Jess fought to keep her grip on a world that seemed to be slipping away from beneath her, like a tide going out. Was this thing that grinned and spoke like Jay Colby nothing but her own insanity, a mirror to her inner self? The familiar interior was a shell of shadowy nightmare, the world beyond it infinitely remote. She had walked through silent whiteness, alien, hostile, sterile. What way had she come? Had she fallen exhausted in the snow, and trodden a darkening downward road?
He was looking at her, into her, and the hiss was contemptuous. ‘You don’t understand, do you? Hal would – should go ask him. And maybe you’ll get your chance after you join us – if you ever really cared for him. That’s the way it is with us – the einherjar look after their own. That’s why I came back for you – why you’ll go with me now –’
‘Jay – no –’
The whisper rose to a fierce rasping whine. ‘Yes! Yes, I love you, can’t you even see that, you stupid bitch? I want to save you! There’s no other way! The King’s loose now, the long winter’s coming, the Winter of the World, the Fimbulwinter! You’ll die like the rest of them, the herd, the thralls! And that’s waste, you’re not like them, you’re like me, a berserker born, a shieldgirl, a valkyrie! I chose you –’
‘I know what I am!’ yelled Jess, half crazy with fear of this creature that wore Jay’s shape, that raved in whispers. ‘I’m nothing of yours, nothing for you! You don’t own me, you can’t choose me, save me, take me – whatever you think you want to do to me –’
The mocking smile broadened. ‘What’s ours we take, by right. Fight all you want, that’s as it should be. You’ll thank me for it, you’ll lose nothin’ but the fear of death. The einherjar have any pleasure they want. For the taking.’ The arms lifted, the huge hands opened – slowly, almost caressingly, as if moulding in the air the shape they would be touching. Colby took a step forward, and the floor groaned and creaked under his weight. The fingers caged around Jess’s head, dropped to her throat.
With a wild yell of sheer loathing she jabbed her makeshift spear at the shadowed eyes; Colby fell back a pace, twisting his head away. For an instant the hair swung free of the bloated neck.
Jess stared, then her legs began to shake beneath her and she needed desperately to scream madness and wake up. Only all her throat allowed was a hoarse dry croak, and she knew damn well she wasn’t dreaming. Her knees gave, she felt her jeans damp at the crutch and she shrank down into the corner under the window, unable even to think of trying for the catch, unable to trust her very mind or senses. On Colby’s broad throat, like the mark of a terrible halter, were the bloodshot bruise impressions of two huge hands, fingers wide, thumbs meeting in the centre over the Adam’s apple. It was a crushed mess, small ends of bone gleaming through the broken skin. It was not a wound a man could survive, she knew that, and yet Colby was turning towards her again, reaching out to brush aside the slender metal spear that was the only barrier between them.
The terror that shook Jess was beyond her understanding, seeking to strip off her humanity and leave her a helpless howling ape in the dark, trembling before the jealousy of the dead. The hidden eyes seemed to suck the very warmth out of her; she couldn’t move, she could hardly breathe for the sickening stench of death. The spear fell from her fingers, and the out-thrust hand closed around her throat.
But the fingers, the fingers as cold as metal, did not close. They slid down, spread out, tracing the lines of muscle and tendon that stood out rigid from her shoulders, and down, down to span her breast. The other hand snaked out; the index finger hooked into the neck of the shirt and tore downward. The thick cloth parted like paper, the black nail traced a bloody furrow in the skin, snagged her belt and burst it and ripped into the fabric of her jeans, clawing them brutally open. Then it leapt to her throat, and she yelled once before it lifted her bodily off the ground and the shadow surged down over her. A vast cold weight, like a statue carved in dead flesh, flattened her threshing body against the creaking wall, bore down her frantically kicking legs and thrust brutally against her. The hand tightened on her throat, her jaw was jammed shut and the stinking weight of the body ground into her face, cutting off her breathing. Her neck was a band of agony, her head buzzed and there was a high-pitched shrilling in her ears; blood flooded her nose and rushed choking down into her throat. The force of the vast body twisted her splayed hips almost to dislocation, the bones of her pelvis ground and creaked under the sheer weight of it as she twisted and squirmed frantically against its assault. A foot caught a cupboard side, she kicked sideways but the vast body moved with her, sliding her off the wall and bending her backwards over the edge of the worktop till her spine creaked and her legs fell open to a tearing thrust –
There was a crash. Light exploded into her pounding head, and for a dizzy instant she thought it was death. Then the weight was gone, she fell in a limp heap and saw the shadow over her swing around, the door open and a dazzling light flood in. Harry bounded into the van, and drew up so suddenly that Neville cannoned into him.
‘Jesus –’ he shouted, seeing as Jess did – Colby rearing up in the torchbeam, Colby a vast bloated parody of himself. A huge, hunched, slavering, tumescent brute, a minotaur not a man. A rampant thing, near-naked, bruise-skinned, smeared with blood and filth – and in the time it took to shout that word it was on them. The rush of it bore them back, smashed them against the end wall with a force that made the van creak and rock on its supports; the bricks under the legs broke, the van seesawed and rolled back towards the fence. But the legs drove into the ground, tilting the van forward, and the floor snapped and splintered under Colby’s giant weight. Off balance, he went stumbling back with one man on each arm, hammering and kicking furiously at him as they were rattled and dashed against the cupboarded walls. In the open they would have been shaken off in seconds, but in the narrow space Colby could not swing his arms enough to free himself; he stood like a baited bear, battering his assailants against the splintering wood. Things spilled out of the cupboards, packets and bottles and clothes and books, all caught up in a whirling maelstrom; the floorboards smashed to matchwood under Colby’s feet.
Jess clawed herself half upright against the ruined partition, clutched briefly at her aching body, then fumbled for the broken shaft of metal. She couldn’t find it. He was stronger and heavier than all of them together, he’d been toying with her before … She dragged herself up on aching legs and staggered forward. Her weight tipped the van, it seesawed again and tipped sharply back. The fighters lost their balance, the men were flung off as Colby’s arms windmilled and he staggered back down the sloping floor, smashing into the remains of the bed. Jess caught the rim of the fanlight for support, and the feel of her fingers closing around the rim awoke a memory, or something less, a reflex from her gymnastics classes. In a single polished movement her arms tautened, her back tensed and her chin tucked in, and her stiffened legs swung free of the floor, kicked back and went slamming forward straight into the centre of Colby’s chest.
It was like kicking a mountain. But she still had her boots on, and all her own weight was behind the blow. It shot Colby off his precarious feet and straight back at the caravan’s end wall. His vast weight cannoned into it and through in a tearing screech of metal and tinkle of toughened glass, making jagged teeth that ripped and tore at the toppling body. It smashed through the flimsy fence and hedge behind, and landed with a shattering crash at the cliff edge.
The three others slid forward in his wake, landed in a tumbled heap at the torn end wall, saw the huge half-mangled thing scrabble at the frozen earth and fight to rise, its head, part severed, lolling on its shoulder. Then there was a soft, tearing crack, a rustle and patter of little stones falling, and a small patch of the overstrained cliff edge crumbled and slid away under it. The shape twisted, bounced, and for an instant a dark arm, hand out-thrust, showed against the swirling clouds. Then, quite silently, it was gone.
Neville scooped up his lantern, still working, and half clamber
ed, half crawled through the open gap, shuddering as he brushed against the dark moist shreds that hung from its teeth. He crawled very deliberately towards the cliff edge, at a point well away from the recent fall, and shone the beam downward. Harry followed, and so, to her own surprise, did Jess, clutching her ripped jeans around her. The three lay there together, not speaking, staring down into the abyss. The tide was just coming in, and the thing that had been Colby had fallen into the shallows, onto the narrow spines of rock leading out across the beach. The pale surf was washing the shattered body back and forth across them, like the teeth of a saw, stone completing what steel and glass began.
Jess turned her head violently away, and the others ushered her back gently. Harry draped his old coat around her shoulders. ‘Nowt broke then, flower?’
‘No. No – thank you. Both of you.’ She was shivering violently. ‘He – it – was trying to … Oh Jesus … Poor Jay.’ She sobbed a little. ‘Poor fucking Jay.’
‘Aye,’ said Neville in a shattered voice. ‘Poor Jay. ’E’s long gone. Whatever that bloody thing was, it weren’t ’im.’
‘Saw yer computer thing ’ung on t’fence,’ said Harry drily. ‘Knew you wouldn’t ’ave left it there normal, like, so we were ready for a barney. Not that, though. Not that …’ He shivered violently. ‘Snow’s coomin’ on ’arder. Get ’er soom togs, Neville, if there’s any left, and we’ll ’ead for the car. And thank our lucky stars if we make it back t’town.’
* * *
‘No, dammit!’ Ridley glared furiously at the telephone. ‘Not a chance! That’s three more we’ve got listed missing now – plus the deader. No, not ID’d yet, but there’s no doubt who it is – Wilf Jackson. Yes, another of the archaeology mob. How? I’d put the mobiles onto their car, is how. Tango Charlie found it and followed some tracks. Outside one of those big barrow affairs – empty, right. Real video nasty, apparently – torn in two. And his mate Latimer’s missing – Tom Latimer, TV type. Unhuh, quite well known.’ He shot a despairing look at Neville. ‘Then another archaeology bloke. Hal Hansen – the boss, right. Set out for Oddsness two hours ago, hadn’t got there before the phone lines went down. Aye, it’s bad! And it’s going to get worse! Every road’s closed, in or out, I’ve only got two cars still operating and they’re both miles away. You’ll have to stick it out – or get over to Grimsdyke Farm, about a mile up the side road – yes, there. They’ll see you right. Okay. Watch yourselves.’ He dropped the phone contemptuously back in its cradle. ‘Ass! Gets snowed up in that mobile HQ thing and expects me to cripple what policing capacity we’ve got left to come dig them out. At least you three are back –’
‘No news?’ croaked Jess. ‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing I wouldn’t have heard first. I’m sorry. All we can do now is wait till morning. When the snowfans clear the roads, we’ll be able to start a proper search.’ He put a hand gently on her shoulder, feeling the tremor in her and glad there was nothing worse. Another girl might have ended up a stretcher case. Perhaps he was seeing in her now something of what Hansen saw, a unique blend of vulnerability and strength – shattered, worried sick, but still desperately ready to help.
‘Jess …’ She did not answer, but he persisted. ‘Look … ordinarily I’d say there’s nothing you can do, get some rest like the quack told you to. But – well, you might be better for something else to think about, and there is something …’ She looked up fiercely, and he held up a hand. ‘Not to help Hal now, not exactly. But something he wanted done, something to help us all …’ He pulled out his notebook, flipped over the pages. ‘There – I don’t know if you can read that, but …’
She slammed her hand down on the bar. ‘Jee-sus! Yes! Of course! Why didn’t I think of that – Neville hey Neville –’ He lumbered over, swinging the terminal from one hand. ‘Careful with that, dammit!’ She slid off the bar stool and grabbed it. The two men, half a head shorter, exchanged amused glances. ‘Oh, crap! It’s full of snow here – I hope to hell that’s okay – guaranteed waterproof but I can’t remember the temperature parameters – has that phone got a socket? No? Hey, landlord – and Harry, Neville, I’ll need a socket, a power point and something to stand this on –’ The mask of sick pain and fear seemed to fall from her face, though the pallor remained. A few minutes later, by drafting everyone within earshot, she’d installed the terminal on a card table in the parlour. She hobbled over and sat down very gingerly in the worn old armchair, unlocked the case and tilted back its hinged lid to reveal a typewriter keyboard and a bank of controls. ‘Hey, somebody turn the lights off, okay? Plasma display – works better in low light.’
The landlord hovered anxiously as she flicked at the controls. A blank plastic rectangle inside the lid lit up with a row of dusty green characters. ‘Here, Miss, where were you going to call with that thing? An’ how much …?’
‘Oh, no more’n a phone call,’ said Jess. ‘It’s got a modem – fits any standard phone line. I’m just calling Texas.’
‘Texas! Here, hold on –’
Ridley waved him quiet. ‘This could be bloody life or death, man!’ Rows of green characters were flickering across the screen.
**RAYNER COLLEGE COMPUTER DEPARTMENT**
PLEASE STATE THE FOLLOWING:
*SERVICE REQUIRED
*NAME
*USER-ID
*YOUR AUTHORITY
**SINCE THIS IS AN OVERSEAS CALL, DO YOU WISH TO CHARGE CALL TIME?
The keys rattled under Jess’s fingers.
*MAIN DATABASE
*FULL ACCESS AND VIRTUAL SEARCH FACILITIES, MOST URGENT
She filled in her name and an enormous number, then added:
*ARCHDEP PRIORITY, HANSEN
*ALL CHARGES TO ARCHDEP, PERSONAL ACCOUNT PROFESSOR HANSEN.
The landlord sighed.
Ridley watched in silent fascination as the small green cursor line flew across the screen like the shuttle in a loom, weaving a fabric of codes and commands. He could just about use the police computer system himself, but this went far beyond his experience. ‘What I’m doing,’ said Jess, answering everyone’s unspoken question, ‘is accessing the main database – sort of a reference library, only it’s held on videodisks, computer disks, tape, that kind of thing. You can get the whole Encyclopaedia Britannica on two disks. It’s got most of our library in it, plus unpublished notes, research, all kinds of bits and pieces. Most universities have something like it now, paralleling the book library. Just set out what you want to know and it’ll dig out the info for you – one hell of a research tool if you know what to do with it. God, can somebody get me a beer, my throat’s on fire!’
Harry blinked doubtfully at the compact terminal. ‘Ee, you mean that little booger can ’old all that crap?’
‘God, no – but the phone lines are hooking it up to the big computers at Rayner. And now I’ve got them looking up your local legends, like Hal suggested.’
‘Will your computers have that kind of stuff?’ asked Ridley.
‘Sure. My department – Anthropology – it’s pretty big on folklore, even got a new classification system going, miles better’n the old Aarne-Thompson. I’m using it now, setting up a thematic search – sorry. Sorting through stuff from this part of Yorkshire for recurrent themes – stories that appear a lot. Then we give them a motive analysis – thanks!’ She stopped and gulped at the lager the dazed landlord had brought.
‘Think I liked ’er better worried,’ muttered Neville, looking equally dazed.
‘I think I see,’ said Ridley. ‘You’re looking for any memories of something like this happening before – and how they dealt with it.’
‘Yeah, or at least how it started – hey, we’re getting something … quite a lot.’
The screen emptied, and then, one by one, lines of numbers and letters began to appear. The men craned over her shoulders.
R.2224/70/V15 (A-T 1170) Sale of Soul to Devil
R.4527/33/V4b (A-T 3000) Scholomance (Sorcerers study with devil)
&
nbsp; R.4510/33/V4b (A-T 3026) Magicians’ Contest
R.4579/12/V6c (A-T n/a) Sorcerer Lord (Pengersec etc.)
R.2835/12/V7c (A-T 1571) Servants punish Master
R.2647/56/V4b (A-T 1537) Man killed more than once
R.1225/12/V4a (A-T 565) Sorcerer’s Apprentice (Magic Mill; Magic Storm)
R.98/39/Vld (A-T 363-5) The Walking Dead
R.1179 (A-T 501) The Wild Hunt (Sir Francis Drakel Jan Tregeaglel Herla; Woden/Odin)
R.1535/5/V22? (A-T 766) The Sleeping King
R.90/95/V20a (A-T 325) The King of the Black Art
R.1882/4/V1b (A-T 1135) Origin of Winter Weather
R.1893/5/V6d (A-T 973) Placating the Storm
‘Bloody ’ell!’ said Neville.
Jess nodded agreement. ‘I’m getting a very bad feeling about this …’
‘Let me get this straight,’ said Ridley, clutching his head. ‘These are all local fairy tales?’
Jess shook her head, winced, and massaged her neck. ‘Not exactly. They’re themes that turn up in folktales from this part of the world. See, most folktales have common roots – you can make a date with Cinderella anywhere from Norway to Indochina, with a stopover for the North American Indians. But when some themes keep turning up in a particular area more often than others, it may be ’cause they fit in with some real history – the way the true stories of heroes like Hereward the Wake and Owen Glendower get mixed into folktales about legendary figures like Robin Hood, say, and King Arthur.’
A few extra lines appeared on the screen, like footnotes, and finally a flashing line that read:
*SEARCH COMPLETED
*RETURN TO MENU?
The Ice King Page 19