by Allan Cole
I hesitated, then said, “I don’t see how we have any other choice.”
Carale nodded, glum. “I afeared as much, Me Lady,” he said.
He peered out at the city and the bleak landscape surrounding it.
“Minin’ town from th’ looks of it,” he said. “Filthiest people in th’ world, mine owners is. ‘N it ‘pears they been diggin’ away here since Te Date was a babe in messy blankets.”
I could see he was right. The caves were obviously entrances to mines. The equipment scattered about was digging and hauling equipment, including wagons and hand trolleys to haul the ore along wooden rails set into the roads. Some of the buildings, I was now certain, were places where the ore was crushed and separated from the mined rock. Others - the ones with the towering chimneys - would be where the ore was processed into metal ingots.
Bleak as the landscape was it now made much more sense. It had a purpose, ruinous as that purpose might be.
The only thing that still puzzled me was why there was no apparent activity in the mines and foundries. From what I could see nearly the entire population was gathered inside the huge, bear-shaped structure.
Perhaps it was a festival day, a religious celebration of some sort.
Whatever it was, it had to be of great importance. Mine operators are not known for such kindly gestures of devotion as closing their foundries and tunnels to give their workers time off to honor the gods.
Then from out of the ethers came a blast of sorcerous energy that seared my Evocator’s skin. The pain was ferocious. I tasted blood and realized I’d bitten my lip nearly through to keep from crying out. I quickly quashed all my magical senses, pulling all feelers back like a squid folding in its tentacles to avoid a sea lizard’s attack.
I felt Carale’s hands gripping my shoulders and realized I was doubled over from the assault. I weakly waved him off and raised my head to get another look.
Then I heard the roar of many voices shouting in unison and my head jerked to the right, eyes sweeping for the bend where the ship had appeared. There was a roll of big bellied drums, the rhythmic clang of swords hammered on steel shields, and then from out the mist that still girdled the bend came score after score of fur-clad warriors.
They shouted again and there were so many voices raised in unison that the sound was like thunder.
Hundreds of savage warriors poured around the bend and skated toward the harbor in long deceptively slow strides that carried them an amazing distance in a short time.
Their beards were thick and frosted white from their steaming breath. They wore peaked helmets draped with the pelts of small beasts with the heads still attached and jaws fixed in permanent fang-rimmed snarls. They had knee-length capes of rough fur that billowed out behind them, showing off their light mail, metal bracers, and wide, hook-fisted gauntlets.
As they skated, they hammered on their shields with short swords roaring this chant:
“Magon is coming -
The enemy trembles!
Magon is coming -
The enemy flees!
Magon is coming -
Hearts be glad!”
The soldiers fanned out into an ever-widening phalanx that was soon joined by other warriors, except these men had their swords sheathed, their shields slung over their shoulders. They beat on heavy, scoop-bottomed drums with padded clubs and joined in the thunderous chant...
“Magon is coming -
The enemy trembles!
Magon is coming...”
An ice ship hove into view, then two, then three. They were larger than the first, painted in blinding colors and draped with dyed furs. There were soldiers on the deck who seemed to wear richer costumes and armor than the skaters and who brandished finer weapons as well. All the ships flew the flag of the Ice Bear King.
Long canoe-like craft shot out, all filled with warriors - pikemen and bowmen mostly - and all powered by burly men in ragged furs and gaunt haunted faces, who skated alongside pushing at heavy poles protruding from each side of the canoes. Men with whips skated around them, lashing and cursing any miscreants they thought were lagging.
Then the most amazing craft sailed into view. It was an ice galleon, double decked and with a flying bridge jutting above the decks. The wind was quite brisk now and the galleon’s sails were straining, carrying the ship swiftly across the ice on its massive runners.
A huge bearded warrior posed on the flying deck, helmet removed and long hair streaming back. He wore a great white bearskin cloak thrown over shining armor of black specked with gold. In his left hand he grasped a long black spear, planted into the deck butt first. In his right, cradled in the crook of a brawny arm, was a woman.
I was startled when I first saw her. Despite the cold she seemed to be wearing little more than scraps of colorful silk draped across tawny hips and breasts. The wind made the silk flutter, revealing more of that tawny skin.
The woman was small and delicately formed. Her hair was gold like mine. Her bare arms were long and slender and in one hand she held a staff with a crystal globe mounted on top. The globe was a swirling glow of magical power.
I had no doubt who the warrior was:
Magon, the Ice Bear King.
But who, I wondered, was the woman?
There was one other thing that alarmed me.
The ice ship was made of gold.
It took awhile for that fact to sink in. I’d been so shaken by the magical assault that my mind felt numb. But when realization dawned I immediately remembered Maranonia’s prophecy of the three metal ships. The thought was fleeting, a mere observation, noted and put away for future consideration. My second reaction was marvel.
The entire galleon seemed to be built of gold, a smooth shimmer of metal from stem to stern. Even the sails seemed to be made of the stuff: a skin of gold that fluttered and billowed in the breeze as if it were cloth. It wasn’t the ostentatious display of riches that amazed me.
Barbarian kings do things like that. Thrones and palaces and even comic objects like chamber pots are likely to be of gem-encrusted gold in a barbarian court.
What made me goggle was the mechanics of it. Even if the ship were gold-plated rather than solid, the weight would be so extreme that the ship would collapse on its golden skis. And even if it didn’t, the greatest storm wouldn’t be able to move such weight even a foot.
Then the great bell tolled, drawing my attention to the town and the BearTemple. People poured out of the gates and swarmed to the shore. They were carrying banners and flags, beating on drums and blowing on trumpets. They swarmed to the docks - thousands of people - but in an oddly orderly fashion; forming up in lines, with small knots of richly dressed folk in the front who I guessed were officials.
We watched for nearly two hours as the crowd greeted King Magon and the mysterious woman I took to be his queen. There were speeches, although we couldn’t hear them there were shouts of praise, which we could.
Big tubs of incense were set on fire, sending out thick clouds of smoke whose perfume eventually drifted over to tickle our noses. Kites with exploding tales swooped through the sky, glowing balloons were lofted and music blared from the city’s savage orchestra, a cacophony of drums and horns and bone rattles.
Carale tried to get my attention, to pull me away so we could discuss the situation with the others. But I shushed him and made signs that no one should speak.
Cutting through all that clamor I could sense something hovering near - listening.
The dockside ceremony ended and the crowd marched back into the BearTemple, with King Magon and his queen leading the way. His soldiers remained by the ships, some squatting down to rest, others skimming about the ice in squad-size patrols.
A few moments later steam hissed from the BearTemple’s nose and its stone eyes shone fiery red. I had a sudden sense of urgency and signaled my men to withdraw from the hill.
I took one last look before I slid down to join them and saw soldiers break away from the dock.
They were heading in our direction.
I skittered down the slope and leaped to my feet. Silence was no longer a factor.
“They’re coming,” I shouted to the men.
And I led them away in a mad dash through the snow and away from the lake.
The hunted us for hours.
We tried every trick we knew to shake them: dodging into boulder-strewn gullies and leaping from rock to rock; dashing across barren lake inlets where we’d leave no tracks on the ice; shifting direction and doubling back over our own prints to add confusion; hiding while patrols passed and then using their tracks to hide our own.
In the end they pinned us against a high ridge. We were on the ice, looking for a way up that ridge when twenty soldiers skated into view. Then twenty more joined them and as they formed up so many more swept in to swell their ranks I lost count and knew we were doomed.
They shouted a challenge and skimmed across the ice to meet us, pounding on their shields with their swords.
There was no time for sorcery so I drew my blade and rallied my men.
We were few in number but we made a long fight of it.
The twins were killed first.
They charged into a mass of men, breaking their formation and leaving nearly a dozen lying on the ice dead or mortally wounded.
But then the soldiers regrouped and quickly overwhelmed them.
I didn’t see how Lizard died. But I saw his corpse on the ice, throat slit. That lovely voice stilled forever.
Then only Carale and Donarius and I were left. We were exhausted, but we fought on - elbow to elbow, our blades bloody life-taking wands slashing before us.
The enemy made a final charge.
A solid wall of armored flesh overwhelmed us.
I was on my back, sword ripped away and a huge figure towered over me.
He raised up his blade to strike.
Then I heard music.
Lovely music.
The tones of a heavenly lyre.
And then all was blackness.
CHAPTER NINE
THE ICE BEAR KING
I awoke to darkness so impenetrable that for a moment I was seized with fear that I’d been blinded. I remembered how helpless Gamelan had become, his Evocator’s powers failing along with his eyesight.
I raised a hand before my face but could see nothing, no matter how close I held it to my face. I touched my eyes, felt the lashes fluttering under my fingertips but found no wounds.
I felt stickiness on one cheek which I assumed was blood. My head was throbbing, every bone and muscle aching and I could feel the sting of cuts and scrapes when I moved. But all my injuries seemed minor.
My feet were bare and my parka had been removed and I seemed to be wearing nothing more than my tunic and leggings. I was wet through, my clothes sticking to me uncomfortably. At least it wasn’t cold. In fact it was just the opposite: the atmosphere was steamy and I was sweating profusely.
With dim hopes I whispered, “Carale?”
There was no answer.
I was alone.
The stone floor was warm beneath me. The walls were also of stone and warm to the touch. I heard water dripping as if in a pool and slithered in that direction, hands outstretched for protection. I groped about until I found the pool, nothing more than a skim of water over a stopped-up drain.
I felt around until I found the source of the water - a slow trickle of condensation running down one of the walls and splashing into the pool.
I dipped up water and sniffed it. It seemed musty but not unclean. I tasted it. It had a muddy flavor - not entirely unpleasant. Suddenly I felt so thirsty I became sick to my stomach. I scooped up water and drank to no ill effect.
Then I searched my person. All my weapons and other possessions were gone. But I did find an overlooked kerchief tucked into my sleeve. I dipped it into the water and washed myself as best I could.
When I was done I examined the rest of the chamber, inch by blind inch. It was small, made of old stone blocks with crumbling gaps where the mortar had rotted and fallen away. A small door made of thick wood bound with broad bands of metal was set in one wall. I assumed there was a corridor on the other of the door, although I could hear nothing but the sound of my breathing and the drip, drip, drip of the water.
At the bottom of the door was a grated opening just large enough for a food pail to be passed through.
I fell to my hands and knees and tried to look through the grate. Nothing. Only blackness. Flat, soul-smothering blackness.
I poked my fingers through the grates. They stubbed into wood. A panel had been drawn across the grate.
I searched the room further, carefully examining every crack and rough spot.
There was no bed platform, no blankets, no furniture of any kind. In one corner I found two empty buckets. Their purpose was obvious. One smelled of human waste. The other had the stale scent of old food.
I knew what to do - I’d been in dungeons before. I placed the food pail next to the grate to be exchanged for a full one, if and when the turnkey came to feed me. The other I placed in the most distant corner to be used when I needed to relieve myself.
I did light exercises to stretch my muscles. They were sore but seemed to work well enough so I ran in place for a few minutes, inhaling and exhaling as deeply as I could until my nerves calmed and my heart beat a steady rhythm.
Then I crouched, leaning back against one wall, found my Evocator’s center and chanted:
“What is dawn?
What is night?
What is day?
What is bright?
What is moon?
What is light?”
I rubbed my hands together briskly. Then opened them, palm side up.
A faint glow appeared.
I could see.
By the dim light I created I found a large protruding stone in the wall about chest high. I rubbed the wall with my hands leaving smears of light. I continued to rub until the whole block glowed and only a few particles of magical light were left on my palms. I snapped my fingers and the light brightened. Not much, but enough to make out the stark gray emptiness of the chamber.
I snapped them again and the light winked off. Once more, and it returned.
Good. If someone came I could quickly extinguish the light.
I didn’t know how long I’d been unconscious. Hours? Days? Not more than one day, I guessed.
I dipped a finger into the glowing particles on the stone and made a single mark for that day on the dark space below. Then I made another for this day.
Then I settled back to think and wait and prepare.
Someone would come eventually.
I wanted to be ready.
Six more glowing marks joined the first two before they came for me. I assumed that meant eight days from my capture, although there was no real way to tell when one day ended and the other began. I had to rely on the number of times the grate was opened and a food pail was passed through to be traded for the empty pail and my slop bucket.
So much time seemed to pass between each visit that I assumed each one was a new day. The food was typical dungeon filth and not to be commented on, except to say it was plentiful enough.
The first time I was fed seemed to be a few hours after I’d regained consciousness, although that was a guess. Minutes can sometimes seem like hours when you’re alone and confined in a hot dank cell.
There was little warning, no bootheels echoing in an outside corridor, no clank of warder’s keys. All I heard was the scrape of the grating being pushed aside and I quickly snapped my fingers to darken my cell. The glowing stone had barely blinked out when I saw a gleam of dim light at the grate.
I remained crouched in the corner I’d chosen to sleep in, silent. I heard breathing, but nothing more. I had the distinct impression that someone was peering through the grate. Then a long, glowing rod was pushed through. It poked this way and that, a brighter beam of light spearing out from the
tip like a single eye. It finally pointed at me and became still. I knew I was being observed.
I said nothing and did nothing. As yet I was ignorant of the rules in this place. Nor was I fool enough to make an impassioned plea or hurl haughty threats complaining of my unjustified imprisonment to someone I was certain was a lowly warder.