Icerigger

by Alan Dean Foster

  But he would reserve his final judgment until after viewing. That would please his teachers.

  But so much metal!

  He stared at the fallen thing. One fact seemed certain. Whatever they were, their eyesight seemed as good as his own. A group of them appeared to be assembling just outside the ship — he'd reluctantly come to consider it a vessel of sorts. They were standing on the edge of the island. This in itself was an odd thing to do. But by voluntarily restricting themselves to land, they might be making a friendly gesture. Hunnar had the right idea but the wrong reason.

  He grinned ferociously. It might mean that these strangers were afraid to do battle with him. Otherwise they would have come out to meet him.

  There were five ... no, six of the beings. It looked like only one was built along warrior lines. Better and better.

  “Suaxus!” he shouted to his first lieutenant, “break left! Vasen, Smjor, with him!” He turned, eating air. “Budjir, break right with Avyeh and Hivell!”

  The nine tran immediately split into three groups. They would make a three-pronged approach. Not only was it a sensible precaution, it should also impress their visitors. He'd given Suaxus the left and slightly less wind. The squire was impatient and something of a problem, but basically one of the soundest in training.

  And you, Hunnar? Whose grandfather are you, eh? Maturity, he reminded himself, was not necessarily a function of age.

  He signaled. On one side of the arrowhead formation, three tran abruptly dropped their left arms. The tough membrane that stretched from wrist to hip folded and the three soldiers leaned slightly to the left. The wind pushed hard and steady into the right wing as three sets of claw-blades dug hard into the ice. The squire and two soldiers made a neat sixty-degree turn to port. Budjir and his men duplicated the maneuver to starboard.

  They were getting close already and Hunnar wondered if he'd delayed too long.

  “Hafel down!” he ordered his companions. They all lowered their arms and cut speed. It wouldn't do for them to reach their objective in advance of their flanking companions. Certainly Eer-Meesach and possibly the Landgrave himself were watching from the wizard's tower. This was no time for sloppiness.

  “And be careful when you brake!” he added. Greeting their visitors with a shower of sharp ice-chips would not be facile diplomacy either.

  His lance felt light in his right paw. They were almost on top of the strangers, who'd made nothing resembling a hostile move. They were pink-faced and seemed a surprisingly light color, except for one who was a dark brown. While their color varied from individual to individual, by and large it was like that of a fresh-born cub.

  He saw Suaxus approaching rapidly from the left and let out his own wings a little more. Budjir would notice the speed-up and match pace perfectly. Looking ahead to the strangers, Hunnar could not make out a single sword, axe, lance, even a knife. Of course, he reminded himself, there could be fifty others armed to the teeth hiding within the metal bottle.

  Still, if they wanted to fight they'd have to move from land to ice, and Hunnar had both wind and sun behind him. Let them try something! These first six, at least, would go down like a herd of mewing hoppers.

  Be careful, idiot! You're not thinking diplomatically again. Then the time for daydreaming was past.

  “Up lances!” he commanded loudly, “and brake in!”

  Suaxus and Budjir arrived almost simultaneously. Neatly done, he complimented himself. Anyone in the castle observing the maneuver couldn't be anything but pleased.

  Hunnar and his men raised their weapons to the perpendicular, turned slightly left, and dug in. Torn free by the sharp claws of the tran soldiers, a shower of ice fragments flew in a glittering cascade to the left. They missed the aliens completely. A couple of them flinched, but the ones in front held proper ground.

  One in the rear, however, did utter a short, high-pitched sound. It sounded a little like a yip of uncertainty to Hunnar. But for all he knew of these odd folk it could have been laughter. The same being had immediately clutched tight to another. Mates, he decided. Another good sign. As yet it was difficult to tell male from female.

  It might be impossible to tell without a dissection. There you go again he cautioned himself. If only this had happened a year ago, his mind would move more easily.

  Well, if there were more of the odd creatures concealed in the metal ship, then these were excellent bluffers. Not a one had thrown a look in that direction. With one exception, these all appeared badly undernourished. None of them were children, either. No, they were not that short, but they were dreadfully thin. And much of that seemed to be clothing.

  For their part the little knot of humans was suitably impressed by Sir Hunnar himself. But then, the knight was an impressive specimen even among his own people. He stood as tall as September and was nearly twice as broad. Great thick arms ended in hands with three fingers and thumb. These supported folded membranous wings between wrist and hip.

  The feet were short, with thick, elongated toes. Each of the three toes held a greatly stretched single claw that narrowed to a sharp blade at the base, forming a kind of triple skate on each foot. The fourth toe was short and had shifted around to the back of the heel. It sported a squat, stubby point that served as a brake when dug into the ice.

  While traveling toward the lifeboat, the tran had presented a shorter appearance. This because they moved in a crouch, offering less surface in proportion to wing area. It also helped to maintain balance in the tricky winds.

  The barrel-chested torso was covered with short, soft fur. Each soldier wore a thick coat of rich, umber fur from the hessavar. This was cinched at the waist by a belt of hammered gold disks and tooled leather. A short, double-bladed sword was strapped securely to Hunnar's left leg. An evil-looking dirk rode on his right hip.

  A necklace of ugly saw-edged teeth from the krokim fell from the thick neck onto the coat. The hood closely resembled the hoods of their own survival parkas, with the exception of twin slits made to admit the furry, triangular ears. A strap ran around the front edge of the hood and tied beneath the chin to keep the wind from pulling it off the wearer's head.

  The face that stared down at them was uncompromisingly feline, with slitted eyes of bright yellow. The pupils were a startling deep-space black. A broad flat nose, high brow, and wide mouth filled with flat and pointed teeth completed the portrait. The tran were omnivorous.

  Body fur was steel-gray, a couple of the soldiers sporting patches of black over the muzzle and at the tips of the ears. One other besides Hunnar possessed a short beard. Hunnar's beard and facial fur were distinctive in their rust-tinge, almost ochre.

  “Say something to 'em, young feller,” whispered September out of the side of his mouth.

  Ethan hurriedly tried to assemble a proper opening sentence, dropping verbs into place, shoring up uncertainties with the right pronouns.

  “We are a ... uh ... caravan that has lost its sails,” he began. “The wind blew us false and we travel now on the breath of mercy.” He took two careful steps onto the ice — this was no time for a pratfall — and stood on tiptoe. Then he took a deep breath and exhaled right into the native's face, praying all the while that none of the germs in his body could effect this mountain of fur in front of him.

  Everyone remained motionless for a moment. Then the ferocious-looking primitive relaxed his mouth into a wide grin — without showing his teeth. He leaned over and breathed a fog of frozen air back into Ethan's face.

  “My breath is your warmth,” he said, not with a little relief himself. At least these strangers were civilized. Tactical advantage or no, he was gratified that a fight didn't seem in the offing.

  “Put up your lances,” he instructed the others. “They appear to be friendly.” The last wasn't really necessary. They'd all heard Ethan's little speech and observed the greeting.

  “We are very trusting today,” Suaxus grumbled, but mostly to himself. He did not relax.

  The tran
eased, retracting their blades almost entirely. At that point Ethan almost made a fatal mistake.

  “Would you like to go inside our ship,” he offered smoothly, “and get out of this infernal wind?”

  Hunnar jerked back and two of his men reached for their swords. He wished he could read the alien's expression.

  “Why?” Hunnar asked tightly, his palm itching, for his own weapon. “Why would we want to get out of the wind?” he prompted, since the other seemed dumbstruck by their reaction.

  “I think I understand,” said Ethan finally. “Where we come from, up there,” and he pointed skyward, “our world is much warmer than this. Your unending hurricane is hard on us. I didn't think you'd regard it otherwise. Honest, that's all I thought.” The soldiers relaxed again. Hunnar didn't bother to correct the alien's reasoning. Leaving ice and wind would take away their small tactical advantage. But it seemed the other was truly ignorant of this.

  “I accept your words,” he said, “but find some of them hard to believe. This is a very pleasant summer day. One could even travel comfortably coatless. But in truth, I would like to see the inside of your vessel.”

  He'd put that awfully crudely, after his initial reaction. But that was one of their prime objectives. He was a knight and not a herald, dammit.

  “It would make things easier for us,” Ethan replied. “Of course you may.”

  September clambered into the windswept boat, leaned out and gave Ethan a hand up.

  “I caught most of that,” he said softly. “Why did that line about ‘getting out of the wind’ put them on guard at first?”

  “I don't know,” Ethan answered, struggling for a foothold. He got in, turned to help Williams.

  “No, wait, I think I do know. Obviously this is a bunch of local troops, or militia, or whatever. Once out of the wind they must sacrifice a great deal of maneuverability. The way they can move on that ice! Did you notice that none of then came up onto the island?”

  “That's true,” September agreed. “A large scale battle on this world must combine the actions of infantry with old-time sailing ships. Fascinating!”

  “I've no desire to see even two of them angry,” Ethan countered. “Look at their size. Better not to provoke them.”

  “Might be different than you think, lad.” The humans were aboard and now the tran were making their cautious way up. “I noticed something a mite intriguing myself.”

  “Do tell,” asked Ethan, watching Hunnar. Watching the way his eyes tried to drink in every detail of the ruined boat.

  “Well, their weight should have driven those claws of theirs a lot deeper into the ice than it does. They may be the greatest muscular specimens since the Pitar, but I'll wager a platinum doubloon that their bones are light. Maybe even partly hollow, like birds. I'm sure they're much lighter than they look.

  “You, young feller-me-lad, may be only half as big as one of those blokes. But you might come out ahead in a shoving match.”

  “I've no desire to test that theory,” Ethan replied feelingly, “not even by friendly arm-wrestling.”

  While Hunnar wasn't in the wizard's class when it came to rapid cogitation, even a ten-year cub could tell that this amazing vessel was in no condition to fly anyplace. The great open holes in roof and sides, the shredded acceleration couches and twisted fixture mountings; everything indicated the vessel had not set down as its designers had intended.

  He also noticed the instantly recognizable scratch marks on one wall and the roof of the boat and looked at the aliens with new respect.

  “You had an encounter with a Droom.”

  “I'm afraid we did,” said Ethan. “Scared the crap out of us.”

  Candid, too, Hunnar filed away mentally.

  Of course, no true warrior would confess to fright in a battle situation — even when confronted by a Droom. If they'd been attacked by a rampaging stavanzer, now! But that was a special case. Why, even he might...

  “Your vehicle,” he began innocently, “seems to have incurred some damage. I myself, since I did not witness your arrival, find it hard to believe that this much metal (keep the envy from your tones, knight!) truly descended from the sky.” Then he couldn't keep the awe out of his voice. “Is it really a flying machine?”

  “It is,” answered Ethan. “We came from a ship many hundreds of times larger than this one.” Hunnar couldn't repress a little start at that.

  “It was bringing us to this world from another, where live some of our number, and thence to others. We paused in the ... above the air of your world, when a small disaster overtook us. We were forced to flee our ship in this tiny lifeboat. A second misfortune befell us and we were unable to land properly. One of our number,” he added by way of afterthought, “was killed in the landing.”

  “My sorrowings,” said Hunnar politely. Of course, he didn't believe this creature's fantastic story. Other worlds, indeed! Every child who'd studied with a Knowledgable One knew that Tran-ky-ky was the only world in this star system that could harbor life. No, they must be a stunted, nearly hairless variety of tran from the far side of the globe. Ethan's next words tended to support this assumption.

  “There is a small settlement of our people many ... many satch to the west of here. That is where we were trying to land when our craft went out of control. If you could aid us in getting there, our ancestors would dance your praises through eternity.”

  “How many satch?” inquired Hunnar, not impressed by the flattery.

  Ethan did some furious figuring in his head, utilizing their last beacon reading and September's guesswork.

  “Eight or nine thousand, I think.”

  One of the soldiers made a muffled whining sound. Hunnar glared at him. But he was hard put to keep from smiling himself. Eight or nine thousand satch. Just a quick chivan around the province and back.

  “Such matters are best discussed with the Landgrave,” he replied smoothly.

  “The Landgrave?”

  “Yes. At the great castle of Wannome. You will meet him — and the Council — when we arrive.”

  “That suits us,” September said, speaking for the first time. “And I think, laddie, it's time we all introduced ourselves.”

  “Agreed,” said Hunnar. “I hight Sir Hunnar Redbeard, son of Stomsbruk Redbeard's Son, grand-grandson of Dugai the Wild. My squires, Suaxus-dal-Jagger” — a tall, slimmer soldier stepped forward stiffly-“and Budjir Hotahg. His Landgrave's men-at-arms and truemen,” and he proceeded to name the soldiers in turn, “Vasen Tersund, Smjor Tol, Avyeh-let-Otkamo, and Hivell Vuonislathi.”

  “I hight Ethan Fortune. This hight Skua September, Milliken Williams...” and he went down their little group.

  “Only one calling?” Hunnar said, indicating Walther.

  “A criminal, uh ... consigned to our care,” Ethan improvised hastily. “As such, he is entitled to but one.”

  As to the du Kanes, Hunnar was mildly discouraged to learn they were father and daughter. He'd badly misjudged ages and relationship. A small point, but it piqued him. Sire and cub, then, and not mates. That was interesting.

  “Despite your greeting, friend Ethan, I must be certain you are of the true warm blood and not deviants like the hoppers. Before we can think of aiding you freely, this vital thing must be settled.”

  Budjir chivaned over and whispered to his leader. “What needs this, sir? They would clearly seem to be—”

  “Be silent, squire. The stjorva appears as a bush, but it bites.” Taken aback, Budjir growled to himself and stepped away.

  “What now?” September was asking Ethan.

  “I think they want to be sure we're of the same basic stock as they are. We're not, of course, but I think he's hunting for comforting similarity.” He turned to the knight. “How can we prove this small thing to you, Sir Hunnar?”

  The huge tran walked past Ethan and confronted Colette. She held her ground well but stared up at the carnivorous face apprehensively.

  “What does this thing wan
t?” she stuttered in Terranglo.

  Ethan conversed briefly with Hunnar. September smiled.

  “Our very lives are at stake,” the big man rasped. “You'd better cooperate.” In Trannish, he addressed Hunnar. “Be careful, the She's a mite skittish.”

  The knight nodded. Ethan noticed that the native's coat fastened at the shoulders with leather ties. He spoke in Terranglo to Colette.

  “I think you'll have to open your parka, Colette. You'll only be cold for a minute.”

  “Open my ... are you out of your mind? You think for one minute I'm going to let this elephantine pussycat leer at me?”

  “He just wants to make certain that we're faintly mammalian,” said Ethan easily. “You're our best and only convincing proof. Would you rather be barbecued?”

  “Now Colette,” began du Kane, “I'm not sure—”

  “Very well,” said Colette evenly. She began working at the snaps on her parka. Ethan noticed that the other tran soldiers were observing the operation with something more than clinical interest.

  She shook a little when Hunnar put those great clawed paws on her, but otherwise she bore the brief inspection stolidly.

  “Satisfied?” September asked him the moment he'd finished. Colette had turned away and was resnapping her jacket.

  “Eminently.” Privately he felt this only added validity to his theory that these people were merely thinner variants of his own stock with a much more advanced technology.

  “You okay, Colette?” Ethan inquired in solicitous Terranglo.

  “Yes, I think so.” She was shaking a little and didn't even insist that he call her Miss du Kane. “I just hope these aborigines don't carry lice or fleas.”

  “What did the She say?” Hunnar asked.

  “That she was flattered by your attention,” Ethan replied smoothly.

  “Umph. Well, friend Ethan, it is for the Landgrave and the Council to decide if anything can be done about your request for help in reaching your home.”