The Frozen God

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The Frozen God Page 5

by Robert Holdstock


  “Fast!” Raven shouted. “We must cut through before they overwhelm us!”

  Garan called something in his own language and began to whirl his sword about his head like some great scythe. Spellbinder said nothing, stooping down to snatch his bow and a quiver of shafts from the still-twitching body of his dying horse.

  Then a bugle note rang clear above the sounds of shouting men and roaring bear-beast, and in the sheer wall of Tywah Gate a section sprang open to disgorge a band of warriors. Shields ringed them round, barbed lances protruding between the bucklers, and they raced forwards to attack the gleevahs from behind.

  “Tywah!” bellowed Garan. “Tywah and na Vohl!”

  He moved towards the wedge of charging men, Raven and Spellbinder running alongside him.

  They reached the shield-wall and took their places amongst the warriors, moving slowly back towards the opening in the ice peak. The barbarians took shelter behind their battle-creatures, goading the beasts on with angry jabs of the pikes. But the rescuing force was too strong, and they withdrew into the dark entrance of Tywah Gate.

  The slab fell back to block the opening and the defenders lowered their weapons, clustering about the two outlanders with curious glances and a babble of questions. Garan shouted for silence, explain something in his own language, and a tall warrior stepped forward, speaking in the Kragg dialect.

  “Well-met, Garan na Vohl.” He removed a helmet of bright green. “We thought you lost.”

  “With cause, Karmak na Zel,” smiled Garan. “Were it not for Raven and Spellbinder, the charga would have feasted on my bones.”

  “Then greetings to you, out-landes.” Karmak na Zel bowed. “We can ill afford the loss of a warrior of Garan’s skill.”

  “Loss is turned to gain,” said Garan, “for these two are doughty fighters and would find employment for their blades in defence of Tywah.”

  “Then doubly welcome are you,” said na Zel pleasantly. “Witness of your sword-skill I have already.” He laughed. “As do those barbarian pigs you left outside. You will forgive me, I trust, if I leave Garan to escort you to the city, for I must look to our defences here.”

  He turned away, climbing a flight of steps cut into the wall of the tower, and Garan addressed himself to Raven and Spellbinder.

  “Come,” he said, “food and wine await us in the city. Baths, too. And a welcome for heroes.”

  He took them to a gateway in the rear wall of the fortress, a portcullis suspended above the opening, a narrow corridor leading to a large chamber where gleevahs waited in fenced-off pens.

  Raven’s horse grew nervous at the sight of the great beasts, and Garan turned to the warrior-woman.

  “The passage into Tywah is long, and we had best ride in a carriage. Mayhap you should leave your animal here, Raven. These gleevah are tame and friendly beasts, I think you…horse?…will grow used to them in time.”

  “Very well,” answered Raven, “though our first taste of your gleevah made me somewhat nervous, too.”

  Garan laughed and called for a man to take the horse, explaining its needs. The soldier led the animal away, looking as apprehensive of the strange creature as was the horse of him. Na Vohl walked on through a pair of massive metal doors to another chamber. Here a silver carriage stood, its sides scrolled with ornate carvings, the spokes of its two wheels gleaming bars of golden metal. To either side of the shaft stood two black-furred gleevahs, reins stretching back from their muzzles to the well of the carriage.

  The trio climbed on board and Garan took the reins.

  “Ho! Ho!” he called. “Swiftly, now, little ones.”

  The gleevahs climbed to their feet and padded forward. They broke into a trot, then a run, and soon the carriage raced onwards through a bulb-lit tunnel of purest ice, moving faster than a fleet horse might gallop. Moving swift for the very heart of Tywah.

  Four

  “Where does a road end? Its culmination must, surely, depend upon the direction of the traveler.”

  The Books of Kharwhan

  For perhaps three klis the silver carriage flew down the tunnel. Its passage was smooth and Raven and Spellbinder were able to study the subterranean roadway, marveling at the skill that must have gone into its making. The walls, they realised, were not of natural ice, but some ice-like material that held back the pressure of the earth beyond. The floor was smooth and slippery-looking, but the gleevahs never faltered and the gleaming carriage rolled onwards as though mounted upon rails.

  Twice they saw above them massive plates of black steel, banded to the roof with golden rivets. These, Garan said, were flood-gates: the last defence of Tywah Gate. Should the ice fortress fall and invaders enter the tunnel, then the flood-gates would be opened to admit the seething waters of the lake above, drowning anyone—or any thing—caught inside, sealing Tywah until such time as the city’s pumps drained the passageway. Again the two outlanders wondered at the genius of the folk who had constructed so impregnable a defence.

  Then the tunnel began to angle gradually upwards and Garan slowed their headlong rush. Guards appeared, lifting curved halberds in salute, and they emerged suddenly into a vast cave. Men ran forwards to grasp the halters of the gleevahs and Garan jumped to the ground.

  Raven and Spellbinder fell into step beside the Quwhonian, striding across a patterned floor towards a broad flight of stairs. Gleevah pens were cut into the rock of the caves, and chambers for the soldiery, where armoured men rested and ate. Curious stares were directed at the trio, but Garan dismissed all enquiries with a wave and a few terse words.

  They climbed the stairs.

  At the head, a tall balustrade encircled the final steps, archers and pike-men watching from behind the intricately wrought fence. A gate opened and Garan led the way through towards a watch-door set into the greater bulk of huge, metal portals.

  Beyond lay Tywah.

  Far larger than any city they had seen was that place, dwarfing Lyand, more impressive than Karhsaam, so great they felt ant-like as they stared at its enormity. Out from the guard-post stretched walls of shimmering blue, obviously of the same material as the tunnel. Almost transparent were those walls, and through them could be seen the calm waters of the green lake, as far as they steam clouds. Along the foot of the walls ran a wide, grassy avenue, and atop the ramparts were towers and barrack-buildings manned by watchful soldiers. Catapults and arrow-throwers were mounted upon the walkways and as they watched three of the great engines hurled missiles high through the clouds. Beyond the grass was a fence of black metal, taller than a tall man might reach, and barbed and spiked to trap any who attempted to scale it.

  Beyond that fence stretched layer upon layer of terraces and balconies, some cut from the living rock, others supported on carved pillars or delicate trellises. Houses, halls and palaces stood upon the balconies, their windows of multi-coloured glass, their walls engraved with symbols, pictures and bas-relief work. Of a thousand colours were those buildings, and a thousand more styles. Pale rose, fine as the finest coral, bled into deep crimson, bright scarlet and glowing, warm ochre. Deep umber and rich browns mingled with orange, black and silver. Glittering white and cloudy ivory set off the translucence of aquamarine and onyx: slatey grey stone was set with chalcydon and amethyst; emerald green sparkled amongst red ruby and purest gold; the ice-like material held within its depths shining gems of violet and purple and cobalt.

  The streets that wound amongst this dazzling profusion were paved with great slabs of roseate stuff, from which shone bands of silver and of gold, and upon those slabs moved people clad in robes bright as the buildings.

  The lush green of parks beckoned from amongst the terraces, gay flowers filling the air with sweet, unknown scents. Trees of green and brown and grey and brick-red spread leafy boughs over benches of marble, dangling tempting fruits about the heads of passers-by.

  The sky was clear and blue, the sun shining warm upon Tywah, prompting birds to sing amid the trees and buildings, the buzz of insec
ts amid the flowers.

  It was a vista of peace and of magnificence, marred only by the presence of the armoured men bearing weapons as they marched along the streets, or rode sleek-furred gleevahs on errands of war.

  Garan na Vohl led his companions up a stairway of amethyst to an avenue of onyx, through a verdant garden and a rainbow alley, moving steadily towards a flat-roofed building of the same blue and scarlet as his armour.

  They reached a silver door upon which was scribed runish symbols and went inside.

  “Welcome,” smiled Garan, “to Hala na Vohl—my home.”

  Servants appeared, crying greetings to their master and his guests, and a woman, a serene smile upon her golden face, walked gracefully towards them. Tall as Garan, she was clad in a silken robe of palest turquoise, golden hair falling about her shoulders and gentle, angular face. A fillet of silver controlled her waist-length tresses, and a wide belt of filigree work emphasised the slenderness of her waist.

  “Lys, wife of my hearth and heart.” Garan used the Kragg dialect. “To see you gives purpose to my journey.”

  “To see you safe returned,” answered Lys na Vohl, “dispels the hurt of parting, oh my husband.”

  They embraced, smiling into one another’s eyes. Then Garan disengaged himself and, with one arm still about his wife’s shoulders, introduced Raven and Spellbinder.

  “Welcome are you, friends of my Garan,” fluted the woman. “Our home is yours to the melting of the ice and beyond. In the name of the Snow Queen I bid you welcome.

  Raven was immediately struck by the gentle courtliness of the woman, her calm demeanour in keeping with the opulence and serenity of her home, as though she greeted travelling friends rather than bloodied warriors whose clothing and armour carried upon it the marks of recent battle.

  Servants were called to escort them to rooms where baths were already prepared with towels, perfumes and clothing set out for their use. They stripped off their stained armour and sank gratefully into a great marble tub on the rim of which was set a crystal flagon moulded to the shape of a standing gleevah and containing a refreshing wine of deep purple that they sipped from silver goblets. The hot, scented water washed their bodies free of battle-sweat, and the wine relaxed their tensed muscles. Raven washed her hair and then, naked save for the silver torque about her arm and the bracelet upon her wrist, set to sorting through the clothes hung in the tapestry-covered alcoves.

  She selected a tunic of blue that was, apparently, the colour of the na Vohl household, and a pair of wide, silken pantaloons, drawn in at waist and ankles by scarlet cords. Slippers of a matching colour fitted her as though made for her use, and about her waist she hung the girdle of throwing stars.

  Spellbinder chose a shirt of gleaming black and wide trousers of some silvery-grey cloth that he tucked into knee-high boots of ebon leather. He made to belt his sword around his lean hips, but then thought better of it and settled for only his dirk, slipping a second knife into the right boot.

  Then, eager to see more of the city, they quit their chambers and went to find Garan and his wife.

  A servant took them to the roof where their hosts waited. From this vantage point it was possible to see the full extent of Tywah in all its lustrous magnificence. On a terrace several levels above them, Garan indicated the palace of Lord Erhkol, a gleaming, silver building that was spired with golden and ebony towers, from which fluttered bright banners. Close by the palace was a darker structure, the many facets of its walls tricking the eye, affording to the building the appearance of some gigantic dark jewel. This, Garan said, was the hall of the Koh na Vanna—the priestly council of the city. Beyond that, the tiers sloped in seemingly random array to broad meadows, where animals—too distant for their species to be identified—grazed. An extension of the city walls surrounded these meadows, cutting off a forested terrain where great trees hid the ground, their luxuriant foliage fading away into the misty distance.

  “Tywah is very beautiful,” murmured Raven. “Like some jewel of the snows.”

  “Aye,” said Spellbinder, “but can the barbarians not land beyond those forests and trek to the walls?”

  “Without boats capable of crossing the lake?” replied Garan. “No! And even then they would find out garrisons alert to their coming, the forest an encumbrance to their war-machines, its paths the domain of the wild gleevahs. It is not likely, my friend.”

  Spellbinder grunted, his blue eyes thoughtful.

  “There is always a way,” he murmured, more to himself than to his companions. “Water may be crossed, forest penetrated, walls broached. It is the way of the world.”

  “But this is not your world,” said Garan gently. “From beyond all memory Quwhon has stood alone, inviolate. Never in all the long history of Tywah have those walls been broken, never has one single being entered this place unbidden.”

  “Mayhap,” said the dark warrior, “but neither have those demon creatures of yours joined together, nor have you seen the like of the barbarians.”

  His comment caused a dampening of their spirits, bringin a troubled look to Garan’s slanted, golden eyes, as though Spellbinder’s skepticism unleashed hitherto-ignored doubts in his mind.

  “True,” he whispered, his own voice doubtful now, “your words carry forbidding clouds in their wake, clouds we had best discuss with Erhkol and Koh na Vanna.” He turned to face them. “Come, my friends, I think it is time you were introduced to our rulers. Put your fears to them and we shall see what the outcome may be.”

  He motioned for them to follow him back into the house and they went out through a sweetly-scented garden into the street beyond, climbing up towards the dark keep of the Koh na Vanna.

  Five

  “On any road, directions will be offered, but the destination may not be that which the traveler seeks.”

  The Books of Kharwhan

  The council hall stood in a wide square, paved all in black stone and ringed round with guards in black and green armour. Their eyes peered suspiciously from the dark slits in their skull-embracing helmets, and they appeared loath to permit Raven and Spellbinder within the confines of the faceted building. But Garan na Vohl spoke out loud in his own language and the soldiers fell back, parting their ranks to let the trio through.

  Within the sombre edifice the air grew suddenly cold and the outworlders found themselves peering into a blue-filtered gloom that was in curious contrast to the colourful gaiety of the city’s streets. What little light existed came from blue-paned windows, through which the sun shone but faintly. The entrance-hall was devoid of ornamentation, being of the same dull material as the outer walls, and empty. Their feet rang loud over the flags as they followed Garan towards a drape-hung doorway that opened into a large chamber. Here, there was light; people, too, all dressed in flowing robes of night-dark samite, with strange head-dresses that obscured their faces.

  Four of the dark-robed figures stood in silence about the foot of a huge throne raised up from the floor on carven pillars shaped to resemble strange beasts. A short flight of steps went up to a platform of deepest emerald, transparent and shining in the dim light. On that platform was a massive chair, seemingly cut from a single great slab of basalt, silver and gold etched into the elemental stone in curious scrollwork. Upon that mighty throne lounged a figure clad all in silver and gold. A flowing robe of spun metal, woven fine as the softest silk glittered like a beacon in the gloom, its iridescent folds surmounted by a golden casque moulded in the semblance of a Quwhonian male. From the eye-slits peered twin orbs of piercing silver, so clear, so bright, they seemed to glow with a light of their own.

  Garan na Vohl sank to his knees, spreading his arms wide as his head bowed.

  “Hail, Erhkol, Lord of Tywah!” he cried. “Hail the Kohn a Vanna, Guide and Guardian of our city.”

  Lord Erhkol studied the visitors, forcing himself to ignore the nagging itch that plagued his jaw. These ceremonial robes were all very impressive—necessary to his station—but b
y all the gods of the snow! They were not the most comfortable garments. He longed to slip a be-ringed hand beneath the confines of his mask and scratch his face, but that would be undignified—and dignity was a needful adjunct to his status.

  He concentrated on the strangers, hoping that his skin would forget the itching. And, certainly, they were interesting enough. That they had survived the ice was, in itself, a comment on their endurance. That they had saved the life of na Vohl—his listened to Garan’s account with half his mind as he watched—and fought through to Tywah Gate was testament to their weapon-skill. Yet their presence made him curiously uneasy. Few outworlders ventured beyond the hills lining the shores of Quwhon, and those courageous enough to brave the ice mostly fell prey to the cold or the ice beasts. Now these two outworlders were in Tywah itself, their feet treading ground no outworlder had even seen.

  Was it an omen? Did their coming herald some unforeseen turning of the world? Some change in events?

  Erhkol looked towards his council of priests, seeking guidance form the blank-faced contours of their masks.

  Old Turgan appeared nervous: Erhkol could see his robe shifting as he moved his feet, could catch the intertwining of his fingers as he listened to na Vohl. Narahk, too, appeared disturbed, his mask nodding slightly as he followed the warrior’s account. Ylkar—as usual—stood unmoving, still and silent as a statue, nothing betraying the thoughts in his mind. Garz, though, was seemingly even more disturbed than Turgan, his mask shifting from side to side, eyes daring from na Vohl to the outworlders, to his fellow priests, to Erhkol.

  Did Garz, too, sense something? Did he share Erhkol’s foreboding?

  The Lord of Tywah turned his full attention on the strangers. The man was dressed in a borrowed outfit that afforded only a hit of the musculature beneath the cloth. His face, though, spoke of intelligence—and amusement?—curiosity, certainly. Lean, it was, with high-planed cheeks and a firm set to the jaw-line. Black hair hung about his shoulders, and his eyes were blue and clear, taking in his surroundings. Erhkol noticed a dagger belted at his waist, another set in his boot. Noticed, too, that one hand seldom strayed far from the hilt, that the man stood balanced as though ready to spring into action at the slightest warning of danger. A fighting man, that was a surety, but more…exactly what or why he felt it—Erhkol could not be sure.

 

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