After some time Elof shifted, as the heaviest sleepers may; but his hand fell idly free. Some time later, as he stretched comfortably, his leg slid gently from under the other's, but he made no move, and his breathing soon grew still. It might have been half an hour before he moved again, and that slowly, flexing the hand she had trapped between her thighs, gently, insistently, till she herself shifted and flexed. Then, though he might have slipped away, he lay still beside her, listening intently to her breathing. Another quarter-hour or so he lay still before beginning to inch his way over the cushions and onto the thick carpeting below; once there, he did not get up, but moved on ail fours, reflecting wryly that he would have distrusted his legs anyway, so tremulous they felt.
The door opened as silently as he had hoped, but only when it was shut behind him did he pull himself to his unsteady feet by the frame and draw a deep, shuddering breath. Relief and revulsion surged through him with such force he almost vomited; and they were made all the worse by the inescapable memory of how he had responded to her. His clothes lay where they had been torn from him. He gathered them up and forced himself into them, binding them about him as best he could shuddering; they were half-soaked with slops from the agitated bath, and none the better for it. Then, gathering his wits, he padded swiftly over to the small table. She had extinguished all but one light, and it lay in deep shadow; he reached out gingerly, and touched only bare marble. Panic shook him, but he forced it down; she had been gone only a moment, so unless some servant had removed them… He began to twitch the hangings aside, and behind the one directly opposite he encountered a plain blank door with the look of an aumbry about it. But it was locked, and he could find neither the key nor the means to make a pick. In desperation he plucked loose the heavy belt that had borne Gorthawer, forced the strong buckle between door and frame and began to pry them apart, leaning on the hangings to muffle the creaking and snapping of the wood, and forcing his fingers in between. In seconds he had a gap through which he could thrust his hand, and he managed to grasp the crumpled hide of his pack. Drawing it out through the narrow gap was less easy, but fear drove him; he did it, and when he had rummaged through his possessions he clutched it to his heart in deep relief. As he had hoped, Louhi in her haste had simply scooped all the smaller items into it. Gauntlet, anklets, they were there - and even the two halves of the arm-ring, one still on its chain. That left Gorthawer, and his hammer; by dint of much straining he had the sword, and with it he could just touch the haft. If he could only hook it towards him; if the gap were that fraction wider…
He forced his broad arm into the gap, feeling the wood quiver, thrust further - and fell sprawling among the hangings as, with a crack like a blow in the face, the whole door snapped across and swayed from its hinges. He struggled free and, still on his knees, tore the sagging door aside; the hammer spilled from a dislodged shelf onto the floor, but even as he snatched at it the inner door crashed back, and Louhi stood there before him.
"So!" she said, and the very sound of her voice, controlled and calm as it was, chilled him rigid. Still unclad, still fair, she was no less a sight of terror, her blue eyes glinting like the sunken Ice, her lips drawn dead-white and snarling. "A beast returning to his vomit. A sacred trust is shattered for this, for this deathless Taounehtar abases herself! She opens the treasures of this body her temple to an animal, accepts the degradation, undergoes the pollution, the foulness…" Loathing contorted her like a serpent; her voice sank into hissing incoherence, and a ribbon of saliva ran unregarded from one corner of her working lips. Elof shrank back, afraid as he had seldom been of anything; for a moment she seemed wholly inhuman, a moving window onto a landscape bleaker even than the material Ice, yet alive with a blazing wrath. She looked ready to spring at his throat. Before his eyes, his own hair bristling, he saw hers, palest silken blonde, rise straight up into the white mane of a fiend.
Against that tide of inhuman fury the blade in his hand seemed an irrelevance; flight filled his mind to the exclusion of all else, a frantic, feral panic. But he could not forget the hammer, and made one wild grab. Louhi, though she was out of reach, stooped even more swiftly, and touched her fingers to the wet floor. It was as if a window were thrown open onto a winter storm. With a shock that hurt Elof s panting lungs all the warmth was blasted from the air, and in the blink of an eye a white film raced like ground glass over hanging and tapestry around the alcove. Over the marble the water from their bath and their bodies crackled to solid ice. The hammer did not move; it was frozen solid to the floor. Elof cried out at the agony in his knees as the ice enmeshed them, and barely in time tore free and fell aside, against the wall. The floor was drier there, and the ice did not follow; but Louhi clenched the steam-sodden hangings, and they stiffened to stinging glass above him. On all fours he scrambled back, feeling the sodden clamminess of his clothes, knowing she had only to touch him and he would suddenly be encased in a cast of burning ice; enough, perhaps, to freeze his blood, or stop his heart by the shock alone. Now he saw that she had chosen her ground even more carefully than he had guessed, and how subtly she had put him at her mercy; that bath had made him vulnerable in body as well as mind. She paced forward now with the measured pad of a snow-tiger, and he could not even rise properly, his feet slipping on black ice beneath him as he scrabbled towards the door.
Suddenly she cried out, a piercing summons, and from outside came the rattle of feet and harsh cries in answer. The door quivered under a blow and flew open, and the gap filled with Ekwesh guards. Against them Elof could lift his sword, but knew it was no use; there were too many, and some had bows. He moved slowly back, scanning the room for some faint advantage, and they made no move, content to bar his way for their mistress. Now the wall was at his back, and all avenues of escape blocked… all? Something jutted against his hunched shoulder, that must be, had to be, the edge of a window arch; but a window to where, opening upon what? It hardly mattered, when swift death was the alternative. He seized the chill hangings, bunching his fists in them, and with reckless strength he hurled himself against what lay behind.
He had a brief glimpse of narrow leaded panes that gleamed with a hundred jewelled hues, before his shoulders, shielded by the rime-stiff velvet, crashed against them and through. Over the frame he rolled and out, clinging to the hangings as he kicked about, feeling them begin to give under his weight. Edged stone scraped against his leg, and he looked down to find a foothold.
Emptiness roared beneath him, the very shock of it like thunder in his ears; like a blow it dashed his breath out of his breast, strangled a cry in his throat. A fly enwebbed, he dangled and kicked upon the outermost walls of that fortress mountain, and beneath him the abyss gaped and growled, its depths a dizzying, smoky blur as he spun. The sudden sweat on his palms stung against the ice-caked cloth, and he slipped down a span, caught himself with a jerk and felt the rending in the material. Swallowing hard, he kicked out to reach the ledge he had felt, and found it, barely wider than his boot; be braced his leg against it to stop him swinging and reached up desperately with his swordhand for some hold above. All he found was a narrow lip of masonry, barely wide enough for his fingers to clutch, no more. With the care of desperation he caught at it and pulled himself up, gasping, against the cold stone. The hangings billowed suddenly and collapsed, falling past him into nothingness; he clung to the stone lest they pull him loose. Some hand above had severed them, only just too late; he could only have been dangling there the space of a heartbeat, though it had seemed like hours. He looked up, and found himself below a lip of masonry; he could neither see the window nor be seen from it. It must be deep in a recess, as proof against weather perhaps. But he could hear guttural shouts and guessed that they knew he had not fallen; at any rate, they would hardly take it on trust. They had only to throw something down on him; water, even…
He struggled to repress the sweat that made his fingers slippery, and began to inch his way along the ledge and out from directly underneath the wind
ow, sliding foot and fingers along a careful turn. Gorthawer seemed to weigh tons in his fingers, yet he dared not try to thrust it through his belt, lest it trip or dislodge him; after a few minutes he rested it by its hilt on the ledge and pulled it along in stages, little by little, as he moved. After a few minutes his breathing steadied, and he felt able to risk a look along the ledge to see where it might lead him. To his astonishment he found himself looking at the shadowy outlines of trees, leaden in the first grey light, upon a steep hillside no great distance away. With great care he turned his head, rolling it back so it would not force him from the wall, and saw the same. Then he understood; this was the far side of the fortress, rising not in imperious stages but in a single sweeping wall, and much narrower. He yearned to turn and see what lay behind, but did not dare; time enough when he was off this terrible perch. Then movement caught his eye, and he saw what must be a rope come snaking down from the window recess, and a moment later a lean figure scrambling down it, apparently barefoot, but with a sword slung across his shoulders. The Ekwesh reached the ledge and clung tight with fingers and toes. The sight of it almost unnerved Elof, so precarious did it look; it brought home to him his own plight. The moment the first man was free of the rope, another came slithering down, and after him a third. But the third, perhaps overconfident, or weaker in the fingers, lost his handhold, clawed frantically for balance, and then with a scream that sickened Elof's stomach he toppled out into emptiness. His shriek seemed to go on for ever, and Elof had to steel himself not to look down after him. Another warrior came sliding down the rope, as if quite unconcerned by his fellow's fate, and joined the others; above his head one more appeared. Setting his teeth in his lower lip, Elof began to snuffle along, as fast as he dared; there was more effort in this controlled, cramped movement than in a mad dash, and he felt his much abused leg-muscles beginning to tremble. But the sentinels were gaining, and the leader was already freeing a hand to draw the long sword from his back, the others readying their stabbing spears; Elof realised there was no way he could turn to bring his right hand to bear on them. Gorthawer felt strange in his left hand, that usually bore the gauntlet, but he had no choice. He inched along with only his right hand for support; the leader came within reach, and as Elof had hoped he swung out and cut at Elof with a great sweeping stroke. He brought Gorthawer crashing down in parry, a blow that moved outward from the wall, so that as the blades clashed he was pressed closer against it; but the Ekwesh was driven outward by the impact, his grip slid and faltered, and he too dropped shrieking into the deep. Even as he toppled a spear stabbed past Elof's shoulder, close against the wall; but the black sword was closer, swung up from beneath and slashed open its wielder's arm. The spear flew wide, and its wielder after it. Now Elof took the offensive, two shuffling steps back and a straight thrust that ducked under the next blade and took its wielder between the ribs; he cried out and dropped his spear, but clung there gasping, blocking the way for his fellows. Elof was appalled to see the next one lift his spar and callously dash the wounded man loose; but in falling he caught the other's leg and drew them both from the wall. The warrior behind stared after them, then made the cleverest move, hurling his spear along the wall; but Gorthawer struck it aside. Then, though he bore an axe at his belt, the thrower made no move to advance, nor did those behind press him. Elof, with a sudden surge of confidence, went shuffling along at what seemed like a great speed, and soon left them behind.
As he had expected, other windows were flung open above, and all manner of things flung down the walls, water, rubbish, offal and other filth, even rich furnishings; but the throwers could only guess at their target, and their aim was poor. Nets and chains swung and swept from the crenellations above came closest to unbalancing him, but once, when a carved waterspout gave him a firm handhold, he was able to reach up and seize such a net, and by wrenching it suddenly pull his unwary assailant right over the parapet. There were no more nets, then; but also no more such spouts within reach, and he began to grow very weary. He dreaded arrows from among the trees, but none came; he guessed they grew too thickly for any clear shot. But up ahead, blocking his path, was a squat tower, evidently the guard-tower for this end of the wall; he could see that the ledge he stood on ran out around it, past waterspouts at each corner, but equally clearly the lip that was his handhold did not. And when he came out along that ledge he would be briefly in clear sight from the parapet above, and in clear shot. The far side was not so bad, for so steeply sloped the hill that the treetops almost reached it; if worst came to worst he could cast himself down among them. But that bare wall, without a handhold… He fought down his shivering, lest it lose him the hold he had. He twisted his head back, and saw light in the hazy air behind him, the serrated treetops along the hillside growing clear against it. Sunrise was upon the heights, and it would be his friend.
All too soon he had reached the tower, dodging only a few half-hearted missiles; but before he essayed it he waited a few precious moments, resting as best he could. Let them wait, and be less aware! He held up Gorthawer to his weary eyes, saw mirrored in its black sheen a tiny seam of pure fire open between hill and sky. A shaft of gold struck suddenly through the haze, and another, lighting on the tower, the treetops, the wall with dazzling warmth… It was then, when night-eyed watchers must be suddenly blinded, that he made his move, reaching out to straddle the gulf beneath and pull himself across onto the tower. It was worse than before, far worse. The weight of the sword clamped between his fingers, face and chest and knees pressed flat to the rough stonework, he shuffled as fast as he dared, but knew he was far too slow. Upon the very thought a shaft sang over his head and struck dust from the stone. He glared up and saw two archers scrambling up onto the parapet, leaning out to draw, and others running to join them; and useless as it was, he lifted Gorthawer in a dark flash of defiance…
Suddenly it was dulled. A shadow blotted out the sunrise, wings widespread sweeping down its rays towards him, skimming the heads of the startled bowmen; one loosed wildly and fell back behind the parapet, the other leaned out to take new aim and fell shrieking from his perch to crash against the ledge and tumble down upon the treetops below. Elof, heart leaping in his breast, lifted his hand, then ducked as wings thrashed deafeningly above him and half-webbed claws raked the air. He flung up a hand, and suddenly, as swift and sudden as its coming, the great swan was gone. Only then did he realise his hand still held the sword. It was Kara, beyond any shred of doubt; but what had she meant? To help him or to slay him? She had come close to dislodging him also; might easily have done. And yet and yet…
Cursing, half-weeping, confused, he scrambled and staggered to the corner of the tower, only to find that the waterspout here was large enough to block his path. To free his hands he had first to reach Gorthawer over, and scramble gingerly after it. He managed it safely, finding it a great relief to see the treetops so much closer; but when he reached down for his sword it was not there. He looked up, straight into a pair of blazing blue eyes. A window opened above that narrow ledge, and upon it, one foot outstretched, stood Louhi as steadily as she might upon any floor of stone, though the wind plucked wildly at her robe and hair. Her mouth was twisted, her lip bitten to bleeding; he was astonished to see the tracks of tears upon those cheeks like milky ice. And she held the black sword in her outstretched hand.
"So it ends, young smith!" was all she said, ere she thrust.
To few men can it have been given to feel that agony twice; but it was to him. It tore a gasping shriek from him, and he curled around it as if to hold in what was spilled, clasping the sword to him, tearing it from her grasp. Ice was everywhere, and pouring into his entrails; his legs lagged beneath the weight of it, and he toppled from the ledge into open air. A sickening, suspended moment, and the world was full of whipping, crashing, the reek of pines and sickening, numbing impacts. Then something huge hammered into his back, and there was a new agony as the sword was jolted free. Dimly he heard Louhi shouting from above
"Gather me all he bore! And then burn the carrion! But first - set his head atop the Gate!"
Chapter Five - To the Heart of the World
He lay among cold shadows untouched by the sun, unmoving. He was shrouded in a deeper night, aware of nothing save the hot life pouring out of him from the roaring furnace below his heart. It flooded his throat; he had to cough, and stiffened in agony as its white fires racked him, blasting thought. But as they ebbed his mind cleared a little; his body felt cold, numb, immovably heavy, as if it had turned to metal. Dimly he remembered the long sickness he had endured through lack of blood, though mysteriously healed of the wound that caused it; he knew, in a strangely detached fashion, that he must seek to staunch the flow somehow. But floating in darkness, lit and limned only by pain, he could not imagine how; divorced from limbs, from senses, he forgot the use of them. Instinct instead led him inward, into the furnace-glow and past it, to a flame that burned and glittered brighter still at his core, at the meeting of mind and heart. As into the works of his hands that secret fire was channelled, so now it spilled along his veins like solder of silver along some riven seam, to seal, to join, to set secure and weld. The white fire it overtook and quenched, damming its progress, ebbing the outflow of his life. Gradually he grew aware that his throat was clearing, felt his breath grow deeper and steadier, stinging needles of sensation return to his heavy limbs. His eyes fluttered open, saw the familiar floor of a pinewood, and sagged weakly closed again. He was too weary even to be amazed at what he had felt himself do. There was still pain, but better far than the deathly numbness that had passed. If he had turned to metal, he had tempered himself anew.
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