The Complete Ice Schooner

by Michael Moorcock

  The Ice Schooner

  by Michael Moorcock

  This edition first published in Great Britain 1985 by Harrap Ltd.

  The Ice Schooner was originally serialized in SF Impulse magazine in 1966. First published in the UK by Sphere Books Ltd in 1969. New edition revised by the author, Harper & Row, 1977. This edition further revised by the author.

  Copyright © Michael Moorcock 1969,1977,1985

  ISBN 0245-54284-1

  For Keith Roberts-master steersman

  1 Konrad Arflane

  When Konrad Arflane found himself without an ice ship to command, he left the city-crevasse of Brershill and set off on skis across the great ice plateau; he went with the intention of deciding whether he should live or die.

  In order to allow himself no compromise, he took a small supply of food and equipment, reckoning that if he had not made up his mind within eight days he would die anyway of starvation and exposure.

  As he saw it, his reason for doing this was a good one. Although only thirty-five and one of the best-known skippers on the plateau, he had little chance of obtaining a new captaincy in Brershill and refused to consider serving as a first or second officer under another master even if it were possible to get such a berth. Only fifteen years before, Brershill had had a fleet of over fifty ships. Now she had twenty-three. While he was not a morbid man, Arflane had decided that there was only one alternative to taking a command with some foreign city, and that was to die.

  So he set off, heading south across the plateau. There would be few ships in that direction and little to disturb him.

  Arflane was a tall, heavy man whose full, red beard now sparkled with rime. He was dressed in the fur of the black seal and of the white bear. To protect his head from the cut of the cold wind he wore a thick bearskin hood; to protect his eyes from the reflected glare of the sun on the ice he wore a visor of thin cloth stretched on a seal-bone frame. At his hip he had a short cutlass in a sealskin scabbard, and in either hand he held eight-foot harpoons, which served him both as weapons and as ski poles. His skis were long strips cut from the bone of the great land whale. On these he was able to make good speed and soon found himself well beyond the normal shipping routes.

  As his distant ancestors had been men of the sea, Konrad Arflane was a man of the ice. He had the same solitary habits, the same air of self-sufficiency, the same distant expression in his grey eyes. The only great difference between Arflane and his ancestors was that they had been forced at times to desert the sea, whereas he was never away from the ice; for in these days it encircled the world.

  As Arflane knew, at all points of the compass lay ice of one sort or another; cliffs of ice, plains of ice, valleys of ice, and even, though he had only heard of them, whole cities of ice. Ice that constantly changed its colour as the sky changed colour; ice of pale blue, purple, and ultramarine, ice of crimson, of yellow and emerald green. In summer crevasses, glaciers and grottoes were made even more beautiful by the deep, rich, glittering shades they reflected, and in winter the bleak ice mountains and plateaus possessed overpowering grandeur as they rose white, grey, and black beneath the grim, snow-filled skies. At all seasons there was no scenery that was not ice in its many varieties and colourings and Arflane was deeply aware that the landscape would never change. There would be ice for eternity.

  The great ice plateau, which was the territory best known to Arflane, occupied and entirely covered the part of the world once known as the Matto Grosso. The original mountains and valleys had long since been engulfed and the present plateau was several hundred miles in diameter, gradually sloping at its farthest points and joining with the rougher ice surrounding it. Arflane knew the plateau better than most men, for he had first sailed it with his father before his second birthday and had been master of a stay-sail schooner before he was twenty-one. His father had been called Konrad Arflane, as had all in the male line for hundreds of years, and they had been masters of ships. Only a few generations back, members of the Arflane family had owned several vessels.

  Trading and hunting craft for the most part, the sailing ships were mounted on runners like giant skis which bore them across the ice at speed. Centuries old, the ships were the principal source of communication, sustenance, and trade for the inhabitants of the Eight Cities of the plateau. These settlements, situated in crevasses below the level of the ice, owned sailing craft and their power depended on the size and quality of their fleets.

  Arflane’s home city, Brershill, had once been the most powerful of them all, but her fleet was diminishing rapidly. There were now more masters than ships; for Friesgalt, always Brershill’s greatest rival, had risen to become the pre-eminent city of the plateau, dictating the terms of trade, monopolizing the hunting grounds, and buying, as with Arflane’s barkentine, ships from the men of other cities who were unable to compete.

  When he was six days out of Brershill and still undecided as to his fate, Konrad Arflane saw a dark object moving slowly towards him over the frozen white plain. He stopped and stared ahead, trying to distinguish the nature of the object. There was nothing by which he could judge its size. It could be a wounded land whale, dragging itself on huge, muscular flippers, or a wild dog that had strayed too far from the warm ponds where it preyed on seals.

  Arflane’s normal expression was remote and insouciant, but at this moment there was a hint of curiosity in his eyes as he stood watching the object’s slow progress. He considered what he should do.

  Moody skies, immense, grey, and heavy with snow, rolled above his head, blotting out the sun. Lifting his visor, Arflane peered at the moving thing, wondering if he should approach it or ignore it. He had not come out on to the ice to hunt, but if the thing were a whale and he could finish it and cut his mark on it he would become comparatively rich and his future would be that much easier to decide.

  Frowning, he dug his harpoons into the ice and pushed himself forward on his skis. His muscles rolled beneath his fur jacket and the pack on his back was jostled as he went skimming swiftly towards the thing. His movements were economical, almost nervous. He leaned forward on the skis, riding the ice with ease.

  For a moment the red sun broke through layers of cold cloud and ice sparkled like diamonds from horizon to horizon. Arflane saw that it was a man who lay on the ice. Then the sun was obscured again.

  Arflane felt resentful. A whale, or even a seal, could have been killed and put to good use, but a man was of no use at all. What was even more annoying was that he had deliberately chosen this way so that he would avoid contact with men or ships.

  Even as he sped across the silent ice towards the man, Arflane considered ignoring him. The ethics of the ice-lands put him under no obligation to help; he would feel no pang of conscience if he left the man to die. For some reason, though he was taciturn by nature, Arflane found himself continuing to approach. It was difficult to arouse his curiosity, but, once aroused, it had to be satisfied. The presence of men was very rare in this region.

  When he was close enough to be able to make out details of the figure on the ice, he brought himself to a gradual halt and watched.

  There was certainly little life left in the man. The exposed face, feet, and hands were purple with cold and covered with frostbite swellings. Blood had frozen on the head and arms. One leg was completely useless, either broken or numb. Inadequate tatters of rich furs were tied around the body with strips of gut and leather; the head was bare and the grey hair shone with frost. This was an old man, but the body, though wasted, was big, and the shoulders were wide. The man continued to crawl with extraordinary animal tenacity. The red, half-blind eyes stared ahead; the great, gaunt skull, with its blue lips frozen in a grin, rolled as the figure moved o
n elbows and belly over the frozen plain. Arflane was unnoticed.

  Konrad Arflane stared moodily at the figure for a moment, then he turned to go back. He felt an obscure admiration for the dying old man. He thought that it would be wrong to intrude on such a private ordeal. He poised his harpoons, ready to push himself across the ice in the direction from which he had come, but hearing a sound behind him, he glanced back and saw that the creature had collapsed and now lay completely still on the white ice. It would not be long before he died.

  On impulse, Arflane pushed himself around again and slid forward on the skis until he was able to crouch beside the body. Laying down a harpoon and steadying himself with the other, he grasped one of the shoulders in his thickly gloved hand. The grip was gentle, virtually a caress. ‘You are a determined old man,’ he murmured.

  The great head moved so that Arflane could now see the frozen face beneath the ice-matted mane of hair. The eyes opened slowly; they were full of an introverted madness. The blue, swollen lips parted and a guttural sound came from the throat. Arflane looked broodingly into the insane eyes for a moment; then he unslung his bulky pack and opened it, taking out a flask of spirit. He clumsily removed the cap from the flask and put the neck to the puffy, twisted mouth, pouring a little of the spirit between the lips. The old man swallowed, coughed, and gasped, then, quite levelly, he said: ‘I feel as if I burn, yet that’s impossible. Before you go, sir, tell me if it is far to Friesgalt . . .’

  The eyes closed and the head dropped. Arflane looked at him indecisively. He could tell, both from the remains of the clothing and from the accent, that the dying man was a Friesgaltian aristocrat. How had he come to be alone on the ice without retainers? Once again, Arflane considered leaving him to die. He had nothing to gain from trying to save him, he was as good as dead. Arflane had only contempt and hated for the grand lords of Friesgalt, whose tall ice schooners these days dominated the frozen plains. Compared to the men of other cities the Friesgaltian nobility was soft-living and godless. It openly mocked the doctrine of the Ice Mother; it heated its houses to excess; it was often thriftless. It refused to make its women do the simplest manual work; it even gave some of them equality with men.

  Arflane sighed and then frowned again, looking down at the old aristocrat, judging him. He balanced his own prejudice and his sense of self-preservation against his grudging admiration for the man’s tenacity and courage. If he were the survivor of a shipwreck, then plainly he had crawled many miles to get this far. A wreck could be the only explanation for his presence on the ice. Arflane made up his mind. He took a fur-lined sleeping sack from his pack, unrolled it and spread it out. Walking clumsily on his skis, he went to the man’s feet and got them into the neck of the sack and began to wrestle the rest of the body down into it until he could tie the sack’s hood tightly around the man’s head, leaving only the smallest aperture through which he could breathe. Then he shifted his pack so that it hung forward on his chest by its straps and hauled the sleeping sack on to his back until the muffled face was just above the level of his own broad shoulders. From a pouch at his belt, he took two lengths of leather and strapped the fur-swathed old man in place. Then, with difficulty even for someone of his strength, he heaved on his harpoons and began the long ski trek to Friesgalt.

  The wind was rising at his back. Above him it had cut the clouds into swirling grey streamers and revealed the sun, which threw the shadows of the clouds on to the ice. The ice seemed alive, like a racing tide, black in the shadow and red in the sunlight, sparkling like clear water. The plateau seemed infinite, having no projections, no landmarks, no indication of horizon save for the clouds which appeared to touch the ice far away. The sun was setting and he had only two hours or so in which to travel, for it was unwise to travel at night. He was heading towards the west, towards Friesgalt, chasing the great red globe as it sank. Light snow and tiny pieces of ice whirled over the plateau, moved, as he was moved, by the cold wind. Arflane’s powerful arms pumped the tall harpoons up and down as he leaned forward, partly for speed, partly because of the burden on his back, his legs spread slightly on the tough whalebone skis.

  He sped on, until the dusk faded into the darkness of night and the moon and stars could occasionally be seen through the thickening clouds. Then he slowed himself and stopped. The wind was falling, its sound now like a distant sigh; even that faded as Arflane removed the body from his back and the pack from his chest and pitched his tent, driving in the bone spikes at an angle to the ice.

  When the tent was ready he got the old man inside it and started his heating unit; a precious possession but one which he mistrusted almost as much as naked fire, which he had seen only twice in his life. The unit was powered by small solar batteries, and Arflane, like everyone else, did not understand how it worked. Even the explanations in the old books meant nothing to him. The batteries were supposed to be almost everlasting, but good ones were becoming scarcer.

  He prepared broth for them both, and with some more spirit from his flask revived the old man, loosening the thongs around the sack’s neck.

  The moon shone through the worn fabric of the tent and gave Arflane just enough light to work by.

  The Friesgaltian coughed and groaned. Arflane felt him shudder.

  ‘Do you want some broth?’ Arflane asked him.

  ‘A little, if you can spare it.’ The exhausted voice, still containing the traces of an earlier strength, had a puzzled note.

  Arflane put a beaker of warm broth to the broken lips. The Friesgaltian swallowed and grunted. ‘Enough for the meantime; I thank you.’ Arflane replaced the beaker on the heater and squatted in silence for a while. It was the Friesgaltian who spoke first.

  ‘How far are we from Friesgalt?’

  ‘Not far. Perhaps ten hours’ journey on skis. We could move on while the moon is up, but I’m not following a properly mapped route. I shan’t risk travelling until dawn.’

  ‘Of course. I had thought it was closer, but. . .’ The old man coughed again, weakly, and a thin sigh followed. ‘One misjudges distances easily. I was lucky. You saved me. I am grateful. You are from Brershill, I can tell by your accent. Why . . . ?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Arflane.

  Silence followed and Arflane prepared to lie down on the groundsheet. The old man had his sleeping sack but it would not be too cold if, against his normal instincts, he left the heating unit on. The weak voice spoke again. ‘It is unusual for a man to travel the unmapped ice alone, even in summer.’

  ‘True,’ Arflane replied.

  After a pause, the Friesgaltian said hoarsely, evidently tiring: ‘I am the Lord Pyotr Rorsefne. Most men would have left me to die on the ice - even the men of my own city.’

  Arflane grunted impatiently.

  ‘You are a generous man,’ added the principal Ship Lord of Friesgalt before he slept at last.

  ‘Possibly just a fool,’ said Arflane, shaking his head. He lay back on the groundsheet, his hands behind his head. He pursed his lips for a moment, frowning lightly. Then he smiled a little ironically. The smile faded as he, too, fell asleep.

  2 Ulsenn’s Wife

  Scarcely more than eight hours after dawn Konrad Arflane sighted Friesgalt. Like all the Eight Cities it lay beneath the surface of the ice, carved into the faces of a wide natural crevasse almost a mile deep. Its main chambers and passages were hollowed from the rock that began several hundred feet below, though many of its storehouses and upper chambers had been cut from the ice itself. Little of Friesgalt was visible above the surface; the only feature to be seen clearly was the wall of ice blocks that surrounded the crevasse and protected the entrance to the city both from the elements and from human enemies.

  It was, however, the field of high ships’ masts that really indicated the city’s location. At first sight it seemed that a forest sprouted from the ice, with every tree symmetrical and every branch straight and horizontal; a dense, still, even menacing forest that defied nature and seemed like an
ancient geometrician’s dream of ideally ordered landscape.

  When he was close enough to make out more detail, Arflane saw that fifty or sixty good-sized ice ships lay anchored to the ice by means of mooring lines attached to bone spikes hammered into the hard surface. Their weathered fibreglass hulls were scarred by centuries of use and most of their accessories were not the original parts, but copies made from natural materials. Belaying pins had been carved from walrus ivory, booms had been fashioned of whale bone, and the rigging was a mixture of precious nylon, gut, and strips of sealskin. Many of their runners were also fashioned of whale bone, as were the spars that joined them to the hulls.

  The sails, like the hulls, were of the original synthetic material. There were great stocks of nylon sailcloth in every city; indeed, their very economy was heavily based on the amount of fabric existing in their storechambers. Every ship but one, which was preparing to get under way, had its sails tightly furled.

  Twenty ships long and three deep, Friesgalt’s docks were impressive. There were no new ships here. There was no means, in Arflane’s world, of building new ones. All the ships were worn by age, but were nonetheless sturdy and powerful; and every ship had an individual line, partly due to the various embellishments made by generations of crews and skippers, partly because of the cuts of rigging favoured by different captains and owners.

  The yards of the masts, the riggings, the decks, and the surrounding ice were thick with working, fur-clad sailors, their breath white in the cold air. They were loading and unloading the vessels, making repairs and putting their craft in order. Stacks of baled pelts, barrels, and boxes stood near the ships. Cargo booms jutted over the sides of the vessels, being used to winch the goods up to deck level and then swing over the hatches where they dropped the bales and barrels into the waiting hands of the men whose job it was to stow the cargo. Other cargoes were being piled on sledges that were either pulled by dogs or dragged by hand towards the city.