The Icerigger Trilogy: Icerigger, Mission to Moulokin, and The Deluge Drivers

by Alan Dean Foster

  “I don’t want to dampen your enthusiasm,” replied Ethan, gazing at the fresh vegetables set in front of him with similar excitement, “but we’ll only be here another day. The repairs will be completed by then and we’ll be on our way back to civilization. You remember civilization?”

  “Not with overwhelming fondness, Ethan. You’re right, of course. But the things we have discovered already … did you realize that at one time this world averaged a hundred-fifty degrees warmer? There was ice only at the poles. For some reason the climate changed suddenly. The seas froze and most of the land was pressed beneath the water. It was yesterday, geologically speaking.”

  “That’s interesting,” agreed Ethan absently, his stomach growling for attention. He took a seat.

  “And besides that …” Williams stopped, his tone changing to one of admonishment. “You weren’t even listening. You’re like the others, only interested in liquor and money and women.”

  “Look, Milliken, I’m fascinated. But I’m also starving after those two climbs. Later, huh?” He fastened his gaze on the platter of steaming meat that magically appeared in front of him.

  Williams ignored him and stalked away. He took his seat and seemed to forget the conversation entirely as he plunged into debate with Eer-Meesach. They might have been alone at the table.

  They quieted, however, when the Prior raised a clawed old paw and gestured for silence. Ethan hadn’t expected a pre-meal prayer. What he got was just that, and a curious something else.

  “We eat of the product of resourcefulness and thought,” said the Prior solemnly. “Our reason says that this is so. May the Brotherhood never falter in its purpose, nor its strength diminish, so that we may forever continue to hold back the ravages of the Dark One.”

  That was all. Then the other Brothers—not servants, but members of the society acting in that capacity tonight—began to pass around the plates of meat, vegetables, and baked foods.

  Ethan tried several dishes, found them bland but filling.

  Hunnar and the two squires fidgeted noticeably at this polite departure from normal table manners. They were not used to eating in a restrained manner. Here, the “he who gets there firstest gets the bestest” theorem did not apply. They managed to keep from attacking the table and allowed themselves to be served like all the others.

  For a while, then, no one did anything but eat. The members of the Brotherhood seemed willing to permit matters to continue that way.

  But gradually, as stomachs were filled, thoughts other than of consumption occupied the minds of those seated around the table and they began to ask questions.

  With Hunnar doing most of the talking, they explained to their attentive hosts how they fought and defeated the Horde, how they came to build the great ice clipper, and their subsequent use of a herd of thunder-eaters to destroy the remainder of the Horde.

  When it came to the origin of the humans, Ethan thought a few of the Brothers looked more than just casually interested. One was unabashedly fascinated by the bowdlerized version of their initial landing and first contacts with Hunnar’s folk.

  September chipped in with occasional comments and corrections. The du Kanes continued to eat and listen in silence. And the two wizards were off in their own private world, oblivious to human and tran alike.

  “An amazing account,” commented the Prior finally, with becoming control. “And one that should be set down for the records … even though some of it taxes the credulity. Alas, you maintain you have not the time.”

  “I’m afraid not,” said September, not at all contrite. “We ought to and will be on our way again as soon as repairs on the raft are completed.”

  “What a shame,” the Prior added. He sipped easily of a mild brew from his large earthen mug. “Twould make a fine subject for a poem, would it not, Brother Hodjay?”

  “Truly it would,” sighed Hodjay. “A pity existence is so brief. You are quite positive you cannot stay?” He looked at Ethan.

  “I’m sorry, we really can’t. We should take advantage of the good weather, too.”

  The Prior picked at something that looked like a baked pudding with his knife.

  “How far have you still to travel?”

  “Fifty or sixty satch,” said Hunnar. He added conversationally, “But first we have to reach the Place-Where-The-Earth’s-Blood-Burns.”

  There was a crash.

  “I … my clumsiness shames me,” said one of the Brothers. He pushed back his chair and knelt to help one of the servers gather up the shards of broken mug.

  “Alas, Brother Podren’s development has gone wholly to the brain,” chuckled the Prior easily. The other Brothers made the tran laugh-equivalent. To Ethan it seemed a little forced.

  The Prior continued as though nothing had happened.

  “Do not be surprised at Brother Podren’s reaction. Not many folk travel to the Place-Where-The-Earth’s-Blood-Burns.”

  “Why not?” asked September a little sharply, and then Ethan knew he wasn’t alone in detecting their hosts’ reactions.

  The Prior spread his arms, opened his paws. “Superstition. The common folk say strange things about the great smoking mountain.”

  “It is a volcano, then,” muttered Ethan to himself. They’d assumed as much all along, but it was nice to have additional confirmation.

  “Could you elaborate, Prior?” September pressed.

  “Surely. Those who pass too close are said to have their minds affected. Some report seeing odd visions, while others see nothing at all and remain untouched. Others, they say, are drawn toward the mountain as a starving being may be drawn to food. Again, their companions may experience nothing. There is no soil and little grows there. None would live there anyway.”

  “Superstition is all that keeps them away?” asked Ethan.

  “That, and the fact that the mountain throws out melted earth and choking black dust very often.”

  “Oh.”

  “But you’ve been there,” said September shrewdly.

  The old tran nodded. “I have been close by the place,” he conceded. “I did not set foot on the ground.”

  “Because of the superstitions?” September toyed with his pseudo-pudding.

  “No. Because at the time it was throwing out melted stone in huge quantities and the heat was appalling. The danger was real and not imaginary. My spirit was quite safe, but there was a real danger to the body. So the ship I was on did not linger in the area. Hopefully, you will have better luck.”

  “We expect to,” September replied.

  “And now, tell me once more of your miraculous sky-boat and its unfathomable mechanisms. I did not understand the first time and probably will not this time either, but there is merit in trying.”

  Dinner ended with a pleasant little liqueur. Conversation continued for another hour or so. Then Colette yawned widely, and Budjir confessed that he had to rise early on the morrow to help oversee the setting of the new bowsprit. So the Prior declared the gathering at an end.

  The group of visiting humans and tran were guided back to their communal sleeping room. Ethan walked next to September.

  “What do you think of our hosts?” said the big man.

  “Hmmm? Oh, I guess they’re okay. A little dry and self-centered maybe, but okay. For a second there, when Hunnar mentioned our destination and what’s-his-name dropped his mug …”

  “Podren.”

  “Yes, Podren. I thought there was something very unfriendly in his expression. He covered it fast, though, and I’m sure no expert at interpreting alien facial expressions. On the other hand, it didn’t seem to affect the Prior at all.”

  “He was probably right … our going to a place regarded as a home for devils and spirits and what-not, young feller. Leaking gases could explain the hallucinations and weird reactions among passing natives.”

  “I suppose so. In any case, we’ll have the chance to find out for ourselves before long.”

  They reached the room. The
central firepit was crackling and spitting merrily, throwing welcome heat to every corner of the room. It had apparently been burning during the meal, as a respectable pile of coals had accumulated in the bottom of the pit. These added to the pleasant heat.

  Ethan made his goodnights to everyone else. There were no dividers between the beds. It wasn’t a problem, however, since none of the humans had any intention of exposing their bare skin to the still-frigid air.

  He climbed into bed. Hunnar and September split up and set about extinguishing the lamps that burned on the walls. Ethan would have helped, but they hung at tran height and that was a bit too high for him.

  There were fewer furs and blankets on the bed than he’d grown used to. Their hosts, of course, had no way of knowing that the hairless strangers were far more affected by the cold than Hunnar and the squires and Elfa. Then, too, this was not the castle of Wannome, nor were they the privileged passengers on a great raft.

  Hunnar and the squires took the beds placed farthest from the firepit. Elfa insisted on doing likewise, as did old Eer-Meesach. That was fine with Ethan. He had no desire to play the Stoic Terran. A place near the dying blaze was worth any moral oversight.

  He drifted almost immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  It seemed minutes later when he awoke, but it wasn’t. He sat up in near total darkness to an uncomfortably familiar scream. The fire was gone, but there was enough light from the star-filled windows and the failing coals to make out shapes.

  The room was filled with struggling, swearing, darting forms. The first scream wasn’t repeated, but there were plenty of yells and bellows of outrage. He could recognize Hunnar’s and September’s among them.

  The half of the room nearest the doorway was full of white-robed, bearded silhouettes. A pair of muscular paws grabbed at him as he sat in the bed and pulled him bodily out of it. He fought in the tight grasp and got to his knees.

  Leaning backward, he pulled hard. His proportionately greater body weight obviously startled his attacker. The clutching paws went limp in surprise as their owner was suddenly tugged off balance.

  Something struck him on the right shoulder and he turned and swung blindly. He felt a bearded face under his knuckles.

  Still frantically trying to blink the sleep from his eyes, he was knocked roughly sideways into a huge figure. He pulled at it.

  “It’s me, young feller-me-lad, it’s me!” September pressed a still-warm log into Ethan’s hands and turned to swing at a dim shape.

  They were shoved backwards by the sheer press of bodies pouring into the room. The Brothers also fought with clubs, but they seemed to be taking care not to kill anyone. However, that did not necessarily hint of compassion to come.

  It did make things a bit more difficult for them, since no such compunction existed on the part of those they were fighting. But the tightly-packed crowd made it hard just to swing a club.

  “This way!” came a cry from the back of the room. Ethan whirled, spotted Budjir leaning from the sill of one of the high east-side windows. He parried another blow, swung downward and felt the wood meet bone with a satisfying crunch.

  Then he turned and ran. Hunnar was there to give him a boost up. The powerful arms of the big squire went under his. Another moment and he was through the window, standing underneath the impartial stars on a chill, pebble-topped roof.

  Fortunately there was little wind. Dark, monolithic forms loomed to the west, the spires and steeples of the highest monastery. Elfa and Suaxus were already on the roof.

  Another second and he was helping Eer-Meesach through. Ethan braced himself against the wall and the old wizard came up easily. His breathing was ragged. Aged eyes blinked in the darkness.

  The sounds of fighting below seemed far away, surreal. Hunnar himself fairly shot through the opening. September followed close behind. One of the Brothers was wrapped around the big man’s left leg. It took several kicks from its powerful twin to dislodge the persistent scholar. Ethan was still in too much of a daze to ask questions. He glanced around and saw that their company was far from complete.

  “Hey, where … where are the others? Milliken and …”

  “Our pacific hosts got ’em,” September growled back. “I don’t think for the purposes of advancing the frontiers of beneficent research, either. They nearly got us all. Would have, if Hunnar hadn’t gotten up to put some new wood on the damned fire. So he was awake when the first of them came sneaking in.”

  “I don’t understand it,” mused the knight, as stunned as Ethan. “There is no reason for this. They seemed so really decent and—”

  “—schizoid,” finished September. “We’ll chat about their unfortunate aberrations later.” He knelt and stuck his head a little ways into the room.

  “They’ve gone. I expect they’ll be out on the rooftops after us in a minute. Deity knows they’re more familiar with them than us. Now, there’s only one way down from this rockpile. And while our knowledgeable friends don’t appear to be militarily inclined … witness their performance in that room … sooner or later some bright boy among them’s going to realize that by blocking off the stairway they’ll have us trapped up here.”

  The next minutes were a slow-motion dream-scheme of running, hurtling parapets, darting across rooftops, and dropping one level at a time. Hunnar and September assumed the lead. They all had to move fast and carefully. One wrong step in an unfamiliar place and they might step off the side of the mountain.

  Ages later the two lead men returned to the group with a sign to keep silent.

  “We’re just above the gateway,” September whispered. There’s a single Brother on guard there and he doesn’t look awkwardly tense about things.” Ethan looked past the big man, saw no sign of Sir Hunnar.

  A minute later there was a short, sharp whistle from below. They ran to the edge of the building. September didn’t hesitate. He turned, grabbed the coping, and let go. Without thinking, or he might have hesitated, Ethan copied him.

  The drop wasn’t bad, and the big man and Hunnar were there to catch him. Suaxus came next, and immediately took up a position next to the closed door. Lanterns burned on either side of the entrance.

  Crying mournfully, the slight breeze flowed over the peaks and down into the black abyss.

  Carefully, old Eer-Meesach was lowered to the stairs, then Elfa. Budjir hung from the edge for a second and then they were all gathered below. They turned to descend.

  Hunnar held back a moment. He picked up the green stone staff of the unconscious brother, stripped off the white robe. Carefully he lifted one of the lanterns from its holder.

  Transferring it from the staff to one paw. He whirled it once in a circle, arced it against the wooden door. Flaming oil splattered on the grain, flickered unsteadily for a moment, then sprang up brightly.

  “That ought to keep their reasoning minds busy for a while,” he muttered grimly.

  They ran as quickly as they dared in the darkness. Eer-Meesach had to be considered, too. The wizard was holding up well under the strain, but there would come a time when his body, no matter how strong his spirit, would fail him.

  They made fair speed down the black stairs. Now fully awake, Ethan took a cautious look over the edge. The unending ice sheet shone unreal in the starlight, speckled here and there with ebon spires that were other, friendly islands.

  A last glance behind showed a bright glow from the still-burning doorway.

  By the time they reached the last stair, Ethan was puffing noticeably. Eer-Meesach, on the other hand, was near collapse. They moved the wizard into the shelter of some big boulders.

  Budjir had gone on ahead to the ship. He returned and between gasps told them he’d seen tran moving on board the Slanderscree—and too many of them had beards, wore long robes, and carried green staves.

  Simultaneous curses passed among the little assembly. Languages differed but sentiments were identical.

  “Not quite as naive as I thought,” September murmu
red. “Gould you see any of our people, Budjir?”

  “Not a one of the crew. They must all be trapped below-decks.”

  “Couldn’t have been too hard,” the big man mused. “One man on watch, and him not expecting anything.”

  “They couldn’t have overcome the whole crew,” said Ethan in disbelief. “Not with clubs.”

  “Hah! I doubt if they even had to hit anybody, except maybe the watch. Quietly bolt all the hatches, what, and keep a look-see for anyone trying to break out elsewhere. Balavere and the rest probably still don’t know what hit ’em. How many’d you spot, Budjir?”

  “Eight … perhaps nine. There may be more I did not see.”

  “Not likely. That much know-how I don’t credit them with.” September looked thoughtful. “Ta-hoding and his bunch weren’t expecting them. They won’t be expecting us.”

  Durnad was the one who noticed the tiny band coming toward the dock. He started. Fully six of the infidels were in the group. They trooped along, heads downcast, with their hands/paws clasped behind their backs. A single Brother followed behind.

  “Come here, Brother Tydin.” Another white-robed figure joined Durnad at the head of the landing ramp.

  “What, Durnad … oh!” He’d also spotted the approaching procession. “What means this?”

  “Hail, Brother!” shouted Durnad. “What has happened at the Home? We saw a great light.”

  The Brother’s reply was low, but intelligible.

  “All fairs well. These are to be kept aboard their ship until the morrow.”

  “That is strange, Brother,” said Tydin, clearly puzzled. The group marched up the ramp. “I had heard that all the infidels were to be dealt with in the great dome this very night. Why do you hide your face? Have you been hurt by these devils?” Tydin took an uncertain step backwards.