The Frozen God

by Robert Holdstock

  Their progress slowed so that they seemed to move through some weird warping of time, each upward step lasting a painful eternity before their feet touched upon the next level, where time slowed yet more. Half-way up, Raven was forced to set down her sword and use both arms to drag her leaden body onwards. Spellbinder paused, reaching out to her, and together they hauled one another upwards like climbers on the upper, airless reaches of some mighty peak.

  The air became busy with rustling, half-heard voices, as if unseen things whispered to them to go back. The cold grew more intense, biting deep into their lungs, numbing their joins so that every movement, each breath, was painful. The stink, too, was worse the higher they climbed, a reeking foulness that threatened to empty their stomachs in natural protest, set their eyes to running with bitter tears that clouded their vision and made the climbing all the more difficult.

  But still—against the protest of every fibre of their beings, every screaming, agonised nerve—they forced their way upwards.

  They crawled on to the blue step and sprawled, shoulders heaving, as they gathered their strength for the next arduous ascent. The mauve layer brought the voices louder, clearer…Go back…Go back…Go back…Or die…Go back. They attained the violet level–and the cold became an awful, unbearable thing that seemed to freeze their hearts and still the beating. Raven’s tongue froze to the roof of her mouth and her nostrils seemed to fill with ice. She thought she might have died and fallen unknowing into Tanash’s grip, to suffer for all eternity the torments dreamed up by the Frozen God. Spellbinder touched her, his hand moving slow as a drifting fish, but she could no longer feel his touch, only knew that she must force herself to rise and drag her body to the highest platform.

  She reached up, hooking fingers that were blackened by the cold over the slab of grey. She began to straighten her legs, pushing even as she wriggled like a worm to set an elbow over the rim.

  That final step seemed to take longer to mount than any of the others, and they lay, gasping, unaware that the cold and the voice and the corpse-stink were all gone. For long moments they rested, sucking in air that was again breathable, watching ice melt and run from their armour. Then they rose to their feet, facing the dais set atop the pyramid.

  Of iridescent, blinding platinum was that dais, a great solid square of metal that seemed to pulsate, its outlines shimmering indefinable and confusing. Down its side ran a steady flow of bloody liquid, stark crimson against the metal glare.

  And as they stared, awe-struck, they saw form where the stream came.

  Upon the dais, as if asleep, rested a bloated, ghastly figure.

  Long legs, bent as those of a frog or toad, sported huge webbed feet, all knobbly toes and sharp talons. The hips were slim and almost hidden beneath a grotesque green belly that humped up in a great dome, all hairy and slimy at the same time. The chest was deep, massive with excess flesh, and the arms crossed upon it were thick as young trees, the hands clawed like the feet and all warty and twisted. Long hair hung lank over the farther edge of the dais, yellowish grey like old seaweed, and of the same texture.

  But it was the face that held their gaze, fixed their eyes with hypnotic intensity.

  Wide at the forehead, and pustulent with oozing sores, it taped away to a pointed chin, from which sprouted a straggle of long hairs. The mouth was open, a gaping maw from which stuck a livid tongue all ringed round with narrow, sharp-tipped fangs that seemed to push back the fleshy lips. Across the cheeks there spread a band of white bone, as if the flesh were peeled away to expose the ossiate stuff of the skull itself, the nostrils thin slits. The head lay sideways so that the huge eyes stared out across the chamber. And from those eyes, in steady pulsings, fell great tears of blood to form the stream.

  Raven stared in horror at the creature that was Tanash, bile rising sour in her throat as she gazed upon his naked monstrosity, sensed the power of evil in the recumbent form. She turned to Spellbinder, her mouth forming a question.

  And as she did, Tanash blinked and raised his head.

  Twelve

  “When darkness threatens to overcome the torch of knowledge let hope provide a beacon to guide your path.”

  The Books of Kharwhan

  Slowly, as though stiffened by overlong slumber, the Frozen God lifted up his awesome face. He seemed, at first, unaware of his surroundings, raising a hand to wipe the bloody tears from his face. He rubbed at his eyes, causing the flow of red to cease, and heaved up to a sitting position, stretching his arms wide with a loud creaking of numbed joints. He thrust out his legs, dropping clawed feet to the floor of the dais.

  And saw Raven.

  His crimson eyes narrowed, glittering with malevolent delight, and his horrible mouth formed a ghastly smile.

  “So.” His voice was a deep, booming bass that reverberated about the cavern. “The guardian is overcome and you are here. Good—I am hungry after so long a time asleep.”

  His words left little doubt as to his intent and Raven swung her sword with desperate force. The Tirwand steel glanced uselessly off his horny paw, only her speed saving her from the clutching talons. She struck again, and again Tanash ignored the blow. Spellbinder drove his blade at the god’s ribs, cursing as mottled skin tougher than the hardest Xand hide turned the thrust. Tanash chuckled, one bulging eye swiveling round to study the warrior in black and silver.

  “Two,” he grunted, “just as Belthis warned. And just as arrogant. Do you believe that you can slay a god?”

  “We can slay a bloated toad-thing,” snarled Raven, putting more conviction in her words than she felt, “with Astara’s help.”

  The taunt stung the Frozen God, for he bellowed and lashed out to strike her heavily along her side. Armour held off the talons, but the force of that blow tumbled Raven back so that she lost her footing and fell headlong from the dais. Tanash laughed as she pitched down the side of the pyramid, crashing to the floor below with stunning force. Spellbinder hacked again, seeking to cut the god’s eyes. Tanash deflected the blow with negligent ease, swinging one massive arm against the wizard’s head.

  Spellbinder’s teeth rattled in his skull, and he staggered, eyes glazed. Tanash struck again, tossing him sideways across the dais. Casually, as a man might brush away some nuisancesome insect, the god threw Spellbinder from the altar. The dark warrior tumbled like a doll, crashing down beside Raven.

  Tanash roared and stood up, peering about him with glinting, pig-like eyes. He scratched at his chest, below his belly, and they, with an awful deliberateness, began to descend the pyramid.

  Raven looked to Spellbinder, but the man was barely conscious, his face all bloody where Tanash’s blow had landed, his grip slack upon his sword. Swiftly, realising that honest steel was useless against the Frozen God, Raven sheathed her blade and hauled her companion to his feet. Stumbling beneath his weight, she began to move back to the cavern’s entrance, pulling Spellbinder with her as the god came ponderously down from his resting place.

  Spellbinder regained a degree of consciousness as they reached the tunnel, lending his own confused efforts to their flight. Raven led him along the passage, aware of Tanash’s heavy footfalls behind her. The tunnel afforded them a brief respite, for the Frozen God was forced to stoop and squeeze his bulk into the passage, moving on hands and knees where Raven went upright.

  But then she came to the barrier of fire and was forced to halt. The flames had started up again and when she called for Spellbinder to use his magic to open a way for them, the man only shook his head and mumbled something she could not understand. Cursing, she lowered him to the ground, drawing her sword as Tanash emerged from the tunnel. She faced the god with a savage cry compounded of fury and despair. That her blade was valueless against his armoured hide, she knew; knew that the hideous creature would destroy her with ease. Yet it was not in her nature to admit defeat, nor succumb without a fight, no matter how hopeless the struggle. She stepped forwards, Tirwand sabre poised to strike.

  Tanash dr
agged his shoulders clear of the passage. Raven cut at his head and neck. A paw lashed out, spinning her away, and the god crawled clear; laughing. Raven darted in, driving blows at belly and hips. Again Tanash dashed her aside, sending her reeling towards the wall of flame.

  She fell to her knees and Tanash rose to his feet. Close behind her, Spellbinder groaned, mumbling. And faintly Raven understood what he said, caught the one word: Astara.

  She hefted her blade, awaiting the god’s attack, then ran at him, screaming the name of the Snow Queen like a battle-shout.

  “Astara! Astara aid me! Astara!”

  Tanash bellowed and struck out, sending her scudding over the smooth stone of the cavern’s floor.

  “Astara,” she groaned as the grinning god loomed above her, “aid me now!”

  And suddenly Tanash halted in mid-stride, his loathsome head lifting up to peer at the barrier of fire. A strange stillness filled the chamber and the red-lit air seemed to shimmer, grow cold for a moment. There was silence, and Raven turned to where Tanash gazed across the cavern. The flames died and from the farther entrance there spilled a horde of silent warriors. Tall they were and all armoured in bright colours, hefting swords and axes and maces as they leapt the pit and formed a defensive line between Raven and the now-snarling, furious god-thing.

  She recognised those guardians she had passed earlier, and knew that the Snow Queen had heard her plea, had sent aid.

  One—the warrior in green and orange—turned back, stooping down to lift Spellbinder in his arms and carry the scarce-conscious man across the pit. He reached for Raven, but she jumped of her own accord, turning back to watch the battle.

  The figures seemed less like statues now, for they moved with all the speed, the skill, of well-learned fighting men. Axes swung in shimmering arcs, striking at Tanash’s chest and arms, falling back as maces hurtled like spiked pendulums against the god’s body, swords darting in to stab, withdraw, and stab again.

  Sixteen of the silent warriors opposed his passage, each one striking blows that would have felled a mortal, but Tanash stood his ground, roaring and bellowing as he lashed against his fellows, and crushed beneath the great clawed feet. One was dashed back, falling into the pit, another lifted and torn, arms ripped from body and tossed away. Doughty were those warriors, and as one fell so another jumped in to take his place, but one by one Tanash beat them down.

  Raven watched until only nine were left, realising that eventually even these fearless fighters must give way to the Frozen God. She dragged Spellbinder back on his feet and set out down the tunnel.

  They reached the open air and the dark warrior revived. A livid bruise covered one side of his face, blood matting his hair, but he seemed to regain his senses, climbing to his feet and looking about him with wary, troubled eyes.

  The bird, too, seemed concerned, for it began to croak harshly as they came out into the dusk, its beady eyes gleaming in the waning light. Raven watched it shift nervously on its rocky perch, staring at them as thought to ascertain that they both lived before launching itself into the air to flap across the meadow. It came to earth some distance from the cleft and began to pace back and forth over the yellow grass, never taking its eyes from the mouth of the cave.

  “Tanash is even stronger than I feared,” grunted Spellbinder. “We’d best fall back and see if those warriors can hold him.”

  “And if they cannot?” asked Raven. “What then?”

  “Then may Astara protect us. Us and all the world.”

  He was about to say more, but the eruption of a warrior from the cavern interrupted him. The figure—Raven was yet unsure whether they were human or automata—clutched a sword in its left hand: the right was missing. Close behind him came a second figure, armour all dented and mace-head broken off so that only the metal shaft remained. A third figure exploded into view, flying through the air all ragged and broken, limbs twisted and loose. It landed on the grass, unmoving, and from the cave came a great shout of horrid laughter.

  Tanash sprang forth and the last two guardians closed in desperate struggle.

  One went down immediately, crushed under the god’s stamping feet, armour bursting asunder as might the skin of a grape caught beneath a hoof. Raven gasped in surprise for as the warrior was destroyed, she saw that the armour was empty, its metal containing only a vacuum. The lone survivor swung his broken mace with renewed vigour, but it was a hopless fight. Tanash reached out to pluck the shaft loose from the warrior’s grip, snapping it as easily as though it were old, dry wood rather than heavy steel, then seized the warrior himself. He lifted the struggling figure high above his head, one monstrous hand clasping the neck, the other the feet. He smashed the warrior down across one upraised knee and wrenched viciously. The warrior’s body broke apart and Tanash flung the pieces of empty metal aside, chuckling all the while.

  From the father reaches of that obscene meadow came a howl of anticipation as the charga and tsabeen, still held back by Spellbinder’s sorcery, gave welcome to their master.

  Tanash looked over to the vile creatures, laughed, and turned to Raven and Spellbinder. Full night had fallen now, with no moon to illuminate the lair, but the Frozen God stood distinct against the rocks. All limned in red he was, as if fire spread an aura about him, showing clear each ugly feature of his body. His gloating eyes surveyed them with awful glee, and as he spoke, each fang in his slavering mouth shone bright and menacing.

  “Now,” he said slowly, with relish, “I will teach you what it means to challenge a god.”

  He came towards them, stalking over the grass—a gigantic bloated toad.

  Raven drew her sword, preparing to die.

  Spellbinder fell to his knees, arms spread wide and lips working furiously.

  Aghast, Raven stared at her companion. Had Tanash’s blow curdled his mind? Was he, of a sudden, so terrified of the god’s wrath that he would beg for mercy? She opened her mouth to shout encouragement, to urge the man back to his feet, sword in hand to meet death with a smile. But then, horror-struck, she saw that his body was all atrumble, great wrenching, racking spasms shuddering him so that his teeth set to chattering and his eyes rolled upwards in their sockets, showing the whites. Abruptly, he screamed and fell forwards, fingers digging deep into the cankerous soil. Then he jerked and went all stiff, arms spread wide and legs splayed.

  Raven spat her disgust, still barely able to believe that Spellbinder was fallen sudden prey to fear.

  And then she cursed herself for her lack of faith, for she saw—or, rather, heard—the reason for his apparent cowardice.

  From behind her there came the beat of wings, mightier than any she had ever heard. Like distant thunder they beat, blasting a gale across the meadow so that her hair blew loose and she felt herself driven to her knees by the sheer fury of that wind. She twisted round, looking up.

  Where the black bird had stood, the grass was empty. But in the sky above a massive shape blocked out the dim forms of the surrounding peaks. Great angry eyes glared down, each one near as large as her spread hand, seeming to glow, lit by their own rage. A huge beak, all ivory, and longer than the blade of a broadsword, opened to crow a challenge, the sound filling the air with ear-splitting fury.

  Tanash paused, staring in turn at the apparition above him.

  Then he screamed an answer to that raucous challenge as the bird swooped down, scythe-like talons spread wide.

  They closed upon the Frozen God and for the first time, Raven heard fear enter his voice. The great talons wrapped about the up-flung arms, dragging Tanash back towards the cave. He beat at the feathered legs, though whether his blows landed or fell through some magical nothingness, Raven could not tell. She saw the god tumble down, saw the black shape descend, heard the roaring of the god and the screaming of the bird, but a darkness deeper than night seemed to cloud over the battle, hiding it from her sight. Back and forth across the meadow they went, oblivious of the two humans, intent only on their personal combat. Talons ripped
and beak stabbed, wings beat and claws grasped and tore, toad legs kicking and fangs snapping.

  Wind filled the hollow, beating at the weird trees, skirling dust like old blood from the now-dry bed of the flesh-eating stream, obscuring the awful fight still further.

  Raven clutched her sword and huddled close by Spellbinder, one arm outflung as though to shield him. The watching tsabeen too flight, their leathery wings flapping urgently as they scurried away beyond the farthest peaks. The charga, too, fell back in awe, seeking refuge of the mist and the night. The two gleevahs, terrified, cowered back against the rocks, snarling and snapping at the dust-filled shadows.

  And still the battle raged. On and on it went, raising a storm of sound as though the elements themselves gathered in combat. First the bird, then the god, appeared to gain the upper hand, only to lose it as some fresh assault carried them backwards, up into the air, amongst the trees and across the meadow. Raven huddled helpless, concerned lest Tanash should stumble over Spellbinder’s supine form and crush him, afraid to move him for fear it might break whatever spell he had cast.

  She was forced to remain a spectator, helpless to intervene, unable to flee.

  And still they fought.

  The bird drove Tanash back against the far wall of the hollow and the Frozen God tore rocks loose and hurled them at the sky. He grasped an outflung leg, was lifted up as the great beak battered at his face and eyes. He fell to the ground, screaming as talons ripped at his hide.

  He jumped up, seeking to gouge the eyes from the bird, but a wing caught him and smashed him down. He turned, running for the shelter of the rocks. The bird swooped, fastening talons about his shoulders to lift him up, carry him onwards to dash against the stone.

  Raven lost all sense of time, her attention riveted on the combatants, scarcely daring to breath as she awaited the outcome of that cataclysmic fight.