The Icerigger Trilogy: Icerigger, Mission to Moulokin, and The Deluge Drivers (22 page)

“I see,” said September, abashed. “Look, I apologize, Hunnar. I shot off my big mouth without having ammunition. Moratorium until I see the thing, okay?”

“You do not know so naturally you cannot imagine,” said Hunnar, mollified. “There is no need to apologize for such.” He didn’t say anything about September’s shooting off his mouth. “There will be no chance to ‘look’—only the Hunt.”

“You mean you’re going to try and kill this thing?” asked Ethan. “After making it sound nothing short of invincible?”

“I did not say ’twas invincible, friend Ethan. Only very big. But no one kills a stavanzer. Not in recent memory, anyway. We must try to drive it off. Were it a herd I should not worry so much.”

“Why not? I’d imagine a herd would be a hundred times worse,” Ethan commented.

“No. A herd would move only for its grazing grounds—the great pika-pedan fields to the south. They migrate on a north-south polar axis, mostly in the empty regions to the west. As a group they have little curiosity. But a lone one, and a Great Old One at that, might investigate Sofold from sheer perversity. It takes something extraordinary to excite a herd. Somehow, we must turn him.”

“You say you can’t kill it, but you speak of turning it,” said September. “How? With pikes?” There was nothing mocking in his voice.

“No. There is one way to fight the thunder-eater. If your souls are sound, you may have a chance to try it. Many who do claim it is the supreme moment of their lives. For some ’tis also the last. Yet it must be tried,” he concluded as they topped a rise in the passageway.

“Just how big
is
this boojum, anyway,” Ethan finally asked, exasperated.

“The thunder-eater has been granted but two teeth. Do you know the Landgrave’s throne?”

“Yes.” Ethan recalled the chair, inlaid with stones and polished metal set into a tower of pseudo-ivory. It would fetch a fine price from a certain decorator on …

“The back of the throne itself, the white pillar … what did you think it was?”

“Some kind of stone,” Ethan replied. Then he paused. “You aren’t trying to tell me that …?”

He held onto the thought as they left the castle, barely aware that other knights and men-at-arms had joined them. They passed the du Kanes. September barely had time to shout, “We’re a-going a-hunting!” to them. Colette yelled something in return but Ethan didn’t hear it.

Down at the harborfront, kettledrums were droning like fat beetles. A knot of moving, businesslike tran had collected around the Hunnar-nucleus. Ethan caught occasional glimpses of solemn-faced townsfolk.

As they continued downhill, he couldn’t help noticing that the soldiers and knights carefully avoided the ice-paths out of deference to their crippled visitors.

He wondered if anyone else would be able to see what was going to take place. The wizard had a telescope in his rooms, but it might not be able to scan the area they were heading for. But Milliken would be there, and maybe also the Landgrave.

All this fuss over one animal. And it wasn’t even a meat-eater, like the Droom.

They reached the harbor. The crowd parted to reveal three of the oddest craft he’d seen since their landing.

Three small rafts with large sails sat ready by the docks. Their sails and bodies were painted pure white. Arrow-narrow and long, they were clearly designed to stay hidden against the ice.

To the rear of each was tied a second, even stranger craft. Each consisted of a single tree-trunk, averaging about twenty meters in length and one or two in diameter. A single small sail was mounted on each. The front end was cut and shaped down to a needle-sharp point.

The bottom cross-spar of the sail ended on each side in a tiny wooden ship or large skate, depending on how one chose to view them. Each was equipped with an even smaller runner to its outside, making each into a stubby, one-tran outrigger. The cross-spar was connected to each skate-boat by a single pole.

There were two wooden runners under the tree itself, a single solid one near the bow, and a third skate-boat at the rear.

The sails on each of these massive lances—for such they clearly were—were furled. Three wind-powered spears suitable for battling a goliath.

Ethan had a thousand questions. Hunnar was already on board the first raft, giving directions and inspecting lashings. Ethan followed September on board. Almost immediately the strange little convoy started toward the harbor gate. All other ships gave them respectful clearance and some of their sailors came to the rail to watch quietly.

A moment later they were through the great gate towers. As they rode out of the lee of Wannome and its sheltering mountains they picked up speed. The sails crackled and the helmsman set course slightly into the wind, to the southwest.

“We must circle well behind the beast,” Hunnar explained, “to allow the lightnings to build up speed. When they have, the towing raft casts free and moves clear.”

“Those spears are maneuverable, then?” asked September over the howl of the wind. Sailors fought the rigging.

“Only a little,” Hunnar replied grimly. “Once set on course, they can be turned only to right or left, and only with the wind. There is no turning about.”

“What happens,” asked September finally, “when you make contact with the creature?”

“Here Jaipor, take over!” Another tran hurried over to take a rope from the knight. Satisfied, he led them toward the stern of the fast-moving raft. Ethan could feel the tension building among the crew. They stood behind the helmsman and Hunnar pointed to the following raft.

“A strong but simple latch ties the lightning to the three skate-boats. Each is a tiny raft in itself, but without sails. See the high, padded back? That is to protect the rider and to catch a little of the wind.”

“They look like big wooden shoes,” commented Ethan. He recalled Ta-hoding mentioning that wooden skates wouldn’t hold much of an edge on the ice. But then, these weren’t intended for long journeys.

“Momentum should carry the three steersmen clear of the thunder-eater,” Hunnar continued, “and to safety.” Ethan peered closely at the tiny boats.

“Once you’ve released from the main lance, how do you steer the things?”

“With your body weight. The skates are well balanced. The release should take place in plenty of time to give the rider ample opportunity to veer wide of the target.”

“Of course, the closer you get before giving up control,” said September, “the more accurate the strike.”

“Of course,” agreed Hunnar.

“Then if you’ve no objection, I’d like to be one of your sparmen.”

“I would be honored, Sir September.” They exchanged shoulder clasps.

“Oh, well,” said Ethan, “I suppose I’ll have to take the other, then.”

“Now young feller, this is no game, what? If you don’t really want—”

“Oh, shut up, Skua. I’ll take the opposite spar.” He felt like a fool, but he’d be damned if he’d back away when September had volunteered.

“Tis settled then.” Hunnar turned and pointed toward their companion rafts skimming alongside. “Sir Stafaed will command the first bolt and Sir Lujnor the second. We will have the last.”

“Does this thing have a weak spot?” asked September over the roar of the wind.

“It may. If so, none have found it. There is no hide protecting the eyes and they are nerve-centers if naught else. Tis best to strike there. They are small and set low. If we could blind him, that would be better than turning him from the city.”

“If he has good vision it means he’ll see us coming,” added September thoughtfully.

They continued to swing in a wide curve, until Ethan realized all at once that they were now running with the wind. He looked over the sharp prow of the raft. Somewhere far ahead was a wavering green blur, the huge field of pika-pedan. They’d come a long way fast.

The sailors brought in the sail. Sharpened ice-anchors of dark iron stabbed ice. The three rafts with their trailing death slowly skidded to a halt, shaking and straining in the wind.

“Now we ride the lightning,” said Hunnar solemnly. He scrambled over the side of the raft.

According to the surviving merchantman’s report, the stavanzer was moving northeast. They would try to turn him southward again.

“You take the port side, lad, and I’ll have at the starboard,” September shouted to him.

“What?”

“The left side, the left! And don’t let loose your latch-piece til Sir Hunnar gives the sign.”

“Think I’ll freeze at the wrong moment and let go early?’ Ethan stared up at that buttressed visage. The eyes twinkled.

“No man can deny the possibility, young feller.”

“Well … I might,” he replied, almost defiantly. “But it won’t be from fear. It’ll be from this delightful climate.”

The wind was blowing harder than usual for midday. That meant he had to grab twice at the wooden rail of the raft to keep from being blown away like an empty sack. It was bitterly cold out here, divorced from the castle’s sheltering walls. He was relieved just to scramble into the comparative shelter of the skate-boat.

The broad wooden back of the skate was thickly padded. It vibrated steadily in the perpetual gale, but the worst winds howled harmlessly past. Leaning forward slightly, he could see just over the central trunk. September waved and he waved back.

He leaned out, sticking his face into the wind again, and waved back at Hunnar. The knight would steer while he and September managed the sail.

The latch-piece that held the skate-boat to the lower cross-spar was a simple wooden pull. It was set into a pole which was based in the floor of the skate and the bottom of the spar. He noticed with satisfaction that it had been well greased. There would be no last-minute frantic tugging. The sail was harder to work, with only the single rope to keep it steady.

Two sailors from the big raft were on the tree-lance itself. They raised the lightning’s own sail in unison with the sail on the raft. Both began moving together. Somehow the two sailors kept their balance in the wind until the pure white lance-sail was up. They moved carefully to the sharpened end of the log, jumped free, and chivaned up to the raft where ready hands pulled them in. Since both raft and tow-raft were now moving at appreciable speeds, it was a delicate bit of work.

The sailors and soldiers on the raft carried pikes and bows, more for their psychological value than out of any expectation of usefulness. It wouldn’t do for a tran to go into battle weaponless. Not even if his only task was to watch and pray.

On the other hand, Ethan didn’t feel the need for even a very small dagger. Despite Hunnar’s expositions, he had only the vaguest idea what to expect. They were going to strike the stavanzer broadside. Hunnar would aim for the head. At his signal, a loud, sharp whistle, they would each release their skate-boats and shear off, to be picked up by the trailing, waiting rafts.

That was the theory.

Despite the obvious danger, Ethan couldn’t contain a certain perverse curiosity. He wanted very much to see what sort of land animal could take the wind-driven impact of a twenty-meter sharpened tree that weighed maybe half a ton without being killed outright. There was a certain wealthy collector of rare animals on Plutarch who might conceivably …

But, he reminded himself, they would break off long before that. His only glimpse of the thing would probably be brief and distant.

Still, stavanzers did die, Hunnar had informed them. Of what? Old age? How long did the virtually indestructable thunder-eaters live?

There was a jerk and he looked up. The raft had cast them loose and was already swinging south to get out of their path. The other two lances had cast off seconds earlier and were speeding down the unyielding sea ahead of them. He squinted through his goggles, isolated in a world of ice, wind, and wood.

Ahead, a green blur gradually took form and substance, grew larger. Their speed continued to increase as they ran wildly before the wind. Now he could make out the size of the pika-pedan compared to its pygmy cousin. His breath froze in his throat then. It wasn’t from the cold.

There was something moving on the outer edge of the green. Then he saw the thunder-eater, and was afraid.

The Great Old One was over a hundred meters long—a gigantic slate-gray mountain that heaved and pulsed like a great slug on the clean ice. Its back and sides were studded with grotesque ridges and spines, a bizarre living topography.

There were no legs, no arms, no visible limbs of any sort. The belly of that awesome bulk was a horny pad thicker than the skin of a starship, as tough, and worn smooth as glass. A mouth as wide as a driveship dock inhaled air which was expelled through two lifeboat-sized valves near the tail, moving it like a squid.

It moved slowly now. But Hunnar had told them tales of stampedes, like steel-gray storms. A herd would strike a small island and leave nothing but a greenish-brown stain against the ice.

He shrank. He was a dog—no, an ant—attacking a whale. Only this was bigger than the biggest whale that ever was. It expanded in all directions, all dimensions, like a tridee projection.

From the side of the biblical behemoth projected a tiny splinter of wood. It leaked crimson. One of the lightnings had struck home, then.

He couldn’t find any sign of the other and assumed it had missed. He was wrong. Later, a searching raft found part of the mast. That was all they ever found of raft and crew.

Somewhere, distantly, there was a shout, a whistle. Then a blackness grew ahead of him. Something dark as space at the Rim, gaping like a cave. A monstrous ebony cavern, two colossal stalactites of white hanging from the roof. Tons of vegetable matter vanished into that yawning abyss every day.

It was turning toward them, to the north. The wrong way. And they would miss.

Another, more distant, whistle sounded. The eager wind bit at it, tore it away. The latch rested tightly in both hands, sail forgotten now. Hunnar and September had cast free. But if he waited just a little longer, put a little more weight on the outside of the skate …

He stood. Bracing against the wind and the side of the skate, he leaned out over the ice, to his left. The huge lance began to shift, slowly, agonizingly, centimeters at a time, to port. Ethan leaned hard into the side, straining for just another millimeter of drift. Protesting wood shifted from its original course.