Doomsday Warrior 09 - America’s Zero Hour

by Ryder Stacy

  “Behold!” said Tinglim, exultantly. “There is the Ice City!”

  Eighteen

  “I can’t believe it,” said McCaughlin, pulling his sled up alongside Tinglim’s. Below them, built on a frozen lake that filled the mile-wide crater of a long-dead volcano, was a frost-covered city of spires and towers. All the buildings were made of ice—over a hundred buildings, of every size, all shining like frosted glass.

  There was traffic along the winding streets: great sleighs filled with people and pulled by horse-sized elks; sleds of every size and description filled with furs, foods, clothes; all moving around the fabulous metropolis.

  At the far end of the crater, half up the lip, a spired castle rose like a diamond dream. “The Potala,” said Tinglim. “That’s what they call the palace. The king of the Ice People, Yiglim, lives a life of luxury there!”

  As they snapped the whips and their teams rode down into the valley, Rock heard the strains of a distant organ—unearthly, awe-inspiring.

  They reached level ground and rode through the city’s main gate. The inhabitants were noticing them now. The Eskimo types turned from their rounds in the street and waved.

  It was a beautiful little city. Rock realized now that it was not simply white. There were the palest of pastel colors to many of the buildings, glowing in the cracks of sun spilling through the clouds above. Brightly colored pennants waved from pale azure minarets, pastel-pink spiraled towers, and faintly golden turrets.

  The strains of the deep-throated organ grew louder as they passed a Gothic-style cathedral with steeples of many-colored splendor. The music came from there. It rolled and echoed through the icy streets.

  The sleds went right under arching jets of water shot from twin sculptures—sea lions carved out of solid ice! The huskies were barking excitedly at the commotion of people and the yelping of other dogs around the city. They strained against the harness as they pulled the gliding sleds down the main approach to the castle, between two white walls of snow.

  In the courtyard of the Potala, they were greeted by ten white-garmented “snow guards” armed with spears. Though the guards didn’t seem to expect a fight, they still visibly relaxed when Tinglim spoke and explained in his native tongue who they were.

  Tinglim turned to Rockson, “It is all right. They are friendly to my tribe. Now that they know who we are, we will be welcomed, fed, and treated as guests.” He smiled. “It is as I said, Rockson. I did not steer you wrong.”

  “Good, Tinglim. You did well,” Rock replied, realizing that Tinglim was digging for some praise here. “But tell them we have a seriously wounded man with us. Tell them I implore them to do anything they can do for Archer.”

  Tinglim led one of the Ice City guards to Archer’s sled. The man peered down at Archer. He was visibly shaken when Tinglim lifted the bandage on the giant Freefighter’s head. The man said something to Tinglim which Tinglim translated. “He says we must rush this man to the Crystal infirmary. There he will stand a chance of survival. I can go with Archer—while you go to the king’s palace and wait there for news,” Tinglim volunteered.

  “No, I want to see this infirmary. My pal has to have the best of care. I’ll come with you and Archer. The rest of you men—Scheransky, you too—follow these friends. Get some chow, or whatever else they have to offer.” Rockson felt much less woozy now, and got off the sled.

  Tinglim and Rockson watched as the guards placed Archer gently on a stretcher, and then walked alongside as the men carried Archer to one of the side buildings in the palace courtyard, a single-story building of translucent pink ice that looked like a quartz crystal.

  Once inside, they found themselves under a vaulted ceiling faced with a maze of corridors—all of translucent ice—that seemed to glow of their own accord. They were led by an orderly to the operating theater, a pentagonal chamber of thirty odd feet in diameter, the center of which contained a table. The table was, as far as Rockson could see, the only thing not made of ice. The guards were instructed to lay the wounded man upon the table by two shaven-headed Eskimo men wearing pale blue uniforms. Each of these men wore an elaborate crystal necklace. Their authoritative and professional manner seemed to indicate that they were doctors of some sort.

  The doctors bent over Archer and placed the ends of the crystal necklaces against the wounded man’s face and body at various points. The crystal necklaces seemed to come to life, sparkling and glowing with multi-colored reflection.

  One of the doctors spoke to Tinglim.

  “This man is very ill,” Tinglim translated. “The doctors do not know if they can save him. But it might be possible with the use of crystal accumulator.”

  “Tell them to try,” Rock said gravely. He didn’t have the slightest idea what a crystal accumulator was, but Archer was turning blue and his breathing was shallow. The wound would have long ago proved fatal to a lesser man.

  Tinglim told the doctor what Rockson had said. The doctors went into action, moving their hands over a control panel of some sort in a corner of the room. There was a ringing in Rockson’s ear, then a low hum. The floor vibrated. Rock watched in amazement as a huge part of the ceiling, filled with countless multifaceted crystals, began lowering toward the table.

  The towering mass of crystals had a recess in them the size of a table. The whole apparatus slowly engulfed Archer. Then the crystals started to give off pleasant tinging sounds and began glowing in many colors, each crystal winking on and off like a Christmas tree bulb.

  “That is the crystal accumulator,” said Tinglim. “It will begin tapping the earth’s magnetic sphere and channeling that energy into Archer. It will—hopefully—speed the reknitting of his tissues. The doctors say it will take days.”

  “Won’t Archer starve? Won’t he need water?” asked Rockson, a bit in awe at this surprising sign of advanced technology.

  Tinglim replied, “No. The crystal accumulator will provide all sustenance. We must leave now. The doctors will turn up the power to maximum, and it is dangerous to be around when it is at full power.”

  Not knowing what else to do, the Doomsday Warrior left the fallen Freefighter in the charge of the good doctors, and with Tinglim joined the rest of his men at the Ice Palace gate.

  The beautiful Crystal infirmary was to the Potala what a dimestore gem is to a thirty-five carat diamond. The palace, though twenty stories high, had the appearance of lightness and the delicacy of a confection. It actually glowed. Its hundreds of delicately constructed Gothic spires were a pale pastel rainbow of color. The windows were filled with ice “stained glass” and the walls were so translucent that one could see figures moving about inside the hundreds of rooms.

  “Shall we go in?” asked Tinglim. “The king knows we are here, and it is best not to let him wait too long.”

  Rock motioned the others to follow them up the sixteen ice steps and through the open doorway. White robed men led them through the main hallway. The cathedral-like ceiling above was filled with gargoyles and demons carved from frozen ice. The floor beneath them was inlaid with marbled ice tiles. Delicate snowflake tapestries adorned the walls. Only the chairs and tables were not made of ice. Nearly everything in this Ice City world had been chipped into existence.

  Rockson noticed it immediately when he came into the vast—and cold—audience room of the Ice King: The gloom. There were no smiles on the faces of the dozen or so court officials who lined up near the entrance to greet the strangers. The officials politely bowed and Rockson nodded his greetings to each of them, taking in the elaborate rainbow-dyed furs they wore with some amazement.

  The head official, wearing a particularly long expression, parlayed with Tinglim, who translated: “The king is unhappy because his son is missing. He went out alone—far out to the east of the city to hunt the white fox. It is a Vision Quest all young men must do as they come of age. He is days late in returning. So far, search parties have failed to locate him. He is just sixteen years of age. An only son, the heir to the t
hrone . . . And he is feared to be dead.”

  “I see,” said Rockson. “That explains all this glumness.”

  A hush came over the great hall as the Ice King entered and strode down the royal ermine carpet to his carved ice throne. He was Eskimo featured, but tall and lean, perhaps forty years of age. He was dressed in red velvet and wore a crown of quartz crystals—or diamonds, Rock couldn’t tell which. The gems caught and refracted the light like prisms scattering tiny spectra of light as he walked. In his footsteps walked a page, perhaps nine or ten years of age, carrying a white fox fur. As they approached the steps to the throne, the boy scurried ahead of the king, ran up the steps, and after placing the fur on the throne took his place behind it. The king turned and sat on his throne. His grim expression belied the sparkle of his jewels.

  Bidden by the king, Rock and Tinglim walked up to the throne. “It is customary to kneel,” Tinglim whispered just before he knelt down on one knee. Rockson bowed his head in acknowledgment of the king, but did not kneel. He had never knelt for anyone and he wasn’t going to start now. The king didn’t seem to mind, for he nodded his head abruptly and motioned them to come closer. Tinglim and Rock did as the king had ordered.

  Rock started to say how glad he was to meet the king and how honored he was, but the king dismissed this with a wave of his hand. He was clearly in no mood for formalities. Rockson tried the direct approach. “We need supplies—more sleds, food, and an experienced guide or two that know the land to the north of here. We are on the trail of a killer, a beast who is intent on destroying the world. His name is Killov. He has killed many of Tinglim’s people and uncounted thousands of my people. And now he has a weapon that has the capability of annihilating any chance for freedom in the world. Will you help us?”

  Tinglim translated. The grim set of the king’s jaw did not change. He stared stonily into the distance as he answered. Tinglim translated. “Rockson, the Ice King refuses to help you. Nothing will be done, no work of any kind. No entertainment, no show of cheer, is to be allowed in this city until his son’s safe return.”

  Rockson was aghast. If the son dies? he thought. “Tinglim, you must impress upon the king the urgency of our task!”

  Tinglim said another string of words to the king, punctuating his words by urgent gestures in the air. The king appeared unmoved and said the one word that Rockson didn’t have to have translated. “No.”

  The king dismissed them with a wave of his hand. Two heavyset guards in royal purple robes escorted the petitioners away. The audience with the king was over.

  The whole weary hungry party were led to a side hall which had been prepared in advance for dinner. Twenty nobles and their ladies were already seated at the hundred-foot-long table awaiting the team members’ arrival. The ladies all looked like Muglig, Rockson’s bed-friend, and wore white fur robes over their slim brown bodies. They wore their shiny jet-black hair in elaborate bejeweled braids. And their nails were long and painted white. The noblemen wore red-dyed sealskin frocks with gathered silk—or what appeared to be silk—collars. Impressed by their finery, Rockson realized for the first time how scruffy his band must look. None of them had had a chance to bathe since they started out on the trek. They looked and smelled like hell.

  The team members joined the assemblage at the long table and with a minimum of pleasantry launched into the dinner. They shoveled away at the candied lichen and vegetable roots. They tunneled through succulent mounds of roast yak. They consumed oceans of wine served by older women attendants, who didn’t speak, and broke off huge hunks of doughy bread to mop up the gravy. The lords and ladies were delighted by their enthusiasm and ate heartily themselves. Only Rockson maintained a semblance of decorum, eating his food with less than his usual gusto.

  “You must eat more food to keep up your strength,” prodded Tinglim. “The lords and ladies are concerned that you don’t like their food.” But Rockson was lost in thought. How was he to go on without supplies? Suddenly a male attendant rushed in. Word had come that the ruler’s son had been found. They all adjourned at once to the throne room.

  In the audience room, the messenger fell to his knees, nearly chipping the ice with his impact. The sorrowful messenger breathlessly described firsthand the scene the search party had found.

  “Far to the east, we found your son, hanging upside down inside a cave. His body had been badly burned. He had been . . .” The messenger paused to get a hold of himself before he went on, “—mutilated. We cut him down and brought his body home to be buried. We found these near the body, Sire.” Rock edged to the front of the crowd to get a closer look. The messenger held crushed cigarette butts in his left hand. In his right was a broken handle from one of the instruments of torture. It had writing on it. Rock recognized the Cyrillic writing—it was unmistakably Russian.

  Killov! he thought. So now Killov has graduated to butchering children. But what for? Killov had no interest in sex of any kind, perverted or not. Ah—but Killov loved to watch his victims as he inflicted pain; or as someone did it for him.

  Rockson quickly informed Tinglim of his suspicions, who in turn informed the king. The Eskimo ruler turned to Rockson, his eyes ablaze. “This Killov is the man you spoke of earlier?” Rockson nodded. “This is the man you suspect of mutilating my son?” Rock answered affirmatively. The king’s body grew rigid with anger. “I . . . want . . . revenge!” he boomed as he slammed his fist down on the throne’s arm like a jackhammer. The king, regaining his control, stared hard at Rockson, as if seeing him for the first time. “I pledge my support for your expedition—under one condition . . .” He paused, waiting for Tinglim to translate.

  “What is that?” asked Rockson.

  “That you do your utmost to do away with this Killov,” he said, uttering Killov’s name with obvious distaste. “Rid me of this monster that stalks my land.”

  “I pledge to do so,” Rockson said firmly.

  “In addition . . . I want you to bring me evidence of his death,” the king went on.

  “What kind of evidence?” Rock asked.

  “I want you to bring me this child-defiler’s head!”

  Rockson was astounded. The thought of carrying Killov’s head back to the Ice King was absurd. “We don’t do things like that,” he protested. “No matter how justified it may seem, if we commit mutilation, then we are no better than Killov.”

  The king stood bolt upright and towered over Rockson. “I . . . want . . . his . . . head!”

  Rock stood there for a moment and then turned and looked at Pedersen, the anthropologist, who nodded slightly. “Very well,” said Rockson, appearing to give in, though he knew in his heart he could never fulfill his promise.

  The king relaxed. “Good! I will resupply you well, and send my most knowledgeable scouts with you . . .”

  The funeral procession—the likes of which none of the Rock team had ever envisioned in their wildest dreams, occurred the next morning. The boy-child of the king in a nearly transparent ice coffin was borne on the shoulders of the palace guard and carried down the main street. Drum rolls filled the air. Candles were lit in the halls of every building and shone through the walls in the eternal northern twilight in a most eerie manner.

  The king’s sleigh followed directly behind the Ice Prince’s bier, pulled by immense wapiti—large elk—their frosty breath filling the air. Behind the sleigh came the ladies and gentlemen of mourning, dressed entirely in black. Rockson and his men, their heads bowed like the others, moved in procession behind the funeral cortege four abreast down the main street.

  Just as the solemn candlelit procession reached the ice crypt in a nearby slope, a man stepped out from behind some boulders of colored ice. At first Rockson thought it was makeup, but as the procession closed on the crypt, Rockson realized the man had some sort of icelike skin of the palest blue. His eyes seemed sculpted out of ice—like the sea-lion fountains.

  “Who’s that?” Rockson whispered to Tinglim.

  “The most
holy Ice Shaman. He officiates at all funerals.”

  The pallbearers laid the coffin at the shaman’s feet. The king stepped down from his sleigh and stood next to the shaman. The rest of the assemblage grouped around the coffin. Rockson watched as the man of ice threw some black and red particles on the coffin and chanted a dirge filled with infinite sadness. Then he turned and went back behind the ice boulders. The king could hardly contain his grief as the coffin carriers lowered the coffin into the crypt and slid the ice cover over it. Then the funeral horns stopped blowing. The candles and torches of the parade were extinguished save one, which was to be carried back to the palace. One candle in every building was to be kept burning for the official five days of mourning.

  The funeral procession broke up and started back to the Ice City. Rockson noticed dozens, hundreds, of ice crypts scattered about the slope. He couldn’t help thinking what would happen if a spring thaw ever came to these parts. But that wasn’t his problem—time was.

  In the near darkness, as he walked with the king back toward his palace, Rockson, whose keen senses should have detected any pursuer, felt an unexpected icy hand on his shoulder. He steeled himself for battle and turned. But it was the Ice Priest. The man’s blue face was close enough to feel his frosty breath.

  The fingers like icicles withdrew. The Ice Shaman’s garments, though made of ice, seemed to bend and flow like a regular robe. In a low grating voice he said, “I must speak to you, stranger.”

  “I don’t have the time,” Rockson said.

  After Tinglim had translated, the king urgently whispered something to Tinglim. Tinglim translated, “You must speak to the holy shaman. The king begs you not to refuse him his right to interrogate strangers.” Rockson realized he might be jeopardizing the entire mission if he refused. The king himself seemed to be in awe of the Ice Shaman.