Cleaning the decks produced three bodies who’d been offspring of Sofold. In accordance with custom, the deceased were carried into the body of the ship. They would remain in the unheated under deck until the Slanderscree returned home, preserved by the sub-freezing temperatures. Following departure ceremonies attended by their families, the corpses would be defrosted and reduced to a fine meal which would be spread across the cultivated fields of inner Sofold. Thus would the dead enrich the soil of their homeland which had supplied food to nourish them when alive. This was a necessary as well as spiritual tradition. The island states of Tran-ky-ky were not rich in natural fertilizers.
Tradition likewise deemed the bodies of the fallen enemy unhealthy. Being likely to spiritually poison the fields, these chilled torsos were unceremoniously dumped over the side. While the ship’s shaman repaired fleshy wounds, her carpenter set about fixing the railings where the sky-outlanders’ light knives had burnt through.
Repair operations under way, a far larger and more alert guard was mounted and the rest of the crew returned to their hammocks or supper, whatever they were doing when interrupted.
When everyone else had resumed downing cold food, an empty seat was noted in the chamber. The seat was the one located between Hunnar and Ethan.
“Who has last seen the Landgrave’s daughter?” Hunnar’s gaze met the curious stares of knights, squires and mates. Individual denials combined to create an air of anxiety in the room. It seemed that no one could remember seeing Elfa since they had first come to eat.
One sailor ventured that he’d seen her on deck fighting with the rest of the crew. Being occupied fully with preserving his own life, he hadn’t been able to watch her for long.
Hunnar rose. “Search the ship. Begin with the three cabins, then the interdeck storage bins, then the rigging.”
For a second time the meal was abandoned as the inhabitants of the chamber spread out across the vessel. Every centimeter of wood was examined, every yard and sail locker combed. What the last areas searched lacked in likelihood, they made up for in the unanimity of response they produced.
Elfa Kurdagh-Vlata was no longer on the ship.
It was suggested she’d fallen or been knocked over the side. Scrambling over lines and ladders, the crew flooded the ice around and beneath the icerigger. September, Ethan and Hunnar quickly joined the search. Oil lamps carried by chivaning sailors suggested a conclave of fireflies, darting and weaving irregular search patterns over the ice. Several followed the line of inert forms stretching unevenly toward the nearby cliffs.
Once more all reports were negative. Elfa was neither alive aboard ship nor dead on the ice.
“They would not—” Hunnar paused, collected himself. “They would not have taken her corpse.” His teeth showed and he was not smiling. “She would be of no use to anyone in any … capacity … if dead. We must assume she had been taken by those who escaped.”
Senior warrior among all the assembled Tran, Balavere Longax half-grinned in the direction of the dark island. “Sympathy to them, then.”
“Suaxus, Budjir, choose twenty crew, volunteers all, for an attempt.” Hunnar glanced at the quiescent icerigger. “We can spare that many and still leave the ship safely protected, should this abduction be a diversion to weaken our defenses.”
“You realize,” September growled, raising his voice to make himself heard above the wind, “that if they hole up in any kind of fortified camp, we’re going to have a helluva time worming her out.”
“Would you think of not trying?” Hunnar spoke calmly, but Ethan could see the knight was holding himself together with great effort.
“Of course not.” Ethan couldn’t tell if the big man was being sarcastic or not, and he couldn’t see his expression beneath the survival suit mask. He tapped the tiny weapon attached to his waist. “If you’re going to have any kind of chance, you’ll need our firepower.” Hunnar turned his attention to Ethan.
“This is not your fight, my friend.”
“Hunnar, in the eighteen months I’ve known you, that’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”
Hunnar’s expression said thanks, his gratitude no less eloquent for being nonverbal.
“We must get the other things we brought with us from Brass Monkey,” Ethan continued. “It won’t take us a minute to get ready.”
“It will take time to assemble the party,” Balavere said.
The two humans reboarded the ship. On returning to the ice, they sat down and began to do strange things with their feet. Hunnar’s curiosity took his mind off Elfa for a moment.
“Williams will stay on board,” Ethan told him, puffing with the effort of what he was doing. “We should leave at least one beamer on the ship in case they try another attack.”
“I do not think they will,” said Hunnar, staring at Ethan’s feet. “But it is a wise man who leaves one trap by the door of his house when he goes hunting.” Unable to resist any longer, he gestured at September.
“What is it you do to your feet?”
Ethan stood, rocked awkwardly, but kept himself upright. “They’re called ice skates, Hunnar.” He bent, adjusted a strap. “They’re artificial chiv, that fit over our own chivless feet. These are kind of special. We found out some of the workers in Brass Monkey had them made in the station metal-forming shop. They have gyroscopic compensators built into the soles.”
“I do not understand this gyoscopek. But what do they compensate for?”
“For our clumsiness.” He stumbled, seemed about to fall, when his feet suddenly shifted fluidly to help him regain his balance.
Hunnar wondered if they would compensate enough. Perhaps they needed more gysocopeks.
The assembled crewmembers wore uniformly grim expressions.
“I think this expedition will run smoother,” September said, “if Ethan and I concentrate on just stayin’ upright.”
“I understand.” Hunnar called up to someone leaning over the railing. Several lengths of pika-pina cable were tossed over the side.
One end of both cables were braided together. Hunnar handed the thick joined end to Ethan. Two sailors picked up the other two ends, opened their arms. Wind filled their dan, and Ethan found himself starting to move forward. September was alongside, likewise making use of the tow.
And suddenly they were racing toward the cliffs at nearly sixty kilometers an hour.
Ethan gritted his teeth behind the mask. If he lost his balance or his grip at this speed, a rough place on the ice ocean might rip even the tough material of the survival suit, admitting air cold enough to freeze skin on contact. Somehow he managed, though his bent knees ached and his hands throbbed.
Suaxus yelled at him from nearby. “Ready, friend Ethan! We are going to turn.”
He tried to strengthen his grip, but his hands were numb from the strain and he couldn’t tell if his grip was growing any stronger. On command, every Tran in the group dropped his or her left arm, leaned to the right, and swerved sharply in that direction.
Ethan worried about the strain on the cable as he snapped around like a rock on a string. But the cable held, and so did his wrists. They were running toward the cliffs in a wide arc. A glance between his feet showed they were following the ice paths cut by the retreating survivors of the assault on the ship.
It was nearing midnight, and the incredible cold of the Trannish night began to penetrate the immensely efficient thermotropic material of his suit. Once he slid open the face mask of his suit just a fraction, and a thin blast of air hit him like a ten-kilo boulder. He closed it immediately, shivering not from the cold. How quickly out here his blood could freeze solid in his veins.
There were shouts from the head of the group. Suaxus, noting Ethan’s curious stare through his face mask, pointed upward. They were nearly below the cliffs now. Twenty-five meters above, the irregular silhouette of trees growing at the edge thrust black spines into the moonlit sky.
A small fortress rode the edge of a spire of
rock. It was separated from the main island by a five-meter-wide gap spanned by a wooden drawbridge.
The group swung off into shadow. “We’ll try to go up an unguarded side,” Hunnar was saying. “There should be only one walkway cut into the rock, and it is bound to be watched.”
Such a walkway would be cut into the sheltered lee of the rock spire, on its eastern side. The little knot of armed Tran and humans decelerated on its dark, windswept, western flank.
Ethan let go of the cable, tilted his head back and struggled with feet intent on flying out from under him. The wall of the small fortress above was built of massive stone blocks. There were no turrets or peaked roofs for the wind to tear at.
“It does not seem possible,” one of the squires finally declared. “It is too straight.”
“No it’s not.” The squire stared at September.
“Do we fly up like the guttorbyn, sky-outlander?”
September walked—skated rather—to the base of the rock pillar. The stone tapered toward the top. “It’s only about twenty meters. We could climb it.”
“You mean, leave the ice?” Hunnar’s eyes widened.
It occured to Ethan that the Tran, who moved so easily and gracefully across the ice ocean but found even walking burdensome, might find the concept of climbing an unprepared surface terrifying. While their sharp chiv would give good purchase on the wooden spars and masts of a ship, they would only slide on smooth rock. And their comparative inflexibility would keep them from probing for a foothold the way the ape-foot of a man could.
“All right. Then Ethan and I will go.”
“Just a minute, Skua.”
“I’m open to suggestions, feller-me-lad.”
Ethan had to admit, finally, he couldn’t think of anything better.
“We’ll have surprise on our side, lad. Remember that.”
“We will if we don’t splatter ourselves all over the ice.”
“You are both crazy.” Hunnar exchanged shoulder grips and breath with both of them in turn. “We will trust your madness because we have no choice. Go with the wind.”
“Thanks, Hunnar. But not this time.” Ethan turned, removed his skates. Then he followed September up the first ledge, concentrating on where his feet and hands went and not looking down. The last thing he wanted was a steady breeze blowing him around while he was crawling like a fly up a wall.
But the wind turned out to be an ally. It blew steadily against his back, shoving him into the cliff. And the spire was not as sheer and smooth as it had appeared in the darkness. There were ample cracks and ledges where a human hand or foot could find a hold. They made steady progress upward.
Halfway up the granite wall Ethan waited while September hunted for an elusive handhold above. As he caught his breath and stared single-mindedly at the giant’s backside he found himself wondering what a moderately successful salesman was doing glued like a bag of meat to cold rock on this frozen and inhospitable world, trying to rescue an argumentative princess who was more manx than man. Perhaps there had been more truth in Hunnar’s appraisal of their scheme as madness than he’d been ready to admit.
September was moving again. Panting like an old engine, Ethan started up after him. It seemed the cliff extended, grew higher instead of shorter with each painful step upward. Once, he looked down. Dark blotches against the ice suggested the location of the waiting Tran. He missed a breath, forced his gaze skyward again.
He pulled himself up onto still another ledge, lay there for several minutes before he was aware that he was lying next to September’s recumbent bulk and that the giant was motioning for him to be silent.
Ahead, he saw square-cut stones fitted carefully together.
The ledge was two meters wide, the wall of the fortress set that far back from the spire’s edge. Looking up, he saw that the walls of the fortress, in keeping with its modest size, were not particularly high. There was no reason for them to be. The Tran would not consider a serious attack from this, to them, sheer side.
Holding tight to the stone and gravel ground, Ethan pulled himself to the edge and peered over the side again. Only bare ice was visible, which meant that the Tran had moved off toward the leeside stairway. According to plan, they would wait there until Ethan and September had cleared the way for them.
The two men moved to the base of the wall and began to crawl around the pinnacle, staying close to the stonework. The wall was five meters high, the drop off the edge considerably more.
Ethan considered their chances. Their assailants would still be treating their wounds. They should not expect an organized assault on their fortress so soon after their own attack. After all, as far as they knew, they’d only taken a single prisoner, and that was hardly worth risking a suicidal attack, was it? They should be tired from chivaning at top speed back to their base and climbing the stairway to it. They would have to have climbed, Ethan knew. No icepath could wind a practical course upward at the steep angle the hidden stairway suggested. Such a climb would be slow and painful for them to make. That same climb would also serve to discourage attackers. It would not have the same effect on more agile humans.
“We’ll use our knives where possible, lad, beamers only if we have to.” After disposing of the sentries guarding the pathway down to the ice, they’d signal Hunnar and the assault party, then hold the open walkway against any who might attempt to retake it.
So went the theory.
Five more minutes of crawling brought them around into the sheltered side of the fortress. They found themselves gazing at what had to be the top of the walkway.
On this side the pinnacle was several meters lower. Moving slightly away from the wall, Ethan could see stairs laboriously cut from the naked rock of the stone pillar wending their way down into darkness. Crawling to the edge of the cliff, he peered over. No sign of Hunnar and the others. That was as it should be. He felt confident they were waiting silently below, part of the shadows and hollow places, awaiting the human’s signal.
Two armed Tran flanked the top stair. Their attention was directed down and out, their lances pointed threateningly at the stairway. From his position next to the edge, Ethan was able to obtain a good view of the parapet directly above the entrance.
“No sentries above,” he whispered to the waiting September.
“Why should there be, feller-me-lad?” The giant was a brown-suited lump, just another rock buttressing the outer wall. “Sentries at the stairway and maybe at the drawbridge are guard enough.”
Ethan reflected again on the Tran inability to climb smooth surfaces. There was no place to hide on the length of exposed stairway spiraling downward. One Tran could spot an attack party, give the alarm, have breakfast, and return before the fight began. A few soldiers with bows and arrows or spears could hold off an attacking army.
September was whispering to him again. “I’ll take the fat one on the far side, lad. You take the other.” He was fumbling for the small axe at his belt. Ethan would use a dirk. He hoped they wouldn’t need to use beamers. Not that they would make any more noise than axe or knife, but the intense beams of light might be visible to someone within the fortress.
He crawled back next to the giant. Together they started to make their belly-scraping way toward the guards, keeping to the shadowy regions close by the wall. The wind helped to hide the noise of their passage; the Tran had excellent hearing.
Triangular furry ears flipped in their direction and one of the guards turned, squinted. The two humans became part of the landscape.
“Be that you, Smigere?” The guard’s double eyelids flickered against the wind. “You are not due on watch for three vate.” Ethan held his breath. The curious guard took several steps toward them. “Smigere, are you sick?”
Although the sentry was staring straight at Ethan, he apparently still couldn’t conceive of the possibility that any enemy could be behind him. The other guard was looking curiously at his companion.
There was no time for antique
weapons. At such close range, it was impossible to miss with the beamers. Both Tran were punctured by thin ropes of azure light. Smigere’s friend went down with an expression of surprise and hurt on his face, as if he couldn’t quite believe what was happening to him. He looked down at the hole in his chest, dropped his lance, and stared curiously into the shadows. His eyes closed and he fell over onto his side. His beamed colleague had stumbled backward and tumbled over the side of the cliff.
After another glance at the moonlit ramparts above, September rose, walked over to the remaining body. He examined it briefly, then picked it up by one arm and leg. A single swing consigned it to the night and the ice. Wind and distance combined to prevent them from hearing the corpse strike the surface far below. That was fine with Ethan, though he wondered absently if the falling shapes had accidentally struck any of the waiting attack party. No time to worry about that now.
They ran to the doorway. Entrance to the fortress was blocked by a single outward-opening door of thick wood. It was large enough and wide enough for Tran to enter only in single-file. Any opponents fortunate enough to survive the stairway could be picked off one at a time if they tried to force their way into the keep.
Their task was only half finished. It was reasonable to expect a gatekeeper posted inside, if not another pair of guards. But no one had appeared to question the sudden manifestation of blue lights in the night sky. The sentries’ demise had gone unwitnessed.
September had replaced the beamer at his waist, redrawn his small axe. “No chance we can use beamers inside,” he murmured. “We’ve been lucky so far, but someone’s sure to see any lights inside the wall.” Ethan had his knife out already.
“What now? Do we just walk in and check for guards?”
“Mebbe we do just that, lad. No reason for them to lock the door. Plenty of time to do that when the stairway guards give warning.”
Ethan moved to stand with his back pressed against the wall flanking the door. September put a gloved hand on the horizontal lock bar of the gate, slid it out of its wall socket slowly. To Ethan it produced an abnormally loud screeching sound in the darkness. As soon as the bar was clear, September grabbed the single handle and pulled. When nothing happened, he pulled again, harder. Hinges creaked, but the door didn’t budge.
The Icerigger Trilogy: Icerigger, Mission to Moulokin, and The Deluge Drivers Page 42