All his efforts seemed directed to following each breath with another.

“Noble animals,” Ethan mumbled.

“What?” September came over. “Those supra-nourished grotesque herbivores? Get a hold on your self, lad!”

Ethan sighed. “Skua, sometimes I think you have no poetry in your soul.”

“Now as to that, young feller-me-lad, firstly you’d have to establish the existence of the latter. And you’re one to talk!” He sniffed with exaggerated force. The resultant supercilious pose was so comical that Ethan couldn’t keep from laughing. “You kindly explain to me, lad, the poetry in volume buying or discount pricing.”

Ethan started to do just that, but had to pause in the middle of the first sentence.

Why did someone have to keep reminding him of where he wasn’t?

THERE WAS LITTLE NEW to look at as the raft continued to devour the kilometers. The journey rapidly became a dull cycle of rising, pacing the too-familiar deck, talking, eating, and returning to sleep. The humans, in one respect, were fortunate. They had the added extra task of fighting to stay that one step ahead of frostbite.

They’d entered a new region, filled with innumerable small islands. Many rose nearly perpendicular from the ice—dark, black stone, the stumps and cores of long-eroded volcanos. They served to break the monotony of flat horizon, but just barely, since the next was much like its predecessor.

A few of the islands were inhabited. Tiny villages clung precariously to the cliffs.

Occasionally a small raft or party of wandering hunters would parallel the Slanderscree for a few dozen meters. The dialect here differed from that of Sofold. Ta-hoding, a good merchant, was able to converse with them like a neighbor. After the first few encounters, even Ethan and the other humans could make themselves understood, though they lacked the captain’s fluency.

The Trannish language had a universal planetary base, then. Local variations did not preclude adequate communication between widely scattered groups. Another plus as far as trade and commerce were concerned.

No matter how skilled or strong, the locals rapidly dropped behind, unable to match the big raft’s speed.

Things grew so dull that Ethan found himself wishing for another storm—but not a Rifs. That bored he wasn’t.

He got it.

After the third consecutive day of freezing wind and even a little razor-sharp sleet, he was damning himself for a romantic idiot and praying for a return to the clear sameness of days before. Anything for a reprise of calm weather!

Constant maneuvering in the high wind had finally cracked several of the top cross-spars and weakened the repaired foremast. Ta-hoding also wanted to fix the still-amputated bowsprit, and there was no telling what the storm had done to the awkwardly repaired runner. They still had a long way to go and you couldn’t tell when you’d need every square centimeter of sail and solid, dependable runners.

The little informal council met once again—on a much less anxious note than the last time. Suggestions were easily made, as easily rejected. It was finally agreed that they would take the time to put in at the first town or village which offered the raft protection from the westwind, a decent harbor.

Ethan was on deck the next morning when the lookout gave the cry, so he was one of the first to see the monastery of Evonin-ta-ban. He joined Ta-hoding as the refuge came into full view, shining dark in the light of the fast-rising sun.

“Odd-looking sort of place,” said Ethan. “What is it? We haven’t passed anything like it before. Surely it’s not a hunting or farming community.”

“I do not know what it is, noble sir,” the captain replied uneasily. “Truly, I have ne’er seen the likes of it before. But Dagstev, the lookout, was right about the harbor. It looks to be sufficient… at this distance, anyhow. There do not appear to be any ships within, so it cannot be a trading community. Very, very strange. Perhaps… perhaps we’d best not land here, noble sir.”

“Glassfeathers. You’ve got to learn to face the cosmos with a more open mind, Ta-hoding. One of these days you may even skippership between the stars.”

The captain’s reply was direct and left no room for semantic nitpicking.

“Not if all the devils that ever were got behind me and pushed, Sir Ethan!”

“Why not, captain? Your own ancestors probably had the power of flight.”

“And had the good sense to give it up, too,” Ta-hoding countered religiously. “Give me a good ship with sharp runners, smooth ice beneath her keel, and a strong wind astern and I’ll be quite satisfied. I leave the skies to those who wish them. And say nothing about their sanity, however questionable.” He concluded on a note of finality and commenced barking landing orders to the crew. The Slanderscree was angling for the harbor entrance and Ethan decided to leave the captain alone.