Icerigger


Alan Dean Foster


Version 2.1 

— 1 — 


 Chapter One 
Chapter Two 
Chapter Three 
Chapter Four 
Chapter Five 
Chapter Six 
Chapter Seven 
Chapter Eight 
Chapter Nine 
Chapter Ten 
Chapter Eleven 
Chapter Twelve 
Chapter Thirteen 
Chapter Fourteen

 About the Author 

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By Alan Dean Foster 
Published by Ballantine Books: 

The Icerigger Trilogy 

ICERIGGER 

MISSION TO MOULOKIN 

THE DELUGE DRIVERS 

The Adventures of Flinx of the Commonwealth 

FOR LOVE OF MOTHER-NOT 

THE TAR-AIYM KRANG 

ORPHAN STAR 

THE END OF THE MATTER 

FLINX IN FLUX 

MID-FLINX 

BLOODHYPE 

THE HOWLING STONES 

The Damned 

Book One: A CALL TO ARMS 

Book Two: THE FALSE MIRROR 

Book Three: THE SPOILS OF WAR 

— 3 — 


THE BLACK HOLE 
CACHALOT 
DARK STAR 
THE METROGNOME and Other Stories 
MIDWORLD 
NOR CRYSTALTEARS 
SENTENCED TO PRISM 
SPLINTER OF THE MIND'S EYE 
STAR TREK: LOGS ONE-TEN 
VOYAGE TO THE CITY OF THE DEAD 
WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE. . . 
. . .WHO NEEDS ENEMIES? 
MAD AMOS 
PARALLELITIES 
PHYLOGENESIS <<new 
DIRGE* <<new 

* forthcoming 
Books published by The Ballantine Publishing Group are available at quantity discounts on 
bulk purchases for premium, educational, fund-raising, and special sales use. For details, 
please call 1–500–733–3000. 

— 4 — 


Copyright © 1974 by Alan Dean Foster 
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. 
ISBN 345-25176-8-1513 
First Printing: March, 1974 

Fourth Printing: December, 1975 
Cover painting by Dean Ellis 
Printed in the United States of America 
BALLANTINE BOOKS 

A Division of Random House, Inc.
201 East 50th Street, New York, N.Y. 10022


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For Carol Fran
Here's proof of insanity in the family


— 6 —



Chapter One


The man in the Antares bar-lounge didn't quite bang his head 
on the curved star-ceiling on this, his fourth attempt. Or maybe it 
was his fifth. This failure came as a disappointment to a number 
of the luxurious lounge's more vocal occupants. 

When standing erect — a rare happenstance, of late — the 
fellow stood just under two meters tall. A haberdasher worth his 
salt would have estimated his mass at about two hundred kilos. 
This not counting the booze he'd been putting away at a 
prodigious rate. That he'd even managed to come close to the 
roof of the lounge and its simulacrum Terran sky was due in part 
to his considerable stature. 

Starting from the far end of the lounge he'd make a mad 
elephant sprint toward the bar, leap onto the polished 
maplewood counter, and soar ceilingward from that deep-
grained launch pad. A reach, stretch, grab, and down he'd come 

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in a spectacular displacement of plastic bottles, glasses, and 
swizzle sticks. Whereupon he'd fight off the angry flailings of the 
robot bartender, now on the verge of electron psychosis, stagger 
between the tables, and try again. 

Now he struggled to his feet, downed another slug of 
whatever it was he was currently drinking, and stumbled toward 
his launch point. His elegantly clad, youngish cheering section 
spurred him along. Among this group, the sporting blood was 
up. Bets continued to be exchanged. Would he finally kill himself 
by falling on his swozzled skull this fifth (or sixth) time? Or would 
he simply knock himself out by successfully cracking it against 
the roof? 

Three-dimensional cumulus clouds, fat and fleecy, drifted 
across the dome. For all their apparent reality they were only 
clever projections on treated duralloy. Still, while this kangaroo-
brother's head was clearly solid bone, in any conjunction of the 
two the gentle clouds would surely win out. 

There was a stir at the back of the room. Bobbing like 

— 8 — 


emerald corks among the laughing, applauding gamblers and 
the outraged but intrigued patrons were the first mate and two 
sub-engineers of the Antares. For the last fifteen minutes their 
prime objective in life had been to bring down this galloping, 
great, aged simian with as little damage to self and company 
property as possible. So far their efforts had come to zilch. And 
they were beginning to draw a few laughs themselves. 

Now the first mate, who was an educated man and spent 
most of his work time planning overdrive maneuvers and 
juggling the grav field of a small artificial sun-mass, didn't think it 
was even a tiny bit funny. Matter of fact, he was just about fed up. 

There was no point in re-checking the book, though. 
Company regs specifically forbade shooting a paying passenger, 
no matter how obnoxious. Other methods had so far met with 
abject failure. One of the sub-engineers had already taken a 
steel-like straight-arming from the hurtling acrobat. He wiped his 
lower lip and considered braining the anthropoid sot with a chair. 
He could always plead temporary insanity. Pension or no 

— 9 — 


pension. 

“Spread out, boys, here he comes again.” 

Waving a half-filled bottle of Uriah's Heep and howling at 
the top of his astonishing lungs, the incipient Icarus started at the 
bar again, picking up speed with each step. With agility amazing 
for one so old and so soused, the man soared high and gained 
the top of the bar in a single bound. 

Up he went, up, up, an arm outstretched for the ceiling. 
Barely he missed one of the floating pseudo-clouds. There 
followed a satisfying and by now familiar crash from the other 
side of the bar. Plasticine jugs and unbreakable glass joined in a 
rainbow-colored fountain and bounced to the floor. Money 
exchanged hands in the crowd. 

After a lingering pause, the first mate decided on a new 
course. He would try reason. Besides, the fellow hadn't gotten up 
yet. Perhaps he'd gone and croaked himself. That would save 
everyone a lot of trouble. 

Gesturing to the sub-engineers, he tiptoed up to the badly 

— 10 — 


scuffed maplewood and peered cautiously over the top. 

No such luck. 

True, the fellow was momentarily incapacitated, having 
entangled himself in the now completely inoperable mechbar. 
But he was snorting and mumbling with dismaying energy. 

“Sir, I appeal to your moral sense. Public drunkenness is 
bad enough. Eliminating our evening bar business, not to 
mention the bar, is worse. But your refusal to heed the 
admonitions of a ship's crew in free space is insulting. What have 
we done to offend you?” 

After a short search in the region of the floor, the man 
seemed to find his feet. Staggering more or less upright, he put 
two huge fists on the bar and leaned forward. 

“Offend me? OFFEND ME!” 

The mate shrank from that spiritual effluvia and tactfully 
turned his head to one side. It was pure self-defense. Surely they 
could put the man away. He was obviously flammable and 
constituted a real danger to the ship. 

— 11 — 


The eyes waggled until they came to rest on the bottle 
gripped tightly in one paw. He drained half the remainder. 

“Offend me!” be blurted again. “Listen, you 
unmentionable hazard to navigation, that piddle-pot swine over 
there,” and he jabbed a great knobby finger in the direction of 
an especially smug-looking young gambler, “that piece of plithseed laid claim to a greater knowledge of posigravity than I. 
Than me. ME! Can you fancy that?” 

“I'm not sure,” the mate replied. He was experiencing 
some difficulty in following the other's train of thought. Maybe 
the local change in the atmosphere had something to do with it. 
The two sub-engineers were edging around to one side of the 
bar. If he could keep this creature talking. . . 

“Sexactusly,” the man said, then belched. “So we are 
engaged in a scientific experiment to settle the matter once and 
for all. You ain't one of them anti-empiricists, is you, bub?” 

“Good lord, no,” the mate admitted truthfully enough. 

“Yeh. Well, we calculated a bit of the ship's field, see? An' 

— 12 — 


according to my calculations, I ought to be able to touch the 

roof, there.” 

“That one over our heads?” 

“Yeh, that's the one. You ain't so stupid as you look, matey. 
Now you unnerstand what I'm doing, eh?” 

“Of course.” The sub-engineers were not quite in position 
yet. “Still, while I'm sure you know your computations, that 
young chap you pointed out is the son of a well-known 
yachtsman and something of an interplanetary sprinter himself. 
He just might know what he's talking about.” 

He stared across at the exploding shock of white hair, a 
virgin corona; at the great hooked beak of a nose, chin like a 
hatchet-head, oil-black eyes under break-wave brows, and the 
gold ring in the right ear. The hair on the man's bare arms, 
though, was blond. And there were fewer wrinkles in that tanned 
face than you would suppose at first glance. The ones that were 
there, though, were really canyon wrinkles, genuine gully-
gapers. No question but that the nose had come first, like 

— 13 — 


Bererac's, and the face had been constructed around it, bits and 
scraps sewn on here and there. The wrinkles fell neatly in place, 
like seams in leather. 

“I'm not sure, however,” continued the mate, “who you 
are.” And the court will want to know, too, he thought. 

For a moment he thought the other might be having an 
attack. Still clenching the bottle in one hand, the man shook his 
fist at the first mate and the whole lounge in general. 

“By the Heavenly Hosts and the whole Horse's Head, I'm 
Skua September, be who! In the manner of men and all other 
beings I can out-drink, out-fight, out-fly, out-sleep, out-eat, out-
whore, out-run, out-talk, out-shout and out-love any man in this 
end of the Spiral Arm! 

September seemed more than willing to continue this 
catalogue of dubious attributes 'til the millennium. The tirade, 
however, was interrupted by a belch of such brontosaurian 
proportions that it momentarily rattled everyone in the lounge. 

At that point the two lesser ratings both hit him from 

— 14 — 


behind and the resultant ménage a trois crashed to the floor in 
front of the bar. One of them snatched up a bottle full of mould-
gold something or other and hefted it over his head. But the first 
mate extended a restraining arm. 

“No need, Evers. He's out cold.” 

There was silence for the first time in quite a while. It was 
broken by a single pair of hands, clapping politely. The mate 
turned to the yachtsman's son, who was applauding them all . . . 
whether respectfully or sardonically, he couldn't tell. 

“Bravo,” trilled the playboy. 

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mus musculus. 

The sentiment was proper but the subject inappropriate, 
thought Ethan Frome Fortune as he moseyed toward the rear of 
the passenger's blister. Mice and rats had not been able to 
handle the exigencies of interstellar flight. Oh, they could get on 

— 15 —



board shuttles and from there to a ship, and they'd been a 
problem at first. 

Then someone got the bright idea of turning off the 
posigrav field for half an hour in the passenger sections. One 
man with a net swam around collecting the badly befuddled 
vermin and that was sufficient for pest control 'til next port of 
call. 

It was just as well, Ethan mused wryly. If said rodentia had 
been able to make the adaptation, the company might have 
stuck him with mousetraps to peddle. 

As a moderately successful luxury goods salesman for the 
House of Malaika, his stock ran more to jeweled knickknacks, 
perfumes, and intricately wrought, expensively priced 
mechanical gadgetry. Jeweled mousetraps would not be a prime 
seller. 

He passed a small observation port, paused to look at the 
planet pirouetting heavily below. Such ports were less frequent at 
this rearmost end of the passenger's compartment, but then, so 

— 16 —



were passengers. He was tired of idiot small talk and there were 
no bulk sales to be made with this bunch. 

Most of Tran-ky-ky still swam in darkness. Probably 
coincidence that nightside happened to fall on the ship as it 
orbited in sleep period. Ethan seemed to be the only non-crew 
member up and about. 

Tomorrow, slim as chances for business seemed from the 
tapes, he'd take the shuttle down. That would mean enduring the 
usual gaggle of tourists. Oh well, shoving was all a part of 
existence, no matter which law you indexed it under. 

Tran-ky-ky was a figurative whistle-stop on the Antares 
run. The giant interstellar transport would remain a day or two in 
the planet's vicinity. Most of that time would be spent 
transferring down cargo for the single humans outpost on the 
forbidding surface. 

The fact that the outpost was Terranglo-named didn't 
necessarily mean the world had been discovered by humans. It 
could have been a mixed crew or all thranx. The former seemed 

— 17 —



more likely, though. No tidy-minded thranx would be likely to 
name a Commonwealth outpost “Brass Monkey.” Besides, the 
heat-loving insects would consider the globe beneath a choice 
slice of icy hell. 

What little of the planet sat in sunlight formed a bright, 
almost painfully white crescent at its edge. Mestaped information 
on the dark sphere floated to the surface of his mind. 

Tran-ky-ky lay on the fringes of humanx settlement and 
was a recently discovered world. Among other more significant 
things, that made it fresh territory for eager types like himself. 
However, it was not classified as a potential colony. 

While humans could live on it, as they did after a fashion in 
Brass Monkey, it was far from hospitable. No New Riviera, this! 
Besides, it was classed 4-B. That meant it was inhabited by a 
native race of fair intellectual potential living at a pre-steam level 
of technology and probably lower. 

Topographically, the planet boasted a few small continents, 
large islands, really, and thousands of small ones. Some were 

— 18 —



reasonably level, like Brass Monkey's Arsudun, others 
precipitous and tectonic in origin. All lay scattered about the 
planet's shallow seas, which were permanently frozen to depths 
as great as three kilometers in some places and barely ten 
meters in others. 

Gravity .92 T-standard, day about twenty IS hours, distance 
from sun — too much. This charming resort world, he thought 
sardonically, reached a positively balmy three degrees 
centigrade at the equator. A heat wave in Brass Monkey. Temp 
averaged around minus fifteen and dropped to an absurd minus 
ninety some nights. 

Moving away from the equator, things began to get chilly. 

Oh yes, a charming stopover on our tour of the frayed, 
flayed edges of civilization, yes! Other salesmen were assigned 
tours of territories like the twin pleasure worlds of Balthazzar 
and Beersheba, or even Terra itself. Ethan Fortune? Always his 
back to the warn inner worlds of the Commonwealth, always his 
profit margin poking hesitantly, narrowly, thinly, among empty 

— 19 —



places in strange spaces. Nuts! 

Oh, there were some minor compensations. For example, 
he made a very good living. 

And he was still the insane side of thirty. Doubtless any day 
now someone in the home office would take note of his 
incredible, astonishing record under impossible conditions. Then 
maybe he'd be handed something better suited to his 
exceptional talents. Like marketing jewelust lingerie to the 
famed ecdysiasts of Loser's World, or to freshly-minted 
debutantes on New Paris. 

He blinked, turned from the almost hypnotic white sickle, 
and tried to concentrate on more prosaic considerations. Like 
how he was going to explain the workings of an Asandus 
portable deluxe catalytic heater to the locals. Mestape gave him 
a working knowledge of the language — he always prepared for 
each new world as thoroughly as possible — but offered little in 
the way of crucial tidbits like local customs and trading nuances. 
Tran-ky-ky was too new for tapes to be available on anything but 

— 20 —



basic facts. Anthropological studies would have to come later. So 
his range would be limited. 

At least he had one item he should be able to unload 
completely on the natives. The Asandus line was made on 
Amropolous and was a marvel of power and miniaturization. One 
of the pocket-sized heaters could maintain a fair-sized room at 
sunbathing temperature even in trannish climate. Since the 
natives were adapted to extreme cold, an Asandus ought to last 
almost indefinitely. Just keep the heat up to zero and let 
grandpaw and the kiddies luxuriate. 

Without some such device, and with winds up to 300k 
producing a really ridiculous chill factor, a human caught 
unprotected on the surface of Tran-ky-ky for even a few minutes 
would be good for nothing but snow sculpture afterward. 

Come to think of it, there'd probably be a few humans in 
the settlement who'd be glad of a little luxury heater they could 
pack along in their scooters. They couldn't see his class of 
merchandise too often out here. Now if he could only keep his 

— 21 —



hands from shaking while he set the burner up. 

His mind was already well into a sales pitch of heroic 
proportions when he turned the corner to the personal baggage 
area and came upon a tableau that was all very wrong. 

Five humans were clustered around a lifeboat port. Said 
port was open. Very, very wrong. Had a lifeboat drill begun while 
he'd had a lapse of deafness? He could hear his heart beating. 
Well, ears fine, but message from eyes still wrongo. 

Ah yes, it was definitely the eyes. Two of the men were 
waving lasers about with drunken nonchalance. 

One of the gun-wielders, a short ferret-faced chap with a 
bad case of the digests, kept his laser more or less focused on an 
older man attempting to put up a bold front. That worthy was 
clad in an exquisitely cut suit of snappy emeraldine laid over a 
ruffled shirt of deep azure. To, the left of this nattily attired 
sexagenarian, a mousey-looking little guy was eyeing the gun 
almost as if he was considering tackling its owner. 

The other gunman was a huge chunk of brown with flat 

— 22 — 


face, rainbow-hued teeth, and formidable biceps. Right now he 
was trying to control his laser and subdue a package of 
squalling, scratching femininity that was apparently human. 
Apparently, because it seemed to have eight legs and twelve 
arms, all pinwheeling at once. The curses that issued from 
somewhere within the bundle, though, were undeniably 
Terranglo. 

Ethan caught a few and blushed. Her handler was cursing 
also, a basso profundo — or profano — counterpoint to the girl. 
Ethan wondered what she looked like. She was moving so much 
he couldn't tell. 

His attention was, drawn back to weasel-face, who was 
talking to the older man. 

“I'm not going to tell you again, du Kane! You want us to 
knock you out?” The hand holding the beamer was shaking 
slightly. “Get in that boat, now!” A nervous glance at one wrist. 
Both gunmen ignored their other prisoner. 

“Well, now, I don't know . . . I'd like to oblige you, but it's so 

— 23 —



hard to remember what the right thing to do is, anymore. Maybe 
I'd better wait. . .” 

Weasel-face threw up his hands and looked to heaven for 
help — not caring that its position in the universe was only 
relevant to the temporary set of the ship. 

The big man said “Ow!”, in no uncertain terms. He 
promptly dumped the girl to the floor. She rolled over from the 
ungentle landing and sat up slowly. Her curses diminished in 
volume but not originality. Ethan slumped a little. She weighed at 
least two hundred pounds and she was not especially tall. 

“Bit me,” said the big man unnecessarily. He sucked at the 
injured member. “Listen now, du Kane. We're running out of 
time. It's out of our hands, see? First this shrimp shows up,” he 
indicated mousey, still watching attentively, “and now you've got 
to be obstinate. Won't do you any good.” 

“Well, I don't know. . .” du Kane said hesitantly. His eyes 
moved to the girl. 

“You stay put, father.” She looked up at the big man and 

— 24 — 


Ethan noticed that that plump face had two startlingly green 
eyes peering out of it. “If you hit my father, you'll likely kill him 
. . . he's an old man. Give this idiocy up. I'll see to it that you're 
not shot out of hand, at least. And father won't press charges. 
He's too busy to bother with your variety of scum.” 

Du Kane! Well, that placed him and the girl . . . mighty 
calculating type, her . . . gambling on her father's frailty like that. 
Hellespont du Kane was chairman of the Board of Kurita-
Kinoshita Ltd. Among other things, they made the drives for 
interstellar ships. To say he was wealthy was to say the planet 
below tended away from the tropic. No doubt here was a man of 
whom it could be said, he really was made of money. 

A good salesman, Ethan rapidly summarized the situation 
by categorizing the players. Two kidnappers, two kidnappees, 
and one trapped innocent bystander. He wondered why they 
didn't shoot the little fellow. 

The question was now of more than academic concern 
because the big man with the sore thumb was staring right at 

— 25 —



him. It occurred to Ethan as he stared down the muzzle of the 
beamer that he'd spent a little too much time gaping and far too 
little in disappearing. He took a step backward. 

“Just on my way to luggage bay three . . . sorry to interr—” 

“Hold it right there, flotsam.” The big man turned to his 
partner. “What now, Walther?” 

“Rama, not another one! Is everyone on this ship 
nocturnal?” Another glance wristward. “We've got to get out of 
here! Take him along, for now. Whiffing expressly said not to 
leave any scraps, Kotabit.” 

Ethan didn't like being referred to as a “scrap.” It sounded 
downright threatening. Right now, however, he was stuck. 

“Get over there, you,” ordered Walther, gesturing toward 
the other captives with his beamer. 

“Listen, really, I can't join you. I've got a very important 
sales conference in half an hour and. . .” 

Walther melted a small hole in the deck between Ethan's 
feet. Ethan promptly walked fast, stood next to the little man on 

— 26 —



du Kane's left. The man seemed to be adjusting a contact lens. 

“Is this really a kidnapping?” he whispered as the two 
gunmen conferred among, themselves. 

“I'm afraid so, friend.” His accent was soft, the words 
precise. “We are now technically accessories to a capital crime.” 
He sounded very like a schoolteacher instructing his students. 

“I'm afraid you've got things confused,” Ethan corrected. 
“An accessory is someone who aids or abets the crime. You and 
I are victims, not accessories.” 

“It's all a matter of viewpoint, you know.” 

“Everyone, get in the boat!” Walther bawled, not caring 
anymore if anyone heard. 

“Why not just knock 'em all out?” queried Kotabit. 

“You heard, fatso . . . dangerous. Especially goin' down.” 

Colette du Kane was staring at Ethan. Maybe that name 
fitted her as, a child, but now . . . well, something like “Hilda” 
might have been more apropos. Those remarkable eyes chilled 
him. She didn't smile. 

— 27 — 


“Why didn't you go for help, whoever you are?” 

“I just walked in and I wasn't sure right away what. . .” 

“You weren't sure? Oh, never mind.” She sighed and 
looked resigned. “I suppose I shouldn't have expected 
otherwise.” 

He would have given her an argument except for the 
awkward fact that she was absolutely right. He'd really overdone 
his watch. 

“Why aren't you beautiful?” he said idiotically. “Damsels 
in distress are always beautiful.” He smiled, intending it as a 
joke, but she saw it otherwise. Those eyes came around sharply, 
then the whole body sagged, quivering, bloated. 

“Now you listen,” growled Kotabit. His voice was steadier, 
more self-assured than that of has companion, even though the 
smaller man seemed to be in charge. 

“If I were to cut off your daughter's legs, say, starting at the 
big toe and working slowly upward, I don't think it would 
inconvenience our plans. Does that convince you?” 

— 28 — 


“Ignore him, father,” said Colette. “He's bluffing.” 

“Dear me. . .!” The old man, for all his billions, was a pitiful 
aged sack of indecision. Then something seemed to rise out of 
his mind and into his tone. He stood straighter and spat once at 
Kotabit. The big man dodged it easily, his watchfulness 
undiminished. Du Kane seemed pleased with himself. He turned 
and entered the tiny flexible lock leading into the lifeboat. 

Ethan thought of taking a swipe at Walther's gun, but 
Kotabit showed no signs of the other's jerkiness. While his death 
might complicate their scheme, Ethan entertained no illusions 
about what the other would do if he charged either of them. He 
followed the small man with the contacts into the boat. 

“My name's Williams, by the way. . . Milliken Williams,” 
offered the latter conversationally, as he entered the lock ahead 
of Ethan. “I teach school. Upper matriculation.” 

“Ethan Fortune. I'm a salesman.” He glanced back at the 
girl. She was followed too closely by the two gunmen. Thoughts 
of shutting the lifeboat door in their faces had occurred to him, 

— 29 —



but they pressed too close. 

It was dark in the lifeboat. The only light came from the fore 
instrument panel, which was always kept on. Neither of the two 
gunmen made any effort to turn on the boat lights. Obviously 
they were afraid of triggering a telltale in the control bubble. He 
considered hitting the switch regardless of consequences, but 
was balked by one fact. He'd never been on a lifeboat except 
during drill and wouldn't know the interior light toggle from the 
self-destruct switch. 

So they stumbled around in near-night, strapping 
themselves into the couches at threatening words from the 
gunmen. There were twenty seats, in addition to the two pilots' 
couches forward. Walther was already in one, doing unseen 
things to the main console. Kotabit was lazily strapping himself 
into the other. He'd swiveled his couch around to watch the rest 
of them. Ethan didn't feel like testing the other's night vision. 

There was no warning siren when the boat door snapped 
shut. That, at least, had been cut in advance to prevent warning 

— 30 —



the ship's computer. It seemed certain they'd be noticed as soon 
as the boat left the ship's hull, but Ethan was no engineer and 
couldn't be certain. 

Walther was muttering something that sounded like, “s. . . 

e. . . set enough apart. . . hope. . .” 
“Better strap in tight, everybody,” Ethan advised the 
others. “I don't think we'll be setting down at the regular port.” 
“Brilliant!” Colette du Kane's voice was as easily defined as 
her shape. 

“And it will probably be rough,” he concluded lamely. 

“Two Einsteinian deductions in a row. Father, I don't think 
we've a thing to worry about. Not with a genius of this peasant's 
caliber along. Next he'll astound us with the knowledge that 
these two megalocephalic proteinoids mean us no good.” 

“Listen,” Ethan began., trying to locate her in the dark. His 
eyes were growing accustomed to the dim light. How Walther 
could manipulate the controls in it he couldn't imagine. They 
must have rehearsed this a hundred times. 

— 31 — 


“I'm still not entirely sure what's going on here. Along I 
come intending to inspect my samples, minding my own 
business, and your little family problem has to intrude.” 

“I hypothesize a ransom attempt,” said the elder du Kane. 
“As these thersitical traducers are no doubt aware, I am not 
without resources.” 

“Watch your mouth,” blurted the hulking Kotabit, not quite 
sure what to make of the manufacturer's charge. 

“I am sorry you and Mr. Williams had to be drawn into this. 
Clearly those two did not expect to be interrupted at this hour.” 

“I'm sorry too,” said Ethan feelingly. A low vibration 
passed through the little vessel, then another. Soon there was a 
continuous, steady thrumming at their backs. 

“They'll find us once we're down,” he continued, trying to 
encourage the other. “It shouldn't be hard to plot our descent.” 

“I would concur, young man, except the thoroughness 
which our vile companions have displayed thus far. . .” 

There was a lurch and Ethan found himself rapidly 

— 32 — 


becoming lighter. They'd detached from the ship and were 
moving out of its passenger field. 

“We've left the ship,” he began. A familiar tone interrupted 
him. 

“Oh god, I am amazed once again!” Colette said with 
mock piety. 

“Well, you go ahead and interpret everything for yourself, 
then!” Ethan replied peevishly. “Nothing's likely to happen until 
we're ready for setdown.” 

He was wrong, of course. 

In fact, several unlikely things happened right away. 

Something hit the boat a giant hammerblow on its side, set 
it tumbling crazily. Ethan got a fast glimpse of the planet running 
all around the circumference of a port, much too fast. Colette 
started screaming. Forward, Walther was cursing and groaning 
as he worked the controls, yelling about the time he no longer 
had and the time he'd wasted. 

Another sickening lunge brought the sunlit Antares into 

— 33 — 


view. It was starboard receding rapidly, but not so rapidly that 
Ethan couldn't make out the gaping hole in its near side. 

He turned back to the interior of the boat. All of a sudden 
there seemed to be a fifth figure in the passenger section. It was 
not strapped in and lurched about drunkenly back near the 
storage section. For a moment Ethan thought his eyes hadn't 
become properly adapted. 

The boat rolled insanely and Walther yelled helplessly. 
Williams shouted “Oh my!” And this strange rearward 
apparition bellowed in slurred Terranglo, “A joke is a joke, but 
by all the Black Holes and Purpling Prominences, enough is 
enough!” 

At that point Ethan's eyes unadjusted to the darkness and 
everything else. 

— 34 —



Chapter Two 

He was indisputably dead, frozen alive. He shivered. 

Wait a minute. If he was dead he shouldn't have been able 
to shiver. To make sure, he shivered again. His body jerked, 
once, twice. It occurred to him that there was an external source 
behind the jerks. Blinking, he turned his head. The ebony face of 
Milliken Williams stared down at him. 

“How are you feeling, my dear Fortune?” he inquired 
solicitously. Ethan noticed that the schoolteacher was wearing a 
thick coat of some heavy brown material. It had orange patching 
and was puffed in snots, but looked warm. 

He rolled over and sat up. The effort made him dizzy and it 
took another minute for his eyes to focus. Immediately he 
noticed that he was clad in a similar garment, that it extended 
well below his knees, and that it was at least two sizes too large 
for him. 

— 35 — 


Williams offered him a cup of black coffee. It steamed 
ferociously. Ethan took it in the coat-gloves and downed half the 
boiling liquid in two gulps. At the moment he didn't care if he 
vulcanized his esophagus. Something at his back seemed willing 
to support his weight, so he leaned back, sighed deeply, and 
inspected his surroundings. 

The du Kanes sat across from him. They wore the same 
brown-orange overcoats, only theirs fit. The elder du Kane poked 
thoughtfully at a tin of something in front of him. A wisp of steam 
floated from it. Selecting from the contents, he popped 
something into his mouth, frowned, swallowed, and resumed his 
poking. His daughter sat to one side, leaning on one arm and 
glaring at nothing in particular. 

They were sitting in a small room of some sort. The floor 
was covered here and there with a thin coating of white. Even to 
his dazed mind it was obviously snow or some other frozen 
liquid. He knew they were on the surface. The temperature told 
him that. A questioning glance at Williams. 

— 36 — 


“We're in the rear storage compartment of the lifeboat. It 
stayed fairly airtight.” 

Fairly was right, for air was clearly coming from around the 
edges of the single door. The metal walls were badly dented, 
especially the rearmost section leading to the engines. He 
finished the coffee and crawled to the access door. Door and wall 
leaned inward at the top. There was a single small window three-
quarters of the way up. 

Standing, he peered out the glassite, not caring that he was 
cutting off most of the light to the little compartment. Colette 
offered a suitably cutting comment of this lack of consideration, 
but Ethan was too engrossed in the view from the little port to 
pay any attention to her. 

He was staring down the center aisle of what had been the 
shuttle's passenger compartment. Huge gaping holes showed 
sky where the roof had been. A waterfall of brilliant, blindingly 
clear sunlight filtered into the hull. He became aware of the 
goggles and face shield built into the hood of the coat he was 

— 37 —



wearing. More than half of the acceleration couches had been 
torn or twisted off their mounts. 

Turning his head and craning his neck, he could see that 
the right side of the vessel had been badly pitted. The left side 
was ripped open along half its length, a single metal-shredding 
gouge. He was no mechanic, but even a mechanical idiot could 
see they'd be flying a new ship before they'd be repairing this 
one. Right now, his expense account was the worthier vehicle. 

A light dusting of snow covered the floor of the cabin and 
many of the tumbled seats, especially on the torn left side. The 
airbrushed whiteness muted the rented duralloy and convulsed 
floor. Here and there amidst the snow, shards of fractured 
glassite threw crippled rainbows about the interior. If a single 
viewport had survived intact, it was out of his line of sight. 

Maybe he overdid the straining and turning. In any case, 
the dizziness returned. Bracing his back against the door, he sat 
down carefully, put his head in his hands until it cleared. 

“Are you all right, Mr. Fortune?” Williams inquired again. 

— 38 — 


His face showed concern. 

“Yes . . . just a little queasy there for a moment.” He 
blinked. “It's okay now, I think.” Pause. “Although all of a 
sudden it seems I can't see too well.” 

“You were staring out the port too long without 
protection,” surmised Williams. “I expect it will pass quickly 
enough. Don't worry. It has nothing to do with your head 
injury.” 

“That supposed to be encouraging news?” He could feel 
the lump at the back of his scull. At least it was intact. His skull, 
not the lump. By rights it ought to have as many holes in it as the 
boat's hull. 

“You should use those.” The teacher pointed at the 
goggles resting high on Ethan's forehead. “To prevent snow 
blindness,” he added unnecessarily. 

“Thought of everything, didn't they?” Ethan grunted. He 
shivered again. “Any idea what the temperature is?” 

“I'd guess about twenty below zero, centigrade,” Williams 

— 39 — 


replied, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. 
“And I believe it's dropping a bit. But you can tell for yourself. 
There's a thermometer built into your left cuff.” He grinned 
slightly. 

Sure enough, a tiny circular thermometer was sewn into the 
fabric, just behind the end of the glove. At first he thought the 
teacher must be mistaken. The red line seemed almost all the 
way around the dial. Then he noticed that the highest reading 
on the meter was the freezing point of water. From there it went 
down, not up. This was impressive for what it implied, not what it 
read. 

Something very funny occurred to him. He laughed. In fact, 
he roared. It did not seem amusing, nor particularly natural, to 
the others. They watched him a mite apprehensively, especially 
du Kane. Colette looked as though she'd been expecting 
something of the sort all along. He forced himself to stop when 
he found that the tears were freezing on his cheeks. 

Then he noticed the way everyone was looking at him. 

— 40 — 


“No, I haven't gone crazy. It just struck me that among my 
trade goods on board the Antares I have an even four dozen 
Asandus portable deluxe model catalytic heaters. For trading to 
the poor backward natives, you know. I'd trade my grandmother 
for one of 'em right now.” 

“If wishes were fishes we'd never want for food,” said 
Williams philosophically. “Russell . . . twentieth-century English 
philosopher.” 

Ethan nodded, drew a snow spiral on the floor with one 
finger . . . real leather in those gloves, he noticed. A thought 
occurred to him as he surveyed the little group. His mind was 
running a few paces behind his eyes, still. 

“Speaking of the Antares, there was something very 
wrong with it when we blasted free. Yes, a hole, back of the 
passenger blister! I saw it as we tumbled.” 

“Very wrong and much too blasted,” echoed a nervous, 
vaguely familiar voice from a dark back corner. A small, morose 
figure edged out into the dim light. Its right arm was crooked up 

— 41 —



in a makeshift sling and there was an ugly scar healing slowly on 

one cheek. 

“You sure got a way with words, chum,” it finished. 

“Hey, I remember you, all right,” said Ethan with certainty. 
“Your name is . . . let's see . . . the other guy called you ‘Walther.’ 
The big guy. . .” He tried to see behind the other into the furthest 
recesses of the compartments. “Speaking of the big guy. . .” 

“The bigger guy . . . September . . . did him in,” informed 
Colette du Kane. “Console lighting went out, but I'm sure it was 
him. It sure wasn't y—” She checked herself. “I wonder where 
he came from?” 

Ethan thought back, recalled the ghostly, cursing 
apparition that had risen in the cabin behind him just before he 
lost consciousness. 

“I think I know who you mean. Seared me half out of the 
wits I had left . . . his popping up in the middle of everything like 
that.” 

“It certainly was interesting,” began du Kane. “I remember 

— 42 —



a time when—” 

“Be quiet and eat your food, father,” said Colette. Ethan 
looked more closely at the girl, who looked like a pink Buddha 
in her survival suit. Who was chairman of what, here? 

She returned her gaze to Ethan. It was a frank, open, 
uncompromising stare. Sizing him up. No, no . . . that was 
supposed to be his prerogative. He turned away and she must 
have sensed his nervousness. 

“You got the hardest knock of us all, I think, Mr. Fortune,” 
she said consolingly. Ethan knew she was deliberately trying to 
make him feel better. But the knot at the back of his head 
conceded the truth of her comment. 

“He had a gun?” Ethan asked her. Her reply was coldly 
matter-of-fact. 

“No, as a matter of fact, I think he broke his neck. Neat 
job.” 

“Oh,” said Ethan. “Look, I want to apologize for calling 
you f . . . I mean, for what I said back there.” 

— 43 — 


“Skip it,” she muttered softly. “I'm used to it.” And that, he 
reflected, was the first obvious untruth she'd uttered. 

Du Kane seemed to sense the awkwardness. He cleared it 
away nicely. “You're wearing the dead chap's coat, I believe.” 

“Doesn't fit very well, does it?” Ethan murmured absently. 
He held up his arms. If he wasn't careful he could lose the gloves. 
But his funny looks didn't bother him. It was warm. Though not 
as warm as Colette du Kane probably was. He glanced around. 

“Where is this guy . . . uh. . . 

“September. Skua September,” supplied Williams. 

“Yeah, him.” 

Colette gestured loosely in the direction of the door. “After 
we discovered that this compartment was still fairly intact . . . he 
carried you in, by the way . . . it seemed the natural place to take 
refuge. Conserve body heat, get out of this wind. The emergency 
boat rations are in this twisted locker behind me. I'm glad to say 
they survived, by and large. He had a bite to eat and disappeared 
outside. That was some time ago. He hasn't come back.” 

— 44 — 


“Quiet sort,” put in du Kane. Food dripped from his mouth 
and he suddenly mopped at it embarrassedly. 

“I expect he'll be all right,” put in Williams. “He took one 
of the two beamers with him. I,” he continued, holding up the 
little weapon, “have the other. He suggested I use it to 
discourage any antisocial actions left in our nemesis, here.” He 
indicated the sullen Walther. 

The latter eyed the gun, a bit wistfully, Ethan thought. 
“Huh! Fat lot of good it'd do me, too!” He shivered. Apparently 
he was even colder than Ethan. Several bunched-up shirts, plus 
an emergency thermal poncho from the lifeboat's stores gave 
him a squat look, like a fat frog. But the poncho hadn't been 
designed with temperatures like this in mind and the little hood 
was having a hard time of it. Well, that was just too bad. 

Ethan considered the clothes worn by du Kane and his 
daughter. They fitted almost perfectly, as if they'd been made to 
order in a thranx tailor-shop. Which they might have been. 
Clearly the kidnappers wouldn't want their charges to freeze to 

— 45 —



death. Williams, then, was probably wearing Walther's fur. He'd 
already noted the grisly origin of his own. 

Well, if someone was destined to freeze to death, he had no 
compunctions about nominating the ugly little man with the 
busted wing. When he thought of the commissions this little 
detour was going to cost him. . . 

Wait a minute. If he was wearing the dead Kotabit's jacket, 
and Williams was using Walther's, and the du Kanes had their 
own — then that meant the odd Mr. September was prowling 
around outside somewhere without a coat. Unless the 
kidnappers had carried extras, and that didn't seem likely. Well, 
that was September's problem. Just now there were other items 
uppermost in his mind. 

“Any idea,” he asked Williams, “where we are?” It was 
Walther who replied, however. 

“We were supposed to land,” he began bitterly, “about 200 
kilometers southeast of Brass Monkey. The rendezvous was all 
arranged. Thanks to several damn delays though, and some bad 

— 46 —



fusing, we got caught in the explosion we set in the Antares. 
Chewed hell out of our navigational capacity. I can't be sure, the 
way all those instruments were whining, with a busted 'puter, but 
I'll bet we're halfway around the planet. And if you want to buy 
my chances of getting out of this, you can have 'em for a 'Sime.” 

“Set explosion?” prodded Ethan. But Walther had 
obviously said all he intended to for now. He lapsed into glum 
silence and slid further back into his corner. 

“Probably a fair-sized bomb, set to go off after we'd left the 
Antares,” commented Colette professionally. “Since no alarms 
went off when we entered the lifeboat or sealed from the ship, I 
assume they took care of that earlier. Obviously the bomb was a 
cover maneuver, designed to convince rescuers that anyone in 
that section of the ship had been vaporized, especially father and 
myself.” 

“I see,” nodded Ethan. “That way everyone would assume 
you two were dead . . . until these two were safely away and 
ready to put their demands. And no pursuit. Very clever. Of 

— 47 —



course, anyone walking that section of the ship when the bomb 
happened to go off would just be plain out of luck.” He glared at 
Walther, who ignored him. 

“That's about it,” continued Colette. “But with all the 
hemming and hawing, they blew their timetable and didn't quite 
get away in time. Wouldn't have gotten away at all if Father 
hadn't. . .” She shrugged. 

“You ought to thank him for saving your life,” Ethan said 
reprovingly. 

She gave him another withering stare. “What life? Got any 
idea what it's like to be rich, Mr. Fortune? It's great. But to be 
rich and laughed at. . .” 

“Why don't you re-?” He bit his tongue. But she noticed. 

“Reduce? Can't. Glandular — irreversible, the docs say.” 
She turned away irritably. “Oh, go freeze yourself!” 

“Listen,” put in Walther, sticking his head out into the light. 
“Regardless of what you think, we planned it so nobody would 
get caught in that blowup. That's the only reason I didn't shoot 

— 48 —



you, and you, the minute you stuck your faces into that lifeboat 
bay. If a search team found your body, or his, or bits and pieces, 
then they'd start wondering just maybe why there was no sign of 
theirs,” he indicated the du Kanes. “A small chance, but Kotabit 
and the others wanted to be sure. Yeah, good and sure! And 
now,” he concluded with acidic finality, “we'll all freeze good 
and surely dead.” 

“I'm not thrilled about dying in your company, chum,” 
said Ethan with as much toughness as he could muster, which 
wasn't much. “And I sure don't plan to. Anybody think of 
checking the boat tridee?” He didn't leave to ask if it was in 
working order. 

Colette du Kane was shaking her head slowly. “Just scrap. 
That's what September told us, anyhow. I wouldn't know about 
such things myself, but I'm inclined to believe him.” 

“It certainly seems that we have nothing capable of even 
rudimentary communication,” agreed Williams heavily. “Let 
alone something that can transmit a continental distance.” 

— 49 —



Briefly, then, they were stuck. 

Less briefly, they were stranded on a barely known world, 
thousands of kilometers from its only humanx settlement, in 
weather that would make a corpulent walrus dive for his winter 
woolies. And the only people they could inform of their 
predicament were each other. 

Worse, unless by a very long, long chance someone had 
seen the boat tumbling toward the surface, no one would come 
looking for them, no one would believe they were alive. Including 
Walther's partners, who'd be expecting him a few kilometers 
from the town. 

Ethan didn't mind frozen food — but he wasn't ready to 
become some! 

Thinking it over, he had to confess that his prospects for the 
immediate future were anything but heartwarming. Or anything 
warming. On the other hand, he never made a sale by sitting on 
his duff and waiting for the customer to come to him. At least 
moving around would keep his blood from getting any funny 

— 50 —



ideas about going on strike. 

He scrambled to his feet. The hood fit loosely over his head 
but the goggles and shield were adjustable and mugged down 
tight. 

“Where do you think you're going?” asked Colette. 

“Outside, to have a look at the neighborhood. And to see if 
there's a store around that sells electric beds.” 

He snapped the top snap on the coat, tried to tighten the 
floppy hood and failed. Flip went the goggles. Things 
immediately grew darker. He had to fumble twice before he got a 
hand on the door latch. Turn and push — so. 

It didn't budge — so. 

He shoved again. “Stuck.” 

“Oh deity!” she began, “save us from such awesome, 
overwhelming, analytic. . .!” 

That was another good reason for getting outside. The door 
received a good swift kick and a couple of choice curses. 

Either the kick knocked it free, or maybe the curses had a 

— 51 — 


warming effect on the frozen joints. In any case, it popped open a 
few centimeters. From there it moved, reluctantly, on its 
bearings. 

He shut the door carefully behind him and turned. Making 
sure of his footing — the snow could have covered all kinds of 
holes — he started down the center aisle of the ship. Cold flakes 
crunched under his feet. It sounded as though he was walking on 
glass. The wind moaned and howled through the torn metal. His 
breath formed a tiny cumulus cloud, a small shadow of life that 
stayed just ahead of him. 

He could feel his lungs expanding and contracting. They 
seemed pitifully tiny in the frozen air. Each breath was painful, 
full of bee-stings and wire-wool. 

The center aisle was tilted downward. Nose down, the 
shuttle had come to an abrupt halt. 

Then he did what might have been considered by some a 
foolish thing. But he was a purveyor of cultured geegaws, not a 
planetary scout. And his taped information said nothing against 

— 52 —



it. So he knelt and scooped up a small ball of snow. It certainly 
looked like regular, old-fashioned, smack-in-the-face type snow. 
It caught the light like snow. 

He brought it to his mouth, felt a sudden momentary chill 
greater than the air. It dissolved in the oral furnace, went down, 
stayed down. Plain old usual terran-type H2O snow. He knew 
from the tapes that Tran-ky-ky's atmosphere was practically 
Terra-normal. What he did not consider was the possibility that 
the snow might contain acquired traces of toxic elements. 

But it didn't, and nothing happened. The snow and his 
stomach got along just fine. 

By way of experiment, he raised his goggles just a smidgen. 
It was a short experiment. He had to blink away a couple of 
freezing tears before sliding the dark glass back into place. The 
glare was fierce and unyielding. With the goggles, everything 
showed as clearly as before, but he could look at the snow 
without having his optic pathways turned to mush. 

He reflected that a man caught here without goggles could 

— 53 — 


go blind without even being aware the process was going on. It 
was far more deceptive than night blindness. Being caught in the 
light, it seemed, was worse than being caught in the dark. 

A slick part of the floor and he slipped, had to catch himself 
with his gloved hands. For a minute he didn't move, just stood, 
caught his breath. Watch it, stupid! This was no place to twist an 
ankle. 

He reached the end of the aisle. A fast glance back to the 
total destruction in the passenger compartment, and then he 
turned to look into the pilot's cubby. The door had been bent 
inward like the lip of a can. The shuttle's nose was buried. The 
lensless ports were filled with a mixture of loose earth and snow. 
It poured into the small fore cabin oozing over the panel and 
instrumentation. 

What he could see of the mangled console and the 
precision switches made him wonder that the little kidnapper 
had been able to bring them down safely at all. As for the boat 
tridee, it was so battered he barely recognized it. 

— 54 — 


Turning to leave the cabin, he stumbled again. Once more 
he was lucky and didn't hurt himself. But be was beginning to 
get mad. He turned with the intention of visiting a few suitable 
gripes on the twisted hunk of metal that had so cleverly 
insinuated itself between his legs. The gripe got as far as his lips, 
fizzled there when he saw the obstacle wasn't metal. 

It was twisted, however. 

The body was nude, lightly dusted with snow, and had 
begun to turn a color that did not imply a state of advanced good 
health. The back was facing him. He'd apparently stumbled over 
the head. 

Kneeling, he put a hand on the back of the motionless skull. 
It moved freely when he touched it. Too freely. Du Kane had 
been right. 

He experienced a sudden, sickening urge to see if the eyes 
were open or closed, like in the tridee shows. He could close 
them gently if they were open, just like the fictional heroes. 
However, he opted for backing away carefully, without even 

— 55 —



checking. 

Brushing the snow from his knees, he averted his eyes from 
the half-frozen corpse. Instead he tried to imagine how this 
September fellow could go rambling about outside the 
protection of the boat without one of the special coats. Then it 
occurred to him that he'd have a double set of clothing. 

Nothing in the cabin looked operable, useful. However, if 
one took the extent of his engineering knowledge into account, 
this observation meant nothing. He left without touching 
anything. Slipping and sliding, he made his way to the gaping 
tear which dominated the left side of the boat. Torn insulation 
puffed out from the double walls. Bracing himself against it, he 
cautiously looked out. 

The snow-dusted ground lay only a half-meter down. To the 
right he could see where the boat had burrowed its crumpled 
snout in what seemed to be a hill of good, solid earth. It didn't 
look like much of a hill. Probably you could walk around it. But it 
had been high enough and solid enough to arrest the forward 

— 56 —



slide of the boat. 

From the hill, what looked like stunted evergreens stuck 
their bristly crowns sunward. They hardly bent at all in the stiff 
gale. By now he was so numb he hardly felt the wind anymore. 
Needles shifted their position relative to the sun. A few flakes of 
snow scudded lazily from one pebble to a little hollow. The 
trunks of the trees were thick and looked solid as duralloy. 

Much of the ground to the west and north of the land was 
covered by a greenish down. It looked like short, very thick 
grass. Turning and raising his head, he looked out into the west, 
toward the horizon. That supplied another interesting discovery. 

It looked as though it had been drawn with a pen. The line 
dividing earth and sky was straight, flat, and altogether too sharp 
to be real. Human eyes expected something slightly blurred or 
wavering on most inhabited planets. Not here. You could grab 
that lint and pluck it. 

Overhead, the sky was a deep cerulean blue, pure as old 
pewter dishes. The even oil color was unsullied, the dome of 

— 57 —



heaven smooth as a baby's bottom. It was utterly devoid of 
clouds, which was just as well. A cloud in that pit of ice-blue 
would immediately surrender its aspect of lightness and take on 
the character of solid white rock. A real cloud floating overhead 
would be upsetting. 

With the exception of their tray blot of dirt, there was 
nothing else in any direction but flat, sparkling, virgin ice, lightly 
dusted now with snow. Another bit of taped knowledge drifted 
upward to the surface. Mostly shallow seas, frozen solid. They 
were adrift on an ocean of ice. 

The glare of the unchallenged sun on that unwavering sea 
would have been intolerable without the goggles. 

He jumped down to the ground. Mildly worried that the 
snow might make things awkward, be was relieved to discover it 
was barely a centimeter deep. Inside the boat it had piled a little, 
forming tiny drifts. 

He walked a few paces away from the ship. Looking back 
toward the tail he could make out a pair of deep grooves in the 

— 58 —



ice. They ran straight toward the southern horizon. He couldn't 
see under the boat, but it had obviously skidded badly on 
setdown. The landing struts had probably been torn away or 
worn down to stubs. Then the boat itself slid who knew how 
many meters on its belly, until it had chanced to run up against 
this swept-together dustpile of dirt and rock. 

A few steps brought him down to where the ground 
vanished. Brushing away the snow, he found that he could see for 
a few centimeters into the ice. There the ground sloped away 
beneath, to unknown frozen depths. The grass, he noticed, grew 
right out into the ice itself. It clustered thickly, but in a very 
orderly fashion. There was always a little space, however small, 
between each blade and its neighbor. 

None of this told him how big the island — for such it had 
to be — was. The inside of his mouth was a frozen crust. Running 
his tongue along it was like caressing cardboard. With thoughts 
of circling the island, he took a step out onto the ice. 

Another facet of Tran-ky-ky promptly introduced itself. 

— 59 — 


Any man trying to walk normally without special equipment 
would soon find himself in closer contact with the surface. 

Fortunately, he didn't slide very far on the freezing ice. But 
he had to crawl back on his hands and knees. By the time he'd 
regained solid ground his palms and knees were thoroughly 
numbed. 

The boat's emergency supplies were designed mainly with 
median range humanx-type worlds in mind. Therefore, if 
anything they tended to lean more toward the upper register of 
the thermometer in supply execution. 

He didn't believe ice skates had been included in the 
inventory. 

As if to insure that he shouldn't get any more comfortable 
than was necessary, the wind picked up and was now proceeding 
to cool things down a bit. The planet was clearly determined to 
freeze him solid and then blow away the remnant. 

Tonight, when it first grew cold — the very concept of cold 
was taking on new meaning in Ethan's mind — any real gust 

— 60 —



would add a chill factor that would make things very dangerous. 
They'd have to take care to prevent being thoroughly cubed — 
and not in the mathematical sense, either. 

Without the relative shelter of the boat, of course, they'd 
probably freeze to death even with the special coats. 

His vision was improving or the cold was starting to work its 
way into his brain. The horizon remained sharp as a paper cut on 
a fingertip. But now he thought he could make out what might 
be larger land masses far off in the distance. He couldn't be 
certain. 

For a moment he thought they might be imperfections in 
the material of the goggles. But when he moved his head, the 
distant objects stayed in the same places. 

He turned to his right and froze. Figuratively, this time. 
Something else was visible off in the distance, coming around the 
side of the island. When he moved his head this time, though, the 
figure not only didn't stay in the same place, it got larger. 

As it came closer, it resolved into a fairly human figure. But 

— 61 —



there were discrepancies. The feet were bloated, distorted pads. It 
waved. Not having anything else to do, Ethan waved back. He 
stood up. If the thing weren't human, he'd be better off meeting it 
in a stance more suitable for absenting oneself rapidly. 

It was human, all right, although the figure was huge. The 
double set of clothing it wore made it seem even larger. That 
made Ethan think again of the coat he was wearing, designed for 
a much bigger man. That size man. He felt a little bit guilty. 

At least September had snow goggles with him. The 
goggles gave him a faintly amphibious appearance. Ethan 
wondered if he looked as silly. Probably more so. If the man 
minded the intense chill he didn't show it. 

As he came closer the bloated feet explained themselves. 
Apparently September had ripped up one or two of the 
acceleration couches. The luron upholstery had been shaped 
into a pair of fat pads and strapped to his big dogs. It seemed the 
luron was sufficiently rough to give some purchase on the ice. 
Tough and long-lasting, the artificial material would not wear off 

— 62 —



no matter how rugged the surface. And the padding did more 
than just cushion his feet: it also put some crucial distance 
between them and the heat-sucking ice. 

The improvised snow-shoes looked awkward, but as a 
method of temporary transportation it far exceeded sliding on 
one's fundament. 

Ethan took a closer look at the personage who'd saved or 
condemned them. Not exactly a giant, but damned large, bigger 
even than the recently deceased Kotabit. A good two meters up, 
broad in proportion. 

He tried to take the other's measure, failed and was upset 
without immediately knowing why. After all, he wasn't going to 
try and sell this guy anything. He took in the white hair, predator 
beak of a nose, and the incongruous gold earring. There was a 
deal of the old English lord about him, with a lot of Terran-
Arabic. Bedouin stock, maybe. 

September stopped, his breath coming in short heaves. A 
miniature fog-bank, swirled about that scimitar proboscis. He 

— 63 —



extended a hand and grinned down at Ethan. The hand was 
sandwiched in between layers of torn seat-foam. Ethan stared at 
it. 

“Not as good as those survival gloves you've got on, 
maybe, but it keeps a body warm . . . after a fashion. It's hard to 
handle things, but then, I don't expect to be doing much watchmaking for a while.” 

“That's for sure.” Ethan grinned back and shook the hand. 
Or rather, allowed himself to be shaken by it. “You must be Skua 
September.” 

“Better be,” the other replied, “or else someone badly 
fooled Mrs. September. Although she preferred a climate more 
on the toasty side.” 

He stared over Ethan's head into the distance. Slapping 
both hands together a couple of times, he blew intently between 
the layers of foam. His eyes never left the horizon while he spoke. 

“How are you getting on, young feller? That was quite a 
swack you took. Couple of minutes there, I was afraid you 

— 64 — 


weren't going to come out of it. Be hard enough to rouse 
yourself here without piling a coma into the bargain.” 

“Perchance to dream? No, a prolonged sleep certainly 
wouldn't be a good idea, here,” Ethan agreed. “You'd never 
know quite when you finally froze. And I don't want to miss that 
when it happens.” 

September nodded. “Ought to be interesting at that. 
Wonder how a body'd freeze here. From the top down or the 
inside out?” He crossed arms and slapped opposite shoulders. 
“What do you know about this refrigerated habitat? I only took 
the standard general tourist mestape — language, highlights, so 
forth. So did the little fellow — Williams. I think he'll be okay. 
Quiet. Not taciturn, just likes to keep to himself. And that 
unspeakable fermentation, Walther, can surely manage the local 
patois. Although I'd sooner remove his tongue before I'd let him 
do any translating. You?” 

“Well I'm a salesman, and—” 

September didn't let him continue. “And so you've stuffed 

— 65 —



yourself as full of verbs and prepositional phrases and epiglottal 
stops as a grilled pepper! Excellent, young feller.” 

Ethan shrugged. “It's no more than anyone else in my 
position would have done. I also had a few general planetary 
tapes on native conditions — cultural stuff, flora and fauna, the 
like. Just business.” 

“Or survival.” He gave Ethan a friendly pat on the back that 
made him cough even with thick padding to insulate the blow. 
“Fine foresight, lad. Exemplary! As of now, you're in charge.” 

“Huh?” Somehow Ethan got the feeling he'd missed an 
important paragraph or two in amongst the praise. “In charge of 
what?” 

“Why, in charge of seeing our little party return safely to 
civilization, of course. Expedition's got to have a leader. I hereby 
appoint myself your faithful deputy. When can we expect to 
come in sight of the nearest bar, commander?” Under the brows, 
there was a twinkle. 

“Now wait a minute,” put in Ethan hastily, “I think you've 

— 66 — 


formed some wrong ideas about me. I'm not the leader type. 
Anyway, what about you? You seem, plenty competent. The way 
you handled that chap Kotabit—” 

“Yes, well, that's a nice ability to have at certain times,” 
September agreed, studying his clumsy mittens, “but rather 
limited. Besides, he's dead. That particular problem will not 
require further attention. Now, I have this tendency to get 
impatient with people and break heads when patting them would 
be more practical. Darned if I can figure out why, but they seem 
to feel threatened by me when I've but the kindest of intentions 
in mind. 

“What is needed is a cool, reasonable hand experienced at 
working with people and changing quickly in unfamiliar 
situations without making folks feel threatened. Doesn't it take 
all that to change in mid-pitch from one sales talk to another? 
Presence of mind and quick thought, lad.” 

“Sure, but—” 

“Persuasive without being overbearing. A diplomat.” 

— 67 — 


Ethan finally succeeded in stalling the unending 
enumeration of his virtues. 

“Look, I'm not sure selling Poupee-de-Oui Scent No. 7 
exactly qualifies me as a combination of Metternich and 
Amundsen.” 

“But it's helped you convince people that white is black 
and good for 'em. Here all you have do to is convince 'em white 
is white. Duck soup.” 

“All right, all right. I accept.” 

“Thought you would.” 

“Only because you think it's necessary. And only 
temporarily, mind.” He started fumbling with the catches on his 
jacket. “Now as leader of this expedition, my first order, effective 
now, is that you put this suit on. It's obviously built for someone 
constructed more along your lines. If there's anything I despise, 
it's waste, and I'm swimming in it.” 

“Sorry, lad.” September put out a hand and halted the 
unsnapping. “You're in charge, agreed. But this is still a free 

— 68 —



society, not a dictatorship. That means any decision ought to be 
ratified by a majority vote. Since you and I are the only ones 
present, it's up to us. Well?” 

“I vote for you to put this coat on.” 

“And I vote for you to keep it. How much do you weigh?” 

“Huh?” That was Ethan's second use of that brilliant 
expletive in a few minutes. Ah, the dazzle of a rapier-sharp wit! 
He murmured a reply. 

“I thought about that much,” said September. “You lose.” 

“Look, you'll make better use of it,” Ethan argued. “You're 
more the explorer type than I am. I can manage without it.” 

“No, you cannot manage without it,” September said 
sharply, not grinning. “And if this wind gets much worse,” he 
continued, turning into the rising breeze, “we're all going to wish 
for a damn sight more in the way of clothes. Besides, if I am 
more the ‘explorer type,’ as you claim, I should be able to stand 
the cold better than you.” 

“You're contradicting yourself,” Ethan pointed out. 

— 69 — 


“Don't be obtuse when I'm being illogical. Anyhow, that 
Kotabit fella was wearing special thermal underwear. It's a mite 
snug in a few wrong places, but it keeps me fairly comfortable 
with this double layer of top gear. That Walther has it on also, no 
doubt. He's not as cold as he makes out to be. 

“Maybe it's not as cozy as those special jackets, but I won't 
freeze, feller-me-lad. A glass of good brandy, now, but. . .” He 
licked chapped lips wistfully. “You worry about yourself and not 
old Skua.” 

“Just how old are you, anyway?” asked Ethan curiously, 
eyeing the long ropes of muscle that bulged the fabric. He hoped 
the other wouldn't be offended. 

He wasn't. If the broad smile that creased his face was any 
indication, he was more tickled than anything else. 

“I'm older than that pudgy pullet du Kane has for a 
daughter, and a bit younger than the moon. But about garments, 
again. All your survival suits are a dark brown. My own outer 
clothing is white. You stand out against this landscape like an old 

— 70 —



raisin in lemon cake frosting. Me, I'd just as soon be a little 
chillier and a mite less conspicuous. Old habit. 

“Those tapes give you any way to judge how cold it's likely 
to get tonight?” 

Ethan squinted up to where the sun hung like a failed flare 
in one corner of the sky. 

“If we came down anywhere on a line with the settlement, 
meaning on the equatorial belt, it will probably only drop to 
minus 30 or 40 tonight. You can add to that a steady wind of 
anything from 80 to 100 kph. We seem to have come down in a 
positive calm.” 

“Absolutely sybaritic, hmmm?” September murmured. 
“Remind me to stay out of drafts.” He kicked at the scruffy thin 
snow. “Wonder if the du Kanes know anything?” 

“I dunno,” replied Ethan. “They're a funny pair. The old 
man seems pretty shaky for someone holding the reins of 
empire. And the girl. . .” Ethan's expression wrinkled in 
confusion when he thought about Colette. “She seems 

— 71 — 


competent enough . . . maybe even more than that. But she's so 
full of bitterness and bile. . .” 

“About her looks?” prompted September. Ethan nodded. 
“Too bad . . . all that credit and built like a marshmallow. Sinful, 
positively sinful. 

“But she won't be a burden on us, I don't think, and on this 
world I wouldn't mind a few extra kilos of insulation myself.” His 
thought changed abruptly. “Might be an idea to mount a watch 
tonight.” He put both hands on either side of the hole and 
heaved himself up into the boat. Turning, he knelt and gave 
Ethan a hand up. 

Ethan noticed a flash of dark brown forward as he was hauled 
aboard. He gestured toward the pilot's compartment. 

“What exactly happened? As we were coming down, I 
mean.” 

— 72 — 


“Ummm? Oh, that.” September gave a shrug. “It was 
bloody peculiar. See, I'd been drinking a tinge . . . not that I was 
drunk you understand!” 

“Perish the thought,” said Ethan placatingly. 

“Yeah, well, I'd been sipping a little. And while it's difficult 
to believe, it's not entirely inconceivable that I might have gone 
just a teensy bit over my limit. Anyway, an assortment of 
misbegotten crewmen of indeterminate ancestry got it into their 
lighter-than-air skulls that I was acting in a manner not 
conducive to the general well-being of your usual milksop 
passenger. So they jumped me. 

”Next thing I know, I'm thrown out of a sound sleep into 
near total darkness and zero-gee while a bunch of dwarf miners 
are using my skull for sinking an exploratory mine shaft. And to 
top it, I'm all tied up. 

“Well, there were several possibilities. One, I was having the 
DT's, which I haven't run across in a long age, lad. Or maybe I 
was paddling through the great-grandfather of all hallucinatory 

— 73 —



hangovers. When it finally dawned on me that my misery had 
purely human causes, I was pretty upset.” 

“I see,” said Ethan. “The crew tied you up and dumped 
you into the lifeboat to sleep it off.” 

“Sure!” agreed September. “If they'd taken me to the brig, 
or whatever they use for a brig on those big luxury ships, they'd 
have had to get formal about things. Swear out affidavits, make 
out forms in triplicate. Much easier to chuck me into an empty 
lifeboat. 

“At first I thought all the tumbling and jolting was a gag. 
But knocking about in freefall back in those seats hurt, dammit! 
Wasn't a bit funny, no. Then it occurred to me that the boat had 
separated from the ship and was diving on an unscheduled jaunt 
dirtward. I don't like kidnapping on principle. It's worse when I'm 
the kidnappee. 

”Pretty soon the boat is skipping through atmosphere like 
a rock on water. And none too gently, as you know. I wasn't sure 
what was going on, but I hadn't been consulted. So I broke loose 

— 74 —



and went forward to find out. Most of you had been slung around 
pretty bad. I don't remember who was conscious and who 
wasn't, but no one offered any advice. 

“That fella in there,” he jerked a thumb in the direction of 
the pilot's cubby, “was awful surprised to see me. First thing, he 
goes to pull a beamer on me. Now right away I know I'm not 
going to be able to reason with this bloke. So we had a bit of a 
tussle. Meanwhile that punk Walther can't make up his mind 
whether to stick by his controls for the landing or pull his own 
beamer and help his partner. 

“He ended up trying to do both and did neither very well. 
He did get his beamer out and he did get us down. The ship got 
broke and so did his arm. As for the other chap, I didn't intend to 
kill him. It just happened. He was sure trying to kill me, though.” 

He dug into a pocket, showed Ethan the other beamer. 
“Want it?” 

“No thanks. I'd probably shoot myself in the foot. You keep 
it.” 

— 75 — 


“Okay.” September shoved it back into a fold of clothing. 
“If it really gets rough tonight we can heat one of the walls. I'd 
rather not do that, however. I don't know how much of a charge 
is left in these things and we've no way of re-priming them.” 

Ethan had handled beamers before, despite his refusal of 
this one. Business occasionally made it necessary. There were 
planets where the natives would decide in a stroke of primitive 
brilliance that the best bargain was to do away with the trader 
and confiscate his goods, thus apparently proving the old adage 
about getting something for nothing. 

This time, however, the gun would prove more useful for 
warming his own backside instead of some ignorant savage's. 
Better that September kept charge of it. 

The latter broke into his reverie. “How about food?” 

“You mean local? I don't know. Don't you think there's 
enough in the ship?” 

“A shuttle of this size is built to hold about twenty people,” 
informed September. “There are only six of us. But it's 

— 76 — 


presumed by the powers that be in their infinite wisdom that 
such ships as these will only be used to get from an 
uninhabitable ship to an inhabitable planet. Whereas we seem to 
have gone vice versa, what? So I wouldn't count on finding more 
than a couple of weeks concentrated survival rations back in 
there, with plenty of vitamin pills. 

“That ought to give us enough food for about four terran 
length months. Longer, if we husband the stuff. That's 
assuming,” he added, “that everything came through the 
landing in edible condition. At least we don't have to worry much 
about spoilage. Not in this climate.” 

There was a question Ethan had put off asking long enough. 

“What do you think of our chances?” 

September looked thoughtful. “Two weeks plus 
concentrated food for twenty people will mass a fair amount. 
We've got to find a way to transport it. And also a better way to 
get around on this frozen cue-ball than this:” He indicated the 
makeshift ice-shoes. “That would be a beginning. 

— 77 — 


“Then we'd have to find a way to keep warm during really 
cold nights, and to block off this damnable wind. We have to 
figure a method of determining where we are now, where Brass 
Monkey is, and how to draw a straight line between the two we 
can stay glued to. 

“Assuming we can do all that, we might make it in four 
months. But I wouldn't lay a tenth-credit on it. Could take a year, 
too. That's why I'm curious about local foods.” 

“Well,” Ethan tried to remember details from the tapes that 
were not pertinent to salesmanship, “there's that.” 

He hopped onto the ice and walked over to the island. 
There he stooped, plucked a few blades of the “grass” from the 
frozen surface. He had to pull hard, several times. Even then it 
came up with the greatest reluctance. 

The thick stem, or leaf, or whatever it was, grew no longer 
than ten centimeters. The further out onto the ice it grew, the 
shorter the stems. It wasn't a sharp-edged blade, like terran 
grass, but thick, fat, and substantial. Rather a bit like a pointy 

— 78 —



triangular sausage. Even the coloring was different. 

There was a large proportion of red mixed into the green. 
Other stalks varied in color from a bright emerald to a deep rust. 
In form it probably came closest to resembling terran iceplant, 
another incongruity. It was taller, straighter, and did not form 
clumps nearly as thick as the familiar Mesembryanthemum 
crystallinum. 

“If I remember the tape correctly, this stuff grows wild all 
over the planet,” Ethan said. “It's called pika-pina and is edible, 
although nutritional value is still uncertain. But it's high in 
mineral content and bulks a fair amount of raw protein. It's not a 
true grass, but lies somewhere midway between them and the 
mushrooms. Even grows on bare ice. Very complex root system. 

“Needless to say, it's not a flowering plant.” 

“I can believe that,” asserted September. “No self-
respecting bee would be caught dead on this world.” He took 
one of the thick sprigs awkwardly in one mittened hand, stared 
at it with interest. 

— 79 — 


“High in protein you say? That's good. We're going to need 
all the rough fuel we can manage if and when we run out of 
supplies.” He bit off the stalk halfway down, chewed reflectively. 

“Not as bad as some,” he said after a moment. “Long way 
from spinach salad, but better than dandelions.” 

“Dandelions?” 

“Never mind, feller-me-lad. We're not likely to run across 
any.” He swallowed, popped the remaining half in his mouth and 
finished that also. 

“Tough skinned, and it's got a consistency like old shoe. 
But the taste is kind of interesting. Sweetish, but bland. Parsley 
and not celery. If we had the fixings, a good dressing might make 
this stuff almost civilized. I don't suppose we've got any 
vinegar?” 

“No, unless you count du Kane's daughter.” Ethan snorted. 
“I think some of those other plants on the island are supposed to 
be edible too, but I don't recall for sure. It's hard to trust 
mestaped information on only a single sitting. I was more 

— 80 —



concerned with the local monetary system and rules of barter, 

I'm afraid. But pika-pina, I remember that.” 

“How about animals? I'd be willing to try a steak.” 

“I can't seem to remember the section on fauna at all.” 
Ethan's forehead wrinkled as he poked at his memory. “There 
are animals, though. And fish, of a sort. I do remember that the 
fish are edible. Supposed to be extremely tasty, too. They've 
evolved a low-oxygen metabolism that enables them to survive 
beneath the surface.” 

“Fish, hummm? I'd even prefer that to a steak.” 

“There is the problem,” Ethan reminded him, “of getting at 
them through eight or nine meters of ice, at the minimum.” 

“Oh,” said September, the great beak dipping a little. He 
looked crestfallen. “I'd forgotten that little detail.” 

“What do you suggest we do now?” asked Ethan. It was all 
very well and good to be able to dish out interesting facts about 
the planet, quite another to propose immediate application. 

“First thing, we've got to start preparing for the night as 

— 81 — 


best we can. I'm not afraid of getting to sleep here. But I want to 
do it with some assurance I'm going to wake up. If we can get 
through the night without too much trouble, maybe tomorrow 
we can see about rigging up some sort of sled and improvising 
navigational gear. 

“Our friendly kidnappers might have had local charts, 
though I doubt it. Depends where we came down. I got a look at 
the beacon lock just before we hit and we were so far off it barely 
registered. No, the settlement's definitely not around the corner. 
But charts are a possibility. Remember to ask our surviving 
poorslip about 'em.” 

“Think he'll cooperate?” 

“Why not, young feller-me-lad? He's a candidate for the 
big deep-freeze, too. Meanwhile, dig into that mestaped 
knowledge of yours and see if you can position Arsudun with 
respect to any major landmarks or outstanding surface feature. 

“Me, I'm going to think about keeping warm tonight. I'd 
rather not build a fire inside our compartment. Close quarters. 

— 82 —



But I don't see a way around it. I suppose we should be thankful 
we ran up against a wood supply, of sorts. If we'd come to rest in 
the middle of this,” he indicated the endless ice ocean, “we'd 
really be in trouble.” 

It occurred to Ethan that nothing on the shuttle was 
burnable. Naturally not. Nor was the packaging for the self-
heating meals, nor the padding in the acceleration coaches. 
Patrick O'Morion himself couldn't have made a fire with the 
materials available an the shuttle. You might start a fire with the 
heater from some of the emergency rations, but you still had to 
have something to burn. 

A man would be better off back on old Terra, in the days 
when transportation was made of organic wood and burned 
organic residue for fuel, too. 

September gestured at the island. “We can cut trees with 
the beamer. I hope they're not too full of sap or we'll never get 
'em to burn. Wonder what they use to keep it from freezing?” 

The mention of freezing made Ethan take another look at 

— 83 — 


the sun. He was alarmed to see how far it had dropped. With it 
went a good deal of the day-heat — no, you couldn't rightly call 
it heat — of the more manageable cold. He recalled that the day 
here was about two hours shorter than Terra's, or shiptime. 

The door to the storage compartment opened with a 
squeaky protest. Colette du Kane stuck her head out into the 
wind. A big badger or woodchuck checking out of hibernation, 
Ethan thought. He was angry at himself — what had she done to 
him? But he couldn't keep thinking along those lines. 

I can't help myself!, he thought in silent apology. She wasn't 
psychic, and didn't look over at him. Instead, her gaze seemed 
intent on the drowsing sky. 

“Find anything?” she asked. The question was directed 
past Ethan's right ear. He shouldn't have resented it, but he did. 

“Some trees. But it'd be rough cutting 'em now.” 

“Come on, Skua,” blurted Ethan unthinkingly. “Let's take 
a whack at those trees. Give me the beamer.” 

“Thought you didn't want to bother with it,” said the big 

— 84 — 


man, surprised. 

“I changed my mind. I'll cut and you carry . . . and don't do 
that!” September's hand paused in mid-air. “Another friendly 
pat on the back from you and I won't even be in condition to lift 
this.” He took the beamer and held it tightly in one gloved 
hand. 

“All right, Ethan. I'd like to get a decent cord cut soon as 
possible. Before it gets much darker, anyway. Or windier,” he 
concluded, hiking multiple collars higher on his neck. 

They turned to leave the ruined boat, Colette watched them 
thoughtfully until they disappeared. Then she shook her head 
and smiled ever so slightly before closing the door behind her. 

The sun had vanished into a frozen grave and exchanged itself 
for a baleful icy eye of a moon by the time they pushed into the 
small metal room. Ethan was concentrating completely on not 

— 85 —



shaking himself to pieces. He was shivering so violently he could 
visualize bits and pieces of himself flying off and bouncing across 
the duralloy floor. A finger here, an eyeball there. At least they 
were out of that infernal wind. Only the protective face heaters 
set in the hood of his survival suit had kept his skin from freezing. 
How September had stood it he couldn't imagine. 

And it was going to get worse. Much worse. 

Something bumped from behind and he managed to 
stumble out of the way as September staggered in behind him. 
The big man was buried under a huge load of wood, cut cleaner 
than the finest axe could manage. 

Ethan shifted to one side, away from the door, and sank 
slowly to the floor. If he got out of this with all his component 
parts intact, he was going to take a nice, peaceful, warm desk job 
somewhere within the bureaucratic bowels of the organization 
and toast his tootsies in peace. The beamer he slung into a far 
corner. 

Walther, who by now bore some resemblance to a trapdoor 

— 86 —



spider, pounced on the weapon in much that fashion. 
Immediately he whirled and made stabbing motions with it in 
September's direction. That worthy was unconcernedly stacking 
the cut wood next to several empty food crates — all 
nonflammable plastic, of course. 

“That wasn't very bright of you, buddy,” the kidnapper said 
to Ethan, not taking his eyes off September. “Don't you try 
anything either, sourpuss!” he warned Williams. The 
schoolteacher, however, hadn't budged. Nor had Colette, nor her 
father. 

Ethan edged back into the cartons, trying to find a warm 
spot and failing miserably. September had arranged some of the 
wood and smaller twigs on a pile of greenish-brown needles in 
the center of the door. There were also a few clumps of what 
looked like dried lichen but probably weren't 

Colette sat up thoughtfully, turned to her father. 

“Father . . . your lighter.” 

“Eh?” The old man looked confused, then brightened. 

— 87 — 


“Why, of course!” 

He reached into a pocket inside his jacket and tossed 
something small and shiny to September. 

“That should help, Mr. September. It's not full, I'm afraid. 
No point in hoarding it. I can do without a smoke for awhile.” He 
smiled hopefully. 

September flipped on the tiny, solid-fuel lighter — solid 
iridium filigree plating, Ethan noted. 

“Thanks, du Kane.” The old man looked pleased. “This is 
better than using the heater from one of the food parcels, and 
easier.” 

The small needles caught almost instantly, and Ethan 
reflected that there would be little need for much fire-proofing on 
this world. The wood spat and crackled like a Chinese holiday at 
first, but it was going to catch. 

It would have been easier to gather pika-pina than cut trees, 
but that tough ground cover held far too much moisture to burn 
very well. It would have been like trying to light a wet sponge. 

— 88 —



“You!” Walther began, having had about enough of this 
byplay. He was supposed to be in control of the situation, but no 
one was acting like it. It made him nervous. At first he listened to 
them all with puzzlement. Now he was mad. 

“I'm going to blow your head off,” he grinned at 
September. “Drill a nice little hole right through your skull.” 

September prodded the fire a little more, making sparks 
jump. He looked over at the door, shifted the blaze with his foot 
so that it drew on the breeze seeping in past the bent edges. 
Then he looked idly over at Walther. 

“Not with that, you aren't.” 

“If you think you can bluff me. . .” the kidnapper quavered. 

“Dry up, runt. Crawl back in your hole. Can't you see I'm 
busy trying to keep you alive?” 

Walther shook. His eyes widened and he clenched his teeth. 
His finger tensed on the hooked trigger. 

“He's going to shoot you,” said Colette calmly, “the poor 
sap.” 

— 89 — 


There was a tiny flicker of green at the tip of the beamer. 
Then nothing. 

Walther glanced at it in disbelief, pulled the trigger again. 
This time the glow was hardly visible. On the third attempt, not 
even a hint of light came from the barrel. 

With a little gasp that might have been fear or anguish, he 
dropped the useless weapon and scuttled back into the shadows, 
favoring his bad arm. The wide, now frightened eyes never left 
September. 

It was quiet for a few minutes. Then September stirred the 
fire again. 

“Calm down, Walther. While I'd cheerfully wring your 
chicken-neck and toss you next to your rigid compadre up 
forward, I've no intention of doing it just now. I'm tired and cold. I 
might feel differently tomorrow, or the next day. Fact is, I'd've 
done it earlier, but you're such a pitiable excuse for a man it 
hardly seemed worth the exertion. So I only broke your arm. 
Now don't bother me anymore.” 

— 90 — 


He settled himself next to the door and concentrated on 
stuffing several narrow strips of shredded seat-padding into the 
crack on the hinged side. The other crack he left unblocked, to 
circulate air both for them and the fire. 

“Maybe we can keep a little of the wind out, anyhow,” he 
muttered half to himself. 

Colette was rummaging among the other food cartons. She 
pulled one out and looked down at the label. 

“Escalloped chicken.” She grunted. “Nice for us, but 
damned unprofitable. Give the condemned a hearty last meal. 
Somebody on this shipping line has a sense of humor.” 

Ethan looked up in surprise. It was the closest thing she'd 
said to a joke since this'd happened to them. If it had a deeper 
meaning, it escaped him. 

She started passing out the self-heating rations and he was 
so hungry he finished the first before he thought to look at the 
label. 

September grunted as he continued to jam and press the 

— 91 — 


recalcitrant material into the fissure. He looked over at Williams, 
huddled quietly to one side of the fire. 

“You handled yourself very well there, schoolmaster. I was 
kind of interested to see what you'd do.” 

Williams acknowledged the compliment with a barely 
perceptible nod. 

“I did not expect that Mr. Fortune would be so tired or 
foolish as to throw a useable weapon in the direction of that 
person. Therefore I assumed it must have burnt out or otherwise 
been rendered useless. This is a very nice fire you've made here.” 

“Enjoy it and welcome, while it lasts,” September 
answered. “I think we've got enough wood to last the night, 
anyway. You did say the nights were shorter, young feller-melad?” Ethan nodded. 

Ethan rolled over, trying to set himself as close to the 
flames as possible barring sudden immolation. He hadn't found 
that warm spot. And if there was a soft piece of duralloy, that had 
escaped his notice as well. 

— 92 — 


Trouble was, there were six of them to crowd around the 
energetic but tiny fire. That meant you couldn't get too much of 
you next to it. It was impossible to remain both polite and warm. 
So when one end of you was partly defrosted, the other was still 
in the figurative freezer. It was most disconcerting. 

— 93 —



Chapter Three


They disposed of the packages by stacking them in the empty 
shipping carton and shoving it into a far corner. September was 
for taking all the garbage outside and tossing it to the winds. He 
wanted to keep their hideaway neat, as long as they were stuck 
in it. 

By now, though, the gale outside had risen to 
brobdingnagian proportions. That wind carried quick, freezing 
death, despite the protection of their suits and face heaters. 
Outvoted four to one, the big man assented. 

“Wish I knew more about these natives,” he muttered. 
Another log was sacrificed to the greedy flames. Huddled in their 
survival suits around the orange-red kinetic sculpture, they 
looked like so many frozen carcasses awaiting the butcher's saw. 
But the wood continued to burn comfortingly, although 
sometimes the fire took on an eerie purple halo. A nice little pile 

— 94 —



of coals was growing beneath. Even the supporting duralloy 
seemed to be taking on a reddish tinge under the steady throb of 
flame. 

“It's not surprising we haven't encountered any yet,” said 
Ethan. “For all we know, we might have come down in the 
middle of the biggest desert on the planet.” 

“It's all right, father,” Colette was murmuring to her sire. 
“Your flowers are being well taken care of . . . and International 
Lubricants of Goldin IV was up six points, last I looked.” 

“You'd think they would have noticed the boat coming 
down,” September grunted. “As clear as this air is, we ought to 
have been visible for hundreds of kilometers.” 

“We might have been seen,” Ethan conceded. “Even so, it 
might take days or weeks for the locals to organize an 
expedition to reach us. Assuming they are so inclined.” 

“Still, we should post a watch,” said the big man. 

“I haven't taken anything but the basic mestapes,” 
Williams began, “but it seems to me that your natives, no matter 

— 95 —



what their makeup, wouldn't be abroad on a night like this.” 
Another gust rattled the door, as though in support of the 
schoolmaster's theory. 

“This could be a tropical evening to them,” Ethan 
countered. “But if we're as far away from the settlement as we 
seem to be, then the locals couldn't be familiar with flying craft. 
We can't tell how they might react. We might have come in over 
the local metropolis, too, and scared the populace half out of 
their wits. In which case they might declare this section of ice 
forever taboo, or the local equivalent. I've seen it happen before.” 

“Let's hope not,” said September fervently. “I'm beginning 
to think we're going to need outside aid if we're ever going to see 
the inside of a brandy snifter again. But that's not why I think we 
should stand watch. 

“And it has nothing to do with him.” He gestured at 
Walther. A thin whine from the kidnapper's location was the only 
reply, a mouse of a snore. Already sound asleep. 

“Although, as long as he entertains thoughts of attack, and 

— 96 —



as long as we still have one operational beamer” — he patted his 
vest pocket — “it would be a good idea if everyone didn't drift 
off to slumberland all at once. 

“No, my main concern is keeping that fire going. If that 
goes, it's liable to get downright chilly in here. And we might 
never wake up.” 

“Quite so,” agreed Colette promptly. 

“I usually remain awake late at night,” Williams informed 
them. “If no one objects, I would be pleased to take the first, uh, 
watch.” 

“Very well . . . and I shall take the second,” volunteered 
Colette. “But you will have to excuse my father from such duties 
. . . he's not up to it, I'm afraid.” 

“But my dear. . .” the elder du Kane began. Colette kissed 
him perfunctorily on the forehead. 

“Hush, old man. Lean on me.” 

“But your mother would think—” 

Colette's eyes grew suddenly so wild that Ethan missed a 

— 97 — 


breath. She looked about to scream, but instead her voice came 

out under airtight control — barely. 

“Don't mention that woman to me now,” she snapped out. 

“But—” 

“Don't!” There was more than just a hint of warning in that 
voice. Ethan thought about putting a subtle question to her, took 
another look at those penetrating green orbs, and decided 
against butting in. Mind your own business, stupid! He rolled 
over twice, facing the fire. 

It seemed he'd only just put his head down after concluding his 
two-hour watch when he was suddenly awakened. He was facing 
the fire a half-meter away. For a moment something very 
primitive deep inside him was badly startled. It did wake him 
quickly, though. He rolled over and found himself almost nose to 
nose with Williams. 

— 98 — 


The schoolteacher held fingers to lips. Ethan sat up slowly 
and stifled his questions. Across the glow of the fire he could see 
Colette du Kane. Her expression chased the rest of the sleep 
from his eyes. She was chewing on one set of knuckles. Her 
father was kneeling tensely next to her, an arm around her 
shoulders. 

The Hephaestean form of Skua September, outlined by the 
fire, stood to one side. He was staring intently at the door. The 
remaining beamer was clutched tightly in his right fist. It hadn't 
grown much colder inside, thanks to the fire, but you could feel 
the alien darkness pressing close on all sides. 

Ethan was aware of something new and unpleasant in the 
tiny cabin. Humans are not as adept as their dogs at smelling 
fear, but they can recognize it in each other. 

“It was during Mr. du Kane's shift,” the teacher whispered 
softly. “He woke Mr. September, who thought it best to rouse 
the rest of us.” Ethan turned just enough to see Walther sitting 
alertly in his corner, hands twitching uncontrollably. 

— 99 — 


“It seems Mr. du Kane thought he heard something 
moving around outside,” Williams continued. “And while he 
confesses to a lack of knowledge of the local life, he doesn't 
believe it's one of your natives. He cannot be certain, of course.” 

At that point, as abrupt as ship ignition, there was a ringing 
bong as of something heavy striking metal. It came from outside. 
September dropped into a crouch. Back in his corner, Walther 
giggled unnervingly. September hissed for him to shut up or he'd 
get his neck broken. 

Ethan could make out a distant scuffling and rattling. It 
sounded a thousand miles off. Unfortunately, that was not likely. 
In addition, above the wind, he distinctly heard a low moaning 
sound. It was like the noise people make when waking suddenly 
from a bad dream. It went off and on, off and on like an idling 
engine. Very deep it was. Occasionally it was broken by a bass 
cough. 

There was a loud thunk. Then uninterrupted silence. The big 
man hadn't moved, hadn't shifted. Ethan watched him. 

— 100 — 


September stayed in his crouch, straining for sounds of the 
unimaginable. 

The wind continued to carry its load of lonesome song — a 
lowing, an unceasing monophony that drew a cold white chalk 
line down Ethan's spine. Already he was half believing there was 
nothing outside but wind whistling through torn metal. It might 
be a loose couch bouncing around in the ruined hull. 

He crawled slowly over to the door. Putting an ear near the 
open crack, he ignored the wind that bit at him. He was careful 
not to touch the metal, though. By now even the inside of the 
door was quartz-cold. Skin would stick to it. 

He looked back at September and shook his head to 
indicate he couldn't hear anything new. September nodded once. 
The hand holding the beamer remained steady. 

Ethan thought he could hear a thudding sound outside, 
realized it was his own heart. He felt very out of place here. This 
was all silly, of course. If there had been anything out there it had 
gotten tired of snuffling around and wandered off. Though it was 

— 101 —



not pleasant to consider what could be moving around in this 
midnight Ragnarok. 

He started to stand, straightening his half-frozen knees and 
wondering if the joints would stiffen solid before he made it. He 
desperately wanted to get back close to the fire. Slowly, easily, he 
came up to the level of the window. He peered out. 

The porous hull admitted enough of the light from the 
planet's single moon to bathe the ruined interior in ghost-light. A 
little more new snow had seeped in, burying a few other human 
symbols and gestures under virgin white. The wind had 
apparently carried off more of the left side of the boat's wall and 
roof. That was no surprise. It was amazing that the rest of it had 
held together at all in this gale. 

He turned to the others, let out an unconscious sigh. 

“It's okay. If there was anything out there, it's gone now.” 
Tension melted, slipped out of the cabin. It wouldn't be hard 
getting back to sleep, no. He turned back to the glassite port for 
a last glance outside. 

— 102 — 


He found himself staring into an unmoving blood-red eye 
not quite the size of a dinner plate. A vicious little inkblot of a 
pupil swam in its center. 

He was too shocked to faint. But he was frozen speechless 
to the spot. Cold had nothing to do with it. 

The horrible moaning came again, faster now, excited. The 
eye moved. Something hit the door like a two-ton truck. The 
hinges bent in alarmingly and he stumbled backward a few steps. 
A triangular pattern appeared in the tough glassite. 

Dimly he heard someone screaming. It might have been 
Colette, it might have been Walther. Or maybe both. He was hit 
from the side and shoved out of the way. September. The big 
man had a look through the bent door at whatever was outside 
and it made even him flinch away. He shoved the beamer 
through the gap, pulled the trigger. 

Nothing happened. 

The door was struck again and September was jolted back, 
cursing at the startling rate of three curses per step. They'd been 

— 103 —



carefully hoarding a dead beamer. 

A loud, nervous rasping came from both sides of the 
dangerously bent door, a monstrous scratching and pawing. The 
door took another blow. This time the top hinge snapped off like 
plastic and the upper half of the metal was folded inward. Ethan 
was lying on his back and had a fine view through the new 
opening. 

What he saw was a big rectangular head. Two horrible red 
eyes, like wild lanterns, stared straight at him. A mouth not quite 
as big as an earth-mover filled with what looked like a couple of 
thousand long, needle-like teeth gaped open. The teeth grew in 
all directions, like a jumble of jackstraws. 

It either saw him or scented him. The huge skull plunged 
downward. It pushed, and jammed halfway into the fresh 
opening. He could have reached up and touched one of those 
gnarled fangs. It was close enough for him to smell its breath — 
cloves and old lemon. 

Metal groaned in protest as the thing twisted and pushed 

— 104 — 


against the doubled door like a starving dog, moaning wantonly. 
Off to one side he saw September edging right up next to the 
door. He jumped across, threw something in the monster's 
searchlight eyes and ducked just as the steam-shovel head 
snapped at him. The teeth clashed like a gong just above flying 
white hair. 

It blinked, and there was the most awful bellowing scream 
imaginable. The head disappeared with astounding speed. As it 
thrashed about in the ruined hull it shook the entire boat. Ethan 
was hard-pressed to keep from being tumbled into the fire. 

Then, all at once, it was quiet again. 

September was trying to force the strained door back into 
place. The weakened bracing gave a little, but a gaping hole 
remained. He picked up a large chunk of torn couch padding 
and stuffed it into the gap, jamming it down into the cracks on 
either side. It stayed. 

“Somebody open some coffee. None of us are going back 
to sleep right away anyhow, I think.” September shoved a great 

— 105 —



fist down into the padding. “I could use a mug. Woe that it's but 
the juice of the brown bean and not something stronger.” 

“Lord!” panted Williams. It was the first time Ethan had 
seen the schoolteacher excited about anything. But only a robot 
could sit through what they'd just experienced without missing a 
heartbeat or two. “What was it?” 

Surprisingly, Ethan found himself answering, after the first 
choke on his coffee. 

“The section on fauna comes back to me now. That was a 
nocturnal carnivore. The natives consider it quite dangerous. . .” 

“Do tell,” commented September. He was still wrestling 
with the padding and the door. “No single critter has a right to 
that many teeth. . . Damn this wind!” 

“It's called a Droom,” Ethan added, turning. Then he 
noticed that Colette was still sitting close to her father . . . and 
damned if she wasn't shivering, a little. She looked frightened, 
too. Of course she would be — anyone would be — but it was so 
unlike her. 

— 106 — 


She noticed his gaze. Defiantly, she sat straight and let the 
old man's arms slip away. He didn't protest. She tried to turn that 
overwhelming glare on him but it wasn't there this time, and she 
looked away awkwardly. 

“I suppose you think I was frightened of that thing.” 

“Well, that's okay,” began Ethan. “Nothing to be ash—” 

“Well I wasn't!” she shouted. Then she grew quiet again. 
“It's just . . . I'm not afraid of anything real, anything tangible. 
But since I was small, I've . . . I've always been afraid of the dark.” 

“It's her mother, you see—” du Kane started to explain, 
but she cut him off. 

“Be quiet, father . . . and get some sleep. I've got thinking to 
do.” 

Ethan rolled over and stared at a place on the floor that sent 
the firelight back into his eyes. He thought, too. 

— 107 — 


The wind had dropped some but still blew steadily from the west. 
The sun had been up for a couple of hours already, though Ethan 
thought anything that put out so little decent heat unworthy of 
the name. He took his own good time getting up. After all, there 
was no great hurry. His first appointment wasn't for half a day, 
yet. 

In an attempt to conserve their rapidly dwindling supply of 
wood, the fire had been allowed to pass on to wherever it is dead 
fires go. Williams was industriously arranging twigs, needles, and 
dried lichen-substitute for the evening blaze. The du Kanes were 
devouring a breakfast of hot cereal without either making a 
demand for eggs Benedict. Colette, he noticed, was apparently 
on her third helping. He sighed for lost dreams. 

He got off his elbows, sat up, and trapped knees to chest. 

“Morning, schoolteacher. Where's our beastmaster?” 

“Gone outside again. His tolerance for this weather is 
absolutely amazing, don't you think?” He reached across the 
ready pyre, tossed a cylindrical package back at him. “He told 

— 108 —



me he doesn't sleep much. Wastes time.” 

“Huh.” Ethan grunted, started to tear at the top of the 
package. At the last moment he noticed that the red arrow on its 
side was pointing down. Nastily he reversed the container. 
Sighing at his own clumsiness, he gripped the tab again and 
tugged. 

Off came the top, activating the tiny heating element in the 
packaging. Sixty seconds later he was sipping the hot soup he'd 
almost dumped into his lap. 

After finishing most of the pack, he stood up. Either he was 
adapting to the temperature or his nerve endings had become so 
numb that he was divorced now from such mundane concerns as 
knowing when he was frozen. 

Why, it was a perfectly lovely day? Couldn't be more than, 
oh, fourteen or fifteen below. 

He downed another swallow of the soup, which was already 
barely lukewarm. 

“I'm going out,” he announced to no one in particular, “for 

— 109 —



a breath of fresh air. It's getting positively tropic in here.” 

“If that's an attempt at humor,” Colette began, pausing 
with spoon in mid-flight, “I never. . .” 

But Ethan was already dogging the crumpled door shut 
behind him. 

He flipped down his snow goggles and peered along the 
center aisle of the boat. He found September examining the 
edges of the big gap on the port side of the vessel. It was indeed 
larger than it had been yesterday. 

Wishing he could shrink himself and go swimming in the 
cup of soup, he strolled over. The self-heating liquid was 
struggling manfully. But it was badly overmatched in this super-
arctic climate. He gulped down the last. 

“Good morn, Skua.” He had to move closer and repeat 
himself before the other looked over at him. 

“Hmmm? Oh, I suppose it is, since we're all still about to 
see it, young feller-me-lad. What do you think of that, eh?” He 
stepped away from the wall and pointed. 

— 110 — 


Ethan didn't have to look closely, nor ask for explanation, 
to see what his companion was studying. The wind hadn't made 
those deep, curved gouges in the duralloy. There were six of 
them, spaced in groups of three. Others were visible high up on 
the plating. 

“At first I thought it was the wind done it,” Skua said 
academically. He shook his marred head. “You think we could 
expect a return visit from that . . . what did you call the thing?” 

“A Droom,” Ethan replied. He ran a gloved thumb along 
one of the grooves in the metal. It fit snugly. 

“The tapes didn't go into detail on animal life. I don't know 
anything about its habits.” He paused, staring at the rough 
surface of the stripped wiring running through the hull wall. 

“Look, I know I wasn't much help last night. That 
screaming and tearing, I—” A big hand came down on his 
shoulders comfortingly. 

“Now don't you waste another thought on it, me lad. Why, 
that monster would've chilled the guts of many a dozen 

— 111 — 


professional soldiers I've known.” 

Ethan turned to face the other. “You didn't freeze, though. 
Are you a soldier? Or what? We don't know much about you, do 
we? We know the du Kanes, and Williams and certainly Walther, 
and I've talked about myself. What about you?” 

September shrugged, turned away and stared out across 
the bleak landscape. The wind had blown away most of the light 
snow. None had fallen last night, since early evening. The endless 
icefield sparkled from a billion flaws, except where red-green 
patches of the hearty pika-pina grew. They were marooned on a 
diamond. 

“Let's just say I've seen worse than that thing,” he 
muttered softly. “I might also tell you, though I don't know why I 
should, that I'm a wanted man. On at least four planets my head, 
not necessarily delivered in conjunction with the rest of my 
corpus, could bring you upward of a hundred thousand times ten 
credits.” He turned and stared down at Ethan with shining eyes, 
the thick frosted brows crashing together. 

— 112 — 


“What do you think of that?” 

“Very interesting,” replied Ethan levelly. “What did you 
do?” 

“That's enough for you to know, me lad . . . for now. Maybe 
sometime I'll tell you more.” 

Ethan was a good salesman. He knew when to press for a 
commitment and when to change the subject. He judged 
correctly this was the right time for a change. 

“What did you throw at the thing, anyway. The scream it let 
out was enough to chill your blood . . . if it wasn't frozen 
already.” 

“Salt,” replied September, as though they'd been talking of 
nothing else. “From my dinner pack. There wasn't much of it left. 
But then I don't expect the creatures on this world have much 
contact with it anyway, especially in the raw state and 
powdered.” 

“I suppose they can get all they need from licking the ice,” 
mused Ethan, “since it's frozen sea water. But try your tongue 

— 113 —



on it and it might never come loose. I'd have tried a brand from 
the fire.” 

“That would have come next. The salt seemed as good a 
bet, and safer.” 

“Safer?” 

“Sure. Listen, me lad. There are worlds where fire is a lot 
rarer than it is on humanx-type planets. This would seem to be 
one. It's only a guess, but on similar worlds I've seen beasties 
charge straight for a flame and attack it. They think it's some 
new kind of enemy. A living creature. Saw one roll over and over 
with a burning log in its mouth. Clawing and chewing at it. The 
fire, not the log. If your Droom—” 

“It's not my Droom,” Ethan protested. 

“—had reacted likewise, it might have charged even harder 
instead of backing off from that busted door. We won't know, 
because the salt worked. The fire might even have attracted it. On 
a world like this I'll bet plenty of animals can sense heat at a fair 
distance. Our fire might have put out as much as another Droom, 

— 114 —



say. Are they territorial?” 

“I don't know that, either,” confessed Ethan. 

“Hard to leave much of a spoor on naked ice.” September 
pulled a now-familiar red-green stem from a jacket pocket, 
started munching on it. Ethan could hear it crunch. 

“Does taste rather like parsley. How does it grow so far out 
onto the ice?” 

Ethan reached under the hood of his coat, rubbed his scalp. 
“As I remember the tape, the root system extends out to a 
certain distance, putting out branch roots and surface stems all 
the way. When it reaches that point, growth halts and the end of 
the main root begins to swell. Nutrients are delivered from 
whatever central land mass the plant is based on. In that way it 
builds up a good sized food-rich node at its far end. 

“The plant puts out just enough heat to slowly melt its way 
through the ice. The new nodule acts as a springboard, or 
advance base, putting out new roots in several directions. If the 
roots from one node encounter another they grow together, 

— 115 —



whether they're from the same parent plant or not. This 
broadens and strengthens the network, insuring survival of the 
whole if a central branch is knocked out. 

“There's a giant variety called pika-pedan that grows up to 
three and four meters high. Its nodes can grow to be several 
meters in diameter.” 

“I see.” September hummed to himself a moment. “Then if 
we follow an outcropping of this weed, we'll eventually come to 
land?” 

Ethan smiled. “Good thought. Trouble is, there are reports 
from the single Commonwealth survey of green patches growing 
fifteen hundred kilometers and more from the nearest body of 
land.” 

“Oh,” said the other simply. He looked disappointed. 

“Look, I haven't had my breakfast. You?” 

“Just some soup. I could do with something solid.” He 
tossed the empty cylinder out of the boat, watched it bounce and 
fall across the pale surface. 

— 116 — 


“Okay, after breakfast, what do you think we ought to do, 
leader?” 

“Well,” Ethan considered, “I definitely think we shouldn't 
remain here.” He looked at the other for confirmation, but the 
big man just stared back. He continued. 

“We're not making any progress toward Brass Monkey by 
sitting here. A really first-class blow could send this whole boat 
spinning. I think the first thing we should do is look for some 
more substantial shelter. Maybe a cave on a big island. You 
circled this one the other day?” September nodded. 

“As I said then, it's not very big. Certainly saw nothing we 
could use as shelter, unless we dig our own. Given the likely 
consistency of this frozen earth, I wouldn't care to try.” 

“Swell. After you eat, then, I think if you'd climb—” 

“Climb? Uh-uh, not me.” 

“All right. One of us ought to climb the tallest tree on the 
island and get a good look around. Maybe we'll see something.” 

“Like an ice-cream stand?” 

— 117 — 


September guffawed, slapped Ethan on the back. “A good 
thought, young feller-me-lad. But first I'd better get about 
putting something substantial in my belly. Otherwise I won't 
have the strength to watch you fall.” 

“Even if we should spot another body of land,” asked Colette du 
Kane, “how do you propose reaching it?” September worked on 
his oatmeal while he considered her question. 

“You said yourself that walking on this ice is damned 
tough even with makeshift aids,” she continued doggedly. 
“Since there's nothing within easy walking distance, any trek we 
try will measure in the kilometers. This may be swell for you, but 
I'm not built for cross-country hiking. And father would never 
make it.” 

Du Kane started to protest, but she raised a hand and 
smiled. 

— 118 — 


“No, father. I know you're willing, but corporate 
directorship doesn't inure one to much physical hardship.” 

“Something more corporate directors should note,” said 
September, putting down the empty container. 

“Despite what you may think, young lady, I don't relish 
trying such a hike myself. We'll have to try and rig up some kind 
of sled. Maybe we can break loose a torn section of hull. If we 
could sharpen some long branches to a good point, maybe tip 
'em with metal, we might kind of pole our way along. Be slow 
and ugly, but better than walking. Not exactly the Intercity 
Central on Hivehom, but we ought to be able to take along most 
of our supplies.” 

“The weather would have to hold,” said Colette 
thoughtfully. “I don't know if I could take another night like the 
last, and out on the bare ice.” 

September looked troubled. “I've no way of knowing that 
myself, Miss du Kane. It's not a pretty thought. And if another of 
those snaggle-toothed nightmares happened onto us, why, we'd 

— 119 —



be just so many cold hors d'oeuvres. 

“One thing's for sure, though. We wouldn't be any worse off 
than we are in sitting here. And at least we'll be making some 
sort of progress toward the settlement.” 

“But what if someone should send over a rescue shuttle?” 
put in du Kane plaintively. 

Ethan surprised himself by answering. 

“It's most unlikely anyone would think to search the 
surface for survivors, sir. If they did, they'd have the whole planet 
to choose from. Not much chance of picking us out against this 
ice, us with no power, nothing casting. But if by some wild 
chance someone did come looking for us and did find the wreck, 
they'll assume we've started off toward Brass Monkey. They'll 
trace us back along, the most likely routes. We can leave signs. 
At least we know it's somewhere to the west.” 

Well, he said to himself, a bit startled, you've just articulated 
your own probable demise, Mr. Fortune. Rather a sad end for the 
fair-haired young sales genius of Malaika Enterprises, hmmm? 

— 120 —



That's right, go ahead and shiver. Tell yourself it's the cold. 

“Like it or not, we're on our own, as the young fella says,” 
September added. 

Ethan heard himself speaking again. “There is one other 
possibility, of course.” Even September looked startled. 

“His people might decide to come looking for us.” From 
his corner Walther glared back at him. 

“Not a chance,” the little kidnapper spat. “They're not that 
imaginative. We're as good as dead right now. All thanks to 
him.” He looked at September with bitter hatred. 

“There's enough rough metal around,” the big man replied 
easily. “You can cut your throat any time you want to.” 

“Or yours, maybe?” 

September just smiled slightly. “You're welcome to try, 
any hour of any day you choose. One way or the other, it would 
be a solution of sorts for you, wouldn't it? 

“Right now, though,” he said briskly to them all, “I think 
we should all take a little stroll around the chunk of dirt we've 

— 121 —



run up against. It's not very big, but it's home. For another day, 
at least. Besides, most of you haven't been outside. It's time you 
started getting used to the kind of country you'll be spending a 
long, long time with.” 

There were no arguments, not even from Colette. It was 
Ethan who noticed the obvious problem. 

“Wait a minute. We only have four sets of ice goggles.” 

It was true. Both Williams and the kidnapper were without 
the vital pair of protective lenses. 

The teacher, however, had his own solution. 

“I don't need them, Mr. Fortune. That's why I gave mine to 
you.” He dug under his coat, showed Ethan a tiny black case. 
Carefully shielding it from the steady breeze that blew in past the 
bent door, he crouched over. When he stood again, he was 
squinting. 

“I wear protoid optical contacts.” He put the case away. 
“The ones I'm wearing now are high-glare configuration. They're 
supposed to be used for intensity sunbathing. I don't expect to 

— 122 —



be doing much of that, but they should do for outside, if not as 
well as the goggles. I'll manage. They're more comfortable, 
anyhow.” 

Despite his small stature and soft look, Ethan had to admit 
that the little teacher certainly sounded competent. He expected 
they'd have to count on him as a third man if the going got really 
tough. 

Just as he would be depending more and more on 
September. On a wanted man. Very wanted, by his own 
description. 

Well, time enough for that later, if there was a later. He put a 
hand on the door latch. 

A voice piped nervously from the back. 

“Hey, what about me?” 

“You're coming too,” September growled. “I don't trust 
you by yourself with the food or the wood. Not 'til I'm a lot surer 
of your mental balance.” 

“But I haven't got any goggles or special glasses,” Walther 

— 123 —



pointed out pleadingly. Clearly he knew what would happen to 
his eyes under outside conditions. 

“A couple of days unprotected and I'll be blind as a cave 
cricket! A week or two and it becomes permanent.” Despite the 
cold, he was sweating. 

“Tear some cloth from your shirt or underwear,” 
September suggested, “and tie it around your head. Use thin 
dark stuff to cover your eyes. And keep 'em closed as much as 
possible. You won't see much, but you won't go blind, either. 
Damn sure you won't try anything.” 

“I'll freeze, too,” Walther persisted. “I haven't got a survival 
coat or double set of clothing like you.” 

“Too bad. When we get the sled put together, we'll do what 
we can to keep you out of the wind. I wouldn't expect you to do 
any honest work anyway. Personally, you can stay with the boat 
and freeze to death, if you prefer. But if you're coming with the 
rest of us, you're coming outside, now:” 

The kidnapper gave a little moan and unbuttoned his 

— 124 — 


jacket. Shivering, he began fumbling with the material of a shirt 
sleeve. 

Ethan found himself feeling sorry for the man. It was not 
reasonable, considering what the fellow had done to them, or 
planned for them. Nonetheless, it was soothing to his own 
conscience. 

“Wait a minute. Before you start ripping up your clothes, 
look around in the cabin for a large piece or two of loose 
padding from the couches. There seems to be plenty lying 
around. Also loose hull insulation. Try stuffing it between your 
jacket and shirt. It'll be clumsy, but it might keep you warm.” 

“Thanks. Really, thanks,” Walther beamed, closing his 
jacket. “It might at that.” 

“Why bother with, him?” asked September casually. “Why 
not let him freeze?” 

“Have you ever listened to a man slowly freezing to 
death?” countered Ethan. 

September started to say something, halted, looked 

— 125 — 


strangely at him and turned away. If pressed, Ethan would have 
had to confess that he'd never seen a man freeze, either. 

“Have it your way, me lad. Williams, keep an eye on him 
and make sure torn padding is the only thing he picks up. The 
rest of us will hike.” 

If anything, the little island proved to be even smaller than 
September had implied. Mostly rocks and frozen soil, it didn't 
look rich enough to support a bachelor toadstool. Not to 
mention ground cover, bushes, and fair-sized trees. But they 
were there. A couple of the scruffy bushes even supported an 
iron red fruit that resembled a cross between raspberries and 
stringbeans. 

Ethan considered the fruit, but the parent plant was a blank 
in his stored memory. He pulled one fruit loose and shoved it in a 
loose pocket for later consideration. It looked edible, which 
meant absolutely nothing. It might contain concentrated nitric 
acid for all he could tell. 

There was also animal life on the island, the first they'd seen 

— 126 —



besides the Droom. Especially little balls of dark fur with bright 
pink eyes and short, stubby legs. They popped in and out of 
gopher-sized holes with startling speed. 

And once while September was inspecting a particular tree, 
a pair of creatures like bats wearing mink coats swooped and 
darted at him. It was all bluff but he moved away. Whatever they 
were, they probably had a nest somewhere in the upper 
branches. They continued to insult him from a safe distance. 

Ethan tried to imagine what kind of nest arboreals could 
build that would withstand a good blow on this world. Say, a 200 
kph gale straight off the ice. He failed, turned to examine a 
blanket of thick red moss that grew in the shelter of a rock 
clump. 

Hellespont du Kane was studying the same growth. “You 
know,” Ethan said to him, “there's a lot of red in the pika-pina 
. . . and now this stuff, it's almost crimson.” 

“Beautiful, isn't it?” said du Kane. The old man was 
obviously enraptured. To Ethan it was only an alien fungus. The 

— 127 —



old man leaned close. “You know, I raise flowers. Oh yes! 
Considered quite an expert in some circles.” Then something 
seemed to go click again behind those eyes and the voice turned 
mercenary. “It might mean there's a lot of iron or manganese on 
this world.” 

“I don't know,” Ethan replied, trying to separate flowers 
from ore. “The tapes didn't say much about internal geology.” 

“Ah well, an interesting supposition,” said du Kane. He 
stooped to examine the greasy-looking plant more closely. “I 
wonder if it's as soft as it looks. Many plants concentrate 
interesting minerals in their substance in commercial 
quantities.” 

He stuck a finger into the middle of one patch, pushed . . . 
and jumped away with such surprising speed that Ethan jumped 
himself. 

September and Colette must have heard the little screech 
du Kane gave, because they were there seconds later. 

“Father . . . what happened? Are you all right?” 

— 128 — 


Since du Kane was sitting on the ground, gritting his teeth 
in obvious pain and holding his wrist, Ethan was tempted to offer 
some suitable comments on female semantic brilliance. At the 
moment, though, he was too concerned with the older man's 
welfare. 

“He stuck his finger in that bed of moss . . . or whatever it 
is,” Ethan replied. 

“Felt like acid,” said the industrialist tightly. “It hurts rather 
intensely.” Click. “Colette?” 

“I'm here, father,” she said evenly. 

“Can you make it back to the boat?” September asked. Du 
Kane stood, still holding his wrist, and began edging the glove 
down. 

“Boat? Yes, I believe so. I'm not dizzy or anything. It just 
pains.” 

“It was a foolish thing to do, father,” scolded Colette. 

“Now, look,” said Ethan, “it looks harmless enough, and 
your father had no idea it might be lethal.” 

— 129 — 


“And you had no idea, period,” she said, slipping an arm 
around the old man. Ethan started to object. After all, it wasn't 
described on any of his tapes. Might even be an unknown 
species. But she wasn't interested. 

“Let's just hope it isn't toxic,” she said quietly. 

Du Kane was controlling himself with an effort. Ethan 
wondered about the oldster's on-again-off-again moments. One 
second he was a tower of power, steel-haired duralloy-spined 
master of a hundred industries. The next, he was a half senile old 
man desperately hungering for approval and protection. Which 
was real, which was sham? Probably only Colette knew the 
answer to that one — and she wasn't volunteering any 
information. 

“No way to tell,” said September, jarring Ethan's thoughts 
back to the problem at hand. “It might be no worse than a bad 
bee sting. On the other hand, you could keel over for good in the 
next minute. But I doubt it. Rich folk only die from overworking 
or overeating.” Colette threw him a furious look, but du Kane 

— 130 —



came close to smiling. 

“Animals and plants that live in cold climates rarely carry 
poison. When they do it's usually nowhere near as powerful as 
that toted by their tropical counterparts. And this is a completely 
alien ecosystem. It might be instantly fatal to other plants and 
animals and harmless to us. Or vice-versa. That's enough talk, 
now. Get back to the boat and put something on it. To kill the 
pain, at least.” 

Father and daughter started slowly back toward the wreck. 
Ethan watched them go. 

“You really think he'll be okay?” 

“Yep. It does look a little like a mild acid burn. Can't be 
certain. Know better tomorrow. But it's a damned good thing he 
had that glove on. 

“And now I think it's about time you climbed that tree,” 

“I'll try,” sighed Ethan. “I'm not much for this kind of 
athletics. Now, tennis or polo or golf—” 

“Do you good, young feller-me-Lad. Besides, if the 

— 131 — 


branches get dense near the top, you can slip through them a lot 
easier than I could. And you can go higher, as well.” 

Ethan refrained from pointing out that September could 
snap off the branches that Ethan would have to dodge. 

They found the highest spot on the island by the simple 
expedient of walking uphill until they were going down. From 
there they circled a couple of meters to a likely-looking tree. 
One leg went to the trunk's right side and Ethan prepared to 
scramble to the lowest branch. He needn't have bothered. The 
shove September gave him sent him flying into the lower 
branches. 

After catching his breath and soothing a slightly scraped 
left hand, he started up. The branches grew very close together 
and made for easy climbing. The tree topped out at perhaps 
twenty meters. Trunk and stubby branches alike were thick and 
covered with a dense bark, to conserve heat and withstand the 
hurricane-force winds that swept the tiny islet. 

Ethan was able to scramble within a meter of the crown, 

— 132 — 


which swayed slightly in the steady wind. In fact, the wind had 
not ceased howling since their initial setdown. 

From the top he was a good thirty meters above the ice, 
perhaps more. He looked down to his left. From this vantage 
point he had an excellent view of the crumpled lifeboat and the 
arrow-straight skid marks in the ice that extended unbroken to 
the horizon. 

Off to his right, he thought he could make out in the 
distance a greenish tinge to the ice. More pika-pina, or maybe its 
giant relative, pika-pedan. Further off, there were one or two 
bumps on the horizon that might be large islands. Unfortunately, 
they lay due east. Not that they wouldn't head for them if they 
proved to be the only land in sight, but he'd prefer to move in the 
direction of civilization. 

He turned, keeping a firm grip, and was gratified to see what 
looked tike similar bulges off to the west. They appeared to be 
just as large — if indeed there was actually something there 
besides a mirage or a figment of his wind-chilled sight. It was 

— 133 —



harder to see on this side because he was looking directly into 
the wind. While the tree remained thankfully solid, the ice 
goggles expressed a perverse tendency to shift position under 
the shield on his face. He reached around and fumbled with the 
strap, managed to tighten them a little. 

He squinted harder. 

On the ice between their island and those distant humps, he 
thought he could see a dozen or so dark spots on the ice. They 
weren't pika-pina, because they seemed to be moving. 

September's voice floated up to him. “See anything, lad?” 
The wind made it sound farther away than it was. He turned out 
of the breeze and yelled downward. 

“I'm not sure! Maybe a pack of animals. Then again, we 
might be due for an invitation to a feast.” 

“Okay!” A wide grin split the shrunken upturned face. 
“Let's hope we're offered a menu and not put on one.” 

Ethan had another look at the distant dots. He assured 
himself that they were really moving toward the island before 

— 134 —



beginning to pick his way down the ice-hard trunk. 

Little clouds of frozen breath, the two men jogged their way 
down to the boat. Williams and the others were waiting for them. 
The schoolmaster helped September close the compartment 
door behind them. 

Ethan saw that Walther's jacket and pants were full of 
awkward bulges. It gave him a falsely gnomish appearance. His 
head was swathed in torn cloth and black eyes peered out 
through a small slit. It wasn't pretty and couldn't have been very 
comfortable, but maybe it was warm. And the kidnapper was in 
no position to quibble about fashion. 

“How's that finger?” September asked Colette about her 
father's injury. 

“We put some anesthetic cream on it,” she told them. “It 
seems to have brought the swelling down. The pain is still there, 
but it's not as severe.” 

“Beautiful creature,” breathed du Kane. “Fascinating 
defense mechanism. Or it might be offensive. We pulled several 

— 135 —



dozen tiny stingers out of the tip of the glove. I'd very much 

dislike to step on it barefoot.” 
“A lot like the terran jellyfish,” added Williams. 
“Speaking of stingers,” offered Ethan as casually as he 

could, “I think we're due for a visit from the local welcoming 

committee.” Would that shake her up? 
“About time,” she grumbled. “Damned inefficient.” 
“Might be a hunting party,” September added cheerfully. 
“Natives!” blurted Williams excitedly. “How marvelous! I 

must try to note as much as possible. My students will be 
fascinated.” He seemed utterly oblivious to the fact that he might 
be some other student's main course before the day was out. 

“Do you think they'll be friendly?” asked du Kane 

hesitantly. 
“Not much we can do if they're not,” said Colette coldly. 
“Might even be cannibals,” added September, apparently 

determined to lighten the atmosphere. “Lad, you've had the 
tapes, you do the talkin'. I'll stand to your right and try to look 

— 136 —



friendly. Williams, you take his left, since you had a tape too.” 

“If the dialect isn't too thick, I should be able to understand 
them pretty good, too,” piped Walther. 

“I assumed that,” September replied. “You stay in the 
back and keep your mouth shut.” 

“I couldn't try anything,” said the little man, hurt. “You all 
understand as much as I.” 

“It's not your language that worries me, it's your ravishing 
appearance. It's sufficiently distorted to frighten even a well 
balanced primitive. I'd rather show a little surface symmetry until 
we know them better. They might be skittish. We can't take a 
chance on frightening away potential help.” 

Walther grumbled but couldn't fend an argument to 
counter with. 

September turned to the du Kanes. “With all due respect, 
neither of you understands the language. So you stay behind us, 
too.” That seemed to suit the two cosmopolitan travelers quite 
well. 

— 137 — 


“Everyone knows his or her place, then? Good!” He turned 
to Ethan. “All right, young feller-me-lad, it's yours.” 

Ethan put a hand on the door latch, spoke to September. 

“Know any good opening lines for interspecies contact? 
They've probably never seen a human being before.” 

“No but hum a few bars and I'll wing at.” He chuckled, 
shoved. “Now get going.” 

Fortunately Ethan had already opened the door. The shove 
might have sent him through it. 

— 138 —



Chapter Four


Sir Hunnar Redbeard squinted hard, but they were still too far 
away to make out the number of figures standing next to the 
mass of odd shaping. It truly seemed to be made of metal. 

When Eer-Meesach had come running into the Great Hall, 
babbling his hysterical tale of a fiery thing of metal falling from 
the sky, Hunnar had been one of the skeptical ones. 

The wizard had insisted that his telescope told him the 
outside of the thing was at least coated with solid metal that 
shone like a dancer's tiara. And on top of that, he'd insisted he'd 
seen two creatures emerge from the metal and walk onto the 
island. 

Now he could see it for himself and he momentarily forgot 
about the creatures. So much metal! If it were as good as steel it 
would be a valuable prize indeed. They would need every scrap 
they could gather if the Longax's plan to contest the Horde were 

— 139 —



to pass in Council. 

It would be crucial to deal correctly with the strange beings. 
It would also be nice merely to chivan up and lop off a few heads. 
But not necessarily practical. For one thing, Eer-Meesach would 
never forgive him. Hunnar made a Sign. He didn't want his bed 
turned into a rollicking Gutorrbyn in the midst of a mating. 

Also, any beings who could make that much metal stay up 
in the sky might be able to do unpleasant things to a person. No 
doubt they knew the value of their metal. 

One thought had troubled him all the way out from 
Wannome. Could they be gods? Gray-maned, omnipotent, 
immortal gods? It could not yet be ruled out. 

However, the wizard's description of the way in which their 
craft had descended implied lack of control by infallible 
immortals. Rather it sounded more like cubs caught on a 
runaway sled. 

But he would reserve his final judgment until after viewing. 
That would please his teachers. 

— 140 — 


But so much metal! 

He stared at the fallen thing. One fact seemed certain. 
Whatever they were, their eyesight seemed as good as his own. A 
group of them appeared to be assembling just outside the ship 

— he'd reluctantly come to consider it a vessel of sorts. They 
were standing on the edge of the island. This in itself was an odd 
thing to do. But by voluntarily restricting themselves to land, 
they might be making a friendly gesture. Hunnar had the right 
idea but the wrong reason. 
He grinned ferociously. It might mean that these strangers 
were afraid to do battle with him. Otherwise they would have 
come out to meet him. 

There were five . . . no, six of the beings. It looked like only 
one was built along warrior lines. Better and better. 

“Suaxus!” he shouted to his first lieutenant, “break left! 
Vasen, Smjor, with him!” He turned, eating air. “Budjir, break 
right with Avyeh and Hivell!” 

The nine tran immediately split into three groups. They 

— 141 — 


would make a three-pronged approach. Not only was it a 
sensible precaution, it should also impress their visitors. He'd 
given Suaxus the left and slightly less wind. The squire was 
impatient and something of a problem, but basically one of the 
soundest in training. 

And you, Hunnar? Whose grandfather are you, eh? 
Maturity, he reminded himself, was not necessarily a function of 
age. 

He signaled. On one side of the arrowhead formation, three 
tran abruptly dropped their left arms. The tough membrane that 
stretched from wrist to hip folded and the three soldiers leaned 
slightly to the left. The wind pushed hard and steady into the 
right wing as three sets of claw-blades dug hard into the ice. The 
squire and two soldiers made a neat sixty-degree turn to port. 
Budjir and his men duplicated the maneuver to starboard. 

They were getting close already and Hunnar wondered if 
he'd delayed too long. 

“Hafel down!” he ordered his companions. They all 

— 142 — 


lowered their arms and cut speed. It wouldn't do for them to 
reach their objective in advance of their flanking companions. 
Certainly Eer-Meesach and possibly the Landgrave himself were 
watching from the wizard's tower. This was no time for 
sloppiness. 

“And be careful when you brake!” he added. Greeting their 
visitors with a shower of sharp ice-chips would not be facile 
diplomacy either. 

His lance felt light in his right paw. They were almost on top 
of the strangers, who'd made nothing resembling a hostile move. 
They were pink-faced and seemed a surprisingly light color, 
except for one who was a dark brown. While their color varied 
from individual to individual, by and large it was like that of a 
fresh-born cub. 

He saw Suaxus approaching rapidly from the left and let 
out his own wings a little more. Budjir would notice the speed-up 
and match pace perfectly. Looking ahead to the strangers, 
Hunnar could not make out a single sword, axe, lance, even a 

— 143 —



knife. Of course, he reminded himself, there could be fifty others 
armed to the teeth hiding within the metal bottle. 

Still, if they wanted to fight they'd have to move from land 
to ice, and Hunnar had both wind and sun behind him. Let them 
try something! These first six, at least, would go down like a herd 
of mewing hoppers. 

Be careful, idiot! You're not thinking diplomatically again. 
Then the time for daydreaming was past. 

“Up lances!” he commanded loudly, “and brake in!” 

Suaxus and Budjir arrived almost simultaneously. Neatly 
done, he complimented himself. Anyone in the castle observing 
the maneuver couldn't be anything but pleased. 

Hunnar and his men raised their weapons to the 
perpendicular, turned slightly left, and dug in. Torn free by the 
sharp claws of the tran soldiers, a shower of ice fragments flew 
in a glittering cascade to the left. They missed the aliens 
completely. A couple of them flinched, but the ones in front held 
proper ground. 

— 144 — 


One in the rear, however, did utter a short, high-pitched 
sound. It sounded a little like a yip of uncertainty to Hunnar. But 
for all he knew of these odd folk it could have been laughter. The 
same being had immediately clutched tight to another. Mates, he 
decided. Another good sign. As yet it was difficult to tell male 
from female. 

It might be impossible to tell without a dissection. There 
you go again he cautioned himself. If only this had happened a 
year ago, his mind would move more easily. 

Well, if there were more of the odd creatures concealed in 
the metal ship, then these were excellent bluffers. Not a one had 
thrown a look in that direction. With one exception, these all 
appeared badly undernourished. None of them were children, 
either. No, they were not that short, but they were dreadfully 
thin. And much of that seemed to be clothing. 

For their part the little knot of humans was suitably 
impressed by Sir Hunnar himself. But then, the knight was an 
impressive specimen even among his own people. He stood as 

— 145 —



tall as September and was nearly twice as broad. Great thick 
arms ended in hands with three fingers and thumb. These 
supported folded membranous wings between wrist and hip. 

The feet were short, with thick, elongated toes. Each of the 
three toes held a greatly stretched single claw that narrowed to a 
sharp blade at the base, forming a kind of triple skate on each 
foot. The fourth toe was short and had shifted around to the back 
of the heel. It sported a squat, stubby point that served as a brake 
when dug into the ice. 

While traveling toward the lifeboat, the tran had presented a 
shorter appearance. This because they moved in a crouch, 
offering less surface in proportion to wing area. It also helped to 
maintain balance in the tricky winds. 

The barrel-chested torso was covered with short, soft fur. 
Each soldier wore a thick coat of rich, umber fur from the 
hessavar. This was cinched at the waist by a belt of hammered 
gold disks and tooled leather. A short, double-bladed sword was 
strapped securely to Hunnar's left leg. An evil-looking dirk rode 

— 146 —



on his right hip. 

A necklace of ugly saw-edged teeth from the krokim fell 
from the thick neck onto the coat. The hood closely resembled 
the hoods of their own survival parkas, with the exception of twin 
slits made to admit the furry, triangular ears. A strap ran around 
the front edge of the hood and tied beneath the chin to keep the 
wind from pulling it off the wearer's head. 

The face that stared down at them was uncompromisingly 
feline, with slitted eyes of bright yellow. The pupils were a 
startling deep-space black. A broad flat nose, high brow, and 
wide mouth filled with flat and pointed teeth completed the 
portrait. The tran were omnivorous. 

Body fur was steel-gray, a couple of the soldiers sporting 
patches of black over the muzzle and at the tips of the ears. One 
other besides Hunnar possessed a short beard. Hunnar's beard 
and facial fur were distinctive in their rust-tinge, almost ochre. 

“Say something to 'em, young feller,” whispered 
September out of the side of his mouth. 

— 147 — 


Ethan hurriedly tried to assemble a proper opening 
sentence, dropping verbs into place, shoring up uncertainties 
with the right pronouns. 

“We are a . . . uh . . . caravan that has lost its sails,” he 
began. “The wind blew us false and we travel now on the breath 
of mercy.” He took two careful steps onto the ice — this was no 
time for a pratfall — and stood on tiptoe. Then he took a deep 
breath and exhaled right into the native's face, praying all the 
while that none of the germs in his body could effect this 
mountain of fur in front of him. 

Everyone remained motionless for a moment. Then the 
ferocious-looking primitive relaxed his mouth into a wide grin — 
without showing his teeth. He leaned over and breathed a fog of 
frozen air back into Ethan's face. 

“My breath is your warmth,” he said, not with a little relief 
himself. At least these strangers were civilized. Tactical 
advantage or no, he was gratified that a fight didn't seem in the 
offing. 

— 148 — 


“Put up your lances,” he instructed the others. “They 
appear to be friendly.” The last wasn't really necessary. They'd 
all heard Ethan's little speech and observed the greeting. 

“We are very trusting today,” Suaxus grumbled, but mostly 
to himself. He did not relax. 

The tran eased, retracting their blades almost entirely. At 
that point Ethan almost made a fatal mistake. 

“Would you like to go inside our ship,” he offered 
smoothly, “and get out of this infernal wind?” 

Hunnar jerked back and two of his men reached for their 
swords. He wished he could read the alien's expression. 

“Why?” Hunnar asked tightly, his palm itching, for his own 
weapon. “Why would we want to get out of the wind?” he 
prompted, since the other seemed dumbstruck by their reaction. 

“I think I understand,” said Ethan finally. “Where we come 
from, up there,” and he pointed skyward, “our world is much 
warmer than this. Your unending hurricane is hard on us. I didn't 
think you'd regard it otherwise. Honest, that's all I thought.” The 

— 149 —



soldiers relaxed again. Hunnar didn't bother to correct the 
alien's reasoning. Leaving ice and wind would take away their 
small tactical advantage. But it seemed the other was truly 
ignorant of this. 

“I accept your words,” he said, “but find some of them 
hard to believe. This is a very pleasant summer day. One could 
even travel comfortably coatless. But in truth, I would like to see 
the inside of your vessel.” 

He'd put that awfully crudely, after his initial reaction. But 
that was one of their prime objectives. He was a knight and not a 
herald, dammit. 

“It would make things easier for us,” Ethan replied. “Of 
course you may.” 

September clambered into the windswept boat, leaned out 
and gave Ethan a hand up. 

“I caught most of that,” he said softly. “Why did that line 
about ‘getting out of the wind’ put them on guard at first?” 

“I don't know,” Ethan answered, struggling for a foothold. 

— 150 — 


He got in, turned to help Williams. 

“No, wait, I think I do know. Obviously this is a bunch of 
local troops, or militia, or whatever. Once out of the wind they 
must sacrifice a great deal of maneuverability. The way they can 
move on that ice! Did you notice that none of then came up onto 
the island?” 

“That's true,” September agreed. “A large scale battle on 
this world must combine the actions of infantry with old-time 
sailing ships. Fascinating!” 

“I've no desire to see even two of them angry,” Ethan 
countered. “Look at their size. Better not to provoke them.” 

“Might be different than you think, lad.” The humans were 
aboard and now the tran were making their cautious way up. “I 
noticed something a mite intriguing myself.” 

“Do tell,” asked Ethan, watching Hunnar. Watching the 
way his eyes tried to drink in every detail of the ruined boat. 

“Well, their weight should have driven those claws of theirs 
a lot deeper into the ice than it does. They may be the greatest 

— 151 —



muscular specimens since the Pitar, but I'll wager a platinum 
doubloon that their bones are light. Maybe even partly hollow, 
like birds. I'm sure they're much lighter than they look. 

“You, young feller-me-lad, may be only half as big as one 
of those blokes. But you might come out ahead in a shoving 
match.” 

“I've no desire to test that theory,” Ethan replied feelingly, 
“not even by friendly arm-wrestling.” 

While Hunnar wasn't in the wizard's class when it came to 
rapid cogitation, even a ten-year cub could tell that this amazing 
vessel was in no condition to fly anyplace. The great open holes 
in roof and sides, the shredded acceleration couches and twisted 
fixture mountings; everything indicated the vessel had not set 
down as its designers had intended. 

He also noticed the instantly recognizable scratch marks 
on one wall and the roof of the boat and looked at the aliens with 
new respect. 

“You had an encounter with a Droom.” 

— 152 — 


“I'm afraid we did,” said Ethan. “Scared the crap out of 
us.” 

Candid, too, Hunnar filed away mentally. 

Of course, no true warrior would confess to fright in a battle 
situation — even when confronted by a Droom. If they'd been 
attacked by a rampaging stavanzer, now! But that was a special 
case. Why, even he might. . . 

“Your vehicle,” he began innocently, “seems to have 
incurred some damage. I myself, since I did not witness your 
arrival, find it hard to believe that this much metal (keep the envy 
from your tones, knight!) truly descended from the sky.” Then 
he couldn't keep the awe out of his voice. “Is it really a flying 
machine?” 

“It is,” answered Ethan. “We came from a ship many 
hundreds of times larger than this one.” Hunnar couldn't repress 
a little start at that. 

“It was bringing us to this world from another, where live 
some of our number, and thence to others. We paused in the . . . 

— 153 —



above the air of your world, when a small disaster overtook us. 
We were forced to flee our ship in this tiny lifeboat. A second 
misfortune befell us and we were unable to land properly. One of 
our number,” he added by way of afterthought, “was killed in 
the landing.” 

“My sorrowings,” said Hunnar politely. Of course, he didn't 
believe this creature's fantastic story. Other worlds, indeed! 
Every child who'd studied with a Knowledgable One knew that 
Tran-ky-ky was the only world in this star system that could 
harbor life. No, they must be a stunted, nearly hairless variety of 
tran from the far side of the globe. Ethan's next words tended to 
support this assumption. 

“There is a small settlement of our people many . . . many 
satch to the west of here. That is where we were trying to land 
when our craft went out of control. If you could aid us in getting 
there, our ancestors would dance your praises through eternity.” 

“How many satch?” inquired Hunnar, not impressed by 
the flattery. 

— 154 — 


Ethan did some furious figuring in his head, utilizing their 
last beacon reading and September's guesswork. 

“Eight or nine thousand, I think.” 

One of the soldiers made a muffled whining sound. Hunnar 
glared at him. But he was hard put to keep from smiling himself. 
Eight or nine thousand satch. Just a quick chivan around the 
province and back. 

“Such matters are best discussed with the Landgrave,” he 
replied smoothly. 

“The Landgrave?” 

“Yes. At the great castle of Wannome. You will meet him 

— and the Council — when we arrive.” 
“That suits us,” September said, speaking for the first time. 
“And I think, laddie, it's time we all introduced ourselves.” 
“Agreed,” said Hunnar. “I hight Sir Hunnar Redbeard, son 
of Stomsbruk Redbeard's Son, grand-grandson of Dugai the 
Wild. My squires, Suaxus-dal-Jagger” — a tall, slimmer soldier 
stepped forward stiffly-“and Budjir Hotahg. His Landgrave's 

— 155 —



men-at-arms and truemen,” and he proceeded to name the 
soldiers in turn, “Vasen Tersund, Smjor Tol, Avyeh-let-Otkamo, 
and Hivell Vuonislathi.” 

“I hight Ethan Fortune. This hight Skua September, 
Milliken Williams. . .” and he went down their little group. 

“Only one calling?” Hunnar said, indicating Walther. 

“A criminal, uh . . . consigned to our care,” Ethan 
improvised hastily. “As such, he is entitled to but one.” 

As to the du Kanes, Hunnar was mildly discouraged to 
learn they were father and daughter. He'd badly misjudged ages 
and relationship. A small point, but it piqued him. Sire and cub, 
then, and not mates. That was interesting. 

“Despite your greeting, friend Ethan, I must be certain you 
are of the true warm blood and not deviants like the hoppers. 
Before we can think of aiding you freely, this vital thing must be 
settled.” 

Budjir chivaned over and whispered to his leader. “What 
needs this, sir? They would clearly seem to be—” 

— 156 — 


“Be silent, squire. The stjorva appears as a bush, but it 
bites.” Taken aback, Budjir growled to himself and stepped 
away. 

“What now?” September was asking Ethan. 

“I think they want to be sure we're of the same basic stock 
as they are. We're not, of course, but I think he's hunting for 
comforting similarity.” He turned to the knight. “How can we 
prove this small thing to you, Sir Hunnar?” 

The huge tran walked past Ethan and confronted Colette. 
She held her ground well but stared up at the carnivorous face 
apprehensively. 

“What does this thing want?” she stuttered in Terranglo. 

Ethan conversed briefly with Hunnar. September smiled. 

“Our very lives are at stake,” the big man rasped. “You'd 
better cooperate.” In Trannish, he addressed Hunnar. “Be 
careful, the She's a mite skittish.” 

The knight nodded. Ethan noticed that the native's coat 
fastened at the shoulders with leather ties. He spoke in Terranglo 

— 157 —



to Colette. 

“I think you'll have to open your parka, Colette. You'll only 
be cold for a minute.” 

“Open my . . . are you out of your mind? You think for one 
minute I'm going to let this elephantine pussycat leer at me?” 

“He just wants to make certain that we're faintly 
mammalian,” said Ethan easily. “You're our best and only 
convincing proof. Would you rather be barbecued?” 

“Now Colette,” began du Kane, “I'm not sure—” 

“Very well,” said Colette evenly. She began working at the 
snaps on her parka. Ethan noticed that the other tran soldiers 
were observing the operation with something more than clinical 
interest. 

She shook a little when Hunnar put those great clawed 
paws on her, but otherwise she bore the brief inspection stolidly. 

“Satisfied?” September asked him the moment he'd 
finished. Colette had turned away and was resnapping her jacket. 

“Eminently.” Privately he felt this only added validity to his 

— 158 —



theory that these people were merely thinner variants of his own 
stock with a much more advanced technology. 

“You okay, Colette?” Ethan inquired in solicitous 
Terranglo. 

“Yes, I think so.” She was shaking a little and didn't even 
insist that he call her Miss du Kane. “I just hope these 
aborigines don't carry lice or fleas.” 

“What did the She say?” Hunnar asked. 

“That she was flattered by your attention,” Ethan replied 
smoothly. 

“Umph. Well, friend Ethan, it is for the Landgrave and the 
Council to decide if anything can be done about your request for 
help in reaching your home.” 

“It's not our home,” said Ethan, unconsciously avoiding 
the other's neat trap. “Just a single settlement our folk have 
established on your world.” 

“To be sure,” Hunnar murmured. “In any case, the full 
Council should debate it.” Actually, with the Horde only a malet 

— 159 —



or two away, any request for so much as a sword blade or scrap 
of spare sail was apt to be treated with kindly indifference at best. 
He didn't say that, of course. Possibly these people could be of 
some help. There was no point in discouraging them early. 

Now, if they voluntarily agreed to contribute the wreck of 
their boat, that would surely be a point in their favor. A point he 
ought to bring up about now. 

“Is your vessel truly no longer capable of flight?” 

“That is so,” said Ethan sadly. 

“Can it not be repaired?” 

“I fear not,” September put in. “It would take the facilities 
of a full 0-G dock. The nearest is parsecs away.” 

Hunnar looked across at him. He already felt at ease with 
Ethan. Less certain was he with this stranger who was nearly as 
big as himself and whose accent was even more abominable than 
Ethan's. 

The big human seemed only amused by the intent scrutiny 
the knight was giving him. 

— 160 — 


“Then,” he continued casually, “would you object to our 
making some use of it?” He waited tensely. He didn't wish to 
spill blood here, but for so much worked metal. . . 

He did not bother to point out that they were in no position 
to deny it. Even so, Ethan's ready answer surprised him. 

“Sure. Help yourselves.” Even Suaxus looked startled. 

“One thing you ought to know, though,” added September. 
“I don't think your people will be able to work it.” 

“Our smiths,” replied Suaxus, drawing himself up to his full 
height, “can work bronze, brass, silver, gold, copper, junite, iron, 
visiron, and good steel.” 

“Very impressive. Believe me, I wish them only the best of 
luck. If they can mold duralloy in your local version of a manual 
forge, I'll be the first to applaud. Now, if you could train a Droom 
to manhandle the stuff. . .” 

That was one several of the soldiers could not keep from 
laughing at. It lightened the atmosphere, lessened the tension 
born of acquisition. 

— 161 — 


“If we could do that,” smiled Hunnar, “we wouldn't need 
the metal.” 

“There are some bits and scraps already torn free that you 
might be able to make some use of,” September continued. 
“Like the acceleration-couch frames, heating units, and such. I'd 
like to offer you a couple of miles of wire, but I'm afraid there just 
isn't much in the boat.” He wasn't about to try and explain solid-
and fluid-state mechanics. A frustrated warrior could become an 
angry warrior, apt to relieve his frustration by making short 
choppy motions with sharp objects. 

“We shall see,” said Hunnar. He looked at Ethan. “You 
surely have no objections then, friend Ethan?” 

“No, the boat's all yours, uh, friend Hunnar.” 

“Fine. Now I think it be time to go meet his Lordship.” He 
was exhilarated. Not a drop of blood shed to win such a prize! 
And mayhap some allies as well. Tiny allies, 'twas true. 

“We're ready as you,” said Ethan. He took a step forward, 
then stopped. A look of consternation came over his features. 

— 162 —



“Um . . . how do you propose to get to this castle of 
yours?” 

Hunnar reconsidered. Perhaps he'd been wrong. Maybe 
these really were children, or at least adolescents. 

“We will simply chivan over,” he said patiently. “It is only a 
short glide. Fifteen minutes out, perhaps three times that back, 
against the wind.” 

“By ‘chivan’ I guess you mean to skate?” Hunnar said 
nothing, confused. “I'm afraid we can't do that.” 

“Why not?” blurted Suaxus, hand moving slowly toward 
his sword-hilt again. 

“Because,” Ethan continued, opening his coat and raising 
his arms, “we don't have any wings and,” resnapping the coat 
and lifting a foot, removing the boot, “we haven't any claws, or 
skates.” He replaced the boot hastily as the cold bit at his heel. 

Hunnar stared at the now-covered foot and rapidly made 
some astonished reappraisals. Firstly, his pet theory that these 
people were but slimmer varieties of his own vanished like a 

— 163 —



sweetclub down a cub's gullet. And then the full alienness of 
them — the way they moved, talked, their impossible sky-ship 

— all came down on him at once with a solid mental crunch. 
Invincible knight of Sofold though he be, he was still 
shaken. 
“If . . . if you have neither dan nor chiv,” he asked 
helplessly, “how do you move about? Surely you do not walk 
all the time?” 

“We do a lot of that,” Ethan admitted. “Also, we have small 
vehicles that move from place to place.” He demonstrated a 
walk, feeling ridiculous. “We also run.” He forbore 
demonstrating this other human activity. 

“We too ‘walk,’ with our chiv retracted,” muttered Hunnar 
a little dazedly. “But to have to walk to cover any distance . . . 
how terrible!” 

“There are plenty of humans who feel exactly the same 
way. They do as little of it as possible,” confessed Ethan. “On our 
world there are few places to chivan, anyway. Our oceans are not 

— 164 —



solid, like this, but liquid.” 

“You mean, like the inside of the world?” Hunnar gaped. 

“That's interesting.” Williams spoke for the first time. 
“Clearly they have seen or have memory of occasional breaks in 
the ice. Since it's as much a part of their surface as these islands, 
it's easy to see how their wise men would conclude that the 
world was hollow and filled with water.” 

“What a sad place your home must be,” commiserated 
Hunnar, honestly sympathetic. “I do not think I should like to 
visit it.” 

“Oh, there are places on many of our worlds, including 
Terra, where you'd feel right at home,” Ethan assured him. 

“Can you not chivan at all?” pressed the knight. It was hard 
to accede to such a monstrous abnormality. 

“Not at all. If I were to try and chivan. . . We do have 
artificial chiv of metal on some worlds, but brought none with us. 
It's not standard survival gear on our lifeboats. And I wouldn't 
know how to use them, anyway. I think I could make a few 

— 165 —



meters from here into the wind before falling flat on my face.”. 

“Couldn't hurt,” said Colette. He ignored her. 

“I will call for a sled,” Hunnar said decisively. “Pudjir, you 
and Hivell see to it!” The squire indicated acknowledgment and 
headed for the ice, the soldier following. 

The humans watched their departure with fascinated stares. 
Williams in particular was utterly enraptured. 

Once on the ice, the squire dug into the soldier's backpack 
and drew out a highly polished mirror about a third as big as his 
torso. It was set in a dark wooden frame and had what looked 
like a large metal screw set in the base of the wood. 

While the squire aligned it with the sun and balanced it, the 
soldier jammed it into the ice and began twisting until it was 
screwed in tightly. It was facing those same western islands 
Ethan had spotted from his treetop vantage. 

There was a simple baffle-shutter arrangement that slipped 
over the mirror. While the soldier steadied it against the wind, 
Budjir began opening and closing the baffles in a distinct pattern. 

— 166 —



Almost immediately there was an answering series of bright 
flashes somewhere along the horizon, at which the squire began 
fluttering his shutters more rapidly and for some time. 

“Clearly, any kind of aural communication,” September 
mused, “like drums or horns, are out of the question here. This 
wind would swallow up a good drum inside a half-kilometer or 
less.” 

Williams asked Hunnar, “What do you do at night?” 

“Torchlight reflected by mirror serves well enough,” the 
knight replied. “For long distances we have developed a system 
of relay stations with bigger mirrors. Except, of course, where 
they have been destroyed.” 

“Destroyed?” said Ethan. It was the inflection in Hunnar's 
voice and not the word itself that prompted his curiosity. 

“Yes. The Horde burns them so that no word can be given 
of their passage. Indeed, it forbids their construction. But many 
feign ignorance and rebuild them.” 

“Horde?” probed September disinterestedly. “What 

— 167 — 


Horde?” 

“I fear you will have chance to discover,” replied Hunnar. 
“We have a while to wait. I should like to learn more about you, 
and your amazing sky-raft, in that time.” 

“There isn't a great deal you would under . . . find 
interesting, Sir Hunnar,” said Ethan. “But I'll be happy to show 
you around. Now, if I had my damned sample case with me. . .” 

In the discussion that preceded the arrival of the sled-raft, 
Hunnar revealed a fair knowledge of basic astronomy. Tran-kyky rarely had cloudy weather for any length of time, Ethan 
reflected thoughtfully. 

After Williams had answered several pointed questions 
about his home world and the ship, Hunnar asked if the little 
schoolteacher was a wizard. When informed that he was a 
teacher, the knight shrugged off the difference. No doubt, he 
reflected, Williams and Malmeevyn Eer-Meesach, wizard to the 
Landgrave himself, would have things to say to one another. 
Certainly Williams did not try to hide his own enthusiasm at the 

— 168 —



prospect of such a meeting. 

Williams tried to explain a full-sized KK-drive ship to the 
knight. Hunnar would have none of it. Nothing that big could be 
made out of metal. 

“Why does it not land to pick you up?” he asked. 

“Little reasons aside,” answered Williams, “it can't. No 
KK-drive ship could. It would make an awful mess of this part of 
your world.” 

“Ha!” grunted Hunnar. A ship of metal that large. Did they 
take him for a complete fool? 

Likewise he could not grasp the concept of weightlessness. 
But gravity he understood. When you cut a man's head off, it fell 
down. Colette looked a little ill when September helpfully 
translated this for her. Also, he knew of the gutorrbyn and 
krokim and other flying things that were odd but clearly not 
weightless. He'd killed enough of them to know that. 

The tran examined the inert body of the dead Kotabit with 
interest. In the icebox climate it hadn't decayed at all, for which 

— 169 —



Ethan was grateful. An experienced warrior might have been 
able to tell that the human's broken neck had not come from, 
say, being thrown against the console. But corpses, even alien 
ones, were not the items of prime interest. The control board, 
with its now frosted knobs and dials; drew longer stares. At the 
same time, Ethan and September were learning about Tran-kyky from Hunnar. 

Wannome, it developed, was the capital and only near-city 
of a large island named Sofold. Sofold lay oh-so-many kijat to 
the west. It also claimed sovereignty over a number of smaller 
nearby islands. This tiny islet they'd smashed up against was 
one. A few, larger than this, were garrisoned and settled. 

Wannome Sound was an excellent natural harbor and 
supported a flourishing commerce. There were active hot springs 
on the island crest. These provided a natural location for the 
small but vital foundry and the smithies. The island was also rich 
in deposits of certain metals but had to trade for others. 

Cultivation was widespread. Like most inhabited islands, 

— 170 — 


Sofold was virtually self-sufficient foodwise. Gathering of wild 
pika-pina, which grew back as fast as it could be harvested, was 
also a major industry. 

When Ethan asked if they also harvested the much larger 
pika-pedan, Sir Hunnar threw him an odd stare. Suaxus whined 
mirthfully. 

Only the foolishly brave or the ignorant tried to make a 
living gathering the pika-pedan, he explained. It was on the pikapedan that the stavanzer grazed. 

“Stavanzer? What's a stavanzer?” asked September 
interestedly. 

Again Ethan's mestaped memory came up with a blank on 
fauna. “I don't remember. I get the feeling I should, but there's 
nothing . . . It's all on the edge . . . must be a mental block. Won't 
come. Why? You planning on starting a ranch?” 

September smiled. “Farming isn't one of my multitude of 
talents,” he said. 

“Oh, wait a sec. I do remember what the name means.” 

— 171 — 


“Yeah?” prompted the big man. 

“Thunder-eater.” 

September pursed his lips. “Sounds harmless enough. 
Okay, so we don't volunteer for any pika-pedan pruning 
expeditions, what? Ask him about the local thieves . . . 
government.” 

The much-mentioned Council, it seemed, was composed of 
local dignitaries and nobles who served as administrators, 
mayors, and justices-of-the-peace of the countryside. The 
Council was presided over by the hereditary Landgrave, whose 
word was final but could be challenged in Council. 

The Landgrave's hereditary power was rooted in his 
ancestry. A great portion of his personal wealth and treasury was 
derived from customs fees and commerce taxes. 

“What sort of bird is your Landgrave?” asked September. 

“Fearless, brilliant, a genius at administration and a true 
wizard of decision,” replied Hunnar. He leaned over and 
whispered to the two humans. “He's as tough as a year-old piece 

— 172 —



of vol jerky, but if you talk true with him from the first, you'll do 
well enough.” 

“He sounds most imposing . . . a true leader,” replied Ethan 
loudly. Then he lowered his voice in return. 

“I understand. We've one like that ourselves . . . 
sometimes.” 

Hunnar nodded, then looked uncertain. “Sometimes?” 

“I do not fully understand myself, Sir Hunnar. Some day 
soon, perhaps. . . He has a disease of age . . . and something 
more, I think.” He looked up, smiled, stopped when he noticed 
Hunnar draw away. 

“Sorry. I forgot that showing one's teeth is not a sign of 
friendship among meat-eaters.” 

“Truly a strange custom of yours,” agreed the knight. 

“That's something else we've got to attend to.” He looked 
evenly at Hunnar. “While I'm sure your chefs are the noblest 
practitioners of their art on the planet, we do have a certain 
amount of our own foodstuffs we'd like to bring along.” 

— 173 — 


“If the quantity is not great, there should be plenty of space 
on the raft.” 

“And it's about time we set to moving it outside,” said 
September. 

“I was afraid you might bring that up,” Ethan sighed. 

The sled-raft was awkward-looking but solid. Twenty meters long 
by ten wide, a bluff, no-nonsense triangular shape in hard wood, 
it was built from heavy timbers. There was a matted floor of some 
vegetable material and a wooden rail running around it at waist 
level. Tran waist level. 

There was a crew of four. The owner, a merchant named Tahoding, stared at the ruined lifeboat with an open and unabashed 
greed that Ethan found positively homey. 

A single mast was set about a third of the way back from 
the pointed bow. This supported a single large square sail held 

— 174 —



between two sturdy crossbeams top and bottom. The raft rested 
on three sharpened runners of gray stone, two at the rear 
corners and a slightly smaller one at the front. The two at the 
stern were connected to a double wheel that took two sailors to 
handle. 

“A handsome ship,” Ethan said to the captain. 

“My ancestors are forever honored to have you on board 
my pitiful craft, great visitors from the stars! My sire is forever in 
your honor. My family shall bask in the glow of your radiances 
forever. My cubs and mate. . .” 

Ta-hoding continued to heap suffocating praise on his 
passengers until September whispered something to Hunnar 
that Ethan missed. 

“No, it wasn't supposed to be made known to the general 
public,” replied the knight. “Actually, the Landgrave desired it 
be kept as quiet as possible. However, where money is 
concerned. . .” He shrugged, a very human gesture. Ethan was 
beginning to get an inkling of just how much wealth their ruined 

— 175 —



lifeboat represented hereabouts. 

“I see,” said September. He caught another crate of survival 
rations the soldiers were passing up and stacked it on the 
wooden deck. It took two soldiers considerable effort to lift the 
box up to him. Hunnar watched the operation silently. 
September wasn't sure whether or not the knight had caught the 
ease with which he'd handled the first crate. Damn! The big man 
strained almost theatrically on the next ones. 

“A beacon that will shine. . .” Ta-hoding was following the 
other humans around, still spouting hosannas. 

“Pardon me,” began Williams, and Ethan gratefully slipped 
away as the schoolteacher rescued him from the seemingly 
endless assault of frozen platitudes. 

“Why are your vessel's runners made of stone?” Williams 
asked. 

“Alas,” said the captain, “wood wears away too quickly 
and metal is beyond the reach of even wealthy men, which I 
assuredly am not. . . There is a great raft, owned in whole by the 

— 176 —



people of Vad Ozero, six times the size of my poor craft. Its sails 
would cover a large inn and it has runners made from solid 
stavanzer backbone.” He shook his head mournfully. “The ease 
with which it turns, yea, even into the wind. The maneuverability, 
the sensuous glide of it under full sail, the speed, the profits . . . 
ah, the profits!” 

Yes, alien though he may be, here was a being that was one 
with him in spirit, Ethan reflected. A race of philosophers with 
long beards who scorned material wealth might exist in the 
galaxy — somewhere. Thus far they remained undiscovered. 

“I think that's it,” said September with satisfaction, and it 
was. Ethan found himself looking forward to the sight of 
Hunnar's home. 

Hunnar watched the last of the humans clamber aboard. 
“We are ready then?” He turned to the captain. 

“Let out, Ta-hoding! We are aboarded!” 

“As your boldness commands,” effused the skipper. “I 
bask in the light of—” 

— 177 — 


“I'm not one of your customers, Hoding,” Hunnar barked 
in reply. “The Landgrave is paying you, so don't waste any of 
your flattery on me.” He turned to his first squire. 

“Suaxus, take Smjor and report in for us. If the wind blows 
true, we should follow you by ten tuvits. Make also a report to 
the Longax and see that the wizard is aroused. If he awaits you 
not already with slavering tongue. Straight this time, with none of 
your bloodthirsty embellishments, mind.” 

“Done, sir,” acknowledged Suaxus, a bit coldly, Ethan 
thought. “Thou canst depend on me.” 

Hunnar replied with another of those tight-lipped smiles. He 
exchanged breath with the other. Although there was no obvious 
difference in their age, Hunnar seemed to Ethan years the eldest. 

“I know I can, Suaxus. Wind with you.” 

Suaxus clapped his knight on one shoulder. Then he yelled 
for Smjor and disappeared over the side of the raft. Leaning over 
the rail, Ethan could see them streaking off at an angle to the 
southwest. Soon they'd probably begin tacking back against the 

— 178 —



wind, eating up the distance to their home. 

It was no surprise that a single native could travel faster 
than the bulky raft. He turned away from the wind and rubbed at 
the ice crystals that had formed on his upper lip. 

The raft boasted a single wooden cabin. It rested squat 
against the back of the single thick mast. A summer day to the 
locals it might be but he was just plain cold. Inside, the du Kanes 
were huddled up against a residual pile of trading goods, well 
away from the tiny windows. 

The purpose of some of the objects in the pile was obvious. 
And what looked like a small stove had a pipe leading into the 
flat roof. It wasn't lit. 

Williams was sitting by the door. As usual, Walther had 
crammed himself into the furthest, darkest corner. 

“Well, it's a long way from first class,” Ethan essayed in a 
feeble attempt at humor, “but on such short notice. . .” 

Colette just glared back at him. Williams said nothing 
either. He was totally absorbed in examining the interior of the 

— 179 —



cabin. 

“See?” he said pointing to a joint in one wall. “They use 
notched logs and wooden pegs, reinforced in the difficult places 
with iron and bronze nails. Most of the implements on that stove 
are bronze, but a few are beaten copper and the stove itself is 
iron. There are one or two steel-tipped spears in that locker, back 
there. The handles have the most beautiful scroll-work.” 

“Must be Ta-hoding's pride and joy,” Ethan commented, 
mentally guessing at the artifact's curio value. 

“I should not be at all surprised,” the schoolmaster agreed. 
“I found nothing like pottery. Water would freeze on the potter's 
wheel.” 

The raft gave a sudden lurch. Colette squeaked. 

“Now what's happening?” she moaned. 

“I,” said Ethan with commendable enterprise, “will go and 
see.” 

“I think the captain has turned his vessel slightly into the 
wind,” informed Williams. “Shortly we should. . .” 

— 180 — 


His voice faded as Ethan left the sheltering cabin. He 
rounded the side and stepped into the wind. He wasn't used to it 
but it was no longer unique enough to warrant a curse. 
September was up near the pointed bow, in conversation with 
Hunnar. 

The sail cracked. They were following the course taken by 
Suaxus and Smjor, who by now were well out of sight. The two 
turned as he came up to them. 

“Be your companions well?” inquired the knight 
solicitously. 

“As well as can be expected, Hunnar.” He glanced up at 
September. “Walther sits in his corner and glares at nothing in 
particular. Colette is alternately brazen and scared, her father 
says nothing until he has to, and Williams is too busy taking 
mental notes to notice much of anything.” 

“And you, young feller-me-lad?” The wind whipped a 
single loose strand of white hair across his forehead. 

“Me? Well, I'm. . .” Come to think of it, he'd been so busy 

— 181 — 


he hadn't had time to consider his own feelings. “I'm cold.” 

“A pithy summation, lad.” He moved to clap Ethan on the 
back again. This time Ethan avoided it, grinning. The wind clawed 
at his face. 

“We're really picking up speed.” The sail fluttered and 
rattled between the bracing spars. 

One sailor was positioned at either end of the lower spar 
while Ta-hoding and the other manhandled the double wheel. 
The captain was carefully trying to match wind speed with 
desired direction. His eye moved continually from sky to sail to 
ice. 

“Stand ready!” he bellowed above the howling atmosphere. 
Then, “Hard over!” and he was straining furiously at the wheel, 
forcing it to the right. 

The raft slowly began to move to starboard. There was a 
split second when it was facing directly into the wind and the 
mainsail snapped back against the mast with a crack like 
shattered planking. The two spar men pushed and pulled as one, 

— 182 —



the sail snapped into a new configuration, and they were 
traveling at high speed to the northwest. 

“Nicely done!” yelled September admiringly. He pulled 
himself sternward, bracing against the railing. Ethan followed 
curiously. He wanted to have a closer look at the sail. Anything 
that could take the kind of continuous pounding it was being 
subjected to might have commercial value. 

It was thicker than sailcloth, a material Ethan had no formal 
knowledge of. Despite this it seemed flimsy for taming the high 
winds it had to take on this world. It was a bright yellow — surely 
not the natural color. Hunnar came up behind him and 
confirmed it. 

“The inside of the pika-pina is soft, but the exterior is tough 
and thin. When dried, treated, and drawn out through looms, it 
makes a very strong fiber. Sails, ropes, a dozen useful things.” 

“You don't say?” commented September, who'd returned 
from his brief examination of the raft's steering mechanism. Then 
he did something that almost gave Ethan impetus to scream. 

— 183 —



Gripping the lower edge of the sail in two powerful hands, 
he wrenched suddenly in opposite directions. At any moment 
Ethan expected to see the big man go down under a swarm of 
four angry sailors. 

No one paid him the least heed. Ta-hoding didn't even 
glance up from his post at the wheel. Neither did the other 
sailors. Budjir and the other soldiers continued their story 
swapping. 

Eventually September let out a deep breath and let go. As 
near as Ethan could tell, he hadn't made so much as a tiny rip in 
the material. 

“Strong is the word,” September wheezed. “I'd think that 
several layers of this stuff, tightly woven and laid over each other, 
would make a very respectable shield, what?” Hunnar looked at 
him with new respect. 

“You are a military man, then, friend September?” 

“Let's say I've had occasion to do some scrapping.” 

“It might,” admitted the knight, “except that treated 

— 184 — 


hessavar hides laid to wood or bronze or iron are better. For one 

thing, they're harder to burn.” 

“Um. I didn't think of that.” 

“Would you like to try my sword?” Hunnar offered, leaning 
into a particularly violent gust. 

September looked tempted. But rather than risk exciting 
attention, or give away any hidden abilities, or lack of same, he 
politely declined. 

“Not today, friend Hunnar. In the future, in less awkward 
surroundings, should there be another opportunity—” 

“When the Horde comes you'll have plenty of 
opportunities,” said the knight grimly. He walked between them 
and stalked off to chat with the captain. 

“What's this ‘Horde’ he keeps referring to?” September 
asked Ethan. 

“I don't know.” He stared after the knight. “I've got this 
feeling, though, that we're not going to get much nearer Arsudun 
until we find out.” 

— 185 — 


Chapter Five 

Actually they made slightly better time than Hunnar had 
estimated. The wind rose to a steady 60 kph, but under the 
skillful paws of Ta-hoding and his tiny crew, the ungainly raft 
fairly flew across the ice. The merchant might be comically 
effusive, but he was a master seaman — or iceman, rather. 

It was an exhilarating experience just to stand in the sharp 
prow of the raft and let the wind shriek past your face. It battered 
at the snow goggles and whipped the too-large hood which now 
enveloped Ethan's entire head and face. The angry air had all the 
softness of a newly minted scalpel. Exhilarating, yes. But how 
much more exhilarating it would have been to be warm again . . . 
would he ever be warm again? 

He grew aware that Hunnar was standing next to him. 
“Wannome,” the knight murmured, “and Sofold Island. My 
home. Yours, too, for a while, friend Ethan.” 

— 186 — 


For another moment there was nothing but a blur on the 
horizon. But as the little raft flew closer, the scene seemed to leap 
across the ice at him. Before he knew it, they were cruising 
beneath towering stone walls amidst a swarm of similar craft. All 
were built along the triangle design. Most were about the same 
size as their own ship. 

There were a few two and three times as long, and one great 
raft that must have gone at least ninety meters. It had a two-story 
central cabin with smaller cabins fore and aft. 

Decks were piled high with crates and boxes, all securely 
lashed down against the wind. Many were protected with 
material made from the same stuff as the sails. The big raft's 
fittings were brighter, with here and there decorative flashes of 
metal and bone. Sails were splashes of rainbow against the ice. 
Ethan realized that any color other than white or green could be 
easily spotted many kilometers off. 

Moving with the westwind behind them, several ships shot 
past them at tremendous speed. All were moving from or to the 

— 187 —



same spot, an opening in the walls. The entrance was flanked by 
two massive towers of gray stone. Great walls stretched off to 
right and left, curving into the distance. 

Ethan staggered over to the cabin entrance, yelled inside. 
“Mr. du Kane, Colette, Milliken, you can come and look. We're 
here.” 

“Wherever that is,” grumbled Colette. 

A moment later they were all clustered along the bow of the 
raft. With delicate handling and elaborate curses, Ta-hoding was 
maneuvering them skillfully through the swarm of shipping. 

Along the tops of the flanking towers patrolling tran were 
visible. The raft slid between the walls, edging near an exiting 
merchantman with orange sails, and ornately carved handrailing. 
Once, the merchantman's low spar, riding higher than their own, 
almost clipped the raft's sail. Ta-hoding hurled a stream of 
invective at the other, of which Ethan managed to understand 
perhaps half. 

Bow in hand, the first mate of the other vessel came to the 

— 188 — 


rail. It was the first indication they'd had that archery was known 
to the natives. He made threatening gestures with it in their 
direction until Hunnar walked over and spoke quietly — as 
quietly as one could above the wind — to the other. That worthy 
shut up fast and disappeared. 

“How do you close off the harbor?” Ethan inquired. “I 
don't see anything resembling a gate.” 

“With nets of woven pika rope,” replied the knight. “A gate 
would have to rest on the ice.” 

“What's wrong with that?” 

“A good fire on the ice would easily undermine such. The 
walls themselves are built deep into the ice but a gate, naturally, 
could not be so. Also, there is the Great Chain. It is passed from 
one gate tower to the other and can keep out all but the tiniest 
ships. The nets serve to keep out men on foot.” 

The walls, Ethan observed, were several meters thick, with 
plenty of room on top for maneuvering troops. They stood about 
twelve meters high, with battle towers slightly higher. 

— 189 — 


Once inside the gate he could see that the walls completely 
encircled the harbor. It was a very respectable feat of basic 
engineering. 

Wannome was ideally suited for an iceport. The island itself 
lay on the east-west axis, with harbor and city at the eastern tip. 
Once within the harbor, ice-sailors would have the island to 
shield them from the constant westwind. On leaving the harbor 
they would pick up the prevailing gale immediately. Travelers 
coming from the east would have a more difficult time of it, but 
would still find the same quiet landing and protective wall. 

Ethan took another survey of that impressive construct. He 
wondered what threat could make an individual like Hunnar 
worry despite it. 

Dozens of rafts, including small pleasure craft, plied the 
broad harbor. The merchantmen tied up at long, narrow piers 
which were built directly out onto the ice. Since the iceships had 
no draft and did not bob up and down on nonexistent waves, the 
piers were barely above the “water.” Wooden cranes and pulley 

— 190 —



hoists added to the confusion in the harbor. 

At the eternally unchanging tide-line where ice met land, a 
farrago of small buildings began. Tran of all sizes and shapes 
moved about the ice-front. 

The humans were by now turning quite a few heads on 
passing rafts, but Ethan was too engrossed in the approaching 
scene to notice. The ground sloped sharply upward from the 
piers. It disappeared in a crazy-quilt jumble of two- and three-
storied stone buildings and houses. 

Near the houses, narrow streets paved with smooth flat 
stones were visible. Each had a broad swath of smooth ice 
running stripelike down its middle. All of the buildings seemed to 
sport chimneys of stone or black metal and high gambrel roofs. 
If Ethan had spent more time thumbing through history tapes 
instead of sales catalogues, he might have been struck by the 
town's resemblance to medieval European cities. 

The ice median strips were artificial, having been made by 
melting ice and then allowing it to refreeze in the desired place 

— 191 —



and pattern. Even at a distance Ethan could see furry dots 
dropping harborward at high speed. It was equally clear that the 
ice ramps were for descent only. It would take a mighty powerful 
eastwind to permit upward chivaning. 

Rapid transit in Wannome, then, was no problem — as long 
as you were going downhill. 

Above the town, steep crags rose to right and left. There 
was a low saddle between them. Clinging to the rocks on the left 
and seemingly a part of the mountain itself was the great castle 
of Wannome. It descended in stone levels to merge with the 
harbor-girdling wall. 

The castle, Sir Hunnar informed them, had been founded by 
a wandering knight, one Krigsvird-ty-Kalstund, in the year 3262 
snc. Ethan's knowledge of the trannish dating system was nil, but 
the castle looked awfully old. 

The island was built like a doorstop, with the harbor and 
town of Wannome at the high end. From the town the ground 
rose abruptly to the island's high point. From there it dropped in 

— 192 —



a long, gentle sweep to the ice and a great field of pika-pina. A 
steady stream of black smoke rose from the mountains. 

“The pika-pina,” Hunnar had explained, “protects us from 
attack from the west, out of the wind. The great wall and castle 
does likewise for the town and the eastern island.” 

“What about your north and south?” asked September. 

“There is wall around much of the island, but far lower and 
weaker than this. But the granaries, ships, and foundry are all at 
this high end of Sofold, protected by the wall and by steep cliffs. 
An attacker could come from north or south and make a 
successful landfall. Then he could devastate the fields and herds, 
the country downs. This would gain him naught but pleasure. 
Fields can be replanted, houses rebuilt, especially with the wealth 
of the province intact. 

“Wannome can support and shelter the entire population of 
Sofold should it prove necessary.” 

“What about an attack on the city from the landward side,” 
continued September. 

— 193 — 


Hunnar gave him a patronizing look. “I see you do not 
understand us. No tran will fight on land when he can maneuver 
four times as effectively on the ice. It must be different with you, 
since you have no chiv or dan. That is why ships and caravans 
are at their greatest danger when out at ice. Few can move faster 
than a fighting man with a good west wind behind him. To try 
and take a high position from land . . . no, such an attack could 
never succeed. 

“A landing might be made as part of a siege-plan, to 
prevent the townsfolk from getting supplies from the rest of the 
island. But never with the thought of taking the city from that 
side. No one could move fast enough. For one thing, there are ice 
paths all around the island. They give us the ability to move 
rapidly on land. These would be destroyed before any invader 
could make use of them. We would still retain those in the 
heights and the town. Thus we would have great mobility while 
an invader would struggle clumsily about in the dirt.” He pointed 
at the encircling harbor wall as they pulled up to an empty pier. 

— 194 —



A large gray pennant fluttered at the end of the pier. It was 
divided into four squares. A large tusk occupied the upper right-
hand corner, crossed by a sword. An anvil and hammer 
decorated the lower left, while the opposing squares were a solid 
red and yellow, respectively. An exquisitely carved and 
appointed raft with an unusually tall mast was tied up at the pier 
nearby. 

“The Landgrave's yacht,” Hunnar explained. 

“About the wall,” prompted Ethan. 

“Yes. An ice path also runs along its top. So the men above 
have equal mobility with those on the ice below. And except on 
unusual days, an enemy has the wind in his face and side at best, 
and the sun in his eyes in the evening. Not the best conditions 
under which to pursue an assault.” 

The two spar men reefed in the single sail. One side of the 
triangular raft struck the pier with the slightest of jars. 
Immediately young tran appeared beneath the raft. They placed 
large stones in front of and behind the triple stone runners. 

— 195 —



Suaxus was there to greet them. 

“I have given your messages and my report to the 
Protector,” he intoned, after he and Hunnar had exchanged 
breath and shoulder-claps. “You are to bring them to his 
presence immediately.” 

“Has the Council been informed?” Hunnar asked. Ethan 
thought he detected more than mere curiosity in the knight's 
voice. It was hard to tell. Mestaped language was hard on 
inflection. Still, there was something going on here that was 
being kept from them. 

Suaxus grinned tightly. “The Landgrave in his wisdom felt 
that a private audience might better serve the present needs of 
the province . . . at the first. No point is there in shocking the 
other nobles with the sight of these strange ones.” 

“Come along, my friends,” said Hunnar. “It is a substantial 
walk, although perhaps not for you.” 

The harborfront had an easy familiarity to Ethan. He'd 
worked in dozens of such on half a hundred worlds. Some had 

— 196 —



been more, some less, civilized. All were concerned with the task 
of acquiring material wealth. 

Business proceeded all about them. Trading, bargaining, 
loading of rafts, unloading, fighting, pickpocketing, with 
everywhere masses of children somehow finding space to play. A 
seething mob of sentient greed. Oh well. The universe was not 
physically perfect, either. Hundreds of furry tran filled the 
harborfront with a warm, musky smell. It was not unpleasant, but 
in hot or humid air it could have been overpowering. 

Many of the locals paused in their business and chatter to 
eye the alien procession. But no one ventured to stare very long, 
or to pose comment that might be overheard. This was probably 
due, Ethan considered, to the presence of Hunnar and his 
soldiers. 

The children, however, were not so shy. Miniatures of the 
adults, many clad in just jackets or short coats in the gentle 
breeze, stopped and stared at them with wide cat eyes, compact 
fluffs of light gray fur. He had to forcibly resist an urge to cuddle 

— 197 —



them, contenting himself with an occasional pat on an 
adolescent head. 

“The townsfolk don't seem overly friendly,” September 
finally commented. 

“Being in my care,” Hunnar replied, “it is apparent to all 
that you are royal guests. It would not be seemly for you to 
mingle with the common folk.” 

“Well, I'm afraid I'm going to have to mingle for a minute, 
tradition notwithstanding.” And before Hunnar or anyone else 
could make a move to stop him, he'd broken away from the tight 
little group and sauntered over to halt before a small open shop. 

Stal Pommer, the elderly proprietor, looked across at the 
smooth-skinned alien, then helplessly to right and left. His 
normally loquacious neighbors studiously ignored him. 

“How much?” asked September, pointing. 

“I . . . uh, that is . . . noble sir, lord, I don't know that—”
“You don't know?” September interrupted, aghast with
mock outrage. “A shopkeeper who doesn't know the price of his


— 198 —



own merchandise? How do you stay in business?” He tugged at 
his doubled-up shirtfront. “I, as you can clearly see, desperately 
require a good warm coat. I'd like to purchase that one.” 

“Yes, lord,” Pommer stammered, regaining a little of his 
composure. He looked in vain for September's wings, then gave 
up in disbelief when he finally realized there was nothing 
between the big strange one's wrist and waist but empty air. 

“Don't just stand there gaping,” urged September 
impatiently. “Take it off the rack and let me try it on.” 

“Surely, lord, surely!” Pommer went over to the revolving 
wooden rack, drew off the indicated coat. He handed it to 
September. The latter stepped into it and drew the back half up 
over his shoulders. Then he bent and brought up the front. 
Holding it closed with a hand at the shoulder, he tied first the 
right and then the left side with the leather ties. The length was all 
right but it was a mite too broad. Ethan would have swam in it. 

“A little loose at the sides. As I have no need of a wingslit, 
why don't you just sew them shut? That should bring it in 

— 199 — 


enough. Leave me just enough room to get my arms through, 

eh? The leg holes are fine.” 

“Ye . . . yes, lord.” 

Under the watchful eyes of the soldiers, the rest of the 
humans, and half the children in Wannome, Stal Pommer set up 
the unnatural task of sewing closed the sides of the hessavar 
coat. 

“You will not, be able to open these now, lord, even to don 
the garment.” 

“That's the idea, tailor. It'll be like slipping into a turtle shell, 
but I'd use rivets if I had to. Clover, it's the first time I've been 
halfway comfortable since we came down.” 

Pommer ignored the itching temptation to inquire into the 
nature of turtles and rivets and concentrated on his sewing. The 
needle he used could have doubled as a small sword. 

Pommer stepped back. September swung his arms, did a 
few deep knee bends. 

“Not bad a'tall. Wish it had sleeves, though. How much?” 

— 200 — 


“Um . . . eighty foss,” suggested Pommer, hesitantly 
peeking around the alien bulk. 

Sir Hunnar growled softly and put his hand to sword hilt. 

“But for you noble lord,” he squeaked hurriedly, “only 
sixty, only sixty!” Hunnar grunted and went back to studying 
the pavement. 

“Well, I haven't any of the local lucre,” mused the big man, 
rubbing at the ice mat on his chin. That woke the old tailor up. 
For a minute there the human took on the appearance of a shifty 
type that transcended race, Landgrave's men-at-arms or no. 
“But maybe this will do.” He removed something from his shirt, 
blocking it from Hunnar's view with his body. “This,” he 
explained, “is combination knife and fork. Very simple 
instrument. Made of duralloy. Standard survival kit issue. We've 
others.” 

“What knife?” asked the oldster, intrigued. “I see only a 
little square of metal.” 

“Press this depression, here, in the center of the square.” 

— 201 — 


Pommer did so, hesitantly. He jumped a little when knife and 
fork sprang from opposite ends of the square. 

“I can't for the life of me imagine what you'll do with the 
fork,” said September conversationally. “But that blade ought to 
be useful in your work. It's a damnsight better than your best 
steel. And it'll never lose its edge, nor break. Should last you and 
your kids a long time, what? That survival stuff is built to take it.” 

The tailor didn't understand this odd creature completely. 
But be could tell the bargain of the age when he saw it. 

“Uh . . . it surely seems an equitable exchange, lord.” He 
was so excited and nervous he missed the square in his first grab 
at it. He pulled it out of sight quickly, before Hunnar or any of the 
other soldiers could see what it was. “Thank you, lord, thank 
you!” he muttered, bowing obsequiously. “Please visit my 
humble shop again.” 

Hunnar was fidgeting aimlessly. “Are you quite finished?” 

“Yes, thanks,” replied September. 

A familiar voice piped from the little knot of humanity. 

— 202 — 


“Hey, what about me?” said Walther. 

“What about you?” replied September coldly. He turned 
back to Hunnar. “This is the first time since we landed on your 
world that I've been warm. I couldn't wait any longer. Sorry if I 
upset your protocol. Say,” he finished innocently, “aren't we 
going to be late for that appointment?” 

“I should not be surprised,” Hunnar snapped, turning 
away. Ethan noticed that the big man kept the knight answering 
questions all the way up the hill. Probably to keep him from 
thinking about what September had paid the tailor with. It might 
occur to the knight later, but by then it would be a little late to 
invalidate the exchange. 

The walls of Wannome castle were surrounded by a deep, narrow 
moat. Empty, of course. This was spanned by a short drawbridge. 
The walls themselves rose vertically for fifteen meters and more, 

— 203 —



solid gray and black rock and masonry. Wannome had its share 
of craftsmen, Ethan reflected, and not only smiths. 

Two lancers flanked the sides of the bridge entrance. They 
wore coats of inscribed tooled leather with shields of leather and 
worked bronze. Each carried a slim, steel-tipped spear. The 
helmets had openings for the ears, and a nose-piece down the 
center. They swept out and down in a backside flare to protect 
the neck. 

The young tran who met them just inside the high gate was 
garbed in similar fashion. Only his leather was inlaid with silver in 
sharp relief and he wore a sword much like Hunnar's strapped to 
one leg. Also, his helmet was made from silver inlaid leather and 
had imitation silver flames worked along the crest. A four-square 
gray patch, a tiny double of the pennant at the pier, was sewn 
over his left breast. 

He arrived panting for breath. “The Landgrave bids you to 
him quick.” 

Sir Hunnar frowned; made a half turn to Ethan. “Not good. I 

— 204 —



hope we haven't gotten you off on his Lordship's bad side.” He 
glared over at September as though that worthy were personally 
responsible for any forthcoming dire consequence. September 
whistled cheerfully and smiled back. 

“Now I must ponder on a fair excuse,” Hunnar muttered. 

“Why not tell him the truth?” queried September as they 
followed the garishly-clad herald across a courtyard. “That I 
stopped to buy myself a coat because I was freezing to death?” 

“On a day like today, of pleasing warmth? No, even I still 
cannot realize that you are used to living in fire itself. But to 
confess that you stopped to converse with a tailor before the 
Landgrave himself. . .?” Hunnar looked horrified. “No, no! He 
would have you all spitted out of hand.” 

“Easier said than done,” replied September, unmoved. 
“Besides, if I'd frozen solid I wouldn't have presented much in 
the way of available conversation, would I?” 

“There is that,” admitted Hunnar seriously. “His Lordship 
does appreciate candor. We'll see. He may be so curious about 

— 205 —



you he will forget to be insulted.” 

They passed through another small open area. Ethan 
noticed a smith taking the dents out of a bronze shield in a 
glowing cubby off to their right. The attraction was in the fire. A 
few soldiers leaned idly at arms to the side of another door, a far 
cry from the ramrod-straight troops they'd encountered at the 
drawbridge entrance. Another bunch were seated in the shade 
playing what appeared to be a variant of the universal game — 
dice. 

They entered the inner keep, walked through a long hall to 
a wide staircase. 

Up they went, then a turn, then up another. They'd gone 
halfway up the second when there was a sudden squeal of 
surprise from behind. For a second Ethan thought they'd lost 
Colette. But she'd only strayed too far to the center and stepped 
onto the gleaming ice path. From there it was a short but fast 
slide back to the bottom step. Her dignity and one other part 
were bruised, but there was no lingering damage. 

— 206 — 


After remounting the stairs their guide made a hard left. 
They passed another set of ubiquitous guards. Then a right turn 
down another hallway, and another, and they entered a long, 
vaulted hall. A group of three tran awaited them at its far end. To 
one side a great fire blazed in a huge fireplace. The temperature 
in here might even be slightly above freezing, Ethan reflected. 

“No, I shall announce you,” the herald cautioned. He 
strode off down the long, brightly dyed rug that covered the bare 
stone floor. There was a seemingly endless table to each side, 
with chairs and odd writhing candlesticks. 

“Remember,” Hunnar whispered to Ethan as they walked 
slowly behind the herald, “he's tough and stringy, but not 
vicious. Not intentionally so, anyway. I'm told we've had harder 
rulers. At least he's not an idiot, like his half-brother.” 

“Will we get to meet this half-brother?” asked Williams 
clinically. 

“Not unless you've even stranger means of transport than 
your metal ship. When his fault became obvious, he was put to 

— 207 —



death.” 

“Dear me,” replied the schoolmaster, taken aback. “That 
seems rather extreme.” 

“Our way,” said Hunnar simply. 

“This is an extreme world,” added September. “You don't 
get supported by others here, what?” Then he spoke to Ethan. 
“Take your time, young feller, and say what you think best.” 

The herald had stopped ahead of them. Now he turned and 
boomed, “Sir Hunnar Redbeard, Squire Suaxus-dal-Jagger, and 
Squire Budjir Hotahg, with the party of outlanders!” 

“Outlanders?” September looked askance at the knight. 

“That is what they've been calling you,” Hunnar replied. 
“For lack of a better term. Slowly now; watch me.” 

They followed the knight the last dozen meters. Ethan had a 
moment to scan those awaiting them. Then Sir Hunnar bowed 
low, crossing his arms over his head and covering himself with 
his wings. They all imitated the movement as best they could, not 
rising until the knight had done so. 

— 208 — 


“My lord,” he began, “these folk crave mercy for intruding 
upon the province of the people. They seek protection and 
mayhap service. They are on a. . .” he hesitated for a second, “a 
pilgrimage to far parts of the world. Their metal sky-ship was 
disabled as though by the Father of Rifs and they are cast upon 
us for deliverance.” 

An old tall tran with solid gray fur put both hands on the 
arms of his throne. The Landgrave stood erect. Ethan noticed 
that the back of the throne was carved from what seemed to be a 
single unbroken pillar of ivory that rose all the way to the high 
roof. It was inscribed with symbols and etching as far up as he 
could see. The thing was as big as a good-sized tree. 

The Landgrave was dressed in flowing leather and silks. 
Hammered metal plate decorated with silver thread formed a 
complex, flashing breastplate. A single leather band with a bright 
metal rectangle of gold set in the forehead was all that passed for 
a crown. He did, however, wield an elaborately carved wooden 
staff nearly two and a half meters tall. It was thin, a polished 

— 209 —



mahogany-color, studded with cabochons in red and bright blue. 
A few faceted gems adorned the knob at the top. 

“Sir Ethan Frome Fortune,” declaimed Hunnar, pointing 
Ethan out before he could protest the undeserved title, “I present 
you to the right-true-and-just Torsk Kurdagh-Vlata, Landgrave 
of Sofold, and True Protector of Wannome.” 

“We are honored in the presence of your father's father and 
self, son-of-the-wind,” Ethan intoned, giving the rehearsed 
speech his best sales pitch. 

“You are welcome, outlanders,” the Landgrave replied. His 
voice was startlingly high for a tran, compared to those they'd 
already encountered. The Landgrave gestured to his right at an 
incredibly shriveled but bright-eyed old individual dressed 
entirely in black silks. He wore a black headband. 

“My personal adviser, Malmeevyn Eer-Meesach.” 

“The honor is mine, noble sirs,” responded the wizard 
smoothly. He was eyeing them with such obvious naked 
anticipation that he made Ethan a little nervous. That same stare 

— 210 —



had been applied to laboratory rats with uncertain futures. As it 
developed, he was doing the old tran an injustice. 

“And this,” continued Kurdagh-Vlata, turning to his left, “is 
my daughter and only cub, the Elfa Kurdagh-Vlata.” 

The gesture was directed at a surprisingly lissome and 
nearly naked female tran. She gazed down at Ethan with a stare 
far more disconcerting than the wizard's. Considering the 
temperature in the great hall, her garb seemed an open invitation 
to pneumonia. 

Something hit him a sharp rap in the shin and he spun. 
September smiled at him. 

“Time enough later for sight-seeing, me lad,” be murmured 
in Terranglo. “No wonder friend Hunnar was convinced of our 
similarity.” 

“What?” he said brilliantly. He returned his gaze to the 
throne, found the Landgrave watching him impatiently. 

“Your companions,” whispered Hunnar urgently. 

“Oh, yes.” He stepped to one side and made a grand 

— 211 — 


sweeping gesture. “Um, Sir Skua September. . .” 

September performed a bow full of intricate hand gestures. 
It confused Ethan but the Landgrave appeared delighted. 

“Hellespont du Kane, a . . . ah . . . merchant of great renown 
on his world. His daughter, Colette du Kane. . .” 

Du Kane executed a marvelously supple bow that surprised 
both Ethan and September. Colette hesitated, then followed with 
an awkward curtsey. 

“And Walther, um. . .” 

“You're still not going to learn my last name, buddy, until 
it's too late to do you any good,” the kidnapper muttered in 
Terranglo. 

“Yes?” prompted the Landgrave. 

Ethan looked uncertainly to September. 

“A criminal in our custody,” said the big man easily. “One 
not to be trusted and to be watched every moment. He secreted 
himself aboard our ship and. . .” 

“It's all a lie” shouted. Walther abruptly. “They're the 

— 212 — 


criminals, not me! I was taking them all to justice, when. . .” 

September turned on him. “Quiet, punk,” he said in 
Terranglo. “I can break your head right now. The Landgrave and 
I can argue about who was telling the truth afterwards. I'll let 
your spirit know how it comes out.” 

The little kidnapper shut up. 

“Sir Hunnar?” queried the Landgrave. “What means this 
outburst?” 

“I believe what Sir Ethan and Sir Skua say to be the right 
truth, your Lordship. The hysterical one is evil and clever.” 

“Well then, can we not do our new-welcomed guests a 
service? Order him dispatched out of hand!” 

“Ah, that is not the way of our people, your Lordship,” put 
in Ethan hastily. “He must present himself and his crimes before 
a special machine. The machine, being impartial and, 
unemotional, will give justice fairly.” 

“Where is justice if your emotions are not involved?” the 
Landgrave countered. “Not to mind. We have but just met and 

— 213 —



here find I discussing the fine points of jurisprudence. Other 
matters attend. I welcome you as friends and allies. You shall be 
given rooms and whatever you need for personal comfort. 
Tonight dine with my knights and I. Your home is here now.” 
Whereupon he sat down with great dignity and obvious 
satisfaction. 

Ethan paused. “There is one matter we should discuss now, 
your Lordship. The question of aid for our continuing journey 
westward.” 

“Journey? Journey? What is this, Sir Hunnar?” said the 
Landgrave gruffly. “Squire Suaxus, you said nothing to me of a 
journey.” 

“I did not have time, my Lord, for—” 

Sir Hunnar broke in “They do not understand, my Lord. 
Remember, they are truly from another world.” 

“Be that as it may,” said Kurdagh-Vlata stiffly, “we know 
nothing of moving from one world to another.” 

“That is so, my Lord,” continued Hunnar. “Yet they say 

— 214 — 


their folk have a town aways from Wannome. 'Tis there they wish 

to travel. Some eight or nine thousand satch.” 

“An afternoon jaunt, yes.” 

“But if they could reach their friends, Lord, they might 
bring more metal and perhaps other—” 

“Enough!” snorted the Landgrave. “They would no doubt 
require a raft for this journey, perhaps several?” 

“Possibly more than one, Lord.” 

“With full crews, and provisions, and soldiers to protect 
from pirates?” 

“True, my Lord, but—” 

“'Tis out of the question!” 

“But your Lordship—” began Ethan. 

“They are gifting us with their vessel, my Lord,” said 
Hunnar. “A veritable mountain of metal. Without obligation. 
'Twould pay for such a trip many, many times over.” 

“Yes it would. 'Tis generous of them, to give away what 
they can no longer use. Nor protect.” 

— 215 — 


Ethan started to protest, but guessed rightly that was just 
what the Landgrave was hoping he'd do. He kept silent. 

“Absolutely impossible — at the moment. Perhaps in a 
malet or so. After we have treated with the abominators,” 

“Yes, my Lord!” boomed a huge voice from the back of the 
hall. “How are we to deal with the abominators?” 

Everyone turned to the source of those stentorian tones. 

A tran they hadn't seen before was striding toward them. 
He was resplendent in azure and emerald silks, overlaid with fine 
leather bindings and straps. His beard was longer than Hunnar's 
and tinged with white over the steel-gray. 

The eyes were sunken deep under hairy brows. As he drew 
closer another aspect of his person was made clear. Here was the 
first really fat tran they'd encountered. 

“Darmuka Brownoak,” announced the herald, rather after 
the question. “Prefect of Wannome!” 

“What's all this mean?” September whispered to Hunnar. 

“Darmuka is prefect of the city and a powerful member in 

— 216 — 


Council besides,” the knight replied. “A very forceful and 
stubborn individual. Also ambitious and greedy. And very 
wealthy, which in the long run 'tis more important than all the 
others. There are few richer than he. The Landgrave is one, of 
course. Of the others, some support him, some Darmuka.” 

“Hmm. Political conflict,” murmured Ethan to no one in 
particular. “I thought the Landgrave had absolute power?” 

“In all decisions the Landgrave has final power,” said 
Hunnar. “This does not mean he imprudently acts against the 
wishes of a majority of influential citizens.” The knight quieted as 
the prefect came within hearing distance. 

Darmuka put one foot up on the dais and surveyed the 
gathering with interest and undisguised contempt. 

“So these are the strange ones who come on a raft of flying 
metal, eh?” be said almost challengingly. “They surely are 
strange strangers.” 

“You're no interstellar sex god yourself, fatso,” countered 
September. Ethan winced, but the prefect merely grunted 

— 217 — 


satisfaction. 

“There will be no insulting of guests in my presence,” 
declared Kurdagh-Vlata rather lamely. 

“Insult?” The prefect put both paws delicately on his chest 
and drew himself erect. “I, insult a visitor to the Council 
Chamber? I?” He turned and looked intently around the room 
then, so hard that the herald and even the Landgrave couldn't 
resist doing the same. The prefect stared at the ceiling and even 
raised the corner of a throw fur to glance beneath it. 

“By the by,” he continued in mock surprise, “where is the 
Council? I do believe a quorum is not present. Here we have six 
alien creatures of unknown power and intentions. They bring 
with them a ship of more forged metal than Wannome has seen 
since the Great Sack. And not a member of the Council present 
. . . other than my poor, hastily arrived self, of course.” He looked 
innocently at the Landgrave. “Is this in accordance with the 
Charter of Council? Perhaps the Council should be called into 
session, to discuss their absence. Since they are not here, it 

— 218 —



cannot be debated. Dear me, a paradox.” 

“I did not feel it necessary yet to trouble the full Council 
with such an odd matter,” replied Kurdagh-Vlata. It sounded 
mighty feeble to Ethan. 

“I see,” said Brownoak. “As is well known, his Lordship's 
wisdom exceeds all of ours combined. I bow to his decision.” 
Darmuka executed a sloppy half-bow. “However, as I entered, I 
think 'twas mentioned something about ‘dealing with the 
Horde.’ Would you say, milord, that anything which relates to 
that matter is of more than odd nature? Worthy perhaps even for 
discussion by Council, as it does affect every adult and cub in the 
great land of Sofold?” 

“Yes, surely,” Kurdagh-Vlata responded. 

“Then might it not be prudent to postpone any discussion 
of matters relating to such until full Council has been gathered?” 
Kurdagh-Vlata said nothing and Darmuka prompted, “Is this 
agreed, milord?” 

“I . . . oh, very well, Darmuka! Confound your impudence!” 

— 219 —



He stood abruptly and struck the floor twice with the base of the 
jeweled staff. Sir Hunnar and Darmuka both bowed. The humans 
copied them. The Landgrave then retired, taking his daughter 
and advisor with him. 

“'Tis good to see you returned safe and whole, Sir Hunnar,” 
said Drownoak. “Did your expedition include any successful 
massacres?” 

“We met no one, so we fought with no one, spineless 
messenger,” replied the knight stiffly. He smiled slightly at the 
other. But this time a flash of white was visible between his lips. 
Clearly he was controlling himself with an effort. 

“How very fortunate. I should be distressed to see one of 
our finest knights injured over such an odd matter. Especially 
with a crisis approaching. Good day to you, outlanders.” He 
bowed toward Ethan. “We shall undoubtedly see more of each 
other.” 

With a fluttering of sea-colored silk and rich brown hides, 
the prefect stalked off down the hall. 

— 220 — 


“Well,” said Hellespont, “I may not have the grasp of the 
local language that you gentlemen possess, but that chap is of a 
type I need no words to recognize.” 

“He's a character, all right,” September commented in 
Trannish, nodding. He looked over at Hunnar and grinned. “You 
two aren't exactly blood-brothers, I take it.” 

“The Brownoak has less blood for battle than a jelly-
moss,” spat the knight, staring after the other. “That one so 
bereft of heart should wield so much power. . . Worse, he is an 
unconscionable butcher who would dress the whole province for 
rape, content in the rightness of his way!” 

He sighed. “Come. I will take you to rooms. And there is 
something of great significance you should be informed of 
before we can discuss your journey any further. Or before you 
are put before the Council . . . I will see to the transfer of your 
food to your apartments. The Council, however, will expect you 
to dine with them. Can you eat our food?” 

“It's a long way from the Honeybucket Room in the Grand 

— 221 —



Hotel on Hivehom, but I think we can manage,” replied 
September. 

“That one,” said Ethan, reminding Hunnar of Walther's 
presence, “should dine alone in his room, with a guard in 
attendance. One who is not susceptible to bribery.” 

Walter shook his head but said nothing. “I'm even smaller 
than the lady du Kane and you're all frightened of me.” 

September just laughed. 

“I will see to it,” said Sir Hunnar. 

— 222 —



Chapter Six 

Ethan's room was neatly furnished. He suspected his 
accommodations were fancy by local standards. If Wannome 
was a typical province capital, then the trade prospects for the 
planet were far better than anyone had guessed. Why, in 
precious metalwork alone . . . and these marvelous coats. 

Now, if he could only find a way to file a report!. . . 

The big canopied bed had damask-like draperies and 
covers. He wondered how such material was made. All of the 
wealthy tran they'd encountered so far had been clad in similar 
material. Neatly worked, too. He doubted the material came from 
silkworms. If there were insects on this world they kept 
themselves scarce. Any self-respecting silkworm would turn to a 
small lump of frozen flesh in a short day. And they didn't seem 
advanced enough for artificial fabric. Another mystery to unravel. 

The bed was probably intended for a single occupant, but it 

— 223 —



was three times the width of any single bed he'd ever slept on. 
The wooden chest at its foot was intricately carved. A huge 
mirror covered much of one wall, no doubt just the right size for 
an adult tran. 

A real double bed must be an ocean of morphean comfort. 

The door bolted solidly — from the inside only, he noted 
although the bolt itself was made of hardwood and not metal. 
Wannome's designers had left nothing to chance in creating 
their guest suites. The door would hold well enough to keep out 
the casual thief, but not well enough to resist a concerted charge 
from a couple of well-muscled guardsmen. 

He also noticed a small but elaborately set whetstone. It 
was placed near the foot of the bed and could be operated with 
one foot. Its purpose escaped him for a moment. It was too low 
to conveniently sharpen a knife, for example. Then he realized it 
was for putting an edge on one's own chiv. 

That must be the normal routine on awakening, he mused. 
Rise early, wash, clean, and sharpen your feet. 

— 224 — 


Something else was troubling him more, until he chanced 
to open the heavy chest. It was filled with thick, wide furs. They 
weren't as smooth-looking as the odd diaper-like coats everyone 
wore, but they were heavy and warm. There was no fireplace in 
the room, and the single window was open to the sky. Without 
the furs there would be no way he could sleep through the 
temperature drop at night. 

He walked over to the window, which was high and narrow. 
There was a complicated wooden shutter arrangement that 
would serve to keep out the wind if not the cold. 

It wouldn't keep out a determined enemy, though. Then he 
looked out and down. He'd forgotten how many steps they'd 
mounted. 

The south side of the island was precipitous here, and the 
castle of Wannome was built right to the edge. It was a killing fall 
to the ice below. With a little imagination he could almost see 
waves breaking against the cliff. Perhaps they had once, millions 
of years ago. This side of the castle, at least, was invulnerable. 

— 225 —



Leaning out into the biting wind, he squinted and saw that 
the high cliff continued westward for a fair distance before 
dropping down to the ice. An occasional flash of green broke the 
whiteness. 

A look at the sky. Let's see, he thought. The tran have their 
evening meal at sunset. That should leave him a couple of local-
time hours before he'd be expected to put in an appearance. 
When he had time it might be a good idea to revisit that tailor. 
Maybe he could make underclothes as well as coats. The outfit 
he'd been wearing on the Antares when he'd been abducted — 
was that one or two thousand years ago? — was not conducive 
to strenuous living. 

The special survival parka he was wearing was holding up 
beautifully. But below the surface, so to speak, things were 
beginning to get a bit raunchy. There was a knock at the door. 

“It's open,” he said without turning. 

The voice that replied did make him turn. It said, “Good 
wind,” and wasn't human. 

— 226 — 


The Elfa Kurdagh-Vlata, heiress to the throne of Wannome, 
closed the door gently behind her. Her caution was 
disconcerting. She bolted it. That was ominous. 

“I apologize for these rooms.” Her speech was husky. 
“They were the best father could do on such short notice. And 
we've little idea of your needs.” 

Ethan walked away from the window and not incidentally 
put the bed between them. If that was supposed to faze her she 
didn't show it. She walked over and sat on the end. The human 
contour analog was astounding. She drew swirls in the silken 
coverlet. 

“Do you really come from another world?” she asked 
breathlessly. Her outfit was done up like holiday packaging by a 
clumsy six-year-old. The fact that the skin beneath was covered 
with light gray fur made it appear no less naked. Excepting the 
feline head and broad feet, and those piercing vertical pupils, she 
might have passed for a tridee starlet clad in skin-tight mink. 

“Yes, we do,” he replied eventually, with some emphasis on 

— 227 —



the “we.” If she was expecting him to prolong the conversation 
she was sorely mistaken. He couldn't for a moment forget that 
her father was not only a grouch with a reported short temper, 
but also had the power to remove head from shoulders with a 
wave of his hand. Until he knew a great deal more about local 
mores, he was going to be as quiet as a monk. This was no place 
to depend on mestaped information. 

Besides, she was as tall as he was and much broader, which 
made for rather an intimidating personality. 

“It's surprising. You're not so terribly different from us, it 
seems,” she said, her flashing yellow eyes fixed on him. 

Dammit, if only she weren't so farking attractive! Now 
watch that, he told himself. She isn't even of the same species. Of 
course, there were aberrant humans who had a thing for other 
species. He knew one chap who. . . 

Quit that! 

“I think this is all very exciting,” she said finally into the 
growing silence. The finger paused in its silken whirlpool. “You 

— 228 —



don't even have any fur on your bodies, except on top.” 

“Actually,” Ethan responded, trying to be scientific, “that's 
not entirely true. We do have some elsewhere.” He was about to 
mention “chest” when she interrupted him. 

“Really? Let me see.” She made a spring that carried her 
halfway across the bed. 

In dream-troubles most folk are the epitome of suaveness 
and sophistication. Ethan was no exception. Reality — cold 
reality, to say the least — had too many improvisations. 

First of all, he couldn't quite decide whether she was trying 
to kill him or kiss him. Apparently loveplay on this world was as 
aggressive as its climate. 

He'd have told her to stop it, but his mouth kept getting full 
of gray fur. It seemed certain she was trying to bite him. At least, 
those four major canines gave that impression. Now, if someone 
like that Darmuka fellow or her father were to stroll in, bolt or no 
bolt. . . 

He redoubled his efforts. Putting both hands out to push her 

— 229 —



away, his palms encountered something soft and warm. Human 
or not, it wasn't a shoulder. She moved even faster. Shifting his 
hands, he shoved frantically. 

The result was both gratifying and educational. 

She seemed to fly off the bed, land on her feet, and slam 
into the far wall, where she crumpled slowly to the floor. For a 
horrible moment he thought she'd hit too hard. If he'd killed the 
Landgrave's only cub, that would remove all the uncertainties 
from their immediate future. 

Fortunately, she was only shaken, and stayed conscious. 

“M . . . my, you are strong!” 

He was torn between offering her a hand up and refusing 
further body contact. “Are you okay?” 

“Y . . . yes, I think so, good knight.” She rose slowly and felt 
the back of her head and neck. Then she did some rearranging 
on her clothing, which had become delightfully disheveled. With 
a shoulder against the wall for support, she looked at him oddly. 

“I hadn't expected quite so . . . overwhelming a rejection,” 

— 230 — 


she murmured. 

“I'm sorry,” Ethan replied, unable to forgo some sort of 
apology. “Our situation is very serious and it's hard for me to 
take anything lightly right now. I'm afraid, I, uh, don't know my 
own strength.” 

“Well I certainly do.” She blinked. “I shall retire and 
consider this further,” she said cryptically. “I will see you again, 
Sir Ethan. Good day.” 

Putting hand to forehead to wipe away the freezing sweat, 
he became aware that it was shaking badly. He grabbed the 
offending member. That only made the whole arm shake. Its 
companion was none too steady either. He let out a long breath, 
then put both hands under his backside and sat on them. That 
stopped the shaking and kept them warm too boot, but now he 
couldn't do anything about the sweat. 

Hopefully he'd handled the situation correctly. Now he'd 
worry about Elfa's reaction and future feelings toward them. It 
was a damnable thing to have happen. 

— 231 — 


He was still pondering and sitting when September walked 
in. 

“Well, young feller-me-lad,” he began, glancing back the 
way he'd come, “I just passed her highness in the hallway. 
Seems you've made something of a conquest, what?” 

“Or a mortal enemy. I'm not sure. It was more on the order 
of an opening skirmish. Hey, how come you're sure she came 
from my room?” 

“You've just confirmed it.” 

“It might have been a veiled murder attempt, too, you 
know.” 

“I understand the penalty for playing around with the 
offspring of nobility is—” 

“Dammit, Skua, I wasn't playing around!” he said 
indignantly. “She was playing around with me. That is—” 

“—death by slow torture, with all sorts of intriguing local 
variants on time-honored themes. Hunnar's been filling me in on 
some blanks, since you were occupied.” 

— 232 — 


“Oh God. Does he know too?” 

“I don't think so. Someone was sent to fetch you, tried your 
door. Finding it bolted, they assumed you wanted privacy. Good 
thing, too.” 

“Phew! Say, I found out something interesting, too. We 
were right about body composition. Almost certainly their 
skeletal system is less solid than ours, or whatever the proper 
medical term is. I gave her what I thought was a sharp shove and 
ended up throwing her halfway across the room.. Scared the hell 
out of me.” 

“Really?” grinned September, the gold ring in his ear 
flashing. “Tell me more. Are they covered with that fur all over? 
Or are there certain places where—” 

“For Harmony's sake, Skua!” Ethan said disgustedly, 
“nothing happened.” 

“Then why'd you find it necessary to toss her across the 
room?” he pressed, leering. 

“I didn't find it necessary,” Ethan continued patiently. 

— 233 — 


“That's what I'm trying to tell you. She was so much lighter than 

I expected.” 

“That ought to be interesting.” 

“Will you stop, already?” 

“Okay, young feller. Relax. I'm just joshing you,” 
September continued in a serious tone. “So despite their greater 
size, their actual body weight is less. Then a good-sized human 
like yourself is probably as strong as most of 'em.” 

“Not necessarily,” said Ethan. “Just because they're lighter 
doesn't mean they're not stronger. There's an awful lot of muscle 
on those frames. I just took her by surprise.” 

“Still,” considered September, “in any kind of wrestling 
match, you'd have a tremendous advantage. Useful.” 

“What did Hunnar tell you?” Ethan sat back on the bed 
and curled his hands behind his head. “By the way, did everyone 
get single rooms?” 

“Yes. Except the du Kanes. Colette refused to be alone, so 
they arranged for her to have a bed in with her father. That mold 

— 234 —



Walther has equally sumptuous quarters — only his door bolts 
from the outside and there are bars on the windows. Not that 
he's going anywhere that way. Have you looked outside? I 
wouldn't care to try a descent without a good strong cable and 
crampons.” 

“In this wind?” said Ethan. “I wouldn't like to try it even 
then.” 

“Hmm. Now according to Hunnar, most of the people on 
his world, hereabouts anyway, are peaceful. Aside from fun 
things like swiping someone's daughter now and then or bashing 
in a few heads. Fine, upstanding folk.” 

“Me, I want a nice quiet bar or nullball course with my old 
clubs and shooting companions,” said Ethan dreamily. A blast of 
frozen air cut his cheeks. “Okay, they're all charming fellows. 
So?” 

“I said most,” September continued, inspecting the 
wooden chest at the foot of the bed, “There are also, it appears, 
bands of nomadic barbarians. Usually these do no more than 

— 235 —



attack an occasional raft, sometimes successfully, sometimes 
not.” 

“There had to be a reason for the castle and the soldiers,” 
said Ethan. 

“Other than protecting everyone from his neighbor, you 
mean? Sure. Anyway, over many years a couple of these bands 
have grown large enough to acquire the status of nations in 
themselves. They migrate on a fairly predictable circuit, living off 
tribute from the peoples they encounter. Hunnar told me what 
it's like when they move in. It doesn't make for pleasant listening. 

”In addition to the standard tribute of money and food and 
clothing and such, they take over the town or raft or whatever for 
about a week, local-time. They take what they like from the 
shops and aren't above broiling the occasional shopkeeper who 
might venture an objection. Raping or carrying off the local girls 
who haven't been safely hid, killing a few kids for fun . . . oh, 
they're your usual happy primitive innocents, free from the 
corrupting bane of civilization! 

— 236 — 


“If there's any hint of opposition or resistance, the town is 
put to the torch and the entire populace down to the youngest 
cub massacred. Excepting a few women, they don't even take 
slaves, so they've no compunction about killing. No wonder 
everyone elects to pay tribute.” 

Ethan grunted. “They sound almost human.” 

“Don't they? They move in long columns perpendicular to 
the wind and sometimes three and four ships deep. They've 
dozens of sleds, on which they spend their whole lives. Even 
carry livestock and feed for same . . . the males take turns 
running scouting patrols, but the rafts never stop, except when 
they've moved in someplace.” 

“Like army ants on Terra,” said Ethan. 

“Yes, or Turabisi Delphius from that new thranx world, 
Drax IV. Hunnar likens them to other elemental forces they have 
to endure, like the wind and lightning. The nomads are the same 
people physically. But culturally and maybe even mentally 
they're throwbacks to an earlier, less civilized age.” 

— 237 — 


“How often do they have to undergo this?” Ethan asked, 
staring out the window. He could hear the full-bodied wind 
howling outside. The window framed an unmarred rectangle of 
glacier blue. 

“About every couple of years, sometimes three.” 

Ethan looked away from the sky. “The Horde that everyone 
keeps mentioning.” 

“That's it,” September nodded. “This group has been 
taking tribute from the people of Sofold for a hundred years or 
so. Also most of their neighboring provinces. Seems we arrived 
at an interesting time. Hunnar and a lot of the younger knights 
are sick of paying tribute. They want to fight.” 

“That sounds like something they've been through before,” 
said Ethan. “Have they got any chance of getting permission?” 

“Well, as you would figure, such a proposition has to be 
approved by this so-called Council. By themselves, Hunnar and 
his fellow bucks would just amuse the moneybags. But there's a 
chap named Balavere the Longax who's the number one 

— 238 — 


general-type in this dump and he's thrown in with 'em. Hunnar 
says he's convinced Wannome has a fifty-fifty chance of standing 
an attack and siege.” 

Ethan whistled. “Not very good odds with the survival of 
your entire people at stake.” 

“Maybe not. But this old boy has gone through something 
like twenty-odd tribute periods himself. He's good and fed up. As 
you might guess, the opposition to the fighters is composed of 
those who have the least to lose. Country-mayors and growers, 
this prefect fella Darmuka, others. Balavere and Hunnar have the 
support of a lot of the local merchants and traders. During 
tribute time the country folk are spared much of the burning and 
rampaging that goes on, since the barbarians naturally 
concentrate where most of the people and goods are, meaning 
Wannome.” 

“I'm better at haggling prices,” said Ethan. “How do our 
host's chances look?” 

“Well,” said the big man, sitting down on the edge of the 

— 239 — 


bed, “as is typical in such cultures, most of the able-bodied 
males on the island have had some sort of combat training, 
however informal. Hunnar says they can put about eight 
thousand armed men in the field. Of these, maybe two thousand 
have had some form of advanced military training. There's a 
standing permanent garrison of about five hundred, under the 
direction of some fifty or so knights aided by about a hundred 
squires and another hundred squire-apprentices.” 

“Three thousand soldiers and five thousand militia,” said 
Ethan. September nodded. 

“And this Horde?” 

“At least four times that.” 

Ethan said nothing. 

“According to Hunnar,” September continued, “this tribe 
is led by an especially nasty son-of-a-bitch with the charming 
moniker of Sagyanak the Death, Scourge of Vragan. Vragan was 
a small hunting community they razed about ten years ago. The 
Death has the interesting hobby of taking folk he doesn't care for 

— 240 —



and nailing them to the ice. They have these short lances 
mounted on tiny double stone runners, with little sails. The Death 
and other assorted uppers go upwind until they can barely see 
the stake-out. Then they set their lances and release them. 

“By the time they reach the condemned, those sail-
powered lances have built up enough speed to drive halfway up 
someone's body. The head of the victim is always propped up so 
he or she can see the lances coming. Isn't that cute?” 

“I wish you could have saved that little anecdote 'til after 
dinner,” Ethan mumbled. He believed he had a reasonably 
strong stomach, but this world . . . “Okay, you've convinced me 
he's not a nice fella. What does Hunnar want from us? He wants 
something, that's sure, or he wouldn't have spent all that time 
telling you about it. Nor describing what a bastard this Sagyanak 
is. Sales technique. And he said there was something important 
he wanted us to know about before dinner tonight.” 

“Good lad,” said September approvingly. “Here it is, then: 
As you would expect, Hunnar and this General Balavere are 

— 241 —



being very careful about the whole idea. They'd much rather 
convince the Council that tribute isn't a paying proposition and 
it's more logical to fight. But if they can do it by creating so 
much emotion for fighting that no one will speak against them, 
then by the Black Hole, they'll do it that way.” 

“Which means?” asked Ethan, digging his toes into the 
warmth of a fur blanket. 

“That when they put their proposition forward, it would be 
appreciated muchly if we spring up like good chappies and 
swear to fight to the last dribble of blood alongside 'em.” 

“Umm. Don't you mean that they want us to support their 
idea of fighting?” 

“No,” said September bluntly. “We are to agree to pick up 
swords and spears and make suitable hacking motions alongside 
our Sofoldian brethren.” 

Ethan sat up quickly. All thoughts of napping remained 
stuck to the blankets. 

“They want us to fight? But why? We're not citizens of 

— 242 — 


Sofold and we're surely not warriors . . . at least, I'm not.” 

“That will change,” September replied placidly. “While the 
locals seem to have responded to our appearance with a great 
deal of calm, Hunnar assures me that we've created quite a 
sensation. Otherwise their attitude might lead one to think that 
strange aliens dropped in on them every day. Hunnar would like 
the opposition to believe we're some kind of omen, what? The 
signs for battle are auspicious and all that sort of thing. . . But if 
we cower in the castle while the real fighting is taking place, all 
potential psychological lift will go down the tubes. So we'll be 
expected to march happily into the action, spending the blood of 
the enemy left and right with mysterious alien devices. Eh, me 
lad?” 

Ethan had gotten stuck in a mental cul-de-sac several 
sentences back. 

“Fight?” he murmured wonderingly to himself. “I can 
handle a nullgee club or a tennis racket. And I'm not bad at 
ricochet golf, if I do say so. But as to standing up and 

— 243 — 


exchanging ax blows with one of these super-muscled 
pussycats—” 

“In return for this minor physical but major moral 
support,” September continued smoothly, “Hunnar has 
promised us all the aid we need to reach Arsudun.” 

Ethan threw up his hands. “Oh great! Assuming that any of 
us are left alive to take advantage of his munificence. I suppose in 
that event he'll personally see to a splendid funeral cortege. We'll 
be deposited with much weeping and heaving of anguished 
breasts at the foot of a reluctant Landgrave. I know one thing. 
There'll be no smile on my corpse. Suppose we don't go along?” 

He expected September to counter with something like 
“we can't refuse,” or “they'll chop off our fingers until we 
agree.” His reply was a surprise. 

“Nothing.” He shook his head slowly. “They'll just do the 
best they can to persuade the others, without our commitment. If 
we want, we can leave for Brass Monkey tomorrow and make 
our own way as best we can.” 

— 244 — 


“Oh.” He thought again of Hunnar's face when, at last, the 
chance to fight had been mentioned. “When are you going to 
ask the others?” 

“I already have. Colette du Kane thought it over real hard. 
Then she said we had no alternative. I'm beginning to think that 
girl's got a mind as sharp as her torso is flabby. . . You know how 
the old man is. Odd fella. One minute he was trying to tell me 
about how he's got to take care of himself so's he can get back 
to his bloody flowers, the next it's ‘down with the cowardly 
invaders, up Sofold!’ He went along. . . Walther said no, not 
surpri—” 

Ethan was surprised himself. “You asked him?” 

“Sure I asked him. He started to say no, but changed his 
mind. Just wanted to make it unanimous.” The big man smiled. 

“And Williams?” Ethan was trying to visualize the 
schoolmaster in helmet and armor with battle-ax in hand. The 
picture served to cheer him. 

“He's been holed up with that top-dog wizard . . . what's his 

— 245 —



name? . . . Eer-Meesach. Barely looked up from their confab long 
enough to nod at me before diving back into a stream of chatter I 
couldn't follow. Don't know if he's even aware of what I asked. 
One of us seems to have made a real pal among the locals.” 

“It's hardly surprising,” said Ethan thoughtfully. “Think of 
the things someone like this Eer-Meesach could learn from a 
Commonwealth plain citizen — let alone a teacher. We can use 
an open-minded native or two on our side. A man of science is 
helpless by himself, but two of them constitute an entity capable 
of ignoring starvation, freezing, and prospects of imminent death 
just by chatting about some item of mutual interest,” he 
concluded. 

“Really?” mocked September, caterpillar eyebrows 
arching. “Are you in that category too, young feller-me-lad?” 

“Who, me?” He chuckled. “Right now my greatest 
scientific aspiration is to annihilate the biggest steak in this 
quadrant. With Hammond's barbecue sauce, crisp-turned 
reshka, and a bottle of Lafitte Calm Nursery Blend '96, or maybe 

— 246 —



'97. Speaking of which,” he continued, turning on his side, “what 
are we going to do for food tonight?” 

“A question of real significance,” agreed September, 
nodding. “I suggested to Hunnar that we use our own food from 
the boat. Looked positively shocked, he did. Wouldn't hear of it. 
Claimed our alien odors and smells might make some important 
councilman ill. I pointed out that if one of us threw our dinner all 
over said councilman it wouldn't do his contingent any good 
either. He wouldn't buy it. Said it would be a poor way of 
showing our solidarity if we refused to tear meat with them . . . at 
least, that's how I mangle the metaphor he used. . . So we're 
stuck with whatever the chef has in mind. I didn't have a chance 
to wangle a copy of the menu. You said we shouldn't have any 
trouble handling the food, right?” 

“I hope not,” Ethan replied thoughtfully. “I don't anticipate 
any, from what I remember. That doesn't rule out the possibility 
of there being one or two just bad goodies in the banquet. I'd 
advise sticking to one or two plain dishes and not trying to play 

— 247 —



the interstellar gourmet. Probably most of it will be hearty and 
bland. Did you happen to find out anything about local 
etiquette?” 

September smiled. “You eat with your fingers. Beyond that 
you improvise. And armor is optional.” 

“I asked Hunnar about the local manners myself,” Ethan 
mentioned to September. He was nervously trying to adjust the 
brilliant gold sash that swept diagonally across his brown 
spotted-fur dress jacket. The royal tailor had gone through a 
triple funk trying to fit them with clothing suitable to the 
occasion. Since, with the exception of September, the humans 
were as tall as tran adults but not nearly as broad, any formal 
outfit was big enough to swim in. Stitching and cutting at 
children's clothing with near lightspeed, the royal tailor had 
somehow managed to outfit them all. 

— 248 — 


September whispered back at Ethan. “Don't worry about 
it.” He winked in a way Ethan didn't fancy. “Just watch our 
neighbors and do as they do. I'm told that fighting for a choice 
section of haunch is permissible, so long as no one spills blood 
on his neighbor or gravy on the Landgrave.” 

Du Kane plucked at his modified coat unsteadily, but 
Colette seemed to have him well under control. As to her own 
“gown,” it at least served to minimize her bulkiness — though it 
would pass unnoticed among the broad-beamed tran. As to its 
composition, all she could say was that it itched. 

Ahead, sounds of Trannish chatter mingled with rough 
bellows of good humor, defiance, anger, outrage, enjoyment. 
Occasionally a sonorous belch would rise above all. 

There was also music from stringed instruments, drums, 
and something close to a profoundly sick oboe. Odors of broiled 
meat and boiled vegetables tweaked other senses. Admiration 
and uncertainty at the presence of strange visitors apparently did 
not extend to waiting dinner for them. 

— 249 — 


Hunnar met them outside the entrance to the Great Hall. 
He appeared more nervous than Ethan could recall. 

“There you are. By the great wild Rifs, what took you all so 
long? I was starting to believe that perhaps after all you had 
decided to. . . to go your way by another path.” 

“Not a chance, Hunnar old man or whatever,” said 
September, clapping the knight on the shoulders. It didn't faze 
the tran, Ethan noted with a twinge of envy. 

Hunnar looked past the big man. “Where is the little quiet 
one?” 

“Oh, Walther's here too,” replied September, jerking a 
thumb to the rear. 

Even in splendid silks and furs the kidnapper still managed 
a ratty appearance. 

“I don't think Huanar means him,” added Ethan, looking 
over their little assemblage. “Where's Williams?” 

September had a glance himself. “Yes, where is—” 

“Rest at ease, gentlemen, here I am.” The familiar voice 

— 250 — 


came from the far end of the hall. The schoolteacher appeared 
with the wizard, Eer-Meesach. Williams smiled apologetically as 
he drew next to them. 

“I'm sorry for my tardiness, friends. I hope I haven't upset 
anything.” 

“No, no,” said September. “Confound it, man, must you 
apologize for everything?” 

“I'm sorry,” Williams replied automatically. “Malmeevyn 
has given me some information that could be of great import.” 
The wizard bowed slightly. 

“Ya, sure,” grunted September, unimpressed. 

“'Tis time,” interrupted Hunnar, before the teacher could 
continue. “Follow me and be at your ease. I don't believe many 
will stare at you anyway. In that respect your arriving late is 
beneficial. But those with interested eyes will note who you enter 
with.” 

Malmeevyn obviously had standards of his own, because 
he'd left them already. As they started in Ethan sidled over to 

— 251 —



Williams. 

“What's your news?” 

“What do you know of Rex Plutonicus?” whispered the 
schoolmaster. 

“Rex Plutonicus?” Ethan's brow crinkled. He looked 
knowledgeably at the other. “That's the monster volcano they 
spotted on the first survey, isn't it? Active, about eleven 
kilometers high? I didn't know you'd taken a terrain tape.” 

“I didn't,” Williams replied. “That was broadcast as part of 
a general passenger orientation — to sell shuttle-down tickets, I 
suppose. It's the most outstanding single topographical feature 
on the planet.” 

“I must have been asleep,” Ethan answered. “I only 
remember it from the tapes.” 

“Do you recall its location?” 

“No. Wait . . . yes. It's about four hundred kilometers due 
east of Brass Monkey.” 

“Correct. Sight-seeing trips are run from the settlement.” 

— 252 — 


“I may be dense, but I don't see the import yet.” 

“The wind here blows almost continually from the west,” 
said Williams with carefully controlled excitement. “Malmeevyn 
says that on very windy days great clouds of black smoke and 
ash descend on the earth. They darken the land and make the 
crops bitter. The smoke and ash come always from the same 
southwesterly direction. No one from Sofold has ever been there, 
but occasionally a trading ship will arrive that has passed near. 
Its a great burning mountain. The Trannish name means ‘The-
Place-Where-The-Earth's-Blood-Burns.’ ” 

“Damn! I see what you mean. Reach the volcano and from 
there to Brass Monkey is easy. Southwest and then we're warm 
again!” 

“There could be variations in the smoke pattern,” 
cautioned Williams. “But the wizard was quite insistent about it 
always coming from the same direction. Most of the time the 
wind blows due east, so smoke and soot from many eruptions 
would pass far south of here.” 

— 253 — 


Ethan was rubbing mental hands together. “At least we 
have a direction now for our raft . . . if we can get a raft.” 
Suddenly he found himself beside a chair. September was 
whispering in his ear. 

“For O'Morion's sake, young feller, sit down!” He tugged 
at Ethan's jacket. “Sit down! Want 'em all staring at you?” 

Ethan sat. Then he became aware of the Boschian scene 
he'd been drawn into. 

They were seated on the outside of a great table shaped like 
a long letter “U.” Tran of all sizes and descriptions were seated 
both inside and outside the arms of the table. The Landgrave, his 
daughter, and Eer-Meesach were sitting at the base of the U, on 
the outside, facing three empty chairs. 

“For the Landgrave's ancestors,” explained, September. 

Hunnar was seated across the table from them, on the 
inside and several seats down the U. Ethan noticed that their little 
group was positioned well down the arm of the table, close to the 
Landgrave. A location of some honor, probably. The richness of 

— 254 —



silks and furs was dazzling. Ethan saw neither fashion nor 
couture, only credit signs with lots of lovely zero's trailing behind 
like newborn puppies. The attire of Sofolds nobility offered every 
color. Gold, deep blue, and scarlet predominated. 

Great metal and polished wooden platters piled high with 
smoking meat, baskets of breads and fruits, and cauldrons of 
pungent soup filled the tables to overflowing. Light came from 
huge, thigh-thick candles set on posts around the table. He took 
notice of the controlled war that took the place of plate-passing 
and reflected wryly that no one would put candles on the table 
for risk of total conflagration over a stuffed olive, or whatever 
those little green things were. 

In addition, light came from baskets of oil burning in 
wrought-iron cups set into the walls. And the great fireplace 
sported a blaze that would have violated every fire regulation a 
humanx hotel manager could envision. 

His own plate was wide and formed of some coppery 
material. He also had a cloth napkin not quite as big as a two

— 255 —



man tent and a knife more suitable for a cavalry charge than a 
dinner. 

In spite of some lingering hesitancy over the alien cuisine, 
his mouth was beginning to water. At least, between his furs and 
the fire, it wouldn't freeze. 

Next to him, September was gnawing happily on a meat 
laden bone with all the delicacy and comportment of a famished 
hyena. He nudged Ethan in the ribs, gently this time. 

“Dig in, young feller. By the Dying Dead Red, these people 
know how to cook.” 

“Pardon me if I don't share your enthusiasm. It's my tender 
unbringing and respectable charge account holding me back.” 
He turned to his other side. 

Williams was nibbling absently on something that looked 
like a cross between a carrot and a stick of emergency space 
protein. Next to him, Walther seemed to be displaying about the 
same amount of gusto in downing his meal. 

Across the table, Hellespont du Kane was doing his best 

— 256 — 


with a pair of knives to slice some meat from a small bone for 
both himself and Colette. The meat stayed off his clothes. Also off 
his plate. 

Ethan looked around, then reached uptable for something 
that resembled corned beef but could just as easily have been 
the pickled liver of a pregnant krokim. Nonetheless, it looked 
inviting and smelled better. A knife came down and just missed 
his fingers. It was wielded by a rangy tran several seats up from 
them. The native gave him a good natured closed-mouth grin 
and carved off a choice portion for himself. 

Ethan gritted his teeth, half-closed his eyes, and made a 
long-range stab with his own knife. When in Rome-Vatican. . . 
Surprisingly, he came back with the rest of the roast, or whatever 
it was, and nobody's hand. 

Two good-sized tankards sat in front of his plate. The meat, 
he discovered, had a flavor like roast pork, although it was more 
heavily seasoned than he'd expected. It certainly wasn't bland. 

He tried the larger tankard and found that it contained a 

— 257 — 


drink like thick hot chocolate with a faint hint of pepper. 

He almost choked on it when September let out a whoop 
and clobbered him with a flying elbow. He thrust his own small 
tankard at Ethan and his eyes sparkled. “Now here, young feller-
me-lad, is something worth fighting to preserve. Put some of this 
liquid starlight into your gullet. The thranx themselves never 
brewed half so good!” He turned and bellowed something to 
Hunnar. 

Ethan stared at his own small tankard with a mixture of lust 
and terror, chewing slowly on some indefinable vegetable. He 
picked it up and peered inside. The contents were dark and had a 
startling silver color. 

“Called Reedle,” September informed him. “reedlededeedle-de. . .” he sang as Ethan hesitantly put metal to lips. 

It went easily down his throat and into his stomach. There it 
must have encountered something flammable, because it burst 
like a stretched bubble and spewed tiny fireballs all over the 
place. One of them crawled right back up his throat and burned 

— 258 —



itself to a miniscule cinder right between his eyes. He let out a 
long whoosh. 

“Reed . . . raw . . . reedle, huh?” September didn't answer 
him. He was otherwise engaged, mentally. Shortly thereafter, 
Ethan was too. 

A little while later he noticed a cloying sweetness in the air. 
It wasn't a by-product of his dinner. Instead he discovered it 
emanated from several of the rather provocatively clad ladies 
seated nearby. The tran used perfume, then. Interesting. By 
Terran standards it was pretty crude stuff. By thranx standards it 
was a total loss. Here was another opportunity for trade, 
olfactory desires being equal. 

For the hundredth — or maybe it was the thousandth time, 
he lamented the loss of his goods, out of reach on board the 
Antares. He took another gulp of reedle and turned his 
concentration to the more interesting types seated at the great 
table. 

Eventually his eyes traveled to the far corner of the U and to 

— 259 —



Darmuka Brownoak. The prefect was well into his own meal. He 
appeared to be enjoying it without becoming overexuberant or 
soused. Mostly he was smiling and nodding at the shouts and 
comments of those seated around him. A cool, sharp, dangerous 
customer, Ethan reflected. 

His gaze continued around the table and was startled to 
encounter a pair of glowing yellow eyes staring back into his 
own. They belonged to a beautiful, overpowering, hirsute valkyrie 
named Elfa. 

Great credit! He'd almost managed to wipe his distressing 

— well, awkward — encounter with the Landgrave's daughter 
from his mind. Hurriedly he averted his eyes and concentrated 
with full attention on dissecting a second chop — “vol,” Hunnar 
had called it. 
He was on his third helping and second tankard of reedle 
when Sir Hunnar rose abruptly and bounded onto his seat. Ethan 
poked September, who'd subsumed enough reedle to float an 
elephant, and whispered across to the du Kanes. 

— 260 — 


“Now's the time. Don't do anything or say anything even if 
provoked. Brownoak and his cronies will be looking for the 
slightest opening.” 

Hunnar put both paws in the air. Gradually the roar and 
howling subsided to a steady murmur, a grinding like surf on 
gravel. When it dropped further, to where a single voice could be 
heard easily, he began. 

“So. Here you sit. The pride of Sofold. The wealth of its 
minds, the deciders of its fate, arbitrators of destiny. Pagh!” He 
spat. “You collective dung-heaps! Offsprings of vols! Hoppers. 
Gleaners of lavatories!” 

Angry murmurings swelled around him. There were a few 
cries in Trannish of “Bring him down!” 

“Oh, you claim to be otherwise, eh?” Hunnar continued. 
“While we sit gorging our fat selves, at this moment the Horde 
moves on its trail of slime and blood to visit our homes. Yes, the 
Horde comes. Like it or not, the Horde comes. Straight as the 
path of a thunder-eater grazing, the Horde comes. . . What will 

— 261 —



happen when it reaches us? Will you sit and laugh so heartily, 
merrily, then? When your purses are emptied and your 
daughters filled? What then?” 

An old tran rose halfway out of his seat across the table. 

“We will pay our assigned levy, as we always have, Sir 
Hunnar, take a few weeks of misery and burden, as we always 
have, and survive, as we always have!” 

Hunnar whirled and faced the oldster. “He does not 
‘survive’ who lives on the sufferance and humor of another. What 
if this time our offerings should not satisfy the Death, eh? What if 
ill humor should visit Sagyanak in the night and tell him to raze 
Wannome to the earth-ice? For pleasure, mayhap. Burn the 
fields and towns of Sofold, for amusement? What then of your 
‘survival,’ old man?” 

“My!” interrupted a familiar, penetrating voice from across 
the table. “Don't berate poor Nalhagen,” continued Darmuka 
Brownoak easily. The prefect paused, took a tiny sip from his 
tankard of reedle. It was quite enough in the great hall for Ethan 

— 262 —



to hear the container hit the table gently as the prefect set it 
down. Some things, Ethan reflected, were the same from planet 
to planet. On the surface, this was a conflict of philosophy. In 
reality it came down to a battle of wills between young and old, 
between the rich and content and the talented and impatient. 
Everyone in the hall knew it. They waited to see what would 
develop. 

“He only wants to live, like the rest of us. Most of us, 
anyway.” Brownoak glanced around the table and there was a 
murmur of assent from the crowd. “Why,” the prefect continued, 
“such a thing as you postulate has not happened in the 
hundreds of years of Sofoldian history. Why would Sagyanak 
have reason to do such a thing now?” His stare was one of 
profound amazement. “To destroy Wannome and Sofold would 
be to destroy forever the tribute the Horde receives from us at 
regular intervals. Would the Scourge cut out the bottom of their 
purse?” 

“They have done this to other towns,” Hunnar said. 

— 263 — 


“But never to Wannome.” 

“So we continue to dig our noses in the dirt, year upon 
year, to gratify this monster?” the knight snorted. “I say no 
longer. Fight, this time!” He opened his claws and made tearing 
motions at the other. “Fight once, and have done with ignominy 
and hardship forever!” 

“I think I should agree with you in that,” said Brownoak. 

“What?” Hunnar was taken aback. 

“If,” the prefect continued, daintily wiping his mouth with 
one of the rag-napkins, “I did not dislike suicide. Indeed, we 
would ‘have done with it.’ You and I would be no more. Truly, 
death would end ignominy and hardship, but I am not anxious to 
employ such a solution yet. I'm as brave as the next man,” and 
he glared sharply up at Hunnar, “but I am also a thoughtful 
being and a pragmatist. We would be outnumbered many times 
by a foe whose whole life is spent not in trading and growing, 
mailing and crafting, but in killing and fighting. We'd have as 
much chance of winning as a hopper caught in the path of a 

— 264 —



stampeding thunder-eater.” 

Hunnar countered instantly. “In spite of what you may 
think, prefect, I too am a thoughtful person, and I say we would 
win. The walls of Wannome have grown too high for the Horde to 
scale, too thick for the Horde to break, these past years. Nor 
could they breach the nets and the new chain that guards the 
harbor entrance.” 

“What of a siege?” asked Brownoak, sipping reedle. 

“With a little preparation we could stand such far longer 
than they. No barbarian can sit on his haunches and stare 
placidly at his enemy. He is not mentally equipped for it. 
Sagyanak's own tribesmen would throw out any leader who 
ordered such. The Scourge knows that as well as you or I.” 

“You say all this,” came a flat voice from uptable. A 
middle-aged tran with a short steel-wool beard looked up at 
Hunnar. “Yet you are but a cub compared to most of us, risen 
rapidly in the ranks of his elders. If you are the thoughtful one 
you claim, you can see my point. Why should we agree with you, 

— 265 —



a mere youngster? How much of your declaration is fueled by 

ambition and youthful impatience rather than careful reason?” 

“Because I—” Hunnar began, but he was interrupted. 

“I will have none of that, Hellort,” rumbled an abyssal voice 
from down the table. 

The tran who rose was stocky — no, even short — by tran 
standards, but so massively built that he was almost square. The 
powerful torso was bent and knotted with age. But the voice was 
like a scalpel in a field of butter knives. Tiny slit black pupils 
peered out of bony eaves from beneath overhanging brows. The 
tran was all smashed and crumpled, almost deformed. 

“I meant nothing insulting,” apologized Hellort quietly. 
“I've no questioning with you, Balavere.” 

Ethan peered at the other more intently, not caring that he 
was staring. This, then, was the famous Balavere Longax, the 
most respected military man in Wannome. From Hunnar's brief 
description of him Ethan had expected a giant, not a blocky 
dwarf. But the tran general was clearly a giant in ways other than 

— 266 —



physical. 

“Yes, you do, Hellort. Because, you see, I too have 
considered this question painfully. I find myself in agreement 
with the good Redbeard — his youth notwithstanding. He may 
appear impetuous. Do not perceive that as ambition. He has a 
sound military head on his shoulders, yes, and moves smoothly 
over difficult ice. 

“Sofold is the strongest province in the area,” he continued 
pridefully. “If any can make a decisive stand against the Horde, 
'tis we. It should be Sofold. But we must do this thing on our 
own. No one — not Phulos-tervo of Ayhus nor VegTuteva of 
Meckleven — will send a single soldier from his land to aid us, 
for fear of their being recognized and invoking the wrath of 
Sagyanak.” 

“Are you so confident of victory, then?” broke in 
Brownoak. 

“Of course I am not confident of victory,” the general 
replied softly. “I will not lie to you, sirs. A battle of such 

— 267 — 


magnitude contains too many uncertainties. No intelligent 
soldier would venture a prediction on the outcome. But I say 
this,” he continued, as the prefect seemed ready to add more, 
“I've seen Wannome rise and strengthen over these last few 
good years. Dangerously so, and Sagyanak should realize it. 
There is your reason for bringing us down, at least a little. But the 
Horde has grown fat and lazy on tribute. They've not fought a 
real battle in some time.” 

“And we also will have the aid of the strangers from the 
stars,” added Hunnar, “for who can believe their coming at this 
crucial time to be accidental?” 

A hundred pairs of slitted cat-eyes looked straight at Ethan. 
They all seemed to be focused on a point just below his hair. He 
wanted to reach up and scratch the place but didn't dare. He 
squirmed a little, though. The crowd wavered. 

“Strange in form, perhaps,” said the imperturbable, thrice 
damned Brownoak, “but not in ability. Perhaps less so, in fact. 
And ability is what we need, not cries of star-sent omens.” 

— 268 —



“Ha!” said September. Ethan looked at him in surprise, as 
did many others. Which was the idea. 

The big man put one foot on the table, stepped up, and 
walked across. He just missed a meat pie here, a tankard of 
reedle there. When he hopped down on the other side, every eye 
in the hall, human and tran, was focused on him. 

Bending, he gripped the rear legs of Hunnar's chair. With a 
single, flowing motion, he lifted both knight and chair chest high 
off the floor. There was a gasp of surprise from the crowd. It was 
followed by a few cheers and a babble of excited conversation. 

September put Hunnar down, recrossed the table, and 
resumed his seat. 

“Quite an exhibition,” Ethan complimented. 

“You could probably have managed it yourself, young 
feller-me-lad. I thought it worth doing. But Hunnar and I didn't 
have a chance to practice that in private. I'm glad the execution 
matched the theory. Would have looked awfully funny out there 
if I'd gone and tipped him over.” He took a long draught of 

— 269 —



reedle and smacked his lips. “Though he went up a lot easier 
than some folk I've hoisted. Now, if I'd dropped him. . .” 

Ethan didn't mention that he thought September probably 
could have made the lift even if the tran knight weighed as much 
as a human of similar size. Someone up by the Landgrave was 
waving for attention. It was Eer-Meesach. 

“I can say,” intoned the wizard in strong voice, “that 
among these strangers is also a being of great knowledge. A 
wizard equal to . . . well, nearly equal to . . . my own person in 
powers of intellect.” He pointed dramatically down the table. 

“Stand up, Williams, dammit,” September mumbled 
around the lip of his tankard. The schoolmaster rose quickly and 
stood staring at the table, looking for all the world like a kid 
caught snitching at the cookie jar. He sat down almost instantly. 

“And there are others among them of abilities even more 
astounding,” continued Hunnar excitedly, “all pledged to assist 
us in this holy endeavor!” 

“What's he talking about?” asked du Kane from across the 

— 270 —



table. “I've picked up a bit of the language, but not enough to 
translate what he's raving an about.” 

“He's telling everyone how terrific we are,” said Ethan 
absently, trying to concentrate an Hunnar's speech. 

“Oh.” said the industrialist. He leaned back, looking 
satisfied. Ethan decided the tran could interpret that as 
overwhelming confidence. 

“I am not so convinced,” began Darmuka Brownoak, but 
Hunnar talked him down. 

“A hosing, a loosing, then!” The cry was picked up, carried 
around the table like sherbet. 

“Yes . . . now time . . . fight . . . but if we should lose? . . . 
weapons? . . . how much time? . . . family . . . a loosing!” 
eventually the Laudgrave stood. There was immediate and 
respectful silence in the great hall. 

“A proposal of grave consequence has been put to this 
gathering. Councilmen and knights of Sofold, the call has been 
made for a loosing. Whatever else can be said, it is sure there is 

— 271 —



enough interest for such. I so call it.” 

“Is this loosing like taking a vote?” Ethan queried 
September. 

“That's it, me lad. You pledge your booze, is what.” He 
grinned. “That's serious. My kind of folk.” 

The Landgrave picked up his chalice. He held it at arm's 
length, ramrod straight away from his body. Everyone stood and 
did likewise, including the ladies, Ethan noted. The little band of 
humans was tardy in copying the gesture, but no one seemed to 
mind. 

“We have no vote in this, of course,” September told them, 
“but we can participate. It looks better that way.” 

Into the silence the Landgrave said, “So that each may 
know of his neighbor. . .” 

At that, September and a large number of the assembled 
dignitaries inverted their tankards, spilling magnificent reedle 
over table, food, floor, boots, and selves. The other humans did 
likewise a second later. 

— 272 — 


A herald had wheeled a high chair to the right of the 
Landgrave. Now he began a slow count, but Hunnar had started 
ahead of him. Before the herald could finish, the knight roared 
with joy and threw his tankard clear to the beams of the vaulted 
ceiling. 

“WE FIGHT!” he bellowed. 

The cry was picked up by dozens of throats. “We fight, we 
fightl” Hunnar ran and embraced old Balavere. Then everything 
degenerated into a confusing, heaving mass of hairy bodies, 
sharp questions, and endless toasts. The musicians added to the 
erumpent revelry with a sprightly semi-martial tune. A few tran 
moved into the U and began dancing. Others seemed intent on 
flattening their companions with crippling slams to the 
shoulders. 

In the noise and confusion, Brownoak rose and said 
something to the Landgrave. A frozen smile on his face, he 
retired. Those tran who had been seated close to him 
accompanied the prefect in exit. In the explosion of 

— 273 — 


congratulations and excitement hardly anyone noticed their 
withdrawal. 

Ethan finally succeeded in drawing Hunnar's attention. He 
pointed out the prefect's abrupt departure. 

“You're going to have trouble with that guy,” he warned. 
But the knight was too overcome at the final realization of his 
hopes to take cognizance of Ethan's warning. 

“The vote in Council is against him,” he said absently. 
“What can he do now? Nothing! He is more helpless than a cub, 
and embarrassed besides. Forget him. Do you not understand? 
We're going to fight!” 

Ethan turned away and noticed General Balavere standing 
in a circle of older tran. Solemnly there was a gentle touch on the 
shoulders, quiet conversation with first one, then another. Closer 
inspection revealed another interesting anthropological fact 
about their hosts, which was that they did actually cry. Ethan 
turned away. 

Meanwhile, the Landgrave had been attempting almost 

— 274 — 


desperately to restore some semblance of order since the prefect 
had left. He pounded his staff on the floor and enlisted the vocal 
services of the herald. Then, apparently deciding it was hopeless, 
he signaled something to the musicians in the balcony. 

A wild, strongly rhythmic tune replaced the pseudo-march. 
With a yell, the councilmen and knights separated the two long 
arms of the great table, turning it into a wide “V” shape. 
Instantly the funneled dance floor was occupied by swirling, 
flying couples. 

It was interesting to note that the dancing, while highly 
energetic, did not last long at all by terran standards. No matter 
how husky-looking, many of the dancers seemed to get quickly 
out of breath. Apparently, with the wind to move them, the tran 
had not developed their lung-power overmuch. By the same 
token, the acrobatics of the lighter-than-they looked dancers 
verged on the appalling. Their sense of timing and balance, 
logically enough, was inhuman. He'd keep that in mind if he ever 
found it necessary to dodge the local police. It had happened 

— 275 —



before. 

On the ice, they would run circles around him. 

Laughter and handclapping added to the feeling of 
merriment. Right now everyone was in the best of spirits. Later, 
when the enormity of their decision had sunk in, there would be 
time for quiet contemplation and thought. 

Ethan was thoroughly enjoying the scene when there was a 
tap on his shoulder. He turned and was confronted by the 
copious bosom of Elfa Kurdagh-Vlata. He hurriedly elevated his 
gaze, finding no relaxation in the return stare at the top. 

“As thou can see, good Sir Ethan,” she purred, “I have not 
yet been asked to dance.” This was not entirely true, as several 
young tran with bruised shins could attest. 

“Perhaps Sir Hunnar?. . .” Ethan suggested desperately. 

“Foo! He's too busy accepting congratulations for the way 
in which he outmaneuvered the prefect. Anyhow, I want to dance 
with you.” She lowered her voice. “I have not forgotten your 
mastery at . . . hand-to-hand combat. Are you equally adept at 

— 276 —



dancing, mayhap?” 

“Oh no,” he said, shrinking back and finding the table 
blocking his retreat. “I know nothing of your local dances. I've 
got two left feet. And I'm naturally clumsy besides.” 

“That, for sure, I cannot believe,” she said smokily. She 
reached out and grabbed his arm with a paw that might have 
been lighter than his own, but was backed by muscles of iron. 
Rather than be yanked from the chair, he got up peacefully. 

“Come then, and we will disport ourselves with the others.” 

Before he could protest he found himself in the middle of 
the floor, trapped in a whirlpool of fur and giant shoulders. The 
music was alien but not impossibly exotic. The steps of Sofoldian 
dance were fairly simple. After a bit he was actually enjoying 
himself. Never mind that he was flirting with disaster. 

A strange sort of rescue was provided by Sir Hunnar. The 
knight stepped up behind him, put a paw on his shoulder, and 
said in the cheeriest voice imaginable, “Sir Ethan, I challenge 
you.” 

— 277 — 


“Beg pardon?” Ethan responded, stumbling over his own 
feet. 

“A challenge! Yea, a challenge!” came the cry from the 
crowd. Almost as soon as he caught his balance, it seemed, the 
floor had been cleared around them. Everyone was staring 
expectantly at him and Hunnar. 

Meanwhile, the knight was removing his cloak, decorations, 
and dress jacket. 

“Wait a minute,” began Ethan confusedly. “I was just 
starting to get the hang of the dance. What's this challenge 
business?” 

“In truth, 'tis really nothing, friend Ethan,” replied Hunnar, 
flexing his massive aims and stretching his wings. “Just a simple 
custom. 'Tis good manners for guests and hosts to fight. I was 
reminded that this pleasantry had not yet occurred, 'tis an 
opportune time as any to perform such.” 

“I disagree,” countered Ethan cautiously. “Anyhow,” he 
continued, backing up a couple of steps, “why pick on me? Why 

— 278 —



not exchange blessings of good fellowship with Sir September?” 

“I would have,” the knight grinned. “But look.” 

Ethan turned. September reclined full-length across the 
table. His flowing white hair lay half-in and half-out of a bowl of 
cold soup. A tankard was gripped limply in one massive hand. 
He was snoring with the melodious buzz of a broken bearing. 

“I'll waken the good knight,” Ethan stammered. “Really, 
Sir Hunnar, I'm not cut out for this sort of thing. Now, if you'd 
like to have a go on the links . . . would there be a course about?” 

“Ah, your modesty is truly worthy of you, Sir Ethan,” said 
Hunnar admiringly. He was now naked to the waist. The resulting 
pectoral panorama would give any barber pause. 

“Let us to combat!” He came barrelling across the room, 
arms forming a great hairy crescent. 

Well, at least it wasn't supposed to be a lethal conflict, Ethan 
rationalized. It was the least he could do in the interests of good 
fellowship, wasn't it? Besides, he'd seen the ease with which 
September had hoisted the knight, chair and all. 

— 279 — 


He tried to ignore the roar of the crowd — they sounded 
just like a bunch of inebriated conventioneers, he decided — and 
duck the roundhouse blow Hunnar threw at him. He stepped in 
and tried to get a grip on the knight's waist. What he got instead 
was a solid buffet on the side of the head. His vision was 
momentarily restricted to sights galactic — black spaces and 
colored stars. 

He sat up and refocused his eyes. Sir Hunnar was standing 
several meters away, panting and grinning down at him. 

Obviously more subtle tactics were required. Cries of “Well 
struck!” and “Good blow!” came from the appreciative crowd. 
His opponent might not weigh in as heavy as he, but he could 
still knock your head off while you were looking up the 
proportionate discrepancies, Ethan reflected. 

All right, he would try something else — if he could 
remember that far back. 

Sir Hunnar carne on again. He feinted with his left paw and 
swung the right. Ethan stepped to one side, blocked the blow 

— 280 —



with his left arm, and hit the other gently in the ribs, just behind 
the wing membrane, and then in the jaw. He spun and hit him in 
the lower back with his heel, almost falling down in the process. 

His own weight and the blow combined to send the knight 
sprawling. For an awful moment Ethan thought he'd broken 
something. The Tran were tougher than that, however. Hunnar 
rolled over and grunted. 

“How did you do that, Sir Ethan?” 

“Come on and find out,” invited Ethan, breathing heavily. 

Hunnar climbed to his feet and advanced again, more 
cautiously this time. Ethan let him grab his right shoulder. Then 
he spun into the other's charge, driving an elbow up and into the 
broad chest. Hunnar let out a whoosh, surprised. Ethan bent and 
grabbed a bladed foot by the ankle, yanked and straightened up, 
putting the knight on his back. Ethan turned and drove the heel 
of his foot into the other's midriff — gently. He walked away 
while Hunnar was trying to catch his breath. 

The crowd was deafening. On Terra his movements would 

— 281 — 


have seemed slow and clumsy. But here their alienness seemed 
to verge on the magical. 

Sir Hunnar sat up, holding his middle. He smiled. “I could 
see that one, I think. Will you teach me that last trick, Sir Ethan?” 

“Sure. Here, you start like this. . .” But he didn't have a 
chance to continue, because a moment later massive palms were 
literally pounding congratulations into him. If it continued he'd 
be asking for mercy from their admiring assault. 

Even worse, he noticed that Elfa was staring across at him 
with gleaming, almost worshipful eyes. 

Someone in the crowd pressed a tankard of reedle into his 
hand. His left leg hurt where he'd pulled something. He drained 
several swallows. He did not notice Colette du Kane, who was 
staring at him with a most peculiar expression. 

— 282 —



Chapter Seven


He woke in the middle of the night, and it wasn't from cold. The 
icy night air was sharp enough to keep him from falling asleep 
again, though. After several futile attempts, he put his hands 
under his head and stared up at the canopy which covered the 
bed. His suit crinkled under him and he edged up against the 
bulk of his survival parka. 

Something was going to have to be done about the 
attentions of the Landgrave's daughter before a fatal 
misunderstanding occurred. 

He knew next to nothing of local custom in such matters. 
But if someone should develop the wrong idea or walk in on 
them at another moment like that first one, it could be very 
awkward indeed. They'd be reminded very quickly of their 
alienness. Even Hunnar's friendship might evaporate with 
surprising speed. 

— 283 — 


Finally he rolled over and felt under the blankets for the 
parka. It was difficult to put it on in the light from the single 
remaining candle. The thermometer had plunged to regions 
where no human should have stirred from bed. But with his mind 
thinking furiously on other matters, he hardly noticed. 

Once he'd donned the parka, he unbolted the door and 
slipped out into the hall. He had a fair idea of the location of the 
Landgrave's rooms. Tracing the proper steps and turns in the 
sub-freezing, windswept hallways was something else again. 
Only a few candles and oil lamps lit the way. 

At night, with the wind moaning through the corridors and 
everyone but a few uncommunicative guards asleep, the castle 
seemed as forlorn and empty-cold as the mountains of the 
moon. 

The whole thing was ridiculous. What was he going to do, 
rouse the Landgrave in the middle of the night? On the other 
hand, it might be the best time. In secret, without nosy courtiers 
around. An unguarded, unwatched discussion. It might also help 

— 284 —



minimize his embarrassment. And it was something that ought 
to be dealt with soonest. 

Ah, the Landgrave's quarters were just around that turn, 
there. He would tell the guards. . . 

He looked down the hall, peered harder. The flickering, 
uncertain light made it hard to be sure, but there didn't seem to 
be any guards. That was odd. He slowed as he approached the 
door to the inner chambers. 

The guards were there, it turned out. Both of them. 
Immaculately clad in inlaid armor and leather. One was pinned 
neatly to the wall by a pair of long pikes. His expression was 
frozen in shock and surprise. The other's head lolled on the floor 
at an unnatural angle. His blood flowed over the smooth stones. 

Several possibilities suggested themselves right away. None 
of them made any sense. In the shock of the moment he didn't 
stop to consider that where two competent armed guards had 
been neatly dispatched, he might prove singularly uneffective. He 
stuck his head inside the open door and looked into the room. 

— 285 —



The tableau that greeted his eyes might have been drawn 
from an ancient Terrussian opera. It was crowded enough. 

In the great canopied carved bed, the Landgrave lay pinned 
to the blankets by two husky tran wearing simple masks. A third 
stood over him with a standard ship-issue survival knife poised to 
strike. Hellespont and Colette du Kane sat to one side, securely 
gagged. They were tied to a couple of chairs much too big for 
them. A fourth tran wielding a bloody saber, watched them. 

Ethan turned, reached down, and hefted the pike of the 
fallen guard. Two courses of action suggested themselves. He 
could charge in and dispatch the four assassins, free the du 
Kanes, and earn the eternal admiration of all. Or he could turn 
and run down the hall screaming like a broker whose credit had 
submarined until he'd roused enough help to be effective. 

Logic, plus the fact that he could handle a garden hoe more 
readily than a pike, inclined him toward the latter course. Not as 
glorious, but more practical. He turned and took several steps 
down the hall. 

— 286 — 


“Alarm, murder most foul, assassins, cutthroats! Rouse 
yourselves! Help, help, the Landgrave is being murdered! 
Guards, knights, priests, depression, devaluation, competitions.” 

Confused murmurs sprang up throughout the castle as the 
cold walls bounced Ethan's cries up corridors, around turns, 
down iceways. The pile of stone started to stir like a beehive 
poked with a stick. 

Replies also came from within the room in the form of a 
string of curses. One of the assassins, a huge burly fellow with a 
sword slash on one arm and fur knotted like an old rug, came 
out with weapon at the ready. He looked to his left. This was a 
fatal mistake, since Ethan was waiting on his right. 

It took little skill to skewer the killer through the middle. 

The tran screamed like a girl, which added a satisfying note 
to the growing pandemonium. At one end of the hall, figures 
could be seen running toward them. Ethan started for there. 

And tripped over the prone guard in the half-dark. 

He rolled over on his back, stunned. Above him a tall, 

— 287 — 


shadow-garbed figure raised a red saber over its head. Fangs 
glowed in the oil-light. The saber descended. He could hear the 
air it cut. The wielder grunted questioningly and Ethan heard the 
steel hit the stone floor at his side, so close that it cut his shirt 
and struck sparks from the rock. Something blunt hit him in the 
stomach. 

It was the feathered end of the arrow that was buried in the 
other's gut. Another millisecond and he was buried in an 
avalanche of blood and fur. 

It might be lighter than it should, but it was dead weight. In 
a minute, though, there were hands to help him. He stared into 
the gloom. Hunnar was among the crowd. Feet ran past him. 
Shouts rang like bells from the hallway walls. 

“Very close, Sir Ethan,” said the knight, giving him a 
muscular arm up. “Our thanks.” 

“Mine to you,” he replied breathlessly. He fingered his 
middle where the back of the arrow had struck before snapping 
in half. 

— 288 — 


“Not to me.” Hunnar pointed to another figure standing in 
the twilight beside them. 

Suaxus-dal-Jagger was holding a bow half again as tall as 
himself, an arrow notched in the gut-string. He nodded curtly, 
turned, and started down the hall. 

Hunnar knelt and rolled the body of the saber-holder over. 
He examined the silent face while Ethan tried to wipe some of 
the blood from his parka. 

“Do you recognize him?” he asked curiously. 

“No, but that is not surprising strange. Such men take care 
of their anonymity. What happened?” 

Without replying, Ethan turned and led him into the room 
he'd seen so briefly. At least twenty armed tran were now 
clustered inside. Their faces were not pleasing to look upon. 
Right now they were giving the room a thorough search, even 
hunting for hollow places in the walls. 

The du Kanes had been released. Colette was rubbing her 
wrists. In the freezing air Ethan could imagine how painful the 

— 289 —



ropes must have been. When she saw Ethan, she took a step in 

his direction, caught herself, and stared at the floor. 

Crazy twit, he thought uneasily. 

“You happened along at a propitious time, sir,” said du 
Kane. “Those blackguards rudely assaulted us in the midst of a 
sound sleep. Before we knew it we were trussed tighter than a 
good copyright. We—” 

The Landgrave stepped roughly between them. He put a 
paw on each of Ethan's shoulders, gently but firmly. 

“This I do now promise you, Sir Ethan. Thee are bound to 
this fight that approaches and there is no help for it. But should 
Wannome triumph, I swear to you on my ancestor's honor that 
all our abilities and wealth shall be bent to the task of taking you 
to wherever you should wish, be it halfway around the world. I 
owe you my life. Few in Sofold carry such a valuable claim.” He 
turned to greet his daughter, who had just arrived. She ran into 
his arms, her face twisted into an unreadable alien expression. 

Ethan turned away. That ought to do as a lever for trade 

— 290 — 


concessions, he thought, trying to push the sentimental scene 
from his mind. 

“I'm not sure I understand, Sir Ethan,” said Hunnar, 
rubbing his own arm. Maybe he'd literally fallen out of bed. 
Ethan became aware for the first time that the knight was naked 
except for his sword. “Why did they take your two friends?” 

“It's obvious enough,” explained Ethan tiredly. “They were 
going to murder the Landgrave and make it appear as though 
the du Kanes had done it. Not only would that have finished your 
plans to fight this Horde, but it would put us in a pretty fix, 
wouldn't it? C'mon, Hunnar, you know as well as I who's behind 
this.” 

Hunnar hesitated, then looked shocked. 

“The prefect? But he wouldn't dare!” 

“Someone did. Why not him?” 

“For one thing, my friend, you are mistaken in your 
thoughts. Should the Landgrave die it would have no effect on 
our decision to fight the Horde. The Landgrave's daughter would 

— 291 —



inherit the throne and a new Landgrave would be chosen to 
serve beside her. Having been duly determined, the Council's 
declaration would stand.” 

“I see,” said Ethan reflectively. “Tell me. Does Elfa get to 
choose her own Landgrave?” 

“Certainly not! Should the Landgrave leave naught but 
female offspring, then the eldest receives a suitor selected by the 
Council. Someone to perpetuate a strong line.” 

“Really.” Ethan was thinking furiously. “And who would 
the Council be likely to pick as a good match?” 

“I had not given the matter any thought,” replied Hunnar. 
“I doubt anyone has. The Landgrave has many years before him 
yet. In such a case I might hope it could be myself.” He averted 
his gaze. “But 'twould probably not be.” 

His head came up and his eyes widened. He looked 
thoughtful. “I understand you now, Sir Ethan. Yes, for the sake of 
seeing himself on the throne, or his children, he could do that.” 

They stood quietly for a few moments. A soldier appeared 

— 292 — 


at the doorway, his armor askew from the speed at which he'd 
donned it. 

“Nothing is found of the other Unmentionables, sir,” he 
gasped out. “'Tis feared they have eluded pursuit and left the 
castle.” 

“Keep at it,” replied Hunnar angrily. “They may be hidden 
in a box somewhere, or in the kitchens. Search every corner, 
even the catacombs. Find them!” He turned back to Ethan. 

“Did you see their faces?” 

“Sorry. I'm afraid I didn't see much of anything after 
sticking this one.” The thought of what he'd just done suddenly 
hit him. “I . . . sorry, Hunnar, I feel a little sick.” 

“I did . . . see one,” said Colette. Ethan turned surprised 
eyes on her. 

“I thought you didn't understand the language.” 

She looked at him pityingly. “Did you think I'd waste my 
time studying patterns in my quilts? I've been studying the 
language with our servants. So has father. His mind . . . wanders, 

— 293 —



sometimes. But when its all present, it's a shockingly competent 
one. He has a photographic memory, I might add . . . I think I 
understand what this Hunnar said. He wanted to know if you 
could identify those who got away, didn't he?” 

“Yes. And you think you could?” 

She nodded. 

“What does the She say?” asked Hunnar interestedly. 

“She believes she can recognize your two assassins if she 
sees them again.” 

“That would be excellent!” The knight's eyes sparkled. He 
showed his teeth. “'Tis something, at least.” 

“Look, why not pick up the prefect for questioning? It's 
certainly the best lead you've got.” 

“Lead? Oh, I see. Arrest the prefect?” Hunnar looked 
shocked. “On only personal supposition? It cannot be done! . . . 
No, not even the Landgrave would consent to it, though no love 
is lost between him and Brownoak.” 

“Don't you have protective custody?” Ethan asked. 

— 294 — 


“What?” 

“Never mind. Well, that sticks it, then,” he said disgustedly. 

“I am sorry, friend Ethan. I do not understand.” 

“Forget it, Hunnar.” He patted the knight on one massive, 
hairy arm. “I hope you find your assassins. Would-be assassins.” 
On Terra, he mused, he'd be a prime suspect. 

His reason for paying a nocturnal visit to the Landgrave was 
completely forgotten. Anyhow, this wasn't the proper time to 
discuss it. 

He looked around at a sound from the doorway. September 
was standing there, swaying slightly and looking a little 
bemused. Ethan didn't find the big man's drunkenness a bit 
funny just now. 

“Now, what's all the racket here?” 

“The du Kanes were kidnapped by a bunch of local nasties. 
They intended to kill the Landgrave and frame the du Kanes for 
it.” He eyed September intently. “I broke it up.” 

“Bravo, young feller-me-lad, bravo!” He belched loudly. 

— 295 — 


“Wonder what they do for hangovers here. This damned racket's 
given me a devil of a one — practically shook me out of bed.” 

“Then why don't you go back to it?” Ethan spun away in 
disgust. 

September stared at him sharply for a moment, then 
sagged. “Yerse, young feller, I believe that's exactly what I'm 
going to do.” He turned and stumbled of down the hall. 

It was much, much too soon when the servant woke Ethan 
politely and brought in his breakfast. A carton of their own 
emergency rations, thank Rama! Not that the local food last 
night hadn't been edible. Even tasty in spots, but it was good to 
smell real terran food again even if fast frozen. 

He searched through the case and came up with a can of 
self-cooking bacon and eggs, a smaller cylinder of coffee, and a 
flat, two-sided slab that when keyed down the middle broke into 

— 296 —



two hot slices of buttered toast. 

He wolfed it all down, rearranging the more persistent 
itches within the parka. Preparing to don his shoes, he found a 
pair of fur-lined boots next to them. They were a little large, but 
then the royal tailor no doubt had a hell of a time with their foot 
shapes. Not to mention the odd task, as the tran didn't wear 
footgear. 

Probably September had slipped him instructions and a 
rough sketch or two. So they were ill-fitting and awkwardly 
stitched, but they were warm and that was all that counted. The 
soles were even studded with tiny metal shards, to give them 
some grip on the slick ice. 

Unfortunately, he was still stuck with the too-large survival 
suit. He might do better with a native coat like September's. 

The castle that morning was a carnival of conversation and 
gossip. It centered around the attempted assassination and the 
role played by the visitors from the sky. September went off 
somewhere with Balavere and Hunnar to inspect the city and 

— 297 —



harbor defenses and make pertinent suggestions. Ethan 
wondered about the big man's profession for the nth time and 
finally gave it up. An admitted criminal. . . 

No, he cautioned himself. Being wanted on several worlds 
did not automatically convict him. Church and Commonwealth 
notwithstanding, the legal tenets of planets varied hugely from 
system to system. They had to. Monolithic law would make the 
gigantic humanx Commonwealth unworkable. 

So the same act that might condemn a man to death on 
one world could make him hero on another. 

A servant told Ethan that on awakening Williams had been 
visited by no less a personage than the great wizard himself. So 
those two were off again somewhere trading anecdotes and 
information. 

The du Kanes were keeping to their room. As for Walther, 
he was allowed out under guard for exercise only. 

That left him alone to explore the town and the castle. 

Several days of comparative freedom from official dinners 

— 298 — 


and such gave him time to examine Wannome in more depth. In 
many ways it resembled a host of small ancient terran walled 
towns. Especially those few that had been preserved as historical 
monuments. Ethan knew a little of them from school and the 
traveldees. 

Personally, he'd never been able to afford a trip to the home 
world. Nor had the company found it fit or necessary to send 
him. Someday, perhaps. . . 

But there were endless differences. 

For example, there were none of the fountains that 
decorated so many human and thranx towns. Naturally not. Not 
when it would require constant heating to keep the water flowing. 

Alternatively, many of the houses sported fantastic roof 
decorations carved in ice, often by very young cubs. The 
inhabitants were gruff, but friendly. By the second day they'd 
gotten over their fear or uncertainty and had grown positively 
effusive. Clearly the word had been passed that the humans were 
not only guests but special favorites of the Landgrave. And he 

— 299 —



who favors one favored by the Landgrave favors himself — a 
universal tenet, if differently expressed, he reflected. 

The cubs were a total and unexpected delight, rolling, 
bouncing, chivaning balls of fur that surrounded him wherever he 
went and threatened to get all tangled up in his clumsy legs. The 
blatantly displayed fact that he possessed neither chiv nor dan 
both astounded and delighted them. No doubt they looked on 
him as a new variety of friendly freak, a silly goblin called up just 
to please and delight them. 

He visualized them lying in the street, running blood, 
impaled on pikes, and decided that if he'd been in Hunnar's 
place he would have fought for this chance to resist as soon as 
he'd grown old enough to articulate his position. 

Or would you, my good salesman? Sure you wouldn't have 
found it more expedient to buy another two or three years of 
safety, of good business? Eh? So certain of your conscience? 

The thought bothered him and he shook it off without 
resolving it. Of course it was tough to get out of the habit of 

— 300 —



buying peace. But it could grow too comforting, too degrading. 
A dedicated pacifist, he found himself shocked at what a few 
days on this backward world had done to his comfortable picture 
of the universe. Weren't the commercial practices of some of the 
great companies just as bloodthirsty and ruthless, if more 
discreet? Didn't Sagyanak have his counterparts in polished 
boardrooms and his spirit back of major stock manipulations? 

By the end of the first week he'd already grown a little bored with 
Wannome. Even the harbor, with its ever-shifting panorama of 
rafts and cargoes, was growing stale. Heart and soul he was a 
big-city boy. While he could trade, and trade well, on the most 
primitive worlds, it was the thought of mechanized comfort and 
sybarytic civilization awaiting his return that pushed him along. 
His was most definitely not the soul of an outdoorsman. 

None of the captains he talked with, nor any of their 

— 301 — 


crewmembers, had ever heard of Arsudun Island or Brass 
Monkey. Nor had they visited The-Place-Where-The-Earth's-
Blood-Burns. 

It was a fine, sunny day — meaning that the temperature 
was within cozy distance of freezing and some tran were going 
without coats. And you didn't have to lean into the wind to stay 
in one place. He met Colette in the hall. When she finally 
confessed to boredom exceeding his, he proposed that they 
explore some more of the island. 

Hunnar took a few minutes away from his frantic 
preparations to provide them with instructions on how to get 
around. Certain sections of the island would be easier for them to 
see than for a tran, while others would be just the reverse. 

A set of rations from their store of food, and they were off. 

It was steep climbing to the saddle between the mountain 
tops. But from there the view, as Colette described it in one of the 
few complimentary adjectives Ethan had heard her use, was 
“magnificent.” 

— 302 — 


From here one could look up to the sharp crags on either 
side that formed the high points of Sofold Island. To the east you 
could look down across the tightly packed, steep-gabled roofs of 
the city, then out over the busy harbor, with its ever-moving 
commerce and dozens of flashing painted sails, to the great 
harbor walls and the endless ice beyond. 

This they'd anticipated. What surprised and pleased them 
was the view in the other direction. 

Coming eternally from the west, the wind hit them hard 
when they topped the last rise. Below them, a long, broad plain 
spread out, dotted here and there with farms and clusters of little 
stone buildings. Herds of vol and monkey-like hoppers were 
visible in distant fields. Squares of crimson larval, the local 
substitute for wheat, were patches of billowing flame in the bright 
sunlight. 

Beyond, he could make out a field of green extending as far 
as he could see in a great fan shape toward the horizon like the 
tail of some monstrous bird-of-paradise. Off to the left, 

— 303 — 


kilometers across the ice, he thought he could detect another 
patch. 

Their guide, a sprightly adolescent named Kierlo, explained 
what it was. “There, noble sir and madame, grows the great pikapedan, in a field greater than several Sofolds. There the thunder-
eater comes to browse.” 

“I've heard so much about this thunder-eater,” said Ethan 
as they strolled along the broad path that ran along the crest, 
“that I'd like very much to see one close up.” 

The youngster laughed. “No one goes to look at the 
thunder-eater close up, noble sir.” 

“It's vicious, then?” 

“No sir. Not vicious. But it can be very irritable, like some 
k'nith.” 

Ethan knew the k'nith. A small animal like a hairy rat. He 
found it repulsive, but it was apparently a favored pet among the 
cubs of Wannome. They seemed affectionate, despite their 
fearsome appearance, and tended to explode into frenzied 

— 304 —



squalling at the tiniest upset. The cubs found such outbursts 
amusing. 

Clearly they were more tolerant of their pets than a human 
child, who would have grown disgusted with a k'nith in a day or 
two. The climate even made for hardier pets, he mused. 

“I'd like to see the foundry,” he said suddenly. It dawned 
on him that they must be quite close to this major source of 
Wannome's wealth and power. 

“Yes, lord.” The youth turned down a narrow path that 
Ethan would have walked right past. Once around a bend in the 
rock, he could see smoke from the mountaintops once again. 

The foundry itself occupied a little valley. It was small to the 
eye, even tiny, at first. But once they drew nearer, he could see 
that much of it was cut into the naked rock and built into caverns 
to take advantage of the heat rising from deep within the planet's 
crust. 

From this area of the crest he could see that several of the 
crags were old volcanic cones. Most were dead or dormant, but a 

— 305 —



few puffed black smoke skyward. All of the craters sloped to the 
west and had been invisible from the city side. 

Wannomian smelting and metal-working turned out to be 
an odd mixture of primitive technology and some surprisingly 
advanced techniques. The drawing and tempering of sword 
blades, for example, and of spear points. 

The foundry head was in Wannome conferring with the 
military councilors. They were met by Jaes Mulvakken, the 
assistant chief. 

“We are most honored, noble sir and lady, that you have 
found time to inspect our poor—” 

“Skip the flattery and formal self-deprecation,” smiled 
Ethan. He'd almost perfected the technique of smiling without 
revealing his teeth. “We just want to have a casual look around.” 

Mulvakken was all business when it carne to explaining the 
operation of the foundry. He even managed to get Colette 
interested. Ethan was impressed by the tran's efficiency and 
knowledge. He'd make a fine district supervisor for a major mine, 

— 306 —



and while he preferred talking about finished products, he had to 
admit the foundry was fascinating. 

In order to get close to the heat vents and geysers within 
the mountain, tran workers were first doused with ice water. 
Moving their arms and legs to keep the joints free, they soon 
wore jackets of transparent armor on torsos, arms, and legs. It 
gave Ethan the shivers just to watch it. 

It was strange to see someone donning special outfits to 
retain the cold. Everything backwards. 

“Where are your mines?” he asked Mulvakken. 

“At the west end of the island, sir. Some of our shafts and 
tunnelings extend out even under the ice.” 

“Don't you have trouble digging into this super-
permafrost?” 

“Oh no, sir. The deeper we go, the softer it gets. And the 
miners are out of the wind. But the pika-pina is rooted in that 
end of the island. Cutting through the roots is worse than trying 
to cut through rock. Usually we just remove the dirt and work 

— 307 —



around the roots themselves. The ice is easily melted and the 
water removed. . . Sometimes we can cut through an old or 
weakened root here, a dying linkage there. But it is so entwined 
and grown upon itself that 'tis near impossible to separate one 
bit from another. 

“Nor would we want to kill it. The pika-pina gives us food, 
while the metal gives us wealth.” 

“An attack on that end of the island by an enemy would 
capture the mines, then,” said Ethan unnecessarily. 

“Oh yes! But a lump of iron ore is a poor weapon, noble sir. 
Even were an enemy so inclined, and knowledgeable enough to 
work the mines, he could not with us continually harassing him. 
We're well protected here in the mountains, sir, even better than 
the city folk.” 

“Oh, I don't know. This western slope doesn't look so bad. 

“Perhaps not for you, sir. But I have heard you are built 
differently from us and that climbing uphill without wind aid does 
not give you as much difficulty.” 

— 308 — 


That was probably true, Ethan reflected. 

He was examining the huge windmills that powered lathes 
and grindstones and brought air to the forges when he felt 
Colette's hand on his arm. 

“Oh look. There's professor Williams,” She'd taken to 
calling him “professor” Williams now, though they didn't know 
exactly what level of upper school he taught. He'd not 
volunteered the information. Sometime Ethan would have to ask. 

The schoolmaster was seated at a table along with the ever 
attending Eer-Meesach. Both were so engrossed in a pile of 
diagrams that they didn't notice the arrivals until Ethan and 
Colette had stood behind them for several minutes. 

“I'll leave you, noble sir and lady, to the company of the 
wizards. I have much work to do. 'Tis sure no one knows how to 
put a decent edge on a sword these days.” Mulvakken gave 
them a bloodthirsty grin and bowed politely. 

In other words, Ethan reflected wryly, I've wasted enough 
time showing you alien V.I.P.s around and it's time I got back to 

— 309 —



some serious work. He waddled off in the direction of smoke, 

heat, and ringing noises. 

“Well, Milliken. Eer-Meesach.” 

“Greetings, sir and madame,” the wizard said with 
sprightly enthusiasm. His eyes were shining. “Your friend has 
been showing me many things. Great things. I haven't been so 
excited since l was a famulus!” 

“What have you been up to, Milliken?” 

“Malmeevyn has been helping me with mechanical 
equivalents and local terminology. I'm not much of a fighter and 
thought I might be able to help some other way.” 

“Nor am I,” said Ethan sincerely. 

“Oh, but we all saw the way you handled Sir Hunnar that 
night.” He couldn't keep the admiration out of his voice. “Even 
Mr. du Kane is a better fighter than I. . . But I did think I might be 
able to aid in other ways. I've read quite extensively, you know. 
I've been trying to help out the Wannomian armorers with an 
idea or two gleaned from terran and centaurian history. My first 

— 310 —



idea involved catapults, but both sides already understand and 
utilize the principle. Very powerful devices they have, too.” 

“They'd have to be,” Ethan commented, “to do much in 
this wind.” 

“Yes. Also swords, pikes, axes, lances, halberds — all kinds 
of things for cutting and stabbing. Spears and bows for throwing. 
But I've been working closely with Malmeevym and the metal 
workers and I believe we've managed to come up with a couple 
of beneficial developments.” 

He reached under the table and brought out an object the 
like of which Ethan had never seen. 

It had a long, straight body of wood, with a short bow set on 
one end. There was also an obvious trigger and some sort of 
pulley and crank mechanism at the other end. 

“Very interesting,” said Ethan, conscious of his historical 
cretinism. “What is it?” 

“An ancient terran weapon. It's called an arbalest, or 
crossbow.” 

— 311 — 


“A marvelous invention!” shouted the wizard, unable to 
contain himself. “I showed it to Leuva Sukonin's son, a knight of 
archers. When I outdistanced his best bowman he fell on the 
icepath and nearly slid all the way into town!” The wizard 
chuckled at the memory. 

“It can throw twenty to forty zuvits further than the furthest 
archer,” Williams said, “and it's more accurate and powerful 
besides. It cannot be loaded as fast, it's true. But it will penetrate 
the thickest of leather-bronze shields at close range. I made the 
bows extremely tough. I think this version is more powerful than 
anything ever used on old Terra. These tran have truly awesome 
arm and shoulder muscles . . . from holding their dan against the 
wind, I suspect.” 

Ethan hefted the weapon uncertainly. He tried the crank but 
could hardly budge it. “It's impressive, all right. I don't suppose 
you've succeeded in coming up with maybe a pocket laser or a 
nice portable thermonuclear device, hmmm? It would make 
things a lot simpler.” 

— 312 — 


“I'm afraid not.” Williams smiled slightly. “But we are still 
working on other developments. I hope one or two will be ready 
in time to do some good.” 

“That's right,” muttered Ethan, “—time.” 

“No one's said anything to me about time either,” 
protested Colette. “When is this Horde or monster or whatever 
due to arrive?” 

“No one knows, Colette. It could be several malets yet. Or 
they might be sighted tomorrow morning. Hunnar says they 
might even decide to pass Sofold completely for another year. I 
can't tell whether that possibility pleases or disappoints him. 
Now let's have another look at that chap who does the 
interesting marketable scrollwork on the sword-hilts. . .” 

In the weeks that followed Ethan got to know the people of 
Wannome as well as those of New Paris, Drallar, or Samstead. 

— 313 —



Preparations for battle continued apace, but the flow of 
commerce in the harbor never slackened. There was still no word 
of the Horde. 

One evening he wondered if the whole story of the Horde 
mightn't be a gigantic fraud — a cleverly concocted story 
designed to keep these useful and interesting strangers from the 
sky in Sofold. He quickly discarded that as a thought not only 
unworthy of people like Hunnar and Balavere and Malmeevyn, 
but also illogical. Although he wouldn't put it past the Landgrave. 

No, there'd been too much obvious passion displayed that 
night, when the inhabitants of Sofold had determined to fight 
their tormentors instead of groveling to them — too 
spontaneous, too genuine, even in its alien setting, to be a mere 
dumb show created for such ignoble purpose. 

He, Hunnar, and September were seated at a table in the 
general castle dining hall, down near the scullery. This was where 
most of the castle folk took their meals. Hunnar then suggested a 
walk along the sky balcony and the two humans agreed. 

— 314 — 


The sky balcony was the highest open pathway in 
Wannome Castle, excepting only the High Tower. From its wind-
lashed parapet one could stare down a sheer drop to solid ice 
below, and far out across the great frozen sea to the south. 

Their sojourn was interrupted by the breathless arrival of 
one of the apprentice-squires. He scraped to a halt, gulping 
freezing air, and almost forgot to bow to Hunnar. His face was 
wild. 

“N. . . noble s. . . sirs. . .!” 

“Take it easy, cub,” Hunnar admonished him, “and catch 
your breath. Your words ride the wind too far ahead of you.” 

“Not thirty or forty kijat to the southwest, noble sirs — the 
thunder-eater comes!” 

“How many?” asked Hunnar sharply. 

“On . . . only one, sir. A Great Old One! A caravan . . . three 
ships . . . blundered into it, hoping to find some shelter in the 
pika-pedan and then ride the wind-edge in. Only one escaped. Its 
master sits even now in audience with his Lordship!” 

— 315 — 


“Come,” Hunnar said curtly to the two men. He started for 
the stairs without even bothering to see if they followed. 

“So one of these ‘thunder-eaters’ finally shows up,” said 
September. “Excellent! I've been listing slowly to starboard 
sitting on my butt here. At least now we'll have a chance to see 
one of these things, what?” 

“I don't know,” Ethan commented carefully. “From Sir 
Hunnar's attitude, I don't think they run out day excursion rafts. 
And that apprentice did mention something about two ships 
being lost.” 

“Ah, that could have been from the storm,” countered 
September. “Say, Hunnar!” They hurried to keep up with the 
knight. Hunnar was being polite in not making use of the 
downward ice-paths. If he had, they'd have lost him in seconds. 
“Will we have a chance to see this thing?” 

For Hunnar, the reply was unusually curt. 

“You must understand that this is not a frivolous matter, 
my friends. In its own unthinking way, the stavanzer can be as 

— 316 —



dangerous as the Horde.” 

“Oh, come on now,” September replied in disbelief. “It 
can't be that big. No land animal on a Terra-type planet can. 
There's not even any water to buoy it up. A really big animal 
couldn't walk.” 

Hunnar halted so abruptly that Ethan bumped into him, 
bounced off the iron-hard back beneath the furs. 

“You have not seen a thunder-eater, stranger from the 
sky,” he said quietly. It was the first time since their initial 
meeting he hadn't used their names. “Do not judge 'til then.” He 
started off again as suddenly as he'd stopped. Ethan followed, 
surprised. The knight was really worried. 

“A stavanzer,” Hunnar continued as they descended yet 
another stairwell, “could destroy the great harbor more 
completely than any Horde and would do so without thought or 
compassion for life. A barbarian wishes to conserve in order to 
enrich himself. The thunder-eater has no such thoughts.” 

“I see,” said September, abashed. “Look, I apologize, 

— 317 — 


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 

— 318 —



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. . . 

— 319 — 


“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-huntingl” 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 

— 320 —



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 

— 321 —



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 
carne to the rail to watch quietly. 

A moment later they were through the great gate tower. As 
they rode out of the Ice 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; 

— 322 —



“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.” 

— 323 — 


“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 
spearmen.” 

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

— 324 — 


shoulder clasps. 

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

“Blow 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 

— 325 —



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 

— 326 —



'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 

— 327 —



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. 

— 328 —



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 

— 329 — 


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 pikapedan 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 bizzarre living topography. 

— 330 —



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 

— 331 — 


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 

— 332 — 


millimeter of drift. Protesting wood shifted from its original 
course. 

The black chasm grew until it blotted out ice, pika-pedan, 
sky. A dark hole swallowing the universe. It was opening and 
closing with a mechanical, slow-motion intensity, a ponderous 
cyclopean bellows. Above the wind came a dull roaring, like a 
dying stardrive. Eating air and excreting thunder, the stavanzer 
was moving. 

Crosslatch . . . pull . . . whistle . . . get round . . . left . . . left . . . 
no, port-left . . . left-port?. . .! 

The blood in his lower lip was beginning to freeze. Suddenly 
something or someone — he wasn't sure it was he — jerked 
convulsively at the latch. The tiny skate-boat heeled far over on 
its side, almost touching the ice. He had to scramble to keep 
from falling out. Almost calmly he saw that he'd delayed too 
long. He would not clear the creature. 

He would not clear the mouth. 

It would be open when he reached it, he knew instinctively. 

— 333 — 


A prayer would have been appropriate but what he mumbled 
instead was, “Move over, Jonah. Here I cone.” 

Then, startlingly, he missed, was past. He glimpsed an eye 
bigger than the whole skate-boat shooting past at blinding 
speed, black pupil like an onyx mirror reflecting his numbed 
stare. He was speeding past endless acres of roiling, heaving gray 
flesh. 

The stavanzer's mouth was enormous. The throat itself was 
not. Moving at nearly two hundred kph, the half-ton lance struck 
the back of that gaping maw. Several seconds passed while the 
impact traveled down miles of neurons. A shudder passed 
through the gargantuan bulk. The thunder-eater heaved the 
upper half of its body off the ice, an Everest of dimly felt agony. It 
dropped with a force that snapped Ethan's speeding skate-boat 
off the ice like a coin on a taut blanket. 

He sailed past an alien gray landscape, a vast confusion of 
ice and cold sky. Night came hard. 

— 334 —



Chapter Eight


He remembered vanilla wafers. Then he opened his eyes and saw 
a familiar fair-framed face with a unique nose. September was 
staring at him anxiously. Other memories hooded in and he 
sighed. Likely there wasn't a vanilla wafer within half a dozen 
parsecs of where he lay. 

Where he lay was in his bed in his room in Wannome 
Castle. He tried to sit up and was made aware of a fascinating 
phenomenon. Every square centimeter of his body was putting 
in an impolite claim for attention. 

“I,” he announced slowly, falling back onto the fur blanket 
someone had bunched beneath his head, “hurt. All over.” 

“Not surprising, young feller-me-lad,” said September, the 
concern vanishing from his face. “But other than that, how are 
you feeling?” 

Ethan chuckled. It was mentally satisfying, but it also 

— 335 — 


compelled certain sections of self to protest violently. He 
followed the ensuing silence with a question of characteristic wit, 
scintillating brilliance. 

“What happened?” 

“Why didn't you let go your latch when Hunnar gave the 
signal?” the big man asked instead of answering. 

Ethan thought, remembered. “We would have missed. It 
was turning the wrong way and we would have missed. Shot right 
past. . .” He tried to rise again. September put a hand on his 
chest and gently forced him back. 

“That particular beastie is no longer a problem. Lord, what 
a sight! I've seen a lot of big and biggests, lad, but that hunk of 
ugly meat tops them all. Couldn't believe how fast something 
that big can move.” 

“Hunnar told me, before.” 

“I thought we'd seen the last of you for sure when you 
didn't let loose with the rest of us,” September continued. “Gone 
forever down that unholy gullet. Oh, by the way, you turned it fair 

— 336 —



and proper. Took off southward with a roar you wouldn't believe. 
Near to shake a man's skin off, what? Though how it could even 
move with that log down its pipe I don't know. Tough? Oh my, 
yes!” 

“I don't mean what happened to it. What about me?” 

“Oh, you? Well, I didn't see much myself, being a-scooting 
fast in the opposite direction. But there was a well-positioned 
lookout in the front-running raft. Said when the thing rose off the 
ice . . . unheard of thing to do . . . and whacked down, it tossed 
you into the air like a ballooning spider. 

“You came down on the other side of the beast in the high 
pedan. That and the padding in the boat probably saved you. 
After contact, though, it was every chip and splinter for itself. If 
you'd landed on bare ice I expect we'd still be scraping up pieces 
of you. As it developed, you should have seen how much wood 
they pulled out of your skin. Good thing those survival parkas 
are tough. How you got out without busting anything, let alone 
everything, I'll wonder over 'til my last days. You took a powerful 

— 337 —



sock in the head.” 

“I feel tolerable now,” he lied. “How long have I been out?” 

September grinned. “Off and on, about a week.” 

“A week!” 

“'Twas a near thing, I don't mind telling you, lad,” he said 
solemnly. Then, more cheerfully, “Sure didn't hurt our standing 
with these folk, though. I expect they consider you the greatest 
thing to come along since warm.” He scratched at his pants. 
“But it's just as well you're up . . . if not exactly about. It seems 
it's time.” 

If they'd just take the anvil off his head he'd feel almost 
decent. 

“Time? What time?” 

September slapped his head with a blow that would have 
taken an ordinary man's head off. 

“Idiot! Forgot you couldn't understand anything while you 
were mumbling. Mumbled some weird things, too, you did. The 
Horde's coming, of course. Captain from someplace called 

— 338 —



Yermi-yin pulled into the harbor yesterday on his way to 
somewhere unpronounceable. Stayed just long enough to give 
the Landgrave the word before skimming out again. Poor fella 
was as white as the ice — a-headed due south and didn't seem 
inclined to change course even when we told him he might run 
into a mad stavanzer. Alien or no, anyone could see he was 
plenty scared.” 

Ethan determinedly heaved himself up on his elbows and 
found that without warning the room had gone triplicate . . . just 
like everything at the home office. 

“Then I've got . . . to get ready. We're going, to fight too. . .” 

Again September eased him down into the mattress. 

“You just lie there . . . alone, I'm afraid . . . and take it easy, 
young feller. They're at least a week's fast sail away. So there's 
no need to run around screeching and squawking like a plucked 
poonu. Hunnar and Balavere are organizing the militia. The 
populace is storing grain, pika-pina, vol, and suchlike like crazy, 
for a siege. Everyone is doing what they're supposed to. You're 

— 339 —



supposed to rest.” 

“Can they really stand a siege, Skua?” 

September looked thoughtful. “Hunnar seems to think so. 
Says the enemy's sure to crack mentally before the Sofoldians 
run out of anything vital. The general agrees with him, though 
he's not as vocal about it. Crafty old bird. . . They're ever 
stockpiling firewood . . . although with those natural fur coats 
they've got, they can do without it. Yes, when you start 
stockpiling luxuries I'd say that indicates a certain modicum of 
confidence. . . No, I don't think there'll be much of a siege. Just 
one double-helluva fight.” 

“Hunnar seemed sure he could beat them.” 

“According to that captain,” September mused, “they 
cover the ice from one end of the horizon to the other. I've been 
talking tactics with the general staff. I think I've made a few 
points. Frankly, any change in normal procedure ought to 
confuse that bunch. If this Sagyanak's as stubborn as some of 
Sofold's best, then we shouldn't expect much new from the 

— 340 —



Horde. . . But it's a new situation for the Sofoldians. They're 
willing to try new ideas. Just takes a little subtle convincing, a bit 
of reasonable explanation. Also, Balavere threatened to crack a 
few heads. . . If I were in the spot they're in, I'd be willing to 
experiment too. Wouldn't you, me lad?” 

“We are in their place,” replied Ethan quietly. September 
grunted. 

The battle armor was clumsy and too large, but Hunnar had 
insisted Ethan wear it. The leather leggings jolted and pulled at 
each step and the bronze breastplate was an unrelenting drag at 
his chest. 

He'd absolutely refused one of the flaring, ornate helmets, 
though. Even a child's size wouldn't have fit well. His head would 
ring around inside like a clapper in a bell. While it wasn't 
designed for fighting, the parka at least wasn't a burden. 

— 341 — 


The wind whistled around him. He walked back over to 
where Hunnar and September stood together at the edge of the 
High Tower. September was pointing into the distance. 

They might have had a better and clearer view from the 
wizard's telescope. But then they would see only one thing at a 
time. Besides, the learned miasma of the wizard's chambers 
palled after a while, along with the very real one from aromatic 
chemicals and half-vivisected animals. 

According to their long-since-departed informant, the 
Horde would appear out of the northeast. But for now there was 
only the invisible thread that divided cold-ice land from ice-cold 
sky. 

“No sign of them, Hunnar?” 

The knight paused in conversation with the big man and 
looked down at Ethan. “Your eyesight 'tis good as my own, Sir 
Ethan. Yet I do detect naught of the assembled swine.” 

“Could they be circling to take you from the rear?” asked 
September. He scratched at a persistent itch with the edge of a 

— 342 —



big double-bladed sword. 

Hunnar dropped a deprecating hand. 

“No. They might try such a maneuver later, to annoy us if 
for naught else. But Sagyanak is unlike many barbarians. 
Nothing will be done without purpose . . . or so we are told. Still, 
any nomad is unpredictable.” 

“Like you,” suggested Ethan. 

“Perhaps, like me,” the knight replied, not upset by the 
comparison. “As I said, all it would accomplish would be to 
anger us — hardly a sound motive. No, they'll parade up to the 
gates and make a fine show of themselves. They've no reason to 
think we'd be so foolish as to offer resistance.” He grinned 
wolfishly. 

“What a surprise the Death is going to get! Perhaps the 
Scourge will rave and rant enough to burst a skull-side blood 
vessel. That would spare us the necessity of a formal execution.” 

“Ah, there,” said September. “Isn't that a sail? Or have I 
been dipping too deep into the reedle again?” 

— 343 — 


No, certainly that was a spot of blue far, far out on the ice. It 
grew, was joined by others of different size and shape and color. 
Every imaginable shade was represented in the concatenation of 
sails. Soon the far ice was a rainbow of barbaric coloring: 
magenta, umber, jet, crimson — there was a lot of crimson and 
other reds — azure, carnelian, sand. . . 

Some of the sails were dyed in swatches of random color. 
Others boasted intricately designed motifs and mosaics. Some 
were woven, others painted — all of a bloodcurdling nature. 

A few sported railings decorated with dull white trannish 
skulls. 

They didn't cover the ice as the captain had warned. But 
they filled a disconcerting portion of it. 

“Must be nearly a thousand rafts out there,” murmured 
September. But the big man's nonchalance fooled no one. Even 
he was a little awed. 

“More than we expected,” Hunnar admitted. “Yet it only 
makes me gladder, for there will be more of the vermin to 

— 344 — 


dispose of.” 

Beating into the wind, the nomad fleet moved closer. One 
by one they took up position along four-deep lines. One by one 
the sails came down and ice anchors went out. 

“Settling in for a relaxing stay,” September said. 

Even at this distance, Ethan thought he could detect some 
rafts that were crowded with livestock, others with crates and 
supplies. It was a mobile city. 

Soon all the sails were furled but one, which belonged to a 
small, rakishly set little raft, lay alongside a huge ship with a 
double-storied, garishly painted central cabin. The small raft 
broke off and skimmed slowly for the harbor gate. 

Ethan could make out toy figures straining at the 
mechanism that raised the obstructing nets and the Great Chain 
barrier. 

“Parley raft,” said Hunnar with satisfaction. “The 
Landgrave and members of the Council should be preparing to 
receive it. Let's go.” 

— 345 — 


They followed him down the winding stairs into the castle 
proper. 

“This will be something to tell one's grand-cubs,” he said 
back over a shoulder. 

They were not part of the official greeting committee. Also, 
it had been decided that it would be better if the Horde did not 
have a look at the humans until it could upset them the most. Let 
them think then, as some of the Sofoldians still did, that the 
aliens were gods or daemons, not just skinny tran with severe 
haircuts. 

The musicians' balcony was deserted and gave them an 
excellent view of the Great Hall. Down below, the Landgrave 
waited on his throne. This time he was dressed not in 
comfortable silks but in bronze and leather armor, steel helmet 
and breastplate. He was an impressive sight, but Ethan had to 
concede that Balavere or Hunnar or even Brownoak would have 
carried the royal armor with a good deal more effect. 

Elfa, he noticed, was resplendent in armor of her own. No 

— 346 — 


decolletage this time. 

Grouped around the throne were the members of the 
Council, town representatives, and the more senior knights and 
their squires. Sunlight gave the assembled helmets and pikes and 
axes the aspect of the inside of a jewel. Migrating circlets of light 
were cast onto the bare stone walls and vaulted ceiling as they 
turned and shifted. They were an impressive group. 

Curious, Ethan gave the huge, curving white column that 
formed the back of the Landgrave's throne another look. Rather 
puny, after all. 

His eyes dropped and roved over the crowd as they waited. 
The du Kanes, of course, weren't present. Nor did they intend to 
participate in any actual combat. Hellespont begged off on his 
age, and Colette because it wasn't ladylike. He wished she could 
have a good look at Elfa Kurdagh-Vlata. But September had 
managed to convince them to don armor, at least. 

Walther was safely locked away in his gilded cubicle, where 
he couldn't do anything foolish to himself or anyone else. And 

— 347 —



Williams was off with Eer-Meesach somewhere, seeing to some 
kind of mysterious alchemy of their own. Having seen the 
crossbow in action, Ethan awaited their next revelation with 
anticipation and not a little leeriness. 

There was a commotion at the entrance to the Hall. All eyes 
turned in that direction. At the same time, it occurred to Ethan 
what had been bothering him about the assembly. He turned to 
Hunnar. 

“Shouldn't the prefect of Wannome be present for this” 

The knight spoke without turning. “The prefect has 
expressed his manifest displeasure at the entire proceeding. He 
has confined himself to his manor until an unspecified time. I, for 
one, don't miss him.” 

Something was nagging still. It was shoved aside by a 
rhythmic booming of drums from outside the Hall. A herald's 
voice rang out. 

“Here approach those representing Sagyanak the Death, 
Scourge of Vragan. . .” 

— 348 — 


“. . .All-powerful Destroyer of Ra-Yilogas,” finished a 
powerful voice. It rolled and rumbled off the walls. “And Ruler of 
the World!” 

A group of three tran came into view, striding down the 
central carpet. The leader of the triumvirate was the biggest 
native Ethan had yet seen, a towering figure resplendent in 
flame-colored cloak and coat. Under his left arm, snug into the 
dan, he held a helmet in the shape of the gutorrbyn, the flying 
dragon. His armor was nearly as red as the cloak itself, a 
burnished bronze crossed by polished vol-leather strappings and 
gold-silver buckles. A long, broad sword was fastened securely 
to his left leg. As he swung his arms Ethan could see that designs 
in gold dust had been glued to his tough wing membranes. 

His stride was long and hurried, as though he came on 
distasteful business best concluded quickly. Impatient to get on 
with the looting, no doubt, and upset at the delay. 

His two companions trailed slightly behind, one to either 
side. They were nearly as brilliantly clad, one in blues, the other 

— 349 —



in yellow and black. Neither had the physical presence of their 

superior, however. 

Ethan leaned over and whispered to Hunnar. 

“Is that Sagyanak?” 

Hunnar gave him an odd look. “Of course not, Sir Ethan. 
What a strange question!” 

“Why. . .?” he began, but September shushed him. The lead 
nomad was speaking. 

“I am Olox, right hand and first servant of the Destroyer. It 
has been far too long since we last visited our gracious friends in 
Wannome. Far too long. And when we finally rectify this 
unfortunate oversight, are we greeted properly?” He expressed 
outrage and bafflement; his companions wore woeful 
expressions. 

“No!” He looked up at the Landgrave. “We are not. What 
do we find instead? Armed men on the walls! Many armed men. 
Nets and chain bar our free entrance, passage to an open harbor. 

“The Destroyer chooses to graciously assume, though, that 

— 350 —



this is done in error, perhaps through our own fault at not 
identifying ourselves sufficiently. Or perhaps,” and here his tone 
changed to one of brutal coldness, “our friends in Wannome are 
subject to a peculiar forgetfulness. The Scourge has helpful ways 
aplenty to jog a loose memory here, a slipped remembrance 
there.” 

“Yet surely 'tis all a mistake, 'tis all unintentional!” he said 
cheerfully. “And now that we are truly made known to you, the 
Death expects prompt payment of the standard tribute . . . with 
mayhap a few thousand additional foss by way of compensating 
for embarrassment and upset nerves at your unkind greeting.” 

The Landgrave leaned forward into the silence that followed 
and shook an old fist at the three. 

“Now listen well to me, butcher Olox. Yes, we know you. 
Those armed men on the wall who upset your nerves will do 
more, if you wish. Chain and net return as soon as your putrid 
self has taken leave of us. Then I can order this Hall cleaned 
thoroughly to remove the stench that will linger. Go back and tell 

— 351 —



your bug-master that the people of Sofold and the city of 
Wannome pay tribute no longer, lest you seek to collect a 
fortune in the edges of axe-blades and the points of spears!” 

The one called Olox had stiffened at the first word. Ethan 
felt he could count every hair on the ambassador's head. But, 
surprisingly, he said nothing and waited until the Landgrave had 
concluded his speech. 

“I have considered,” said Olox slowly when the Landgrave 
had leaned back, “and answer that I relish your every word, 
every syllable.” 

“I am glad,” grinned Kurdagh-Vlata. “Would you like to 
hear them again?” 

“'Twill not be necessary,” replied Olox the Butcher, “for 
each and every word has been forever set down in my mind. 
They will be repeated to the Death with every inflection, all 
timing, intact and exact.” 

“Good,” said the Landgrave. “Should you require any aid, 
do but send for it. I shall forward any lapses of memory in 

— 352 — 


writing, with whatever suitable embellishments my courtiers can 
concoct.” 

“Then, Torsk Kurdagh-Vlata, Landgrave of Sofold, ruler of 
Wannome, I end thusly: put firm paw to sword and have an eye 
to your womenfolk, for when I next see you I will not find you so 
talkative, I think.” 

Cloak flying, the nomad general turned and strode from the 
Hall. His two servitors were hard pressed to match his stride 
without breaking into a run. 

No one moved. Then, from the far side of the silent hall. 
General Balavere's voice shook them all. 

“Well, will you sit there contemplating your fat bellies 'til 
doomsday? Get to your posts! See to your men!” 

The hall dissolved in a flurry of sudden activity and excited 
conversation. 

“Not quite as anticlimactic as I expected,” Ethan 
commented. “Was it, Hunnar? Hunnar?” He and September, 
turned together, but the knight had already slipped quietly away. 

— 353 —



The big man rubbed his face. “Gone to his own post, I 
suspect. Probably wanted to use the ice paths to move fast, take 
up position. He's in charge of the southeast third of the harbor 
wall, from the gate-tower to the castle. Didn't want to wait for us. 
We'd slow him to a walk and there are more important things on 
his mind now than courtesy.” 

Ethan turned, almost tripping over the sword strapped to 
his right leg. “I guess we should join him.” 

“Might as well.” 

The two humans passed small squads of troops running 
through the hallways or chivaning at seemingly reckless speeds 
down the stairway ice-paths. Most of the soldiers and militia 
were already on the wall. 

As they left the inner keep and walked along the outer 
battlements of the great castle, they could peer down into the 
courtyards. Gradually these filled with clumps of well-dressed 
civilians and many women and cubs. 

These were the wealthier country folk, evacuated from their 

— 354 —



impossible-to-defend homes about the island. They would spend 
the coming troubles in the relative comfort and safety of the 
castle itself. The great majority of country refugees would have 
to make do with the facilities available in the town. 

Those would be badly overcrowded, but while food and heat 
held out there would be no problem. And according to Hunnar, 
Wannome had little to fear in those respects. Everyone would be 
uncomfortable, but they'd manage. 

They passed through another long, dark hallway, rounded a 
bend, and nearly collided with a troop of archers who were 
moving to higher positions within the castle. Another turn and 
they were out in the brilliant sunlight and familiar, constant wind. 

They jogged easily along the broad top of the wall that 
sheltered the harbor, protected the city. There seemed to be an 
archer or pikeman at every slot in the stone. At regular intervals 
there was a war-tower, through which they ran huffing cold 
clouds. Ethan could see one and sometimes two crossbowmen 
perched atop each tower. They seemed woefully few. 

— 355 — 


They were approaching the great gate now. The Great 
Chain was in place, enmeshed in a spider's nightmare of antipersonnel netting. Hunnar should be commanding this section. 

Halfway down the wall September had grunted with 
satisfaction and tapped Ethan on the shoulder. 

“Have a look, lad, to our left.” 

Ethan peered over the wall and saw nothing for a moment 
but the harbor itself. Then he spotted what the big man was 
referring to. 

Halfway off the ice on the far side of the harbor lay the 
crumpled hulk of their lifeboat. 

“How. . .?” began Ethan. 

September smiled. “Balavere said he'd see to it. Told him 
it would be a sensible precaution if they expected to hold on to it, 
so he ordered out a dozen merchant rafts to drag it in. They 
must have had a helluva time getting it free. Once it was moving I 
expect it slid along okay. Thank the No-Spaces for this ice! If 
they'd had to pull it over any kind of rough country they 

— 356 — 


couldn't have moved it half a kilometer.” 

“I wonder,” mused Ethan as he dodged a long pole 
designed for pushing off scaling ladders, “if Sagyanak even 
knows about it.” 

“Well, it wouldn't startle me,” September replied. “You'd 
think the Sofoldians would have tried to camouflage it from the 
eyes of that envoy. I suppose they figure it doesn't matter in the 
long run.” 

“You think Olox saw it, then!” 

“Don't let appearances fool you, lad. That character might 
have been constructed like a senile grizzly, but he had weasel 
eyes. I watched him close. While the Landgrave was feeding him 
insults he was taking in the armor and attitude of every knight 
and noble in that hall. Probably had time to count the percentage 
of metal weapons, too. That's one advantage the Sofoldians do 
have, a decent supply of bronze and iron weapons. If we get 
through this. . .” He paused. “I hear you had a look-see through 
their foundry.” 

— 357 — 


Ethan nodded. He was getting winded from the long run. 
September didn't seem fazed. The younger man felt an 
unreasoning discomfort at this and tried to seem fresher. 

“Then you know they've got plenty of heat available. A lot 
more than I guessed. Good access to volcanic chimneys, and 
those windmills too. I think I might be able to rig an electrodyne 
forge, by Contusion! Scrap a few parts from the boat. . . Yes, if we 
survive this we might leave the Sofoldians a way to work that 
duralloy after all. Ah, there he is.” 

They slowed to a walk. Hunnar was resting at a pikeman's 
slot, staring out across the ice. They carefully crossed the icepath 
that ran down the center of the wall-top. He turned at their 
approach. 

“Well my friends, before very long we shall discover 
things.” 

“Don't look so moody. What are they about?” September 
asked. 

Hunnar turned away. “Have a look for yourselves.” He 

— 358 — 


moved over and the two humans were treated to an 
uninterrupted view of the icefield. 

Between the barbarian rafts little white could be seen. The 
ice was covered with shifting, sparkling, multi-colored furry 
bodies. Swords, shields, bucklers, and helmets flashed like night 
sky in the heavy sunlight. The Horde was leaving the rafts. 

“There's a slight crosswind up from the south,” Hunnar 
informed them, glancing at the sky. “I expect the main body will 
come from that direction. They'll slant due west and then up at 
us. The brunt of the attack will fall on this line.” 

Sure enough, clumps of nomad troops began to detach 
themselves from the main mass and tacking against the wind to 
gain distance to the west. 

Ethan saw that they stood nearly at the end of the wall. The 
Great Gate Tower was to their immediate left, another battle 
tower to their right. He looked back the way they'd come. All 
along the wall, curving back to the castle like a gray snake, there 
was motion. Knights strove to adjust their men in accordance 

— 359 —



with the enemy's movements, made last minute changes, hopeful 
preparations. 

“Will they attack only this section of wall?” asked Ethan a 
little apprehensively. 

“That would be foolish. As they outnumber us by so many, 
they will assault the entire length of the harbor in strength, 
hoping to find a point we have vacated or weakened. Otherwise 
we could concentrate our strength here alone and have a better 
chance of beating them off. But they can spread themselves thin 
and still outmatch us four and five to one at every kijat. 'Tis 
merely that from this side they will have slightly better wind, 
therefore better speed and maneuverability. . . Also, we must 
keep troops to guard the mountain passes. They may try a thrust 
there, though I doubt it. Still, some of our strength must stay 
there, though Sagyanak has no reason to resort to subtlety. They 
will come to us with great confidence.” 

He paused and looked at September. “Friend Skua, you 
have no weapon.” 

— 360 — 


“Why bless my soul, so I don't! Forgot the damn sword.” 
He turned and hurried to the battle tower on their right. 

“I see you carry a sword, friend Ethan. Can you use it?” 

“I guess I'm going to learn in a hurry. I'd feel a lot better 
with a nice new wide-aperture laser.” 

“I should feel better if you had one of your magical 
weapons, too,” the knight replied, managing a slight grin stared 
out across the ice. The raft-head was growing huge, horns to 
south- and northwest. Half to himself, he muttered, “There will 
be archery fire to cover, despite the wind. Will they try to move in 
close and shoot linear, or stay above us and fire downwind? 
Distance or accuracy?” He shook his helmeted, red-maned head 
uncertainly. 

September reappeared, carrying the biggest battle-ax 
Ethan had ever seen. Of course, he didn't have a working 
knowledge of such devices, but it looked godawful big to him. It 
was double-bladed and made of black iron. September swung it 
back and forth and over his head and behind his shoulders, 

— 361 —



mimicking an action of a long-vanished terran sport. 

A number of the men-at-arms gave a cheer when they saw 
the ease with which their alien-ally handled the monstrous 
cleaver. 

“You throw that axe around like a cub's toy, friend 
September,” said Hunnar admiringly. 

“Well,” said September, taking a friendly swipe with it at 
Ethan and nearly giving the salesman heart failure, “I'm not 
much on thrusting, but I appreciate finesse. So I tried to select 
something suitable to my delicate sensibilities.” 

Hunnar stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, 
then let out a jerking trannish laugh. 

“I see. You joke. You will tell it in more direct fashion to 
our verminous friends when they come over the wall.” 

“I'll be as entertaining as possible,” September promised. 
He took a deep breath. “When are they going to get on about it? 
Or do we wait until after lunch?” 

The answer came several minutes later in the form of a low 

— 362 — 


basso rumbling from across the ice. It sounded like distant 
thunder. Ethan thought he could detect an odd swirl of motion 
near the big raft, but it was too far off to make out details. 

A weird sound was that deep drone. It reached right down 
inside a man and caressed the bones. 

“The Margyudan,” explained Hunnar quietly. “That means 
no quarter and no prisoners. Well, we expected no less.” 

Hunnar's men stood frozen at their stations along the wall. 
Ethan could understand their feelings. Death made its own 
music. 

Surprisingly, it was September and not the memory-stuffed 
Ethan who was able to identify the sound. 

“I've heard something like this on Terra and a few other 
worlds,” he said, “only on a much smaller scale. On Terra they 
call it a bull-roarer. The natives of the northern continent on 
G'Dim call it a Dane. But this version must be much, much 
bigger to carry this far against the wind. Come to think of it, the 
device itself night be wind-powered.” 

— 363 — 


Abruptly, the sound ceased. Ethan could hear himself 
breathing. Only the wind moved. Only the wind talked. Ethan 
drew his sword, the rasp of metal against scabbard gratingly 
loud. 

The peace was split asunder by a monstrous howling from 
all sides. Ethan had never heard the like before. It came from 
everywhere, had no one source. And the enemy was barely in 
sight, since they were moving far west to gain wind. 

“Working themselves up good and proper, what?” 
September whispered. “I expect when they've huffed and puffed 
themselves into a really fine old-fashioned frenzy, they'll come at 
us.” 

The howling and moaning continued for ten minutes, and 
seemed more like an hour. Then there was a single great 
simultaneous bellow that shook the stones of the wall. A living 
gray blanket, the limitless mass began to move toward them. 
They came in a wide, easy curve up from the southwest, slanting 
up into the wind. 

— 364 — 


Soon he could pick out individual figures within the Horde. 
No two sets of armor looked the same, contrasting with the 
formal uniforms of the Sofoldian soldiery. The more garish the 
better, it seemed. Many of those in the forefront carried scaling 
ladders. Others held long knotted ropes with bone or metal 
grapnels on the end. 

“Down!” roared Hunnar unexpectedly. Along the wall the 
defenders hugged themselves to the stone, trying to bury 
themselves in their armor. A hail of arrows, like the flight of a 
billion bees, came sailing over to clatter against the stones. There 
were a few screams from somewhere down the wall. 

One arrow came whizzing through the slot a few 
centimeters in front of Ethan's scrunched-up face. It shot across 
the stone to hit the far side of the parapet, ricocheted back to die 
against the heel of his boot and lie peacefully next to the leather. 
The bone tip was shattered. 

Another angry swarm hummed overhead. It occurred to 
him that despite four years of university, another year of 

— 365 — 


advanced sales training, and on-the-job experience, he was 
utterly helpless in the face of a bunch of hysterical primitives. 

There was very little time for thought. Hunnar yelled, “Up 
now!” and Ethan stood, turned. 

He was confronted almost immediately by a snarling face 
framed in metal and leather and a pair of slitted yellow eyes that 
stared hypnotically into his own. He stood frozen in shock, 
unable to move, the sword dangling limply from one hand. The 
nomad raised a heavy mace in seeming slow motion over his 
head while Ethan watched, unmoving. 

A long pike thrust out of nowhere and skewered the other 
through the chest. It gurgled, coughing blood, and dropped from 
view. That broke the ennui that had coated Ethan. Another 
minute and he was swinging his own sword rhythmically, 
jabbing and slashing and cutting at anything that showed itself 
above the clean gray stone. He never did have a chance to thank 
the pikeman who'd saved his life. 

The yelling and shrieking, crying and bellowing drowned 

— 366 — 


any coherent speech. In one harried moment he got a glimpse of 
September. Roaring like a pride-leader, the white-haired old 
giant was swinging the monstrous ax in great arcs, lopping off 
hands, arms, and heads like a thresher taking up wheat. 

Hunnar seemed to be everywhere, dropping alongside for a 
quick thrust with his own sword, stepping back and running 
down the wall to rearrange a line of spearmen, offering 
encouragement to the fighting and solace to the wounded, 
always appearing where the fighting was heaviest, red beard 
bobbing in and out of the morass of blood and fur, receiving 
information from down the wall and offering some of his own. 

All along the harbor wall lights were blinking demandingly 
as both Sofoldian and nomad flashers threw silent tirades of 
anger and agony at each other. Carnage was reported by 
peaceful sunlight. 

Ethan thrust forward again, felt something hard and cold 
along his right side. September saw him falter and was at his side 
in a minute. He caught Ethan as the younger man staggered, 

— 367 —



dazed. 

“Where you hit young feller?” he asked anxiously. He had 
to shout to make himself understood over the noise. 

“I . . . I don't know.” Really, he didn't. He'd felt something 
strike, but he wasn't weak or faint. He looked down at himself, felt 
his body. Nothing. September had him turn slowly and 
examined his back. Ethan heard, “Bless my soul!” for the 
second time that day. 

“Don't keep me in suspense,” said Ethan tightly. “What is 
it?” 

He felt a tugging at his back. September grunted once. 
Then he was grinning and showing Ethan a long barbarian arrow. 
“This was sticking out the back of your tunic, three quarters 
through. Must have gone right down your sleeve. Sonuvabitch.” 

Ethan wanted to say something appropriately clever, but 
didn't get the chance. In the next minute it seemed that a solid 
wall of screeching, howling nomads were swarming over the top 
of the wall. In places some of the enemy had actually attained the 

— 368 —



top and were fighting inside. But reinforcements, using the ice-
paths to move quickly along the wall, chivaned up and down to 
repair such cracks in the line. 

Then, abruptly, the screams and bellows of defiance turned 
to howls of frustration. The great mass of enemy troops was 
moving backwards and down, retreating across the ice. Yells of 
derision accompanied them, along with arrows and crossbow 
bolts. 

September walked over to Ethan, pulled his helmet off, and 
slung it across the wall. It bounced off the stone with a metallic 
chink. His face was red and running with sweat. A tiny trickle of 
blood ran down one cheek, dribbled lazily off his chin. The huge 
ax was stained crimson. 

“You're bleeding,” said Ethan. 

“Eh?” September paused, put a hand to his face, brought 
away. “So I am. Well, just a scratch, it is. Right now, young feller-
me-lad, I'm too tired to care.” He let out a long, exhausted 
breath. 

— 369 — 


“I had a dozen brand-new pocket medikits in my 
baggage,” began Ethan, but September waved him off and 
frowned. 

“I've had enough of listening to you talk about the 
marvelous trade goods we haven't got, young feller.” 

“Sorry,” said Ethan contritely. 

“Getting too old for this sort of thing . . . what?” the big 
man mumbled. 

All down the wall and across the harbor, the Sofoldian 
soldiers and militia were singing and celebrating their victory 
with a fervor that matched their fighting intensity. As word 
spread, a similar tintinnabulation arose from the town itself, as 
the townsfolk and their country visitors slowly received the news. 

Hunnar joined them. The knight's eyes were glowing and 
his once-immaculate uniform was stained with dark splotches. 
“By the Running Plague of Deimhorst, we beat them! We beat 
them!” 

“They'll be back, y'know,” wheezed September. 

— 370 — 


Hunnar glanced down at him. “Yes, I know. But consider 
for a moment what has happened here. Ah no, you cannot. You 
cannot feel the same. For hundreds of years no one his dared to 
challenge the might of the Horde or any of their bloodsucking 
ilk. Whatever happens now, even should Wannorne be razed to 
the ice, the word will be spread. Whether from us or from a 
garrulous drunkard among the enemy. It will be known that the 
barbarians can be beaten!” 

“It wasn't exactly an overwhelming victory, you know,” 
added September dryly. “That last charge almost rolled us 
over.” 

Hunnar took a long, slow breath of his own. “I know, friend 
September. It was a near thing.” He looked around, walked over 
to the body of one of the enemy. “If it had not been for this, I fear 
we would indeed have broken. Look.” 

He stuck a foot under the corpse and shoved. It rolled over 
onto its back. Ethan could see the stubby hilt of one of Williams' 
crossbow bolts protruding from the soldier's chest. It had gone 

— 371 —



right through the thin layer of bronze and the double leather 
backing. 

“'Twas not so much the greater range of your wizard's 
weapon, though that was important, but the fact that it carries so 
much striking power. Even, yea, into the wind!” 

“You've lost that surprise now, though,” September 
commented pointedly. “Next time they'll know what to expect.” 

“All the anticipation in the world will not slow one of these,” 
the knight observed. He prodded the hilt of the bolt. A little blood 
oozed out as he moved it around in the dead tran's chest. 

“And Mulvakken and his craftsmen are turning out new 
bows and many dozens of bolts constantly. Though we still have 
four trained men for every crossbow that is finished. That is our 
greatest weakness.” 

“Will they attack again today?” asked Ethan curiously. 

Hunnar glanced at the sun, then looked down at him. “No, 
friend Ethan, I think not. The Horde,” he explained with relish, 
“are not used to retreating. It will take their leaders some time to 

— 372 —



absorb what has happened to them. 'Tis completely foreign to 
their experience. For the first time they will have to ponder a real 
strategy. I cannot guess what that may be, except that it will not 
be another open frontal attack!” He smiled ferociously. “The ice 
is sick with their bodies.” 

“Well, I'm glad to hear we can rest awhile,” said Ethan, 
“because I am completely and totally finished. Out of it. Tired.” 
His right hard was resting in a pool of ice water. He raised it and 
patted a little gently under his eyes, wiped it free with the back of 
a gloved hand before it could . . . wait a minute. Ice water? At this 
temperature? 

He looked down. His hand had been resting in a large pool 
of rich red blood, which was just now beginning to congeal and 
thicken in the sub-freezing air. His survival glove and jacket 
sleeve had been soaked to a point halfway up his forearm. It 
looked like a scrap from a slaughterhouse. 

“Darn! Now I'll have to find a fire and melt this out.” Then 
he fell over in a dead faint. 

— 373 — 


Chapter Nine


The following morning dawned clear and lovely — and windy. It 
was so beautiful that it was almost impossible to imagine the 
horror of the previous day. It was not necessary to call on the 
mind, however. All one had to do was glance over the harbor 
wall. The ice was littered for hundreds of meters in all directions 
with tiny clumps of fur and wide frozen ponds of dark red. 

Warriors on this world, he reflected, were spared at least 
one of the great horrors of war. Since every engagement took 
place in a perpetual deep-freeze, there would be no lingering 
stink of moldering corpses. 

“How do you feel, young feller?” asked September. “You 
keeled over so quick-like yesterday you had me worried a 
second.” 

“I'm sorry about that,” Ethan replied. 

“No need to apologize. . .” began September, but Ethan 

— 374 — 


halted him. 

“No, I've seen men killed before. And these aren't even 
humans or thranx. I thought I'd seen quite a bit, but this. . .” He 
indicated the ghastly litter on the ice before them. 

September put a great hand on his shoulder. “In the 
universe, my young friend, it's always the familiar sights that 
shock the most. We're always expecting the unfamiliar.” 

Hunnar joined them, but his eyes were on the ice. Come to 
think of it, so were those of most of the men-at-arms stationed 
along the wall. 

“What will they try today?” asked Ethan, aware that he was 
missing something. 

“Don't you hear it?” the knight replied. 

“Hear what?” 

“It has been sounding for several minutes now. Listen.” 

Ethan waited, straining to hear something from across the 
ice. As usual, there was only the eternal infernal wind. Then there 
seemed to be something more. 

— 375 — 


“I hear it,” growled September. “Sounds like singing.” 

“Yes,” Hunnar agreed. “Singing . . . Ah.” He pointed. 
“There.” 

Far out across the solid sea, a strange object of truly 
monstrous proportions was moving toward them. Four long lines 
of nomad warriors were harnessed to four thick cables of woven 
pika-pina. Ethan could make out individual words now. The 
singing was accompanied by a deep-throated thrumming from 
smaller versions of the great Margyudan. 

“Hayeh, chuff . . . haych, chuff!” intoned the straining 
barbarians, “Haryen abet hayeh chuff . . . hoo, hoo, chuff!. . .” 

They swayed in rhythm to the song, pulling first to the left, 
then the right, left, then right. After they'd moved another dozen 
meters closer, the design of the engine they were dragging 
became clear even to Ethan's untrained eye. 

Hunnar said quietly, “That's the biggest moydra . . . 
catapult . . . I've ever seen.” 

Both singing and machine halted a few minutes later. The 

— 376 — 


long lines of warriors rolled up their green cables. A crew of busy 
nomads began working about the base of the great war engine. 

“Throwing out ice anchors,” said September, staring into 
the distance, “and blocking down the skates. I don't wonder. The 
recoil on that thing must be terrific.” 

The singing resumed, on a much smaller scale this time. 
Ethan could see the huge cyclopean arm gradually sinking 
toward its base. It was hard to get a true sense of scale at this 
distance, but the crossbeam of the catapult was many times the 
height of a man. 

There seemed to be a lapse in the activity. “What are they 
doing now?” he asked anxiously. 

Hunnar yelled, “Get down!” 

The cry was echoed by dozens of other voices along the 
wall. Ethan dropped as he had, yesterday. Nothing happened. He 
raised his head slightly. There was a loud whistle in the sky and it 
wasn't arrows, and it wasn't the wind. Something went crunch in 
the distance, behind them. 

— 377 — 


Without waiting for an “all clear” he was on his feet, across 
the ice-path, and looking into the harbor. He almost stumbled on 
the ice. 

Across the harbor, near the second tower down from the 
harbor gate, a section of wall at least five meters wide and three 
deep had been knocked from the back section of stone as 
though by the bite of a giant shovel. 

Several twisted tran-shapes sprawled on the ice among the 
broken stone. From both walls troops were converging on the 
spot. A few started to scramble down the open break onto the 
ice. 

There was a line in the harbor ice formed by three 
successive gouges, each about twenty meters apart. They lay in 
line from the broken section of wall. Twenty meters beyond the 
last gouge lay an enormous chunk of solid basalt. It sat placid 
and innocent in a slight depression of its own making. 

Hunnar uttered something vicious that Ethan couldn't 
translate and started running toward the castle. From several 

— 378 —



towers, Sofoldian catapults began to twang in response. Their 
smaller stones fell far short of the huge barbarian war engine. 

A broad crescent of nomads had assembled next to the 
catapult. When it became clear that their own machine was 
impregnable they set up a great cheering and screaming that 
didn't stop until the next stone was released. 

This one landed short of the wall, took one bounce, and 
slammed into the masonry not ten meters down from where 
Ethan was standing. The concussion threw everyone stationed 
on that section off his feet. 

Immediately, Ethan was standing and leaning over the side 
to inspect the damage. 

A respectable portion of rock had been smashed free. Now 
it lay scattered on the ice like so many pebbles, the boulder a 
colossus among them. 

“It's a damn good thing it takes them so long to wind that 
thing up,” said September. “Just the same, Hunnar's going to 
have to do something about that toy — and fast. Otherwise, near 

— 379 —



as I can figure, Sagyanak can sit out there and enjoy the party 
while that one piece of oversized artillery slowly turns these walls 
into gravel.” 

The flickering candles illuminated the map spread before them, 
but did nothing to lighten their spirits. Balavere, Hunnar, Ethan, 
and September sat at the table. They were joined by the 
Landgrave and several other of Sofold's most important nobles, 
the latter forming Balavere's general staff. 

One of the nobles was using a long stick of polished wood 
to indicate crosses and circles on the map, gesturing here and 
there at the line representing the harbor wall. 

“The wall has been nearly breached — here, here, and here. 
Severe damage to battlements has occurred here, here, here, and 
here. Wherever you see a sting sign there is minor damage of 
varying degree. This is not to mention our personnel casualties 

— 380 —



nor the damage to the spirit of the men. There is some talk of 
surrender and throwing the city on the mercy of Sagyanak. It is 
small as yet, but will surely grow unless something is done.” 

“Better to throw oneself on the sword,” said Balavere. “But 
I understand their talk. 'Tis intolerable to sit helplessly and watch 
one's comrades flattened, unable to fight back.” He shook his 
great maned head. 

“We cannot endure more than another two or perhaps 
three days of this bombardment before they will have weakened 
us at so many points that it will become impossible for us to 
keep them from the harbor. Then it will be all up.” 

“So we must keep them out . . . somehow,” responded 
Hunnar tightly. “We could never survive an open battle on ice 
with them. We killed thousands today, but they still outnumber 
us badly. Do any think otherwise?” he concluded half hopefully. 

No one saw fit to dispute this depressing bit of truth. 

Finally Balavere gave a sigh and looked up. “'Tis a poor 
leader who does not solicit advice when he himself has naught to 

— 381 —



offer. Gentlemen?” 

One of the nobles spoke up immediately. 

“Surely our technology is greater than that of these 
barbarian primitives! Can we not build ourselves a weapon of 
equal, if not greater power?” 

“In a few malets, most surely we could, Kellivar,” replied 
Balavere. “But we need one in two days.” 

“Could we not,” proposed one of the older nobles, 
“establish several of our own smaller moydra within range of 
their own? From there we could throw animal skins of burning 
oil onto it.” 

“Have you seen how they surround it?” said Hunnar 
tiredly. “We could not disguise such a plan from them. We could 
never muster a protective force of sufficient strength to stave off 
an attack on such an advanced position.” 

“Even if it were protected,” the noble added, “by all our 
new crossbowmen, who would have only a single small bit of ice 
to defend?” 

— 382 — 


“Well. . .” hesitated Hunnar. He looked questioningly at 
Balavere. 

“The idea has merit, Tinyak,” the general replied. “Yet, 
should we fail to fire the barbarians' engine quickly, even the 
crossbows would not be enough to prevent an encirclement. I 
cannot take the risk of losing them in such an enterprise. They 
were the difference on the walls yesterday.” 

“By the Krokim's tail, is it not understood that in a few 
days there will be no walls!” shouted one of the nobles. 

“The way I see it,” said September calmly, “is pretty 
simple, if I might have leave to say a few words, noble sirs?” 

“You proved yourself the equal or better of any at this 
table,” said the Landgrave, speaking for the first time. “We will 
give close attention to whatever you counsel.” 

“All right then.” September leaned back in his chair, 
propped one foot on the table and began rocking back and forth. 
“Near as I can tell, there's only one thing to do. That's put on 
your warm woolies, friends, sneak out the dog-door, and set fire 

— 383 —



to that gimcrack by hand, yourselves, tonight.” 

“Fighting at night is unmanly,” said one of the nobles 
disdainfully. 

“So's getting terminated by a fat slab of street paving,” 
September countered. 

“'Tis not worthy of a gentleman!” the other grumbled, put 
certainly this time. “At night.” 

Ethan glanced around time table, saw the same indecision 
mirrored in the faces of others. 

“Look,” said September, taking his foot off the table and 
leaning forward intently. “I've been amply supplied with the 
details of what this Sagyanak is going to do if and when the 
Horde gets in among your women and kids. You won't have to 
worry about the fact that such atrocities will be conducted in an 
unmanly and ungentlemanly fashion, because none of you will 
be around to condemn it. That's if you're lucky. . . 

“Now, you can try this long shot with me, because I intend 
to try it whether any of you come along or not. Or you can get 

— 384 —



around this question of etiquette by sending along some of your 
wives or mistresses in your place. I don't think moral 
considerations will trouble them.” 

“Everything we hold dear and true is at stake,” interrupted 
the Landgrave suddenly, “and there are still some among you 
who would sit at leisure and debate fine points of obscure 
protocol. . . Damn and hell!” He stood up, old and shaky all of a 
sudden. “Sir September and Sir Hunnar will take charge of an 
expedition to move against the enemy this very night. However, I 
will force no one to take part in this who would feel his honor 
forever impugned. Should the expedition be successful,” and 
here he looked hard at Hunnar, “and it must be successful . . . 
there will be no question as to the honor of those who went. . . 

“General Balavere,” he continued, looking over at that 
stocky individual, “you will see to all necessary details. I must 
retire.” 

They all stood. Staff in hand, the Landgrave walked off into 
the dark, trailing a pair of bodyguards. The others sat down, 

— 385 —



muttering. Gradually they all came to look expectantly across at 
the alien being who sat as equal in their council. 

“How many?” inquired Hunnar firmly. “How many will 
you need, Sir Skua? 'Tis certainly a bold undertaking for only the 
finest of knights.” 

“I think no more than twenty,” replied September 
thoughtfully. “Ten to pull the oil raft and ten to act as escort. 
Also, see that everyone is outfitted in armor and outer dress 
taken from captured material. At night, even a superficial 
disguise can make all the difference. As for myself, well, we'll 
have to figure out something else.” 

“And for me,” added Ethan with finality. 

“Get me a helmet with a low front,” the big man concluded. 
He turned to Ethan as the table dissolved in a buzz of 
conversation. 

“Listen, young feller-me-lad. There's no need for you to 
take part in this. It's going to be the middle of the night out there. 
The temperature will be down in the pit's own level and cold 

— 386 —



enough to sear the skin off your face if your heater breaks down. 
If someone got blown away on a night like that we'd never find 
him again.” 

Ethan considered. The last night-expedition he'd been on 
had been in the company of a delightful young lady on the 
colony world of Gestalt. She'd spent a balmy moonlit night 
introducing him to certain exquisite variants on Church 
theologies. Her conversion of him was short, but ecstatic. 

Now there was the bare clean surface of a different sort of 
world. A man would freeze to death in seconds without special 
defenses. The cold bit into your teeth like an old dentist's probe. 

“I'm going.” 

“On your own head be it, young feller.” 

“I'm going, too,” came a voice from the back of the hall. 
Everyone turned quietly. Ethan stood to see over the wide 
shoulders of one of the nobles. 

Darmuka Brownoak, prefect of Wannome, walked slowly 
toward them, patiently buckling on his silver-inlaid, armor. 

— 387 —



At night the open icefield seemed more than ever like a white 
desert. They'd gone over the mountain pass and arrived at a 
deserted little icefront town on the south side of Sofold. 
Hopefully, no enemy sentry had seen them depart from the 
single tiny pier. 

Ethan lay on his stomach, the odd-shaped armor digging 
uncomfortably into his ribs, and dug his gloved fingers into the 
rough wood of the sled. The splendid barbarian helmet jounced 
awkwardly on his head, held there by facemask and straps. 
Goggles protected his eyeballs from freezing. 

Ten Sofoldian soldiers pulled the sled, set in waist harness 
five on either side. The wind was almost directly behind them and 
they'd shot off at a speed that literally pulled the breath from 
Ethan's lungs. Even the wind seemed stronger than usual 
tonight. At least the flared helmet gave him some protection. 

— 388 —



Now if it would only stop chafing. 

Laboriously he turned his head, the fur-lined metal 
scraping against the wood, and managed a glimpse of the lights 
shining within the magical castle of Wannome. It rode the sheer 
south cliff of the island like a dream. 

But they were running for other lights, a thousand times as 
many lights, scattered among the barbarians' unending expanse 
of camp. It made an endless gleaming parade to south and east. 

“Now remember, lad,” September had explained to him, “if 
anyone speaks to you, play like you're deaf and dumb. Let 
Hunnar and his two knights do all the talking.” Ethan had barely 
managed a half-frozen nod. 

If they were intercepted, their story was to be that they'd 
been one of the small patrols which had been raiding the 
deserted towns and villages in hope of uncovering some 
forgotten cache of foodstuffs, utensils, or anything else worth 
carrying off. They'd broken into an underground warehouse half 
full of supplies — barrels of vat oil, for example — and had spent 

— 389 —



too much time guzzling the small stock of good liquor they'd 
found. Before they knew it, the ice-that-ate-the-sun had 
performed its ugly act. Now they were trying to sneak back to 
camp before captain-killer Slattunved could discover their 
absence. 

As the official surveyor of shifty stories, Ethan had picked 
over the plot and pronounced it at least plausible. He knew a 
decent sales pitch when he heard one. 

Still, one wrong gesture, one word out of place, and they'd 
go down under ten thousand aroused nomads. 

“There, I think I can see it, young feller.” 

Ethan looked up, squinted through his goggles. Sure 
enough, a black silhouette loomed against the speckled sky. 
There was no mistaking the outline of the great catapult. All of a 
sudden, then, they began to slow. 

One of the unharnessed knights dropped his right wing a 
little, skated close to the sled. 

“Careful now. A patrol comes.” 

— 390 — 


Below the howl of the wind — at least 60 kph, he thought, 
shivering — he could make out Hunnar and the other knights 
scraping ice as they strove to brake to a halt. He lowered the 
helmet over his facemask, pulled his arms tight up against his 
sides, and tucked his hands under his chest, flattening himself to 
the cold wood. 

Up ahead he could hear Hunnar speaking in gruff tones to 
someone unseen, explaining the provisioning party's strange 
luck in turning up a great supply of oil for the Scourge's tent, but 
no food to speak of. 

Then he heard one of the barbarians ask, in a strange 
dialect, “What about those two?” 

He could imagine the feet coming closer, a hand lifting off 
the helmet. Then a cry of shocked surprise at the sight of his 
alien face . . . and surely their presence was known to the enemy 
after yesterday's battle on the wall. A sudden swift descent of the 
sharp blade, cries, spurting blood. . . 

“Oh, them?” countered Hunnar smoothly. “Well, the dwarf 

— 391 —



there is so ashamed of his small size that he tried to down twice 
the reedle of any of us. Even dipping him in fresh melt had no 
effect. The other one had just enough to make him think he was 
a gutorrbyn. He tried to fly off the roof of some dirt grubber's 
barn. He flew all right — straight down.” 

There was a tense pause. Then the patrol leader let loose a 
hoarse series of jerking laughs. 

Eventually he managed to contain himself. “'Tis best you 
get them back to camp, then,” he finally snorted, “before your 
captain does find them, or he'll skin them alive. If Death-Treader 
should breach the walls of the Insane Ones, we will attack 
tomorrow.” 

“Truly,” replied Hunnar, “they would be forever sorrowful 
should they miss the Sack.” 

There was another short exchange of pleasantries, too low 
for Ethan to hear. Then they were moving forward once more, 
though much slower this time. He raised his head just slightly, 
saw that they were alone on the ice again. The patrol had 

— 392 — 


evidently continued on its way westward, tacking into the wind. 

“Everything linear?” whispered September so sharply that 
Ethan nearly lost his grip on the sled. He'd completely forgotten 
about his big companion. September had lain like a dead man 
throughout the entire exchange. 

“You wouldn't think to have any trouble talking,” he 
replied, “but my stomach's halfway up into my throat.” 
September chuckled. “For a minute there, when he asked about 
‘those two,’ I saw myself spread across the ice like bread 
dough.” 

“You're lucky,” replied September, “I was so busy 
organizing things before we pushed off that I forgot to go to the 
john.” 

The meeting with the patrol must have been an omen, for they
didn't encounter another soul the rest of the way. An attack by


— 393 —



night was apparently as unthinkable to the nomads as it had 
been to the cultured coterie of knights back in the castle. 

All but one of the guards at the great siege-engine were 
enjoying a deep sleep in the several tents at its base. These were 
pegged into the ice and benefited from the windbreak the 
catapult provided. 

The one duty guard observed their approach and chivaned 
over, completely unsuspecting. He was probably curious as to 
what a group of his fellows were doing out on the ice so late at 
night with a raft full of barrels and two unmoving bodies. 

Hunnar met him. He offered him the same explanation he'd 
given the patrol leader, explaining their partly successful raid. 
Then he presented the other with a “stolen” sweet-stick. The 
guard accepted it with thanks. 

“Death-Treader did well today,” Hunnar said 
conversationally. “Would that I had been closer, to better see the 
fear on the faces of those stupid town dwellers.” The last word 
Hunnar uttered in the contemptuous tone the barbarians held for 

— 394 —



anyone fool enough to live in one place instead of moving free 
with the wind. 

“The crew had some difficulty ranging him today,” 
admitted the guard, “but all will be perfected for tomorrow. We 
will surely breach the walls, perhaps in several places. Some say 
it will not even be necessary to attack. With their walls down, the 
fools may finally realize their impossible position and surrender. 
That will be even better.” He grinned horribly. “There will be 
more prisoners to play with.” 

“True,” Hunnar agreed. “But I hear the strain on Death-
Treader was great today.” He pointed upward. “Is that not a 
crack in the bindings I see? There, on the Arm. After not having 
worked for so long, it may have rotted.” 

The guard turned to look. “I see no crack. But wait, Death-
Treader was used only four kuvits ago, in practice for the usual 
care.” He started to whirl, his voice rising. “Who—?” 

Hunnar's dirk went right through his throat, ripping up into 
the larynx. The guard choked on the blood, staggered, and sank 

— 395 —



to the ice without a cry. Hunnar wiped the blade on his leggings. 

“That's it, young feller!” said September, scrambling to his 
feet and slapping Ethan on the shoulder. “Let's go!” 

“If you don't mind, I'd just as soon skip this part. I'll stay 
here.” 

“Oh.” September looked at him understandingly in the 
dark. “I know, my lad. No problem.” 

Ethan and four others began unloading the raft. Hunnar, 
September, and the other knights and soldiers entered the tents 
on the far side of the catapult and silently set about the bloody 
job of disposing of the sleeping guards. By the time they'd 
finished their grisly work, Ethan and his companions were 
already scrambling up into the wood and fiber framework. 

“Pass it up!” he yelled down, holding tight to the 
superstructure with both legs. The wind tore and battered at him, 
angrily trying to sweep him off his perch. 

“Quickly now!” sounded Hunnar's voice. They were very 
close to the main body of the nomad camp. 

— 396 — 


Thick, syrupy vol oil was ladled over the wood, bracings, 
and bindings until the oleaginous mess became dangerous to 
walk on. The aromatic stink seemed sufficient to wake the dead. 
Fortunately, the wind carried most of it away. 

There was a shout in the distance. Two of the knights 
stopped passing oil upward and ran toward the source. They 
returned a few moments later. 

“Two,” one of the knights told Hunnar and September. 
“Officers. Apparently they were just returning to their tents. I 
don't know if they could tell who we were, but they must know 
there aren't supposed to be people climbing on the moydra at 
night. They ran before we could reach them.” 

A few minutes later this was confirmed by yells, queries, 
and concerned shouts from within the nomad encampment. The 
noise multiplied rapidly. 

“Off, off, get off!” ordered September frantically. Slipping 
and sliding on the greasy wood, Ethan and the other soldiers 
scrambled down to the ice. 

— 397 — 


A dozen torches were readied. They'd been well soaked in 
oil and the wind wouldn't quench them. They were thrust in a 
circle at September, who paused momentarily. 

“It's not the highest product of our technology, nor the one 
I'd like to have right now, but I'm glad we've got it.” He held out 
Hellespont du Kane's expensive, filigreed, iridium-plated lighter. 

One torch and then another blazed, stark shadows 
exploding onto the ice. The shouts behind them grew louder. 
One of the non-torch-bearing knights had moved toward the 
encampment. Now he turned to shout back at them. 

“Hurry! Someone comes.” 

“Scatter them well, mind,” ordered September. Twelve 
arms spun, released in unison. Only two of the blazing brands 
were blown out. With the wind behind them, the others carried 
well up into the superstructure. 

They seemed to flicker there, tiny spots of isolated flame. 
For a horrible moment Ethan feared they wouldn't catch and the 
whole risk had been taken for nothing. Then, almost together, 

— 398 —



they went up. 

With a roar that briefly drowned the wind and the rising 
shouts from the camp, the great wooden frame virtually 
exploded into orange flame so brilliant that the little knot of 
watching humans and tran were forced to shield their eyes. 

“Onto the sled now, young feller!” bellowed September, 
giving Ethan a shove and not trying to keep his voice down. The 
tran took up their harnesses and in a moment they were 
speeding northward and west in a wide curve that should bring 
them back to Wannome and in through the main gate. If they 
didn't make the curve, Ethan reflected, they'd plow full bore into 
the far side of the enemy encampment. 

Now it didn't matter if every sentry in the camp was alerted. 
The howls and shrieks of rudely awakened nomad soldiers 
sounded loud in their ears as they raced before the wind, 
building speed. Cautiously, keeping a tight grip on the raft, Ethan 
turned on his side to look behind them. 

A tower of flavescent orange, crackling and splitting, clawed 

— 399 —



at the black sky like a mad thing, while the wind tore away 
ragged shreds of its head and swept them westward. 

He could make out small dark shapes silhouetted against 
the base of the pyre. 

“Look at it burn, look at it burn!” he yelled to September 
almost boyishly. 

“No need to shout, young feller. I'm right here.” He too was 
on his side, looking rearward. “Poor chaps don't seem to know 
what hit 'em, what?” 

Something whizzed overhead. 

“Whup! I withdraw any sympathy. Seems they do.” A 
second arrow thunked into the base of the raft. “Damn!” the big 
man muttered. “Wish I'd thought to bring one crossbow.” He 
turned and hollered to Hunnar who was chivaning alongside. 

“Leave us if you have to, Hunnar! This thing slows you.” 

“Not a chance, my friend.” 

September looked ahead, then back into the night. “You'll 
never make it with us.” 

— 400 — 


“'Tis as good a time and place to die as any,” the knight 
replied easily. Then, ignoring September's curses, he let himself 
fall slightly behind the raft. 

Ethan put his hand on his sword hilt. He peered desperately 
into the darkness, but couldn't determine how many were 
following them. There seemed to be more than twenty, in any 
case. 

Something struck September on the side of the head and 
dropped him as though poleaxed. 

Ethan turned, alarmed. “Skua! Are you hurt bad?” 

“Relax, young feller.” The big man propped himself up on 
one elbow, felt his head. “That smarts. Good thing they made 
these helmets tough. Goddamn arrows.” Ethan peered closer, 
saw the dent in the metal just above the forehead. If September 
had been a tran he'd have lost an ear. 

Their pursuers were close enough now for Ethan to make 
out individuals. There was something surreal in watching them 
move closer and closer with painful slowness, as they made up 

— 401 —



distance lost on the clumsy sled. 

A couple of other soldiers had dropped back to form a rear 
guard. Now they were flailing behind themselves with swords and 
axes, trying to run and fight at once. 

One of the pursuers shoved a long pike forward, caught a 
Sofoldian soldier in a wing. The barbarian jerked and the soldier, 
pulled off balance, fell to the ice. He vanished beneath the enemy 
and the night as they sped on. 

One of the nomads had gained the end of the raft. He 
grabbed hold of the wood, thrust forward with a spear. 
September brought his sword down — he'd left the heavy ax 
behind in the castle. The thick wood of the spear shaft shattered. 
The other cursed, swung the wood hilt first. September parried it, 
slashed, and opened an ugly cut on the barbarian's arm. He 
dropped away from the raft, clutching at the bleeding limb. 

It was growing crowded around the sled. One of the 
harnessed soldiers was down, a dead weight dragging them 
back. The others were too pressed to cut him loose. It was 

— 402 —



becoming impossible to keep speed and fight at the same time. 

They were circling in toward the harbor gate now. Ethan did 
some quick figuring. They'd never make it. They'd be 
overpowered before they got close. Perhaps the du Kanes and 
Williams might eventually make it safely to the settlement. 

One nomad chivaned in from the west and fairly flew onto 
the raft. Ethan swung clumsily with his sword but it only glanced 
off the other's armor. The broad muscular body hit September, 
knife at the ready, and the two grappled on the pitching, swaying 
sled. The other was trying to pull the big man off the raft onto the 
ice. 

Desperately Ethan reached over. He caught September's 
leg just in time to prevent that fatal roll. Out of the sweat 
distorted cornea of an eye he saw another of the enemy move in 
close to the storm of the sled, spear held ready. 

He was trying to decide whether to let September go to 
parry the spear or hope that his armor would ward off the first 
thrust, when something hit the barbarian with such force that he 

— 403 —



was almost cut in half. In a microsecond the confusion 
surrounding them had multiplied tenfold. 

September had managed to break free of his persistent 
assailant and had shoved him from the sled. He gave than an 
exhausted smile. 

“What's gong on?” asked Ethan bewilderedly, 

“That fella was tough!” gasped the big man. “They must be 
sortieing from the city!” 

Yes, now Ethan could recognize the armor of the Sofoldian 
troops as they swept and battered away the sled's pursuers. 
Minutes later they dashed under the gate chain and nets and 
were inside the cold womb of the harbor. The wind shrank to a 
bearable gale. Utterly winded himself, Ethan collapsed on the 
sled, not caring if he fell off. He tugged off the uncomfortable 
barbarian helmet and slung it far out onto the ice. 

He lay there as they moved slowly toward the Landgrave's 
pier and the cheering nocturnal crowd. While the hysterical 
populace screamed and sang, he stared up at the strange stars 

— 404 —



and tried to guess which one was home. 

When they finally tied up to the dock and were greeted by 
the Landgrave himself, not even September could explain why 
Ethan was crying. 

“They're not going to be throwing even dogfood with that thing 
for a long time,” September commented. The big man had had 
his cuts and bruises attended to and now, several days after their 
desperate sally, looked good as new. 

There had been no sign of activity on the part of the 
nomads after their great moydra had been destroyed. It looked 
as though, contrary to Hunnar's expectations, they were settling 
in for a siege. 

It had been nearly a week now, though, and Ethan was as 
bored as any Sofoldian sentry after days of sitting on the wall 
and staring out over the ice. 

— 405 — 


He'd taken to learning sale, a local kind of chess. Elfa was 
serving as instructress, on strict warning from him that sale was 
the only thing she would try and teach him. 

Surprisingly, Colette kept interrupting their sessions with 
requests for a walk, or correction on a point of translation — she 
was getting good at the language — or some other trivial excuse. 
Once she'd even made a couple of attempts to learn the 
rudiments of the game herself. Standing behind him and leaning 
close over his shoulder, she gave the board her undivided 
attention. 

However, she'd refused to have a dress made of the local 
materials; her shipboard outfit was by now ragged and thin, and 
whenever she leaned over him Ethan was subjected to several 
distractions of a nonverbal nature. Although he'd been the 
distracted one, it was Elfa who had quit in disgust and stalked off 
in a royal huff. 

Frankly, it would have been pleasant to say that he was 
completely unaware of what was going on. But he'd worked too 

— 406 —



many fine cities and operated among plenty of sophisticated 
folk. He didn't like the way things were developing, but there 
wasn't much he could do about it. And darned if he wasn't a little 
flattered. 

Today, however, September had had to come for him in the 
local library, a fascinating place despite the maddening lack of 
pictures in the books. But he'd gone quick and quiet when he 
saw the look on the other's face. They headed for a section of the 
castle Ethan rarely visited. 

“What's up, Skua? And why the sour expression?” 

“Hunnar once said that he couldn't picture our nemesis 
sitting on their backsides for very long without corning down 
with a severe case of the fidgets. Well, he was right. They haven't 
been sitting. In fact, it appears they've been working 'round the 
clock.” 

“Small area. On what?” They turned a corner and started 
up a ramp. “Another catapult?” 

“Uh-uh. Hunnar says it would take months for them to 

— 407 — 


rebuild something like that. After having seen it, I can believe 
him. No, it looks like this Sagyanak has come up with another 
surprise, and it's a damn good thing we found out about it when 
we did. Though I don't see what we can do about it in any case.” 

Ethan was badly upset by the big man's pessimism. 
Throughout the battle he'd never been so dour — an island of 
confidence in oceanic chaos. He sounded more discouraged 
than Ethan had ever heard him. 

“How do we know about this ‘surprise’?” he asked finally. 

“Wizard's telescope,” came the curt reply. As they turned 
another corner Ethan saw that they were indeed heading for the 
old magician-scholar's apartment. 

It hadn't changed from the one time he'd visited it, and it 
still stank. It wouldn't have been very diplomatic to point it out, 
but the expressions on his face should have been sufficiently 
eloquent. 

Hunnar was waiting for them, wearing a face that matched 
September's own. So was Williams. 

— 408 — 


Ethan had seen very little of the schoolmaster since the 
fighting had begun. They'd passed in hallways and occasionally 
joined for a meal. But as their familiarity with the language and 
people of Wannome grew, the need for the humans to stay 
together at all times had diminished. Ethan assumed that the 
teacher had been up in the foundry, helping the tran craftsmen in 
the vital business of turning out a steady stream of crossbows 
and bolts. He was a little surprised to see him here. 

“It appears they are nearly finished, friend Skua,” said 
Hunnar in a worried tone. He looked resigned.. “Have a look, Sir 
Ethan.” 

Ethan seated himself behind the crude, baroquely 
decorated telescope and applied his right eye to the eyepiece. 

“The little knob at the right side is the focus, lad,” offered 
September helpfully. 

“Thanks.” Ethan twisted the knob slightly and the image 
snapped suddenly into sharp relief. It was still fuzzy, but that was 
due to the crudely ground lenses and not his own eyesight. 

— 409 —



Considering what the Wannomian lens-makers had to use for 
sand, the telescope was a remarkable achievement. 

Far back amidst the solidly anchored barbarian fleet, a 
great open space had been cleared. Considerable activity was 
occurring around a single huge, low raft. Many big logs, like 
those used in the stavanzer-fighting lightnings, had been tied 
together with heavy crossbeams. The resultant raft was one huge, 
crude, open deck mounted on gigantic stone skates. 

“We found out about this only this morning,” September 
told him. 

Eer-Meesach spoke from the background. “'Tis fortunate 
indeed that I detected the vermin, else we should have no 
warning at all.” 

“What's it for?” asked Ethan, without removing his eye 
from the scope. 

“I think it's pretty obvious, young feller,” replied 
September, “Look off to the left, at that big pile of rocks they've 
assembled. You might have to move the scope a bit.” 

— 410 — 


Ethan did. Yes, to the left a swarm of nomads was unloading 
great stones from heavily laden rafts, arranging them neatly on 
the ice. Sometimes two rafts were linked together to transport an 
especially huge rock. 

“I see them,” he said. 

“They're building a helluva big raft, there,” the big man 
continued. “Bigger than anything Hunnar or anyone here has 
seen. Its size and the construction that makes such size possible 
render it practically unmaneuverable, but that won't matter.” His 
mouth tightened, the protruding chin cut air. 

“They'll load it to the breaking point with rocks and 
boulders, tons worth, put a couple of monstrous sails on the 
thing, haul it upwind and let it go. With the wind behind it and a 
good start, it'll build up a pretty speed, what? It's an obscenely 
big ram, is what it is.” 

“Can it breach the wall?” Ethan asked quietly. 

“I fear such is the case, friend Ethan,” answered Hunnar. 
“There is enough stone assembled now, and still they bring 

— 411 —



more. I think 'twould penetrate the wall like vol butter.” 

Ethan took his face from the telescope. 

“Can't you be ready to block the hole with nets and chain 
once the ram's gone through?” 

“There is no other chain like the Great Chain that guards 
the harbor gate,” replied Hunnar ruefully. “They will come close 
behind this monster. We will try the nets, of course, but it will be 
very difficult. We will not know the size of the hole, nor will it be 
easy to bridge such a gap and secure the nets before the Horde 
is upon us. And still we must be ready to defend all sections of 
the wall, lest they swarm over us at some too-weakened point. 
Once they break into the harbor, we are done. They will attack 
the town and we will be forced to abandon the perimeter to 
them.” The knight looked terribly depressed. Ethan didn't feel 
too good right then, either. 

Williams spoke to the ensuing silence: “I think we'd better 
tell them now.” 

“But we have done it only on such a small scale,” the 

— 412 — 


wizard replied. “Still, I must agree with you. It may help.” 

“What are you two babbling about?” asked Hunnar 
sharply. 

“The great wizard Williams has shown me many things,” 
said Eer-Meesach, ignoring Hunnar's lack of respect. “The 
crossbow of which your archers are so enamored, youngster, is 
the result of but one such thought. We have something else 
which may be of some use.” 

“But I'm not sure how to apply it!” said Williams almost 
pleadingly. “We don't have the proper facilities, or time, or 
anything!” 

“Oh well,” sighed September, “let's have a look at it, 
anyway. You never know.” 

— 413 —



Chapter Ten


Many of the people in the city had been working double and 
triple shifts, day and night, but there was even more activity than 
normal in Wannome that night. If Sagyanak's spies had been 
able to see inside the walls of the harbor, they surely would have 
been puzzled at the activity that filled the shoreline and enclosed 
ice. Vol-oil lamps and torches shed a cautious light on the scene. 

They would have been even more puzzled at the strange 
activities taking place in certain crannies of the mountains, 
sections of dark abandoned countryside and old-town, and at the 
huge bonfires that shocked the main square with light. 

In a room far up in the great castle keep, the war council of 
Sofold was meeting in heated discussion. 

“I say 'tis far too dangerous!” one of the nobles exclaimed. 
He slammed a fist onto the thick table. “'Tis too new, too alien. 
'Tis not of us.” 

— 414 — 


“Nonsense!” countered Malmeevyn Eer-Meesach from his 
chair near the Landgrave. 

“The crossbows are equally new and alien,” Hunnar 
riposted. 

“They are not. They are but variations on our familiar 
longbow. But this . . . this is the work of the Dark One!” 

“I'm not at all that dark,” said Eer-Meesach. 

“Do not be flippant, old man,” snorted the noble. “I, for 
one, am not overwhelmed by your learned nonsense.” 

“You'll be overwhelmed, good sir,” admonished Hunnar, 
“if we fail to prepare for when that ram bursts into the harbor 
tomorrow!” 

“Can it truly breach the great wall?” asked one of the 
knights disbelievingly. 

“You have not seen it, Suletja,” said General Balavere 
solemnly. “It will breach the wall. Unless it should hit at too 
acute an angle, and I think there is little chance of that. Though,” 
and he paused thoughtfully, “once the ram is moving, it would 

— 415 —



take a thousand men to correct or change its course.” 

“If this new thing of yours does not work as you describe,” 
said the old mayor of one of the larger country towns, “we shall 
all fall into the center of the earth.” 

“I keep telling you,” September began, but he halted, 
spreading his hands helplessly — they'd been through this very 
question twice a dozen times already. “Sofold is as solid as the 
Landgrave's throne, and more so.” 

“All this may be true,” replied the old mayor, scratching 
the back of his neck, “but we have only your word for it. You 
ask us to believe a great deal.” 

“I know, I know,” September said. “If we had more time . . . 
and this is the only chance I see.” 

“Yet you say this will not stop the ram from breaching the 
walls.” 

“No. There's no way we can stop that thing. I don't think 
they'd let another night expedition within a satch of the ram. But 
this may save us all, afterwards.” 

— 416 — 


“And if it should fail?” 

“Then you're welcome to whatever Sagyanak leaves of my 
corpse,” the big man finished. 

“Fine compensation, fine satisfaction!” laughed the other 
hollowly. 

“General?” The Landgrave looked over at his principal 
military adviser, thrusting the problem squarely onto his 
shoulders. 

“This is the most difficult decision I have ever had to 
make,” the old soldier began. “More so even than the first 
decision to fight. 'Tis because there are questions here that go 
above mere military matters. I must go against everything I was 
taught about the world as a cub. And yet . . . yet . . . our strange 
friends have been right about so many things. And there is 
always the outside chance that they will align the ram 
improperly, or that the wind will shift on them and it will strike 
the wall at an angle and not breach, mayhap even miss 
completely.” 

— 417 — 


“Do not avoid me, Bal,” chided the Landgrave gently. 

The two old tran looked at each other carefully. Then 
Balavere smiled slightly. “I wouldn't do that, Tor. I recommend 
Sir September's plan. I should like to see this thing he promises 
. . . even if we do all fall into the center of the world.” 

“Let it be so, then,” pronounced the Landgrave. 

All rose. 

“By your Patience, gentlemen,” said September, “the 
wizard Williams and I must get down to the landings. We've a 
great deal to do ere the ice disgorges the sun.” He turned to 
Ethan. “Young feller, you'll see to the assembly of the material?” 

“Right away. Oh, du Kane wants to help, too.” 

“Not really?” said September. “Well, take him with you, 
then. I can't have the old bastard underfoot, but it's encouraging 
to see him recognizing the real world, at last.” 

But as he started off down the hall, Ethan found himself 
sympathizing with du Kane and not September. He knew the 
financier wasn't useless, only a victim of culture shock and belief 

— 418 —



in his own omnipotence. He'd felt more than enough of similar 
emotions ever since they'd smashed into that first little island. 

The wind from the west the next day was powerful and steady — 
perfect for the nomads' needs. Ethan hugged the castle wall 
against the gale. 

The great ram had been completed some time during the 
night and moved out of range of even the wizard's telescope. 

“Shifting it far enough to the west to get room for building 
speed,” Hunnar explained. “It will take that monster a dozen 
kijat just to build to raft speed.” 

“I don't know why they bother,” said Spetember. “Even 
half that should be enough to knock down the wall.” 

“With all respect, friend September, I suspect they desire 
not merely to knock down a section of wall, but to make a clean 
breach large enough to drive a good-sized raft through.” 

— 419 — 


“You don't think they'll try to come in on rafts, do you?” 
September asked. “Not that we could change things now 
anyway.” 

“No. That would require skillful handling indeed. Even a few 
good-sized rocks could catch a raft, tumble it, and block the 
breach. As we might try to do. But individual warriors could get 
through despite such obstacles, and before we could bring up 
anything to block the gap.” 

“Think not encountering something like that will make 'em 
suspicious?” continued the big man. 

“Sagyanak, or Olox, or one like those might be taken by 
such thoughts. But I do not think those murderers so brave that 
they will be in the front line of attackers. The simple warrior will 
see naught but open ice between himself and the defenseless 
city. For animals like these, that is an irresistible temptation.” 

“Let's try that flasher once again,” suggested September. 

“Very well.” 

There were two of the brightly polished devices at their 

— 420 — 


observation position high up on the castle's south parapet, in 
case one should fail or break. September gave orders to the two 
operators. 

“Tell Williams there's still no sign.” 

Immediately the skilled communicators had the flashers in 
operation. Side mirrors brought the sun into the central reflector. 
An answer was blinking at them from down in the harbor almost 
before they'd finished. 

“They acknowledge ‘very good and waiting,’ Sir.” 

“Fine. Thanks,” replied the big man. 

They had another hour to wait before the ram was sighted. 
The nomad soldiers were drawn up in their familiar crescent 
parallel to the harbor wall. As it had been days ago, the line was 
solid and unbroken. There was no indication of where the ram 
would come from. The concentration was, as always, heavier on 
the south side. No one expected the ram to come from the north 
or the east, into the wind. There would be no feint to this attack. 

Despite the toll they'd taken among their tormentors on 

— 421 — 


that first terrible day, the Sofoldian defenders were still badly 
outnumbered. But there were heartening signs in the barbarian 
line. It was still unbroken, but it no longer seemed to stretch to 
infinity as it had that first time. 

As usual, it was Hunnar who made the first sighting. 

“There! Over their heads by that dark spot on the ice.” 

Ethan leaned over the wall, squinting. Almost immediately 
the enemy began to move away, split. A huge gap opened in the 
lines. 

The ram was a tiny dot at first, but it grew rapidly larger. 
Soon it seemed as big as a stavanzer, though it was not nearly so. 
Still, it was plenty big, bigger than the biggest raft Ethan had yet 
seen. It sparkled oddly in the sun-glare. 

“What's that reflection from? Not the stone, surely.” 

“It is and it isn't, friend Ethan,” replied Hunnar evenly. 
“They've taken meltwater and poured it over the stones. Letting 
it freeze has turned the load into a solid, unbroken mass.” 

There was silence among the Wannomian watchers, human 

— 422 —



and tran alike. The ram moved closer and closer with the 
deliberateness of an eclipse. No sound came from the distance, 
no pounding engines, no flaming rockets. The juggernaut moved 
mute. 

Without turning, September spoke to the flasher operators. 
“Signal ‘standby’ to the wizards.” 

The ram grew larger, seemed to leap into sharp focus. It 
passed through the waiting gap in the nomad ranks. Rocking 
with sheer speed, it came hurtling on at close to 200 kph. With a 
roar, the barbarian crescent started forward in its wake. 

“Brace All!” sounded the cry from several places along the 
castle battlements. 

The ram struck. 

The concussion climbed the walls and threw men within the 
castle to the ground. Ethan could hear masonry falling in the 
inner rooms, an occasional tinkle of breaking glass. A section of 
wall two towers west from the main gate erupted in a shower of 
stone shards. The sound of damned stone crawled inside the 

— 423 —



head and battered ears from both sides. 

A rain of rock and wood splinters descended and everyone 
covered as best they could. Large chunks were thrown all the 
way across the harbor into the far wall, taking pieces out of the 
interior side. 

The ram slid two-thirds of the way across the harbor toward 
that interior wall on its five remaining runners, trailing two 
broken masts and a sea of shredded pika-pina sailcloth. 
Boulders and raped wood formed ugly blemishes on the clean 
ice. 

A clear gap showed in the wall, broad enough for tran to 
chivan through twenty abreast. A close-packed mob of 
screaming, ax-waving barbarians, thousands strong, had 
followed close behind the ram. They reached the walls and the 
breach. 

— 424 — 


Dozens of grappling hooks and scaling ladders assailed the 
walls, ropes were snugged tight. Howling bloodthirsty cries, 
others swarmed into the gap, ready to overwhelm any attempt to 
close it. 

Those at the walls climbed up, and over. They found only 
empty spear-slots, deserted battle-towers. Deafening cheers rose 
from the entire perimeter. The interiors of the great gate towers 
were gained. The Great Chain was melted into place, but the 
antipersonnel netting was cut loose and a fresh stream of angry 
warriors poured in via the main gate. 

Ethan saw a gaudily armored officer gain the open gap, 
hesitate, and look about him uncertainly, clearly puzzled at the 
absence of the defenders. Ethan's hand tensed on the castle 
parapet. But the cautious officer was swept away and into the 
harbor by the tight-packed river of attacking nomads. 

Some of the barbarians began to run along the tops of the 
walls toward the castle and the city. They ran because the 
icepaths had been melted and hacked into uselessness. They 

— 425 —



reached a point where the wall entered the castle itself: and were 
halted by a solid barrier of stone and a hail of arrows from above. 
A few began to batter ineffectually against the walled-up 
entrances. 

Some tried to climb the raw stone itself. They were easily 
picked off by the archers above. Most turned and, spreading 
their wings, dropped in a semi-glide to the uncontested ice 
below. 

The harbor was rapidly filling with screaming, thrashing 
warriors all milling about and looking for someone to fight. 
Confusion and uncertainty was beginning to take hold. The mass 
vacillated, shifted. Then, as one, they rushed on toward the 
undefended city with a horrible cry. 

The entire remaining strength of the Sofoldian army met 
them at the shoreline. 

Camouflaged barriers of rock and lines of sharpened stakes 
appeared, tied together by cables of barbed pika-pina rope. The 
tough, nearly unbreakable cord had been laboriously studded 

— 426 —



with sharpened bits of glass, wood, and metal. September and 
not Williams had been the one who had shown the locals how to 
make a fair imitation of concertina wire. A hail of crossbow bolts 
and arrows and spears felled hundreds of the surprised enemy in 
that first startling counterattack. 

But it was only a last-ditch defense, screamed the nomad 
officers to their men! One more effort and the soft city-folk must 
surely collapse! The great wave swept forward again to lose more 
hundreds to a barely covered deep ditch filled with sharpened 
stakes, tipped with vol dung, and other poisons. The concealed 
moat was quickly filled with moaning, twisting bodies. 

Yes again, urged the garishly garbed captains, the 
resplendent field officers! A last charge to sweep away the fatally 
weakened defenders! Yet a third time the nomad mass trundled 
forward, slammed into the Sofoldian line. Hand-to-hand combat 
sprang up at isolated points along the shore, the barbarian 
Horde gaining a centimeter at a time, the length of every spear 
and sword bitterly contested. 

— 427 — 


From high on the castle battlements, September calmly 
said, “Ready now” to his communicators. An acknowledging 
series of flashes came from a tiny house now perilously close to 
the front line. 

Meanwhile more of the enemy poured into the harbor, 
slowed as they ran into their fellows. There must have been ten 
thousand pressing inexorably against the thin Sofoldian 
defenses, with more arriving each second, every tran a pillar of 
hatred and fury. 

“Now,” said September quietly. The message was flashed 
to the waiting receivers. The flasher operators had guts. They 
didn't drop and kiss stone until they were certain the command 
had been received. 

There was a pause. 

For one terrifying moment, nothing happened. Ethan raised 
his head slightly and peered through an arrow slot. 

The ice convulsed. 

Concussion lifted him from the ground and slammed him 

— 428 — 


back into unyielding rock. He felt wet stickiness on his cheek, 
but he'd only scraped himself. A microsecond later he tried to 
metamorphose into a tiny ball. Down came a bitter squall of 
ruptured ice, mixed with pieces of barbarian armor and pieces of 
barbarian. 

Far out on the southwest icefield, Eorda-tane-Anst, knight 
of Sofold, felt the ice-earth shake under him, saw the huge 
column of flame and smoke erupt in the harbor, of his home. His 
mind rejoiced because the magic of the alien magician had 
worked. But deep inside he was frightened near to death. 

The earth did not open beneath them. Pulling at the pure 
white cloak that he'd been lying under all morning, he rose and 
waved his sword to right and left. Then he and six hundred 
picked Sofoldian troops spread their dan and started grimly for 
the rear of the nomad encampment. All carried torches in 
addition to swords and spears. 

The Dantesque scene in the harbor was revealed as the 
smoke was borne away by the wind. There was no dust, but 

— 429 —



stinging, blinding particles of ice still hung in the air, and Ethan 
was grateful for the goggles. 

Below, an awful cacophony had begun, not of defiance this 
time, but of pain and fear and terror. The two humans watched, 
completely oblivious to the antics of Hunnar. Usually dignified to 
the point of coldness, the solemn young knight had shed his 
reserve and was leaping about like a cub, hugging every man-atarms within reach and whooping with joy. 

Uncountable multitudes of barbarian soldiers, who had 
stood within the harbor a moment ago, now lay dead or dying 
from terrible wounds. The ice sheet had cracked from the 
hundreds of charges but had not broken through to the freezing 
depths below. Eer-Meesach and Williams' estimates had been 
proven correct. The ice was much too thick here to be affected 
by such ancient explosives. 

Not as sound was the harbor wall, which had been 
subjected to another violent shaking. Several sections looked 
dangerously near collapse. The schoolmaster's fuse and firing 

— 430 —



mechanism, cannibalized from the wrecked lifeboat, had done its 
task efficiently. The hundreds of charges had gone off within 
seconds of one another. 

During the night, funnel-shaped holes had been melted in 
the ice, then filled with glass, metal, bone, and wooden fragments, 
and a year's accumulation of bronze, iron, and steel filings 
originally destined for re-melting in the volcanic forges. Filled 
with anything that could cut or rend or tear. 

Water had been poured over the pockets of crude shrapnel 
and allowed to refreeze during the early morning. The barbarians 
had been cut down like grass. 

Now the battered, weakened army off Sofold came boiling 
out from behind its barriers and temporary ramparts, howling 
and shouting as barbarically as their supposedly less civilized 
tormentors. Axes, swords, and spears fell indiscriminantly 
among healthy and wounded alike. 

Ethan stood shakily and turned away from the sickening 
slaughter. 

— 431 — 


Many of those who'd survived were in shock. They were 
completely incapable of putting up effective resistance to the 
ready, prepared Sofoldians. It must have seemed like a hundred 
lighting bolts had landed among them. 

Now archers and crossbowmen broke from the castle and 
the stone barrier at the other end of the wall, began retaking their 
positions atop the ancient masonry. Only now they were firing 
into the harbor, picking off those still fighting and any trying to 
retreat. 

The still considerable body of enemy warriors surged 
dazedly back and forth, with dozens dropping every minute. 

Ethan stared out over the now cleared ice. Then he turned 
and got September away from his survey of the massacre. 

The enemy raft fleet was burning. Some were raising sail 
and struggling to escape even as they went up in flames. Fanned 
by the uncaring, indiscriminate wind, the blaze spread rapidly 
from one raft to its neighbor, thence to three or four others. 
Ethan saw one sail rigged, only to be struck by a ball of flame 

— 432 —



blown from a burning storage craft. Pika-pina and mast went up 
like match and paper in the thirsting wind. 

Distant screams drifted over the ice to Ethan and chills 
raced up his spine. He put his hands over his face and sank in 
stunned silence to the ground. September put a gentle hand on 
his head and tried to comfort him. 

“I know what you're thinking, young feller-me-lad,” he 
muttered softly. “But you've got to consider what these folk have 
suffered. The only difference between them and their traditional 
enemies out there is a little book learning and another 
philosophy of life. Underneath, they're very much the same 
animal . . . just like most humans are, when we're pushed. To 
them the nomad women and cubs are as dangerous as the 
menfolk. Not because of what they can do, but because of what 
they represent. Do you understand that?” 

Ethan sat still as the stones. He looked up. No. 

September grunted and walked away. To the end of his 
days, Ethan would hear the far-away shrieking. 

— 433 — 


Confronted with a murderous, unstunned enemy in front of 
them and fire behind, the once proud, invincible Horde of the 
Death dropped helmets, weapons and armor, broke, and fled 
toward their flaming homes. September was trying to get 
Hunnar's attention. The knight finally calmed down enough to 
listen. 

“Your tane-Anst did his job well, what? Will he have 
enough sense to watch for those who escape? They're scared 
and many are weaponless, but hysterical humans, and probably 
tran, have little regard for their own lives. Makes for difficult 
fighting.” 

“Tane-Anst is a good soldier,” said Hunnar thoughtfully. 
“He'll take care to keep his men together.” 

Finally Ethan stood and had a look at the retreating mob of 
surviving nomads. “This tane-Anst only took about six hundred 
men with him, Skua. Won't they be badly outnumbered by 
these?” 

“No group of well-organized, disciplined soldiers is ever 

— 434 — 


outnumbered by a mob, Ethan. Remember that.” 

Ethan turned and looked down into the harbor again. The 
ice was literally blotted out by a vast array of twisted, broken 
furry forms and a small lake of rapidly freezing blood. Hunnar 
came up to him. The knight was trembling now and Ethan 
thought he saw a little of what September had meant reflected in 
Hunnar's face. After hundreds of years of helpless genuflection, 
reaction to what he and his people had done today was 
beginning to sink in. 

“The Landgrave watches from his rooms and can see well 
for himself what has been wrought this hour,” said the knight, his 
voice slightly shaky. “I go to give him official word of his troops 
. . . and to remind him of his promise to you, my friends. Will you 
come?” 

“No, this is your moment, Hunnar,” said September. 

The knight exchanged breath and shoulder clasps with 
both of them, then departed at a run into the castle. September 
strolled to the edge of the parapet and looked down into the 

— 435 —



harbor. The fighting had degenerated into a bloodcurdling 
mopping-up operation, with Sofoldian soldiers and militia 
examining each corpse and methodically slitting the throat of 
any who lived. 

“It may not be a gesture of the morally highest,” he began, 
“but for better or worse, by introducing gunpowder here we've 
brought a whole new kind of warfare to this decidedly bellicose 
people. And you know?” He turned and glanced at Ethan. “Try 
as I might, I can't convince myself we've done a bad thing.” 

“Bad or not,” replied Ethan drily, dabbing at his cut cheek, 
“it's always one of humanity's first gifts, isn't it?” 

There was a ball to end all balls in the great castle that evening. It 
served to cover the fact that many of Sofold's finest young men 
had passed to the Warm Regions that day. Sadly, the brave and 
methodical tane-Anst had been among them, felled as he 

— 436 — 


personally led a squad in pursuit of just one more fleeing raft. 

At least three quarters of the barbarian fleet had been burnt 
or captured, together with a province's ransom in armor, 
weapons, and treasure. And those ships which had escaped had 
not departed overcrowded. 

To everyone's intense disappointment, Sagyanak had been 
among the successful escapees. 

The Scourge's power, however, was forever broken. From a 
near god, the Death had been reduced to simply another 
annoying pirate, whose strength had been scattered with the 
wind. 

By way of partial compensation, the head of Olox the 
butcher was prominently on display atop a jeweled pike at the 
dinner table. It was joined by the crania of assorted companion 
warriors. 

The little knot of humans sat in an honored position, far up 
the table near the Landgrave himself. But they'd seen too much 
blood to fully enter into the merriment of the night. Only 

— 437 — 


September, sitting next to him, seemed able to throw himself into 
the spirit of the occasion with honest gusto. 

Ethan stared curiously across the table at Hellespont du 
Kane. One of the wealthiest men in the arm. Yet he still wore the 
same expression Ethan had observed back on the Antares, the 
day they'd had their private destinies inextricably altered by a 
pair of indecisive kidnappers. Nor was his appetite affected. He 
downed a delicately carved slice of roast with the same precision 
he doubtless employed in the finest restaurants of Terra or 
Hivehom. 

Ethan felt an urge to put a fist in that robotic face. For a wild 
moment he thought du Kane might really be a clever robot, and 
that the flesh-and-blood du Kane was somewhere else, perfectly 
comfortable except for a mild upset at the loss of one valuable 
piece of machinery. It would explain several of the odder things 
about the industrialist. 

But no. He may have been robot-like in some respects, but 
he was definitely human. Like his daughter. He was just a nice, 

— 438 —



slightly dotty, schizophrenic old man with several hundred 
million credits and a daughter as cool-headed as he probably 
was — once. 

Ethan was discovering the interesting side effects which the 
steady consumption of reedle could produce in the human 
system when Hunnar came over. Standing between the two 
humans, the tran put a paw on each man's shoulder and leaned 
closer. 

“It is necessary that I see you both in private,” he 
whispered. 

“Aw, don't be a party-popper,” September huffed. “Sit 
yourself down with us and—” He broke off in mid-sentence 
when he saw the look on the knight's face. It was solemn and 
something more. 

They left the grand hall, the masquerading torchlight, the 
flashing, jeweled cloaks and blouses; left the polished dress 
armor of the nobles and knights and the gowns of their ladies; 
left them to follow Hunnar down quiet cold hallways and 

— 439 — 


mocking stairs. 

“Isn't this the way to our rooms?” said Ethan 
unquestioningly. 

“That is so,” Hunnar replied, but Ethan's probe failed to 
elicit any more information. 

From distant chambers Ethan could hear shouts and 
laughter. The other inhabitants of the castle were celebrating the 
victory in their own fashion. Once, when they passed a chill open 
balcony, he had a glimpse down into the town itself. Bonfires 
blazed in open squares, and every torch and lamp and candle in 
Wannome was burning. The city wore a necklace of light. 

Celebrating would continue for days, General Balavere had 
told him. Or until everyone was too drunk to lift another tankard 
or mug. 

He wondered where Williams had gone. The schoolmaster 
hadn't been seen since he'd been introduced as a co-guest of 
honor. When the Landgrave had presented him and proceeded 
to make a flowery speech full of lavish praise and sugary 

— 440 — 


compliment, the little professor had fidgeted and squirmed like a 
five-year-old posing for his first preschool soloid. 

On the other hand, old Eer-Meesach had expanded in the 
light of praise like a fat sunflower. 

“Sulfur from the volcanic vents and springs,” Williams had 
nervously explained to the rapt audience of chromatically clad 
nobles and ladies, “saltpeter from dry old vents, and charcoal 
from the townspeople burning cut wood and even furniture!” 

“But not any of the beds!” a voice had bellowed from 
downtable. Williams's voice was drowned in raucous laughter 
and he'd slipped away quietly. 

Only to reappear behind Ethan and whisper, “Later 
perhaps . . . something rem . . . show you the . . . big . . . okay?. . .” 

Ethan had mumbled a clever reply, something along the 
lines of “Yeah, sure,” and ignored the schoolmaster. Williams 
and Eer-Meesach had then left the room. Maybe to resume the 
trannish wizard's lessons in galactic astronomy or to do new 
work on the big telescope Williams had promised to help him 

— 441 —



design. 

They turned down a hall that in the past weeks had became 
as familiar to Ethan as his home apartment on Moth. They 
passed his room, then September's, then the du Kanes', and 
continued on down a slight ramp, around a corner. . . 

A little knot of soldiers was clustered just ahead. The 
passage here was brightly lit. A heavy door to an apartment 
Ethan had never entered stood wide open. 

The group parted when one of its members spotted Hunnar 
and the two humans. Parting revealed a single soldier crumpled 
on the floor. He lay on an uneven frame of dark scarlet. It 
centered at a spot on his back and the small but fatal stiletto 
imbedded therein. 

“We've looked all over the castle for him,” Hunnar 
explained awkwardly. “We've no idea of where he has gone to, 
nor how, or why. He may have slipped out some time during the 
fighting and caught an arrow, tumbled over the cliffs. 'Tis little 
point in searching fully 'til morning.” 

— 442 — 


“You think Walther killed this one, then?” asked Ethan. 

“I did not say that . . . but we would like to find him,” 
Hunnar added unnecessarily. 

“Did any of the nomads penetrate this far into the castle?” 
September queried. 

“We do not believe so. But there were those of the vermin 
who tried to gain the interior. One or two might have been bold 
and daring enough to crawl along the stone to the side and 
thence slip through a window.” 

“I wonder if Walther could handle a small raft by himself?” 
mused Ethan aloud. 

“Think he might have made off in the confusion and hopes 
to make Brass Monkey ahead of us, eh, young feller-me-lad? 
Beat us to his friends and maybe salvage their whole original 
plan . . . must have tempted him,” the big man said thoughtfully. 
“I know I wouldn't try it. A few thousand kilometers of virgin ice 
to cross, scrapping with Droom and gutorrbyn and windstorm 
and pirates and who knows what else all the way. Crazy little 

— 443 —



punk might have tried it, though. If so, I expect he's saved us 
some trouble. He knew the best he could expect if we got back 
was at least partial mindwipe. Man'll do superhuman things for 
intangibles like memories.” 

“I don't see how he could have escaped the nomads,” 
commented Ethan, shaking his head. 

“Nor do I,” agreed Hunnar. “However, that knife,” and he 
gestured at the protruding hilt, “is no barbarian device. 'Twas 
made in our own foundry.” 

“What should we do, Skua?” asked Ethan. 

“Do? Well, me, I'm going back to that hall and slobber 
reedle until I float . . . physically or otherwise.” He turned on a 
heel and called back over his shoulder. “And I heartily suggest, 
young feller-me-lad, you come ahead and do likewise!” 

Ethan glanced down again at the stone-still body. A gust of 
icy atmosphere sucked at his body heat and he shivered. 
Torchlight rippled like chiffon dolls' skirts. 

Then he shrugged, said a bad word, and turned to follow 

— 444 — 


September.


Ethan crossed his arms and flailed opposite shoulders. It didn't 
make him any warmer. As a method of raising his body 
temperature it proved effectively nil. But it did better 
psychologically. Excellent! He would freeze to death nice and 
sane. This self-flagellation is making you warmer, he repeated 
unconvincingly, it's making you warmer. 

His skin fought the supposition tooth and nail. 

It was a fairly cool day — minus ten or so outside. While it 
was perhaps thirty degrees warmer in the castle, it was still a 
long way from tropic. Modified to fit his human frame, his new 
hessavar-fur coat gave him considerable protection. They'd even 
managed to persuade the royal tailor to sew on real sleeves and 
leggings. At least now they could worry a little less about the 
dangers of frostbite. 

— 445 — 


Frost-nibble, however, was driving him crazy. 

And he'd been wearing the coat for weeks now. Every so 
often an uncomfortable feeling crawled up his back as if the 
long-dead fur was beginning to take root to his chafed, abused 
body. 

If it weren't for their occasional jaunts to the foundry for a 
really hot bath, the encrusted dirt and sweat could have doubled 
as a heat-sealing coating in itself. They hadn't fallen that far — 
yet. 

It had been nearly two weeks, for certain, since the epic 
defeat of Sagyanak and the memorable battle in which the 
Sofoldians had shattered the power of the great Horde forever. In 
other words, the local population was just about sobered up. 

Now he was making his way up to the vile-smelling rooms 
that Eer-Meesach called home. He passed an open balcony and 
spared a glance for the scene below. 

Once again rafts were moving across the ice of the great 
harbor. Most of the frozen blood from the thousands of corpses 

— 446 —



had been chipped and melted away, the rough spots on the 
surface smoothed over. Hundreds of Wannomian stonemasons, 
carpenters and other craftsmen were at work repairing the 
extensive damage to the harbor wall. Even the huge gap where 
the monstrous ram had broken through was beginning to be 
filled as loose stone was gathered off the ice and fresh rock 
brought from quarries in the mountains. 

He turned from the balcony down a short hall, began to 
ascend a spiral ramp. He vaguely recalled that at the start of the 
victory celebration Williams had mumbled something about 
another surprise. Well, it couldn't be more of a shock than the 
introduction of gunpowder had been to their hosts. Heaven help 
the social system of this feudal ice-world if the little 
schoolmaster's subsequent revelations were half as 
overpowering! 

The multitude of traveling rafts in the harbor would take the 
news of the Sofoldians' unprecedented defeat of one of the great 
nomadic Hordes back to their own towns and distant cities. They 

— 447 —



would also carry samples of gunpowder and formula for same so 
they could resist the bands which plagued their home provinces. 

The elimination of those utterly ruthless, bloodthirsty 
groups would probably be a good thing for the body politic, not 
to mention individual political bodies. At least, it would until 
Tran-ky-ky ran out of barbarians. Then the various barons, 
landgraves, and dukes would be stuck with their new toys and no 
one to look at except each other. 

Unless, of course, the barbarians managed to get hold of 
some gunpowder for themselves, in which case. . . 

He gave it up. It was too complicated. Nor was he especially 
inclined toward sociological speculation. All he wanted to 
speculate on was getting over to Brass Monkey in one piece. 
Then, hopefully, to pick up his sample cases, dispose of a few 
thousand credits worth, and acquire a few decent orders. Smiling, 
he'd be off for the next world, definitely one with a generous sun 
and nothing more disturbing meteorologically than an 
occasional sensuous zephyr. Not a continual hurricane 

— 448 — 


screaming eternally eastward. 

He gained the top of the spiral, walked a few paces down 
the hall, and entered the wizard's apartments. He considered this 
time that there were no guards at the door. It hadn't impressed 
him until after the attempt on the Landgrave's life. All the nobles 
had guards also. Not Eer-Meesach. The inhabitants of Sofold 
were a thinking, practical people, but still sufficiently 
superstitious to hold a healthy respect for demons, elves, and 
wizards like Eer-Meesach. It would take a gutsy cutpurse indeed 
who would try for a few pieces of gold or some such when the 
wizard had threatened to turn any thief he caught into a swart 
worm. 

The wizard was one of a little group gathered around a 
stumpy, weather beaten table. And on this world, “weather 
beaten” identified something shaky or ancient indeed. The 
antiquing on this archaic desk hadn't been put there by the local 
equivalent of terran or thranx professionals. Such contrivances 
are only practiced by advanced races. 

— 449 — 


Present along with the wizard were Williams and 
September. Monumental hooked nose, jutting chin, gold earring 
the big man took up half the available space in his billowing 
hessavar fur. He looked up when Ethan entered. 

“Hello, young feller-me-lad.” He was radiating obvious 
enthusiasm over something. “Come have a peek at what our two 
intellectuals have been up to, what?” 

Ethan rubbed his gloved hands together — that seemed to 
help a little — and edged in between September and the 
schoolmaster. 

A sheet of vellum was tacked to the smooth tabletop. The 
drawing on it was not too complex, but it was sufficiently alien in 
nature for Ethan to have to scan it twice before he could guess 
what it might be. 

“Looks like a raft,” he said finally. “of sorts.” 

“Of sorts indeed, cub,” commented Eer-Meesach 
excitedly. “'Twas your friend Williams who conceived the basic 
idea that lies gloriously before us. I merely executed it.” 

— 450 — 


“I'm afraid I'm not much of an artist,” Williams apologized. 

Ethan had another look at the sketch. “It certainly looks 
different.” 

“My principal area of study was early Terran history,” 
Williams confessed, squirming embarrassedly. “That's how I 
happened to know that old formula for gunpowder.” He pointed 
at the drawing. “I've been thinking about this ever since we were 
picked up by Sir Hunnar and his men. As you know, three-
quarters of Terra is covered with water.” 

“I've seen pictures,” said Ethan, nodding. 

“Well,” the schoolteacher continued, “this particular kind 
of ship was developed and raised to almost poetic heights by a 
young Terran named Donald McKay, who lived and worked on 
the east coast of the North American continent. They were called 
clipper ships.” 

“Funny name,” said Ethan. “Why?” 

“I don't know.” Williams shrugged. “The derivation has 
been lost. As you can see, I've modified the original design so 

— 451 —



that instead of having a curved bottom, as in an ocean-going 
boat, we will have a raft with a flat base. It will run on five runners 

— two fore, two aft, and one slightly further aft for steering 
purposes.” 
“It may not be quite as maneuverable as some of the local 
craft,” put in September, “but it's going to be a damn sight faster 
than any kind of surface transportation this icebox world's ever 
seen before.” 

“Not an unreasonable expectation,” agreed Williams 
cautiously. “It will require a considerable amount of wood 
compared to local rafts. Several large trees will have to be 
banded together to make the masts, and a great deal of sailcloth 
is needed.” 

“I'm no engineer,” said Ethan bluntly, “but it just looks to 
me as if in a good blow, with all that sail, she'd turn over.” 

“The base will be carefully counterbalanced with just such 
a possibility in mind,” the teacher replied. “But I think the 
double runners will give it a good deal of stability.” 

— 452 — 


“And who's going to pay for it?” Ethan was on familiar 
ground now. 

September grinned. “Despite all those glory holy-hosannas 
the Landgrave ladled on us, lad, he hemmed and hawed like a 
penniless beggar when we put an estimate to him. Went on and 
on about how repairs to the fortifications in the harbor and 
reparations to debilitated families were leaving the treasury 
empty as the inside of his promises. You'd have thought we were 
going to take his gold-inlaid shirt, too. 

“Hunnar and Balavere were there. They listened quietly to 
the whole thing, real dignified and proper. When his majesty was 
finished they gave him a tongue-lashing that must have flayed 
his ancestors forty generations back! Then I pointed out to him 
that the moment we were delivered safe, healthy, and relatively 
unfrozen to Arsudun Island, the ship would become property of 
the Sofoldian navy. He'd managed to neglect that little item in his 
tale of woe. 

“The raft's captain-to-be, Ta-hoding . . . you remember 

— 453 — 


him?” Ethan nodded. “Ta-hoding enumerated the tremendous 
commercial advantages such a vessel would have over all 
competitors, especially with the forever sharp duralloy runners, 
and—” 

“Wait a minute,” Ethan interrupted. “I thought they 
couldn't work the metal.” 

“They couldn't,” replied the big man with a trace of pride. 
“All last week I've been puttering around with Vlad-Vollingstad, 
the foundry boss. Ripped out the whole board on the lifeboat, 
emergency repair supplies, controls everything. An electrodyne 
forge isn't too complicated. With the unlimited heat supply they 
have, I think I can get one going. I'm afraid they won't be turning 
out any suspension housing, but they'll be able to cut and bend 
until the lifeboat's completely reworked. We need a lot less than 
that for a few big runners. Might even be able to get away with 
just slicing off a few sections of hull and sharpening them. 

“The biggest problem is one for pure sweat. Since we can't 
bring the heat to the metal, we'll have to bring the metal to the 

— 454 —



heat. That means hauling the whole wreck up into the mountains 
to the foundry. Surprisingly, the Landgrave didn't object to the 
cost of that one, even though it may take every vol on the island. 
I don't think he wants all that nice indestructable metal sitting in 
the harbor where a few imaginative visiting captains could tow it 
away.” 

“They wouldn't get very far,” said Ethan. “Not pulling that 
mass across the ice.” 

“Probably not,” the big man conceded, “but try and 
convince the Landgrave of that. So as soon as we can round up 
the men and animals, that gets first priority after starting the 
forge.” 

Ethan ran a finger over part of the drawing. “You really 
think this thing will stay upright in a high wind?” 

“Not until we try it out in one, we won't be.” Williams 
nodded agreement. 

“The base weight should keep it steady,” said the 
schoolmaster. “Also, note the airfoils front and rear. Something 

— 455 —



McKay did not have to worry about. With so much sail area on a 
raft that size, I'm more worried about the possibility of her 
becoming airborne than tipping over. These” — and he tapped 
the two foils on the sketch — “should eliminate any chance of 
that.” 

Ethan stared at the hybrid of nineteenth-century terran and 
modern tran technology and shook his head admiringly. 
“Congratulations, Milliken. It's quite a project.” He extended a 
hand and the schoolmaster shook it shyly. “I only hope the 
damn thing works.” 

“What an enterprise!” Eer-Meesach began. “Nothing like it 
has ere been seen in Sofold or her neighbors. We shall call it 
‘Slanderscree’ after the dark flight of dawn-birds which 
precede the souls of the departed!” 

“Encouraging appellation,” commented Ethan drily. 

The wizard didn't understand him. “Bards will sing of its 
sailing for a hundred times a hundred years. We will be all in 
song and verse immortalized, sirs. The greatness of our quest 

— 456 —



shall. . .” September gave Ethan a gentle nudge. 

“I think you've heard everything you have to, lad.” 

“I think so, too, Skua.” 

They excused themselves. Malmeevyn was so engrossed in 
enumerating the magnificence of his anticipated immortality that 
he barely noticed them depart. 

Out in the cool quiet of the hallway, Ethan couldn't resist a 
last question. 

“Assuming this monstrosity actually gets built, Skua—” 

“It will, lad.” 

“Yes, well, I'll believe it when the first sail fills. And when it 
isn't torn to splinters in the first honest breeze. Assuming that — 
can we make it? Can we get to the settlement? And how long will 
it take?” 

“I've got confidence in the boat, lad. Williams may be a bit 
of a secret romantic, deep down, but the design is sound. We've 
got compasses. Now that we know we've got a landmark close 
by the island, this volcano . . . what do they call it?” 

— 457 — 


“The-Place-Where-The-Earth's-Blood-Burns,” reminded 
Ethan helpfully. 

“Yeah . . . from there it should be easy enough to find the 
town. Let's see . . . given the speed that thing should be able to 
make, allowing time for the locals to get used to the different 
rigging, plus the fact that we'll be moving against the wind at 
times . . . I'd guess we should be able to do it inside of a couple of 
months. Depending on the weather, of course.” 

“What do you think of our captain? He didn't awe me the 
first time we traveled with him.” 

September grinned. “Ta-hoding? Looks and sounds like a 
fat whiner, doesn't he? Probably because he is a fat whiner. But 
he also impressed me as a being who knows his seamanship . . . 
icemanship, rather. I'd prefer to have him at the helm and wide 
awake as opposed to some smooth-talking arrogant braggart 
who can't tell a snow squall from a dust cloud. Give me a captain 
who's concerned first for his oven precious skin above a gallant 
idiot any day. 

— 458 — 


“I'm going to be tied up with that forge and shaping the raft 
runners. Williams will be busy with Eer-Meesach grinding out 
crude blueprints and plans. But someone has to oversee the 
actual construction. By the black hole in Cygnus, you know who 
volunteered when he found out about it?” 

“Do tell,” said than. 

“Old du Kane, that's who! Actually asked if he could. Said 
something to the effect that he wasn't especially adept at 
decapitating belligerent obstructionists or getting drunk in 
comradely fashion with the local soldiery, but that he could 
manage large groups of people and materials. He's learned 
enough of the local lingo to get by, so I told him to go ahead.” 

Ethan didn't share the big man's confidence in the financier. 
“You think he'll handle things properly? He's not the most 
diplomatic type in the Arm.” 

“Don't confuse performance with personality,” 
admonished September, scratching at a far-hidden ear. “I'm not 
fanatically in love with the old pirate myself, nor any of his ilk. 

— 459 —



But we're not in the position of choosing from an unlimited 
workforce. Besides, I can guess how much credit every day he 
spends out of contact with his empire is costing him. He'll get 
that raft built as fast as possible, all right.” 

“I suppose so,” Ethan conceded uncertainly. “I can't keep 
from wondering what happened to Walther.” 

September grunted at the mention of the vanished 
kidnapper. 

“Probably a frozen smear on the ice by now, what? Or 
resting comfortably in the belly of a Droom or some other 
charming member of the local fauna.” 

“I suppose so.” 

Ethan broke away to make for his own room and a soaring 
fire. 

— 460 —



Chapter Eleven 

The building of the Slanderscree proceeded as rapidly as 
anyone dared hope, despite Landgrave Torsk Kurdagh-Vlata's 
royal howls of agony over the unending list of expenses. His 
moaning ran the unceasing wind a good vocal second. 

September singed an arm when the first jumpspark was 
fired from the makeshift forge. After an hour's steady work and 
cursing, however, the recalcitrant hunk of machinery worked 
perfectly. Overawed, no doubt, at recognizing an elemental force 
greater than itself. 

With the big man sweating at the foundry, Williams and 
Eer-Meesach running from mountain to harbor to village with 
drawings and corrections in the dozens, and du Kane 
supervising the actual construction, Ethan was left with the 
thankless job of handling the thousands of minute, attendant 
details. 

— 461 — 


He couldn't believe that building a primitive, crude raft 
could involve so many little decisions and questions, all made 
and answered on the spot. Surely an interstellar freighter could 
be no more complicated. 

Brown-green sailcloth was matched to design 
specifications. Meters of pika-pina cable were measured and 
trimmed. New crates of fresh-forged bolts and fittings had to be 
shepherded down to the ice-dock. 

Put together with equal parts sweat and invective, the 
Slanderscree began to take shape. 

Something else was taking shape, too, and Ethan liked it a 
lot less than the a-building raft. This was Elfa's continuing 
attempt to become something other than a casual acquaintance. 

One day, despite the offense it might cause the Landgrave 
and the damage it could do to their cause, he erupted at her. 

To his surprise, she took it rather calmly — almost as 
though she'd been waiting for it. After that she didn't bother him 
again. He was puzzled but decided not to press for the goods. He 

— 462 —



was ahead on points. Better leave it that way. 

Despite delays and the inevitable confusion arising from 
problems in translation, despite a temporary failure of the 
electrodyne forge, despite endless hours of frustrating 
explanation from Williams on how the complex rigging was to be 
installed, there came a day and hour when the Slanderscree 
was finished, stocked, and ready to depart — though Ethan had 
a hard time convincing himself that it would ever move. 

It sat there at the end of the Landgrave's dock, dwarfing the 
commercial rafts that skimmed its flanks like waterbugs. Nearly 
two hundred meters long, with three towering masts, bowsprit, 
and dozens of tightly furled sails, it radiated enormous power 
held in check. The tran arrowhead design had been slimmed 
down to needle-like proportions. Only the two big airfoils marred 
the raft's rakish lines. 

There was nothing unusual about the morning set for their 
departure. A typical trannish day — sunny, windy, freezing to 
the core. Last-minute supplies and spare parts were being taken 

— 463 —



on. A considerable crowd had taken time from the unending 
drudgery of making a living to see them off — or preside at an 
entertaining crack-up. They lined the shore and spilled out onto 
the ice. Cubs ignored mothers and darted in and out around the 
great duralloy runners. 

Sir Hunnar came on board as nominal commander of their 
military compliment. But General Balavere was making the 
journey, too. When he was a cub he'd experienced a rain of ash 
and hot stone from The-Place-Where-The-Earth's-Blood-Burns. 
It had darkened the sky over Wannome for four days. Surely it 
was a holy place — and the general had reached an age when 
such things took on increasing importance. He was going to see 
that legendary mountain. 

Old Eer-Meesach, of course, couldn't have been kept away 
by a herd of famished krokim. 

The raft had nothing like the carefully arranged chain of 
responsibility that existed on board a spatial liner. Nor did 
Williams' arcane knowledge yield any counterpart for the 

— 464 —



ancient terran clippers, beyond the rank of captain. So Hunnar's 
squires, Suaxus and Budjir, came along as his seconds. Tahoding retained much of his own raft crew and worked through 
them. 

Another side of Hunnar was reflected in his choice of 
squires. Neither was a type Ethan would choose: Suaxus always 
dour and suspicious, Budjir laconic to the point of apparent 
idiocy. However, both were almost severely competent. 

The crew and passengers trooped on board to the 
accompaniment of tremendous cheers and shouts of 
encouragement, a few good-naturedly obscene, from the 
assembled townsfolk. Some had come from as far away as 
Ritsfasen at the far western tip of Sofold Isle for the departure. 

The Landgrave stood at the dock surrounded by his 
important nobles and knights. When all were on the raft and the 
boarding plank had been pulled back, he raised his staff. A 
respectful silence settled on the crowd. 

“You have come from a strange place and you go to a 

— 465 — 


strange place,” he intoned solemnly. “In the short time between 
you have done deeds that will be remembered forever by the 
people of Sofold and myself. You have also said that the universe 
is a vast place, vaster than we could ever imagine, with thousands 
of being as different from us as we are different from you living in 
it. 

“Should these worlds and beings extend to infinity and you 
were to go among each and every one, you will always find a 
home and fire for you and your children's children here, in 
Wannome. 

“Go now, and go with the wind.” 

“WITH THE WIND,” echoed the crowd somberly. Then 
someone made a rude noise and they broke into wild yelling and 
cheering. 

“A predictable sentiment,” commented Hellespont du 
Kane flatly. 

“Yes? They might be cheering for us, or because their 
exalted ruler kept his speech admirably short,” September 

— 466 —



theorized, turning away. But had that been a hint of moisture at 
the corner of the big man's eyes? Or was it only distortion from 
the scratched and battered snow goggles. 

“All right, Ta-hoding” he bellowed aft. “Let's see if this 
firetrap will make it out of the harbor!” 

The strange new commands were issued in modified 
Trannish sailing terminology, relayed across the deck and up 
into the rigging to the sailors stationed aloft. 

Just watching the huge natives scramble up the rigging into 
the shrouds in the continual gale gave Ethan the jitters. And it 
would be much worse once they left the sheltering bulk of the 
island. But those powerful muscles and clawed hands and feet 
held them steady as, one by one, the rust-green sails began to 
drop and dig wind. 

Slowly, smoothly, the Slanderscree began to slide away 
from the dock, while the shouts from on shore grew louder and 
louder. Eyes on the sailors above, September walked over and 
gave Ethan a sly pat on the back. 

— 467 — 


“By-the-by, young feller-me-lad, did you ever manage to 
get that business of the Landgrave's offspring straightened out?” 

“It was never out of line,” Ethan riposted. “I thought I did, 
but she wasn't exactly in the forefront of the crowd, waving 
tearfully as we departed. Perhaps not.” 

“I didn't see her either. Though I notice you've warmed up 
to du Kane's daughter.” The lady in question had vanished 
belowdecks the moment she'd come on board in order to get 
out of the wind. Raft or boat or castle, that was next to impossible 
on this world. 

“Glassfeathers,” Ethan countered, leaning over the rail to 
watch the ice slide past. “She's human, too. She just had to have 
someone to talk to, finally. I don't wonder that she doesn't chat 
much with her father. Certainly you and Williams aren't exactly 
the most charming conversationalists around.” 

“Sorry, young feller, but when I see her it's without that fur 
and survival suit, figuratively speaking. That kind of crimps my 
inclination to easy banter.” He patted Ethan again in fatherly 

— 468 —



fashion and sauntered off forward, whistling. 

The Slanderscree was moving out of the lee of the 
mountains. She picked up speed rapidly as the quickly maturing 
crew put on more and more sail. Even the moonraker was out by 
the time they reached the main gate — completely repaired 
once again. By then they were moving at a respectable 30 kph. 
But they'd be lucky to hold that, moving to the westward. 
Moving east, with the wind, however, the Slanderscree's speed 
was limited only by the strength of her sails and masts and her 
ability to keep from becoming airborne. 

The last cheers they heard carne from the guards at the 
gate and the operators of the great chain as they shot between 
the towers. Once free of the harbor's confining walls, Ta-hoding, 
praying all the while, swung her in a wide curve designed to 
bring her back to the southwest and on course. 

Ethan held his breath as the raft came around. No one 
could predict how the radical new mast-and-sail configuration 
would respond on a craft and world far different from long dead 

— 469 —



Donald McKay's wildest imaginings. 

The sails cracked like Williams' crude gunpowder, the 
masts creaked, but the raft carne about neatly. Everything held 
together as they slammed across the wind. They'd follow a zigzag course, plodding for thousands of kilometers. Even so, the 
Slanderscree would make good time whenever she turned 
southward, building up to a nice 60 kph or so before she'd have 
to turn west into the wind. 

He turned and scanned the deck in search of September 
but failed to locate him. The big man had probably gone below 
to get out of the wind himself for a while. Ethan saw no reason 
why he shouldn't do likewise. 

He'd reached the hatch when the sounds of yelling and 
hooting reached him. It was several seconds before he thought to 
look skyward. 

There, perched outside of the wicker observation cage at 
the top of the main-mast, was Skua September, gripping the top 
of the windswept pole with his legs, waving his arms and braying 

— 470 —



like a hairy jackass. 

Ethan remained rooted to the deck until the big man finally 
tired and climbed down. He held his breath all the way, 
expecting at any minute to see the big man slip or lose his grip 
and be torn away by the clawing hurricane like the last leaf of 
autumn. 

But he reached the deck easily enough. He walked over to 
Ethan, tiny particles of ice coating his snow goggles. A gloved 
hand brushed absently at them. He was panting heavily. 

“Quite a view, lad, quite a view! A blood-racing experience, 
what? How about giving it a go?” 

“As you should know by now, I'm not the reckless explorer 
type, Skua.” 

“All right, lad, all right,” the other sighed. “You're the 
feckless metropolitan type. Shame. It's an exalting experience.” 

“I don't doubt it, but I'm quite cold enough right here 
without having to add fatal exposure and bodily danger to it. I 
prefer the deck. I'll prefer my cabin even more.” He turned and 

— 471 —



opened the sliding hatch door. 

To find a familiar and totally unexpected figure blocking his 
way. 

“Good morrow, Sir Ethan,” said Elfa Kurdagh-Vlata 
coquettishly. “It is less cold belowdecks.” 

“Elfa,” he said haltingly, “I don't find this a bit funny. How 
did you talk your father into letting you on board ship?” 

She walked out of the hatch, stood on deck. “I didn't ask 
him. I hid on board 'til I thought it was too late for you to turn. It 
is too late for you to turn, isn't it?” 

“You didn't ask him? How the hell did you sneak on?” 

“I hid in an empty crate and the sailors brought me on with 
the other stores. Only it wasn't empty.” She smiled prettily. “It 
was full of me.” 

Hunnar had joined them as soon as he'd recognized Elfa. If 
anything, he was more stunned than Ethan. 

“Elfa!” 

“Really, the powers of observation of this expedition's 

— 472 — 


leaders amaze me. You are the second person, Sir Hunnar, to 
identify me right away.” 

“What,” continued Ethan doggedly, ignoring the sarcasm, 
“is the Landgrave going to say when he finds out you're 
missing?” 

She looked thoughtful. “I expect he'll be furious. He'll rave 
and curse and threaten and break things and turn Wannome 
upside down. Eventually he'll find my note—” 

“Note?” 

“—and know I've gone with you. Then he'll really get 
mad.” 

Ethan turned to September. “What are we going to do with 
her, Skua?” 

“Well, we could turn back,” he considered, admiring the 
fur-clad Elfa openly. “With the wind behind us it wouldn't take 
that long. But I hate like hell to give up the time and distance 
we've already made just to return this hot adolescent to her 
daddy, what? And there'd be all sorts of awkward recriminations 

— 473 —



and explanations and such . . . more time gone. No, tell the 
steward there'll be another for supper and let's keep on our 
merry way, hey? We can always find a place for her . . . eh, 
Hunnar?” 

“What?” replied the startled knight. He looked at the big 
man unsurely. 

They were a thousand kilometers out of Wannome. Even as they 
breathed, another few meters of ice slid beneath the duralloy 
runners and vanished astern. Now they were gliding over strange 
ice that none of Hunnar's men or Ta-hoding's sailors had ever 
traversed before. 

They'd passed few islands during the last hundred 
kilometers, none of them inhabited. The sense of desolation 
touched everyone. 

“An empty land,” Hunnar commented quietly, subdued. 

— 474 — 


“Yes,” agreed Ta-boding. “'Tis plain to see there'll be no 
trading here. Yet, some of the land we passed looked 
hospitable.” 

“The volcano might have something to do with it,” said 
September. “I shouldn't wonder that at this distance these 
islands might receive periodic rains of hot ash and pumice.” 

“Even so,” mused Ethan idly, “the possibility of 
establishing a few trading centers with an eye towards expanding 
intersurface commerce might—” He paused at a cry from the 
mainmast that froze both tran as thoroughly as a hundred below. 

“Gutorrbyn! Nor'east!” Hunnar, Ta-hoding, and dozens of 
sailors and soldiers rushed for the rail. 

“What's happening?” yelled Colette from a hatchway. 
Hunnar beat Ethan to the answer. 

“Get thee below, lady du Kane!” It was uttered as an order, 
not a suggestion. Colette bristled. 

“Now, wait a minute—” she began hotly. 

September's tone was menacing and devoid of humor. “Do 

— 475 —



just as he says, Miss du Kane.” 

She hesitated, looked at him uncertainly. Still muttering, 
she disappeared belowdecks. 

“I see 'em,” the big man mumbled, shielding his eyes with 
a hand. 

“So do I,” concurred Ethan, 

Far off to the northeast, a small cloud of tiny brown specks 
had come into view. The cloud of gnats grew to flysize, changed 
into a mass of dark T-shapes. 

“Can we outrun them?” asked September. Hunnar's reply 
was terse. 

“No, my friend. Perhaps with the wind behind us . . . but 
they would still have the angle. 'Tis certain they've seen us. We 
may have to fight, though there is always the chance they will 
not be interested in us.” 

There was a querulous bellow from across deck. Ethan 
recognized the voice of General Balavere. 

“Dragons, sir!” Hunnar called back. 

— 476 — 


“How close?” barked the general, buckling an his sword. 

“Five, maybe six kijat, and closing on us.” 

Balavere cursed, strode to the forehatch, and absently 
yelled into it. Almost immediately, soldiers came gushing out of 
the hole as though it was a disturbed anthill. Meanwhile, the 
general hurried to join them astern. 

“We'll never keep them out with this rigging,” observed 
Hunnar, staring worriedly aloft. “We'll put the archers in the 
center in a group, and spearmen along the rails.” 

Ethan watched the flock grow larger. “How smart are these 
things?” 

“Less so than a k'nith,” Hunnar replied. “They hunt by 
vision, sound, and smell, not their brains.” 

“Here's a thought,” began September. “We might try 
this. . .” 

— 477 — 


No one moved on board the Slanderscree. Everyone tried to 
dig himself into the rail or one of the makeshift barrel-and-crate 
barricades. Not even the bravest of the ship's pilots could be 
persuaded to stand at the wheel while the dragons attacked and 
neither Hunnar nor Balavere would force anyone. So steering 
was being handled from below decks with a crude tug-and-pull 
system of ropes, 

The flock came on, gaining steadily on the big ship. 

“Must be close to a hundred of 'em,” whispered September 
conversationally. “Ugly looking devils, aren't they, young 
feller?” 

There was the twang of a bow and Balavere's voice reached 
them from up near the bow. 

“Hold your fire, there! Make these arrows count, idiot!” 

The gutorrbyn did not attack. The leader veered off at the 
last moment and began to circle the raft. The 
Slanderscreecontinued to plow wind, abet decks devoid of 
motion, while a halo of squealing, squawking monstrosities 

— 478 —



danced round her masts. 

Broad and bat-like, the leathery wings were attached to 
furry, streamlined bodies which ended in long, forked tails. There 
were claws halfway up each wing and great taloned feet coiled 
like springs under soft bellies. Each head was a nightmare cross 
between crocodile and wolf, with a long, wrinkled snout scoffed 
with double rows of razor-sharp triangular teeth. Huge tarsier-
like eyes glared down with blank, mindless malevolence. 

“Watch the leaders,” warned Balavere. “If they come it'll be 
in a curve.” 

There was no point in holding your breath. Might freeze if 
you didn't keep it moving. The ship moved on, quiet, with the 
nestle of a hundred pairs of wings drumming against the wind 
and the creak of spars and sail. 

A hatch opened. Colette du Kane walked halfway out. 

“When is something going to hap—?” She happened to 
look skyward, saw the mass of circling demons. One hysterical 
scream. 

— 479 — 


“Trinska!” cursed Hunnar. “They might have lost 
interest!” Colette screamed again. 

September suddenly shouted, “'Ware zenith!” in Terranglo, 
hurriedly translated it into Trannish as a single line of gutorrbyn 
folded their wings, dipped to their right, and dove for the isolated 
frozen figure on deck. 

“Loose, loose” screamed Hunnar at the archers. Bows 
began to sputter. 

Nearly as big as a man and twice as powerful, one of the 
monsters crumpled to the deck not a meter from Ethan. He 
thought he heard the neck snap when the creature hit the 
planking. It had three arrows imbedded in its chest. 

Colette had apparently recovered her senses. Ethan heard 
the hatch cover slam shut. He didn't see it because teeth dashed 
suddenly in front of his face and there was a clack like a bear 
trap. He slashed half-blindly with his sword, felt it bite something 
soft. There was a hoarse giant-rat scream and a sticky substance 
covered his bare wrist. A foul, fetid odor assailed his nostrils. 

— 480 —



Then it was gone and his sword was free. 

It was hard to tell the screams of tran from dragon. He 
swam through an alien nightmare of blood and teeth. He saw one 
dragon skimming low over the ice, the limp corpse of a sailor 
firmly caught in its talons. Once the toothed maw dipped low, 
slashed almost indifferently at the lolling head. 

Dead gutorrbyn bodies matted the clean wood. Small 
bunches of spearmen kept the attackers away while protected 
archers took a terrible toll among them. 

A wounded dragon flashed by, screaming, and smashed 
into the ice below. It was feathered with arrows. Ethan spun, cut 
at a spinning, snapping horror that dove at his back. He ducked, 
and another pair of claws missed his head by centimeters, their 
owner shrieking in frustration. It backed air, started to pull up for 
a turn over the deck. 

Something slammed it violently sideways and it crashed 
into a mast. Ethan now could see that a fair proportion of the 
mounting pile of dragon-corpses on deck were studded with 

— 481 —



short, thick darts. He spared a glance upward. 

Wicker cages were bound at the top of each towering mast 
to protect lookouts from the wind. Now they served a pair of 
crossbowmen in each. They'd kept still until the fight was joined. 
Now they were beginning to make their presence felt, picking off 
the gutorrbyn below and those crawling in the rigging. In the 
confusion, none of the dragons looked to find where the stubby, 
deadly bolts were coming from. They dropped in pairs and 
threes, now. 

Ethan thrust his sword forward again, but by now there was 
little to strike at. Screeching defiance, the remnant of the fatally 
mauled flock abruptly lifted with the wind and shot away to the 
westward. 

Panting heavily, he walked over to where Hunnar was trying 
to bind up the arm of a badly gashed spearman. 

“Well, we beat them off, Sir. How are our casualties?” 

“There might be more, but we seem to have lost only one 
man and have few enough wounded. Again the wizard's magic 

— 482 —



has served well.” 

“That, and perhaps another,” said Ta-hoding. Their captain 
had spent the battle huddled alongside Hunnar, jabbing 
occasionally with his sword while expending most of his energy 
in imprecating his ancestors for getting him into this trouble. As 
a result, only his ego was scratched. 

Now he was standing at the rail, staring at the northern 
horizon. “'Tis long 'til night, yet darkness comes. Have you 
noticed, sirs?” Ethan hadn't. Frankly, he couldn't see much 
difference in the light even now. 

But Hunnar apparently saw, as had Ta-hoding. “You are 
right, captain.” 

September came over. “What's all this about, now? Another 
attack? Good thing those beasties aren't very bright. They could 
have picked us off neatly with a little thought.” 

“I don't know, Skua,” Ethan confessed. “Ta-hoding and 
Hunnar seem concerned about something in the light.” 

“Not the light, noble sirs,” said Ta-hoding. “Look there, to 

— 483 — 


the west a little more.” The two humans did so. “There, the Rifs!” 

Now Ethan saw. A, great dark cloud was just barely 
beginning to crawl over the stark horizon. Its front sparkled and 
flashed like the visible pulse of some huge animal. And the sky 
did seem to dim slightly. 

“It comes early,” intoned Hunnar. “I wondered at seeing 
gutorrbyn come out of the north. Usually they move with the 
wind or into it. Clearly our flock was driven south.” 

“Meaning we didn't beat them off, there?” asked 
September. 

“No, Sir Skua. I suspect they fought as long as they did 
only out of strong hunger. They've probably been running before 
that for some time. Now they are forced to try and cross to the 
west before the Rifs reaches them.” 

Above, sails snapped and buffeted the masts, flailed 
uncertainly against spars in the unfamiliar cross-winds. 

“We'll have to turn further south and run before it as much 
as we can,” said Hunnar. “If we can stay well enough west it 

— 484 —



might even be a help . . . if everything holds together.” 

“Good sir,” began Ta-hoding nervously, “I would 
recommend instead—” 

“And we'll reef in as much sail as you deem wise, good 
captain. . . 

Ta-hoding relaxed slightly. 

“. . .less ten percent additional which I will order on, for I 
suspect you always value your hide above the swiftest 
completion of our journey.” 

“You do me a terrible disrespect, noble sir, for in truth I 
would gladly sacrifice my poor self to insure that the honored 
and glorious friends of—” 

“Enough, enough!” said Hunnar disgustedly, but without 
malice. “See to your sails and not platitudes, captain, and 
quickly!” 

Ethan looked back at the cloud. It had doubled in size and 
was rapidly dominating the entire horizon, swallowing light and 
blue sky at a furious rate. He started forward. 

— 485 — 


“Going below, young feller-me-lad?” 

“No!” Ethan was shocked at the vehemence of his 
response. But the big man's words had been just a mite 
patronizing. Maybe he wasn't ready for dancing atop the 
mainmast, but by Rothschild, he could damn well stay topside 
and take a little storm! 

Hellespont du Kane surveyed the deck, left the hatchway, 
and strolled over. Ethan didn't much feel like talking to the 
financier, but courtesy was part of his character. Besides, he 
might have a chance to make use of his famous acquaintance 
one day — if he ever thawed out. 

Du Kane nudged one of the dragon-corpses that hadn't yet 
been reached by the clean-up crew. Probably estimating its 
potential price per kilo on the interstellar marketplace, thought 
Ethan drily. 

“Is it over, then, Mr. Fortune?” 

“That much of it is,” Ethan replied, trying hard not to be 
brusque. “However, it appears that we are in for a mild blow. I 

— 486 —



suggest you go below and tie down anything you don't want 
banged about.” 

“Only my daughter, and she can take care of herself.” Was 
that line for real, or was du Kane playing straight? The perpetual 
poker face gave no clue. “The Rifs, then.” 

“You know about them?” said Ethan, a little surprised. 

“Oh yes, I shall remain on deck to absorb the experience. If 
you've no objection?” 

“I? Object?” He'd enjoy seeing this stuffed shirt scramble 
for safety when the first strong gust struck. “Be glad of your 
company.” 

Hellespont du Kane looked at him squarely. “There is no 
need to play irony, Mr. Fortune. I know what you think of me.” 

“Just a second, now, du Kane,” said Ethan, turning from 
the rail. He'd been caught badly off-balance. “What makes you 
think—” 

“Never mind, never mind.” The financier waved a hand 
negligently. “It does not matter. Some of us, Mr. Fortune, are not 

— 487 —



born to the comradely, easygoing, instant-intimate manner. I 
have friends, but they are relationships based on mutual respect 
and, in some cases, mutual fear. I should like to be more. . . 
more. . .” 

“Human?” supplied Ethan, and instantly regretted it. Du 
Kane looked his age, then. The glance he gave Ethan was almost 

— almost but not quite — pitiable. 
“I would not venture to express it quite so strongly, Mr. 
Fortune, but we cannot help the way we are, can we?” 
“I don't know, Hellespont.” He clutched a strand of the 
rigging to steady himself in the rising wind. Sailors were 
beginning to string safety lines across the deck. “Is that a 
question or a declaration?” 

Ethan stood at the stern. Ta-hoding manned one side of the huge 
wheel and his helmsman the other. “It will take two of us to 

— 488 —



manage her — for the first hour, at least,” he'd explained. All but 
a few of the top sails had been taken in. The raft skimmed 
smoothly toward the northwest. Ta-hoding was trying to make 
as much distance that way before the front struck and forced 
him to swing south with the wind. 

By now the stygian nimbus blotted out most of the 
northern sky. Lightning crackled like a mad composer's 
composition on three sides of the ship. 

“Soon,” moaned Ta-hoding. “Soon. I can smell it coming.” 

“Hold fast, friends,” warned Hunnar. “The first moments 
are the worst. 'Tis a live thing.” He moved off forward to double-
check the safety lines. 

“According to the captain,” said September, having to 
shout to make himself heard over the wind, “it's kind of like an 
atmospheric tidal bore. You know what a tidal bore is?” 

No one did. Before the big man had a chance to explain, the 
Rifs struck. 

Ethan was prepared for anything, and that's exactly what 

— 489 — 


happened. He was knocked free of the rail and blown several 
meters across the deck before he rolled up against the feet of a 
sailor. The tran iceman was hugging one of the safety lines like a 
mistress. Somehow he maintained his hold, reached down a 
massive hairy paw, and grabbed Ethan by the scruff of his jacket. 
Ethan practically climbed his leg until he could get a grip of his 
own on the line. 

The concussion from that first hammer-like gust had gifted 
him with a bruised cheek and a cut lip — worse than he'd 
suffered in the gutorrbyn assault. Slowly, carefully, he dragged 
his way back toward the rail. 

Somehow, Ta-hoding and his helmsman were holding the 
ship on course. Hunnar had suggested lashing the wheel, and it 
had been a surprise when the captain refused. 

“A rope has no brains, noble sir, and the Rifs is an angry 
great cub. You cannot trust it with a lashed wheel.” But he'd 
agreed to have the two alien airfoils locked in position. 

The Slanderscree suddenly tilted and Ethan made a dive 

— 490 — 


for the rail. Up and over the wind heeled the flying raft, until she 
was hurtling along on her port runners alone. Then Ta-hoding 
slammed the wheel over; she turned south, and crunched back 
to the horizontal with a violent crash. But she continued to run 
easily and nothing appeared to have broken or buckled. 

September pulled himself up to where Ethan clung. “Held 
her heading a little long, there. Got plenty of guts, our fat captain. 
You okay?” 

Ethan carefully extended a gloved hand and moved another 
step closer. “One of these days I'm going to tell you I'm dying, 
just for the hell of it,” he shouted back. 

The wind flailed at them, intent on smashing the unyielding 
raft to kindling. Now that they were in the storm proper and 
moving with it, the raft ran easier. Fury pushed them but the 
initial insanity was gone south. 

“How fast do you reckon we're going, young feller?” Ethan 
didn't have the damndest idea, but a barely audible voice from 
behind him apparently did. 

— 491 — 


“I should estimate the initial front at well over 150 kph. 
Now I perceive we are riding a wind of slightly more than a 
hundred. Invigorating, is it not?” 

Moving hand over hand on the safety lines, Hellespont du 
Kane pulled himself to where Ta-hoding and his helmsman 
fought with the wheel. 

“Old man or not,” began September, blatantly disregarding 
the fact that he was no swaddling babe himself, “I'm going to put 
a fist in that smug puss one of these days.” 

“I don't think it's smugness so much,” replied Ethan, 
wondering that the aged industrialist was still on deck at all. “It's 
just that whether it's a million credits or the proper setting of 
silver at the table that's in question, du Kane is very matter-offact about things.” 

“Probably react to a fist in the snoot that way, too,” the big 
man grunted. 

Ethan blinked beneath his goggles. The ice was gray under 
the streaking storm clouds, which raced the ship like an endless 

— 492 —



herd of galloping hippos. Lightning threw geysers of icechips 
when it struck the ice. 

Several times the iron rods at the tips of the three masts 
drew million-volt white scimitars, but without damage, to the raft. 
If you ignored the pain in your arms from gripping the rail, or the 
way your goggles slugged circles around your eyes, why then, 
Ethan admitted, it was a wild and wonderful kind of beauty. 

In fact, it was magnificent. 

“I'm going below for something warm. Coming, young 
feller?” 

“I'll . . . I'll be along in a minute,” Ethan murmured. 
Lightning jumped in a gargantuan triple arc from one tiny island 
to another. “You go on.” 

September grunted, then paused, swaying in the gale. “Did 
you ever hear of the Analava System?” 

A part of Ethan's mind managed to drag itself away from 
the meteorological asylum. “Sure, vaguely. Weren't those the 
two planets in the Vandy sector that went to war despite 

— 493 — 


intervention of a Commonwealth peace team and a Church edict 
. . . oh, some twenty years ago?” 

“Twenty-two. I told you I was wanted. Well, you want to 
know what I'm wanted for? I think, young feller-me-lad, I may 
just tell you.” 

That drew Ethan's attention away from the howling weather. 
September faced him broadside, clinging to the railing with one 
hand and a safety line with another, fighting the wind. 

“Hundred twenty million people died in that war. Lasted a 
whole week. There are one or two people who think I'm 
responsible for it. That's why they want me.” Then he turned, put 
both hands on the safety line, and started to make his way to the 
nearest hatch. 

Ethan was too shocked to try and keep him from going, too 
stunned to frame any questions. The Analava War was one of the 
great horrors of modern times, a blot on the history of the 
Commonwealth, a running sore on the record of mature homo 
sapiens, and a throwback to the Dark Ages. His personal 

— 494 — 


recollections of it were of the faintest — he'd been only eight or 
nine at the time. Details he'd learned later, in maturation. But the 
shock and terror it had on the adults around him were memories 
he retained from childhood. 

September was crazy, of course. No one man could 
possibly be held responsible for the deaths of 120 million human 
beings. 

Lightning cut and ripped at the gray ice. He looked out and 
saw none of it. 

A giant hand picked him up and threw him out of his bunk. He 
didn't think the joke was a bit funny and said so at length as he 
flailed angrily at his blankets in the dark room. Sleep evaporated 
from his curtained brain as he untangled himself and absorbed 
several facts at once. 

First, while he was sure he was sitting up straight, he 

— 495 — 


seemed to be leaning at an angle. He was sure the fault was with 
the universe and not him. As his eyes grew used to the darkness 
he was positive of it. He fumbled a bit, lit an oil lamp. Yes, the 
deck was canted to the left at an unnatural angle. 

A respectable rumble of trannish curses drifted in to him 
from the main hold. Terranglo-related semantic species carne 
from September's cabin, next to his. Cries of uncertainty and 
anxious questioning were already beginning to supplant the first 
howls of outrage. He opened his door. 

Someone had already lit the lamp in the hall and lights were 
beginning to go on down in the main hold. If there was a sailor or 
soldier who hadn't been dumped from his bunk, Ethan didn't see 
him. 

Fighting with his jacket and survival suit every centimeter of 
the way, he walked to the end of the hall. Tran were struggling to 
their feet, trying to straighten bunks and sort bedding, repeating 
the same inane, unanswerable questions to each other over and 
over. A single moan of pain came from somewhere far forward, 

— 496 —



but otherwise everyone seemed more shaken mentally than 
physically. He walked back and rapped on the door of the cabin 
across from his own. 

A concerned Sir Hunnar confronted him almost 
immediately. The bedraggled knight was trying to banish the 
sleep from his own eyes and buckle on his sword at the same 
time. 

“We're stopped!” Ethan blurted. 

Hunnar shook his great red mane. “'Tis assured you can 
find the sum of some things, Sir Ethan. Most definitely, we are.” 

Ethan glanced past the massive torso and saw General 
Balavere struggling with his own garb. September joined him a 
moment later and the three started up the passageway. 

They nearly collided with Ta-hoding. The expression on the 
plump captain's face was not reassuring. 

Hellespont du Kane stuck his head out of the door of his 
cabin and shouted across to them, “What has happened, 
gentlemen?” 

— 497 — 


“We're going to find out, du Kane,” Ethan yelled back at 
him. “Soon as we do, I'll let you know.” The financier nodded 
and vanished back into his rooms. 

Ta-hoding led them up the steps, grumbling over his 
shoulder. “It seems we may have run aground. That in itself is no 
insignificant worry, noble sirs, but I am more concerned about 
the damage. 'Tis almost a certainty one or more of our runners 
has collapsed. By the angle the raft lies at, I should guess one. I 
only hope 'tis the bolting to the hull and not the runner itself.” 

“That's duralloy we're riding on, captain,” reminded 
September. “Reworked or not, it won't crumple. I think you're 
probably right about the bolts.” 

Ta-hoding shoved at the hatchdoor. As always, the two 
humans braced themselves for the expected blast of groping, 
heat-sucking air. 

The Rifs had degenerated into a mere gale. By morning the 
storm would pass them completely. Carefully shielded from the 
wind, lanterns threw dancing tendrils of light onto the deck. Ta

— 498 —



hoding was met by the waiting night-duty helmsman. Then 
another sailor came over, breathing unevenly, to stammer out a 
long string of information. 

Hunnar and September walked to the railing while the 
conference continued. Ethan listened briefly, then joined them. 

“We're aground, all right,” suggested September. 

“Can we pull free?” Ethan asked. 

Hunnar pondered the question. “This southeast wind will 
die by first light. Then we'll have the normal westwind in our 
faces. That should enable us to pull off with little trouble.” 

Ta-hoding rejoined them. “Well, noble sirs, it seems I was 
woefully wrong. We have not run aground. Not exactly, anyway.” 

“I don't follow you,” said Ethan, squinting ahead into the 
darkness. “Certainly looks like an island up forward.” 

“It does,” the captain agreed. “Again the world lies. 
Come.” 

They followed him toward the bow. As they approached the 
sharp prow of the ship, Ethan noticed something shining in the 

— 499 —



moonlight off to the right. A big, cream-colored pillar. It looked 
oddly familiar. 

They had to step carefully to avoid the fallen rigging and 
shattered spars that had been knocked down. The upper half of 
the foremast had snapped in the middle and the huge log had 
crashed to the deck, bringing rigging and furled sail down with it. 
Only a stub of the bowsprit was visible, and the left railing near 
the bow was crumpled, though the hull seemed sound. 

To their left, sailors with lanterns threw rope ladders over 
the side and started down to the ice. 

The stavanzer was quite dead. Extending into the dark to 
port and starboard, the uneven crusted back loomed over the 
prow. By terran standards it was a colossus. Compared to the 
only other member of its species Ethan had seen, this one was 
small, even tiny. 

Ta-hoding scrambled awkwardly over a broken topspar, 
reached the bow and leaned forward. 

— 500 —



“A young one, very young indeed. I wonder how it happens to 
be here alone.” 

“Probably it was separated from its herd in the storm,” 
Hunnar guessed. “and sought the shelter of an island.” He 
stared at the wide, arching back, at the two flaccid air jets. “It 
must have been very weak and perhaps also asleep when we 
struck. I think it must have died instantly. See? We've hit just 
behind the head.” 

Indeed, the sharp prow of the fast-moving raft had impacted 
just behind the huge closed eye. The long, tapered bowsprit had 
plunged mortally deep into the great animal, wreaking havoc 
with that endless nervous system. 

“We're damn fortunate it's not an adult,” September 
observed. 

“Fortunate indeed,” agreed Hunnar. 

“Here, captain!” The cry came from their left, up from the 

— 501 — 


ice. They followed Ta-hoding over. 

Budjir had been on night-watch. Now he reached for the 
paws that dipped to help him back over the shattered sail. 

“We struck the thunder-eater at an angle, sirs. The front 
port runner has broken completely loose from its mounting and 
now lies alone on the ice. The fore starboard runner is bent 
sharply, but the bolting held.” 

“Vunier!” muttered Hunnar. “Well, we have spare 
fastenings. The mast will be no trouble, but the other. . .” He 
sighed. “We will have to make the repairs. Another delay, my 
friends.” 

“Don't fret,” said Ethan cheerily. “It won't make any 
difference.” 

At least the weather proved predictable. The receding storm held 
a little longer than the tran had expected, but by mid-morning 

— 502 —



the same familiar westwind gale had regained sway. 

Ethan chatted with Budjir as the squire helped raise a fresh 
case of crude nails from the hold. 

“Quite a storm we had, wasn't it? How often does it get that 
bad?” 

“Oh, that was a very light storm, sir,” the squire replied, his 
open peasant face devoid of duplicity. “'Tis but bad luck we were 
caught out on the ice. Soon the real storms will begin.” He 
walked forward with the case, leaving Ethan thinking cold 
thoughts. 

With the prow of the raft buried in the dead stavanzer and 
the rear runners holding firm, the Slanderscree was high 
enough off the ice at the bow for men to work underneath. 
Nevertheless, timbers and blocks were cut and placed to further 
reinforce the bow and ensure that it would not collapse on the 
men working below at a sudden shift in the wind. Soon sounds of 
hammering and sawing, pounding and scraping rose above the 
gale. 

— 503 — 


Ta-hoding leaned over the side and grunted his pleasure. 
“At this rate we may be on our way before another day has 
passed. That is wondrous metal that your strange skyboat was 
made of, Sir Ethan. Even steel would have broken and twisted on 
that impact.” 

“There are ways you might obtain more of it, you know. . .” 
said Ethan thoughtfully, beginning to enjoy himself. Shop talk! 
“Also ways to make it into things you need, easily and quickly. 
You have some things of manufacture that might do well in trade 
. . . nothing extraordinary of course . . . among my people. Your 
fine woodwork, for example. And such as this coat of hessavar. 
And other things.” 

He looked over to where a group of crewmen were 
removing — excavating would be a better term — the enormous 
tusks of the dead stavanzer. 

“Those teeth, for another example. What are they used for, 
anyway? Surely not for defense.” 

“Eh?” Ta-hoding had been dividing his attention between 

— 504 — 


Ethan and the repairs. “Oh, naturally not. The stavanzer has no 
enemies. The avaer are used for digging up the ice to get at the 
roots and the rich grenloen of the pika-pedan.” 

That was simple enough. He had more questions, but they 
were interrupted by a shout from the mainmast lookout. 

“Sail on the horizon!” Then, seconds later, “Many sails!” 

“Convoy?” bellowed the captain loud enough to make 
Ethan wince. There was silence above. Other eyes turned from 
their work to stare at the basket atop the mast. Below, repairs 
slowed as the word was passed. 

“Too far!” came the eventual answering shout. “But 'tis too 
many! And the pattern is not right!” 

September was just coming on deck. Ethan met him 
halfway to the stern. 

“Company, lad?” 

“Looks like it, Skua. Ta-hoding thinks it might be a 
merchant fleet. The lookout isn't so sure. I guess you could meet 
anyone out here.” 

— 505 — 


The repairs continued, but the metalworkers, carpenters, 
and supervisors kept throwing uneasy glances at the northeast 
horizon. They worked a little faster. 

Word came up that the starboard runner had been 
straightened and the bent bolts replaced. The new foremast was 
already in place and other tran were retying the rigging and 
setting in new sail. Work was proceeding apace on the broken 
port runner. Then came a cry from the lookout that stopped 
everything. 

“The Gods mock us! 'Tis the Horde, the Horde that 
comes!” 

Hunnar uttered a violent oath and launched a vicious kick 
at the rail. Extended in anger, his chiv cut triple gashes in the 
wood. He whirled and stalked off to inform Balavere. September 
was shaking his head. 

“Now if that isn't just the loveliest thing,” he groaned. 

“How could they have known to follow us?” cried Ethan. 
“How?” 

— 506 — 


“Ah, I'm not at all sure this meeting is by design, young 
feller. They've probably been running, running. Just our bad luck 
they ran this way. They may think we're just another big 
merchant ship. . . They'll recognize us when they get close 
enough, all right.” 

“We could take down the banner,” Ethan suggested, “and 
let Ta-hoding and some of the crew try to bluff it out.” 

“Bluff what out? Young feller, you don't understand. If this 
were only a two-man raft bound with cargo of firewood for the 
old homestead, or twice as big as us and loaded with silks and 
precious metals, they'd still swarm all over it. It may make a 
difference to Sagyanak that we are who we are, but it won't to us. 
Result'll be the same as if we'd never met them before. We're still 
prey. Damnation!” 

Soldiers were swarming into the rigging, crossbowmen 
taking up their posts in the three lookout baskets. Archers 
stationed themselves along the rail. Tarps were removed from the 
three small catapults that were useless against gutorrbyn. The 

— 507 —



complement of the Slanderscree now bent all energy toward 

preparing an unfriendly welcome for their unwanted visitors. 

All except the repair crew, who worked faster than ever. 

Hunnar stared across the stern. The rafts were now close 
enough to count, and he was doing just that. 

“Too many. A shred, a short tailing of their former selves, 
but too many for a single ship, even this one.” He muttered 
another few choice curses. “If they could fix that vunier runner 
we could outrun them easily!” He noticed Ethan's inquiring 
gaze. “No, Sir Ethan. We will never be ready in time. The men 
will work until they are discovered by those, but they cannot 
make repairs while under attack. Perhaps. . .” his voice dropped 
to a mumble as he glared at the oncoming rafts, “we may even 
finish her this time, at least.” 

Something sounded wrong to Ethan. He found it. 

“Her?” 

Hunnar looked down at him in surprise. “why, yes. Did you 
not know? The Scourge is a woman.” 

— 508 — 


On board her tattered, shaken grand raft, a shadow of its former 
magnificence, Sagyanak the Death received the word of her 
lookouts. Yes, the runners of the oddly-formed stalled vessel 
were truly made of metal the color and sheen of the demons' 
sky-boat. And the Sofoldian banner flew from her masthead. 

She smiled a half-toothless, ferocious smile. 

The young warrior on her right stiffened as she turned to 
him. “Norsvik, I want as many taken alive as possible, do you 
hear? Even should it cost a few more of the people. These should 
be kept as healthy and undamaged as is manageable so that 
they may last long.” 

“It shall be as you say, Great One.” The warrior bowed and 
left the room. 

Sagyanak placed wrinkled, clawed fingers together and 
began to stroke the arm of her throne. It was built of the bones of 

— 509 —



those she had vanquished. Soon she would add another set to 
the elaborately enscrolled frame. Perhaps even some demon-
bones. 

She wondered with interest if they would scream as did a 
normal man. That was a good question for the Mad One. 

“They're leaving the rafts,” said Hunnar, protecting his eyes 
from the high sun with a paw. 

“I'm kind of surprised they don't try to board us from their 
own rafts,” admitted Ethan. 

“Well, young feller, I'm sure they've got their reasons. For 
one thing,” and he squinted as the wind shoved at his goggles, 
“none of those rafts look to be in good shape. In addition to what 
Hunnar's folk did to 'em, that storm couldn't have done 'em any 
good, either. . . And remember what Hunnar told us about these 
folk being able to move better on chiv than most rafts.” 

— 510 — 


The Horde poured onto the ice. They didn't cover it with 
their numbers this time, and when, finally, they began to move 
forward, their yelling and chanting did not deafen. Or maybe 
they knew who rode the strange craft before them and their 
relative quiet was indicative not of lack of spirit but of terrible 
purpose. 

They charged without pause. A hail of grappling hooks and 
scaling ladders hit the sides of the stalled raft. Soon Ethan was 
swinging his sword with the same lack of expertise but 
determination he had displayed on the walls of Wannome. 

September ran one warrior through the chest, pulled his ax 
free, and yelled instructions to the tran at the miniature catapults. 
There was a simultaneous release of celluloid tension. Four small 
smoking bundles arched out over the ice. A shower of glass and 
iron shrapnel and blinding powder exploded in the middle ranks 
of the attackers. 

Bleeding and torn, they fell to the ice. But their companions 
didn't falter. Again the catapults fired and more nomads were 

— 511 —



knocked unmoving or moaning to the frozen sea. 

“It doesn't frighten them anymore!” Ethan shouted over 
the confusion. 

Several times it seemed certain the barbarians would swarm 
onto the deck and overwhelm them. Several times the archers 
and spearmen were forced back from the rail or cut down. Only 
the constant rain of crossbow bolts from the tran in the masts 
closed off the breakthroughs, sealed the temporary gaps. 

The battle continued all day, the tran and men on the ship 
fighting off wave after wave of attackers. Only when the ice had 
begun to devour the sun did they at last give up and retreat. 

Not caring who noticed, Ethan sank exhausted to the deck. 
His sword clattered beside him. 

Hunnar headed forward, no doubt to confer with Balavere 
and compare losses. The general had taken a bad arrow wound 
in the shoulder but had remained on deck throughout the fight. 

September looked subdued and worried as he wiped his 
broadax. 

— 512 — 


“No miracles impending here, lad. Unless Williams can turn 
these sails into posigrav repellers. Shame I don't believe in 
magic. To have come this far, have worked this hard . . . only to 
end up hamburger in the hands of a bunch of washed-up 
primitive alien bandits like these. . .” He shook his head, the great 
nose dipping and bobbing, and surveyed the corpse laden deck. 
“Looks like we've lost at least half our complement. I think we'll 
have to press a sword on du Kane, and his daughter, too.” 

“How badly did we hurt them?” asked Ethan tiredly. 

“Bad, young feller, bad. But not nearly bad enough. 
Tomorrow they'll be all over us. If they should decide to break 
down that unrepaired runner or to fire the ship. . .” 

“I'd have thought they'd have tried that already. Wonder 
why they haven't?” 

“Why, lad, this raft's the fastest thing short of an air-car on 
this planet. I'd think she'd want it in one piece, this Sagyanak, if 
she can get it.” He paused, staring into the distance. “Ah, take a 
look.” 

— 513 — 


Ethan scrambled painfully to his feet. A ring of nomads, half 
of the surviving force, were drawn up in a broad circle around the 
Slanderscree. The rest were returning to the rafts. Archers at 
the ready rested near the bow, just out of range of crossbow. 

“They've seen the busted runner,” said September. “And 
they're not about to let us fix it, not by the Horse's Head, what? 
Any work party we put over the side will get cut to pieces. 
Somehow we're going to have to get that thing fixed so's we can 
make a break tomorrow. No way we can stand off another all-
day assault. We're almost out of our pacific schoolmaster's 
bombs, too.” 

It was a grim group that gathered in the captain's cabin that 
night. 

“There it stands, sirs,” concluded Hunnar. He'd just 
repeated, with embellishments, what he'd told Ethan earlier. “As 

— 514 —



is apparent, our chances of repulsing the vermin's next attack is, 
realistically speaking, very low. We have few thunder-packages 
left, few crossbow bolts, and far too few men. When the bombs 
and bolts run out, they will have us. We must try to break away. 
Yet we cannot get a crew safely outside to repair the runner.” 

“The starboard runner is completely repaired and 
repositioned,” added Suaxus-dal-Jagger. “I would say that the 
other would collapse the moment any pressure is put on it. Truly, 
we cannot move unless it is fixed.” 

The raft's plan was laid out on the table in front of them. 
Now Ta-hoding, who'd been listening quietly while studying the 
schematic, spoke up. 

“There is one thing that might be tried, sirs.” 

“At this point all suggestions are welcome ones, captain,” 
said Balavere, holding his shoulder. 

Ta-hoding leaned forward and ran a finger over the 
diagram. “We might chop through the flooring around the 
central runner brace here, and here. Our craftsmen could then 

— 515 —



work safely from within the raft. Possibly even part way outside, 
for the enemy will surely be looking only for men trying to slip 
over the side.” 

“Can the runner be fixed from inside?” asked than. 

He was disappointed at Ta-hoding's negative gesture. The 
captain continued. “Not very well, nor permanently, no. There is 
no way to perform the necessary final metalwork. But a 
temporary hold might be fastened through the boltholes with 
double-thick cable, which could then be lashed and tightened 
around the interior bracing.” 

“Sounds not firm,” mused Balavere. “Would it hold at all?” 

Ta-hoding made the tran equivalent of a shrug with his 
eyes. 

“There is no way to predict, noble sir. Such an arrangement 
could hold fast for days. Or it could snap, as the squire says, the 
moment pressure is put to it.” 

“I'm placing this in your hands, captain. Do you think it will 
hold?” 

— 516 — 


Ta-hoding hedged, obviously not fond of being put on the 
spot. Finally, “I would think for a morning, certainly. The cable 
would be strong enough to handle that much friction, if it is 
made very tight and does not work loose too quickly. Yes, I 
would stake my life it will hold for a morning-time. I will stake 
any life to it.” 

“A safe wager, captain,” said Hunnar. “if you are wrong 
there will be none of us about to collect. Can this be made ready 
by morning?” 

“Not if we sit here jabbering all night,” broke in Balavere 
excitedly. “Captain, see to your men and to your repairs. And 
mind they proceed quietly. We have no wish to arouse the 
animals' curiosity.” 

Ta-hoding nodded and departed at as close to a run as 
Ethan had ever seen him use, the schematic of the ship held 
tightly in his paws. 

“Then sirs, if that is all there is to be decided upon. . .” 

“Your pardon, General, but that is not all,” said September. 

— 517 —



“Let's say we make the repair secretly and in time. Let's say 
further that this jury-rigged setup of the captain's actually holds 
together. We pull free of that meat-mountain and start running 
into the wind. I assume we can make better time into the wind 
than they?” 

“No question of it,” said Balavere. 

“All right then, we show them our fundament and laugh 
ourselves silly as they disappear astern. What's to prevent them 
from following doggedly in our tracks . . . this thing does leave 
tracks . . . and catching up with us as soon as that temporary 
hitch does fail?” 

Balavere thought, hesitated. “We must take that chance. 
Likely we can lose them. Or, not knowing the precariousness of 
our situation, they may believe we are beyond overtaking.” 

“And they may not,” September countered. He looked 
around the table. This awkward thought which the big man had 
raised refused to run away and hide. It demanded an answer, and 
no one had any. 

— 518 — 


“I beg your pardon, noble sirs,” said Eer-Meesach from the 
quiet end of the table. “I am not often involved in matters 
military, I know, and would prefer to shun this one. But I have 
had a thought. We may have other allies in this.” 

“Don't talk in riddles, wise one,” admonished Balavere. “I 
am too tired for games, and my shoulder hurts.” 

“Very well. 'Tis a risk and a considerable one. But as seems 
certain, our lives are balanced on the blade of fate as this ship is 
on those runners. One more risk should not drive us onto it any 
deeper. . .” 

— 519 —



Chapter Twelve


One thing, Ethan reflected moodily the next morning, was that 
the wind wakes you quickly on this world. There's no dawdling in 
bed. Right now he'd happily sign away a year of his life for a 
modest comfortese bed, which he would immediately set at 
roasting level before freezing the controls. 

He turned and eyed the bow warily. The sailors had 
withdrawn to the rear half of the skip. Everyone huddled behind 
something solid in the pre-dawn chill. 

There was a violent explosion. A fountain of raw meat and 
flesh vomited into the clear air. The westwind caught most of it 
and carried it off of right angles to the ship proper. He stood and 
stared out across the ice as the enemy encirclement, barely 
visible in the growing light, scrambled awake at the sound of the 
explosion. What were the demons up to now? 

At least they'd had the pleasure of rudely waking the entire 

— 520 —



enemy camp. He took a deep breath, but cut it in the middle. 
Now that the gigantic carcass was laid open to the air, the smell 
of internal decay slowly permeated the entire ship despite the 
untiring efforts of the wind to sweep it away. 

There was a cry from the lookout and then everyone was 
running for the stern. 

A small cluster of four . . . no, five barbarians had broken 
from the circle and were chivaning slowly toward the motionless 
Slanderscree, moving in single file. They appeared to be 
unarmed. 

“Parley party,” Hunnar explained laconically. “I do not 
believe we have anything to discuss with them.” 

“I beg to differ, friend Hunnar,” said September. “We've as 
much to say to them as we possibly can think of, and for as long 
as we can say it without becoming obvious. We can gain time for 
that work crew. They still may not finish in time, but every 
minute we can stave of the final attack. . .” He left the rest unsaid. 

One of the nomads was helped — none too gently — over 

— 521 — 


the railing. Balavere and the others clustered around him. 

The envoy's once-magnificent helmet had a bad dent on 
one side. His leather frontispiece was cut and stained. But he 
seemed neither tired nor disenchanted, as Ethan had hoped. He 
spoke directly to Balavere without formal by-play. 

“The Scourge would hold converse with those among you 
who lead. I am Haldur the Talker. I and my three lieutenants will 
remain here as hostages in bond for those you send.” As he 
spoke, three more of the nomad party were being helped on 
deck. 

“We agree to the terms,” said Balavere, after a quick 
conference with Hunnar. 

“Suaxus, make one of the noan ready.” The squire moved 
to do so. 

The Slanderscree carried two of the little rafts, or noan, to 
serve as lifeboats or scout vessels as occasion demanded. Now 
one was being lowered over the side to serve as transportation 
for them all — but mainly for the human members of the parley 

— 522 —



party, who would only slide and slow the others on the ice. Three 
of the Slanderscree's crew came along to handle the sail and 
steering. 

Hunnar, Ethan, Skua, and Suaxus comprised the exchange 
group. Once aboard, the noan raised sail. The nomad who'd 
remained behind on the ice guided them through a gap in the 
barbarian encirclement. A low murmur came from that ugly 
gathering as they passed through. Many off the nomad warriors 
wore bandages and splints in addition to badly battered armor. 
They were in a murderous mood and Ethan hoped Hunnar knew 
what he was doing in agreeing to this exchange. 

They passed squads of nomads chivaning toward the ring. 
Preparing for the final effort, no doubt. 

September was thinking along similar lines. “Getting ready 
to attack again.” 

“Was there any doubt of it?” declared Hunnar. “I am twice 
surprised at this parley request. Does she think us fools enough 
to surrender?” 

— 523 — 


“Whatever the reason, be thankful for it,” September 
replied. “It buys time.” 

“Listen,” put in Ethan, “are you sure we can get back to 
the raft? This charming lady's character doesn't impress me. 
How honorable is she?” 

“As honorable as the lowliest slime that seeps from the 
garbage tailings,” spat the knight. “Yet there will be no question 
in this matter. All respect the person of an envoy. Without such 
concord it would make surrender awkward. Such as these prefer 
not to fight if it can be arranged. Remember when I said they 
have grown fat.” 

Ethan watched another pack of taut, tightly armored tran 
chivan past. “I don't see any who look especially corpulent.” 

“No longer, since the defeat, friend Ethan. Had this 
happened two or three hundred years ago, when the Horde was 
still new in our land, I do not believe that even with your wizard's 
crossbows and thunder-making we could have defeated them as 
we did.” 

— 524 — 


They were nearing the anchored nomad fleet — or rather, 
the pitiful remnant thereof. Their guide directed them among the 
rafts until they drew alongside what once must have been a 
veritable palace on runners. 

Now the bloodcurdling motifs and designs carved into the 
rails and central pavilion were scarred by fire. The golden leafing 
on the central structure had been seared and melted. 

Waiting hands helped them onto the deck, holding firmly. 
To see how much meat was left on him, no doubt, Ethan 
reflected. He tried to imagine some get-togethers he'd attended 
where the company had been worse, but the private jest brought 
no hidden smiles. It was hard to be flip when at any moment 
some unpredictable primitive might try to make steak out of 
you. 

They entered the pavilion and passed through several 
rooms. The interior of the big cabin was still rich-looking, still 
comfortable. Eventually they reached a room larger than all the 
others. Several well-built specimens of trannish manhood stood 

— 525 —



along the walls, armed with huge double-edged swords. 

At the far end of the room was an incredible throne made 
from tran bones and skulls and inlaid with precious metals and 
gems. The thing that sat on the throne was, even to alien human 
eyes accustomed to a different meter-stick of beauty, 
outstandingly repulsive. 

Instead of the huge, glowering warrior Ethan had first 
envisioned, Sagyanak was a shrunken, wrinkled old crone. An 
ugly sack of bones and bile, made the more hideous by childish 
attempts at facial and body makeup. 

This ancient construct of weak ligaments and venomous 
eyes leaned forward and stared at them, a finger rubbing lower 
lip like a pallid, bristled worm. 

“So, there you stand, as the Mad One said you would.” 
They did not question or reply. “That you have even come to 
this parley says you are not so strong as I thought. Better and 
best, better and best.” 

“That we come to this parley,” replied Hunnar evenly, 

— 526 — 


“means we are proper in respecting the rules of conflict . . . 
something you have never bothered to do.” 

“There are no rules to war,” the crone answered 
indifferently. “There is but victor and defeated. Methodology is 
irrelevant. But you have come.” 

“Already established,” Hunnar replied impatiently, despite 
September's anxious glance. “What is it you want? You've 
interrupted my morning meal.” 

“So you have plenty of supplies, too. Excellent. Additional 
stores are always welcome.” 

“If you can catch it before the wind does, you may follow 
and be welcome to our garbage.” 

She leaned forward slowly, showing broken yellow teeth. 

“When I have taken you, you will not long be fit to serve 
even as garbage.” With an effort, she sat back and tried to essay 
a pleasant smile. The result was horrible. “But there is no need 
for this unpleasantness. I do not need you to justify my actions 
in battle, good knight. Leave that for another visit. Now, I have 

— 527 —



been known never to break my word. To do so would dishonor 
me before the Gods and the Dark One. Know you this to be 
true?” 

“'Tis so,” admitted Hunnar. 

“Then I say this to you.” The head leaned against the 
throne-back and the slit eyes narrowed. “Give up to me the 
great raft the demons have built for you. Yea, you may even keep 
your weapons, including the magic bows-which-are-not drawn. I 
covet them, but you may retain them. Also the thunder and 
lightning your catapults throw. Keep these and go freely 
wherever you wish. I swear this.” 

Hunnar must have been startled at the seemingly generous 
offer, but he did an admirable job of not showing it. 

“We cannot do that. We are too far from Sofold to safely 
chivan back over open ice.” 

“I will give you rafts enough for all your people, including 
your wounded, and enough supplies to return. I swear this also. 
And you will have the wind with you.” There was a predatory 

— 528 —



gleam in her eyes. “What say you?” 

Hunnar appeared to consider, then turned away. While 
Suaxus remained at attention, the others discussed the proposal 
in whispers. 

“She can't be trusted, can she?” asked Ethan. 

“It is strange she offers us our lives. Yes, if she so swears, 
she can be.” 

“I don't share your confidence,” put in September. “If we 
make it back we'd have to start building another boat from 
scratch. I don't know if that toy forge could manage it. This thing 
smells worse than that great stinking carcass in front of the ship. 
That crazy Eer-Meesach!” 

“I concur with you, friend Skua. We face very probable 
death if we do not agree,” Hunnar explained. “We might not live 
out this day. The offer will not be made again.” 

“We still have a chance to break and run for it.” 

“The moment we put on sail, friend Skua, they will attack. 
With irons and fire. If they cannot have the ship they will surely 

— 529 —



not allow us to escape.” 

“There's still the wizard's idea,” said Ethan. 

“Of which nothing has come,” September countered. The 
debate was interrupted by a new voice. Recognition escaped 
Ethan for several seconds. 

“Come on, gentlemen, you've been stalling long enough. 
You may as well accept. It's all you can do and you know it.” 

They turned. Ethan hadn't thought to hear that voice again. 

Walther walked through the screened door to the right of 
the throne, took a seat at its base, and smiled at them. No one 
offered greeting. 

“Well, don't look so stunned,” he admonished them in 
fluent Trannish. It was the first time Ethan had heard him speak 
the native language, though he'd admitted to knowing it before. 
“I confess I was in tight for a while there. Afraid one of these 
hairy berserkers would run a spear through me before I could 
explain who I was and what I had to offer. Once I got through to 
a perceptive captain-type, he had me brought to the boss-lady 

— 530 —



here. We had a nice chat. 

“Of course, it was too late for me to do anything about the 
battle she'd already lost, but I had a few other suggestions. I 
managed a private look-see at the shrimp's plans for a big raft. 
Wasn't hard to figure out what you intended to do with it. The 
main remainder of the Horde slunk off for a little subsistence 
raiding and thieving, but small rafts made up to look like 
merchant ships were always shuttling back and forth between us 
and the harbor. 

”We knew when each mast was set in place, when every 
box of stores was taken on board. As soon as you shoved off and 
got a little out of sight, we followed. Not only do I know where 
you're headed as well as you do, but that big raft cuts a helluva 
gash in the ice. Easy to follow. 

“Only thing I hadn't figured on was the speed that thing 
makes. If you hadn't had the decency to run into that big grass-
eater, we'd still be chasing you. Everything will work out nicely 
now, though.” 

— 531 — 


“Yes, I can see it, too,” said Ethan, surprising himself again 
by breaking in. “You'll take a picked group of these murderers 
and sail on to Arsudun. Not knowing you from normal 
humanfolk, the humanx authorities will ignore you. Then you 
find your associates. If they don't fry you out of hand for 
bungling the whole enterprise, you'll explain the situation to 
then, fly back here in an air-car, pick up the du Kanes, and with 
only a little time lost, continue your original plan to hold them 
up for ransom. Neat. And us?” 

“Believe me,” said Walther sincerely, “I wish I'd never set 
eyes on either of you. Or that teacher, either. Yes, that's a fair 
scenario. You can make your own way into Brass Monkey. By 
the time you can get another boat built, make it to Wannome 
from here, and then to Arsudun, we should have received our 
credits and scattered to the far corners of the Arm.” 

September pointed at the listening Sagyanak. “One other 
little item. What does she get for providing you with 
transportation and protection, then?” 

— 532 — 


“Oh, in return for her help, Her Majesty will retain the 
lovely big raft you've built.” 

“That all?” 

“Well, I did sort of promise her a few crates of modern 
arms and maybe a small cannon or two once we've been paid 
off.” 

“Leaving aside the fact,” September continued, “that that's 
a violation of every rule for contact with Class Four-B worlds, just 
what do you imagine this she-scorpion will do with 'em?” 

“Why, I expect that Her Majesty,” he said, glancing over at 
her, “will sail pronto back to our frigid foster icebox and reduce 
the place to rubble. After which, without killing off too many of 
the populace, she'll resume her former status as protector of 
commerce in the territory. As for ‘laws’,” he continued 
contemptuously, “through sabotage of an interstellar liner and 
kidnapping of you all, I've already made myself a candidate for 
mindwipe. I'm not in the least concerned with what the locals 
intend to do with any new toys I might choose to give them.” 

— 533 —



“I should have broken your neck when I had the 
opportunity,” observed September calmly. 

“Yes, you should have. But you've missed your chance. 
Agree, and you can at least get out of here with your hide. 
Refuse and we'll take the boat from you anyway. Fight and you'll 
be overrun. Try to run away and we'll cut that broken skate free 
and fire the sails. You are good and well stuck, friends.” 

“Even if we do agree, what if the tran don't go along with 
us?” asked. Ethan. Walther shrugged. 

“That's your problem. I think you'd better convince them. 
Oh yes, one other thing. I'd like you to leave the brat . . . what's 
her name? . . . Colette . . . with me, as a guarantee you won't try 
and follow us into Brass Monkey on the rafts we leave you. It 
wouldn't do for you to sail in a couple of days after me and let 
the peaceforcers in on our little secret, would it?” 

Something very like a cackle came from the throne. This 
request, demon-origin or not, she could understand. 

“Maybe you'd like me to cut off my right arm, as a further 

— 534 — 


gesture of insurance?” asked September sarcastically. 

“Naw, keep it. I'm feeling generous today.” He grinned, a 
small mind in a sudden position of power and enjoying every 
minute of it. 

“We will return to our ship and inform you of our decision,” 
said Hunnar, unable to listen to any more of this without going 
for certain throats. 

“You've got half an hour by the sun,” replied Walther 
easily. “You can spend the time counting houris, for all I care. If 
you agree to the terms, take in the banner at your stern. If not, 
well,” he shrugged, “I've done my best for you.” 

“I don't wonder that she calls you the Mad One,” guessed 
Ethan. 

Walther started and lost a little of his composure. 

“Watch your mouth, bright-eyes. This is no sales 
convention.” 

“And you're certainly no door prize,” he said as they left 
the throne room. 

— 535 — 


Ethan tried to affect a nonchalant attitude as they slid back 
over the ice. But he didn't really relax until they had passed 
through the encirclement. Now there were plenty of women and 
cubs in the group, who looked every bit as ragged and vicious as 
the menfolk. Obviously Sagyanak was leaving nothing to chance. 
This was to be a supreme effort on her part. 

And why not, with such a prize? With modern weapons she 
could rule as much of the planet as she chose without far-off 
humanx authorities ever finding out about them. 

“Of course we can't agree to this,” he said to no one in 
particular. 

“Of course not,” September said. “But it did kill some time. 
Maybe enough. In any case we must try to get away now. The 
thought of even a single decent pistol in the hands of that horror 
makes my stomach crawl.” 

“You'd know about that, wouldn't you?” said Ethan 
suddenly, giving him an cold look. September chose not to reply. 
He turned instead to talk to Hunnar. 

— 536 — 


“We'll have to hold them off and pick the best opening, 
then break for it.” 

Balavere and Ta-hoding were waiting with anxious 
expressions when they reboarded the raft. It felt good to be back 
on the high deck, even if it was destined to become a baroque 
coffin within the hour. The barbarian hostages scrambled with 
poor grace to get over the side. Hunnar watched them speed for 
the safety of the encampment with obvious disdain. 

Something unseen hit Ethan, planted a freezing kiss on one 
cheek and vanished down a forward hatch. Ethan caught only a 
glimpse of flying fur and a hint of a pink face. 

“What was that?” he mumbled, rather stupidly. 

“Why, that was Colette du Kane, young feller.” September 
grinned. “Wonder why it is that impending destruction always 
gives women the hots?” 

“Deity, Skua! Sometimes your crudity exceeds all 
standards!” 

“Please, no compliments before battle,” he replied. 

— 537 — 


They explained to the others the results of their one-sided 
“parley.” Ta-hoding was rapidly being reduced to a quivering 
wreck. Balavere just listened quietly, nodding now and again at 
something Hunnar said, questioning September, until they'd 
both finished. 

“'Twould be unthinkable to give them the ship under any 
circumstances,” said the general finally. “I would rather raze it 
to the ice than let the Evil One near it.” 

Ethan sniffed the air and gagged. The miasma from the 
rotting colossus seemed powerful enough to stand off an attack 
by itself. In fact, after a look over the rail he noticed that the 
section of the encirclement directly to the east of them had 
actually grown thinner. It might really be of some aid. When they 
made their break, they would have a weakened section to try for. 
But Hunnar and Ta-hoding wanted to run the other way. Ethan 
sighed and looked at the thinned line of enemy troops with 
regret. The tran were probably right. And the nomad rafts were 
drawn up to the east, forming a second barrier there. 

— 538 — 


Extra weapons were passed to all, along with the solemn 
word that there would be no quarter, no let-up in this next attack. 
Once again preparations were made for steering from below 
deck. Not because of impending storm, but in case the 
helmsman topside should be cut down when the raft tried to 
break the enclosing circle. 

The wounded took swords or spears. So did Elfa and 
Colette and even Hellespont du Kane, who at least could wield 
one like a cane. The crossbowmen scrambled aloft, settling 
themselves in their baskets and stacking bolts nearby. Archers 
and pikemen moved to positions at the railing. 

Waiting. 

Ethan surveyed the poised Sofoldians, a pitifully reduced 
group, then the hundreds of tensed nomads. There were no 
reserves this time to take up an empty place on the rail if a man 
fell. He was beginning to lament all the sales, commissions, deals, 
promises, and women he'd failed to make. It must have taken 
more than a half hour. 

— 539 — 


It could have been his imagination. Or maybe Sagyanak 
and Walther had decided to give them a little extra time in the 
hopes that the increasing tension would weaken the resolve of 
those on the Slanderscree. Another precious few minutes for 
the furious repair crew. 

They finally broke, howling and screaming, chivaning 
toward the raft from all sides. No disciplined assault this, but a 
shrieking, angry, uncontrolled mob. 

Arrows began to thunk into the deck, the masts, the railing. 
A man went down a few meters to his left. Meanwhile their 
crossbowmen and archers were returning the fire from superior 
height. Dozens of barbarians dropped, hundreds carne on. Again 
the uninvited grappling hooks and ladders sprouted. One hook 
narrowly missed pinning Ethan to the rail. 

A helmeted head appeared over the side. September swung 
at it — he had the great axe in his hands again. Ethan hacked 
and flailed at the knotted rope attached to the hook. 

One voice drifted down through all the noise and confusion. 

— 540 —



Ethan hardly recognized it. It was the voice of the mainmast 
lookout, posted aloft with the crossbowmen. He was using a 
megaphone — another, simpler invention by Williams. His 
message was brief. 

“THEY COME!” 

Ta-hoding, who'd been shaking every time an arrow 
whizzed within half a dozen meters of him, heard it also. 
Suddenly he was moving his fat bulk about the deck at an insane 
pace, bodily pulling sailors from their positions and all but 
booting them into the rigging. Ethan prayed that the captain 
wouldn't run into a mast and knock himself flat. 

Dropping swords and pikes and spears, they scrambled 
into the shrouds. Sails began to drop, grew convex with wind. 
The wheel creaked, a ghostly turning as the below-deck system 
struggled to move the half-frozen fifth runner. The soldiers 
fought all the harder to compensate for the manpower loss. 

Gradually, a strange lull seemed to settle over the 
combatants on both sides. 

— 541 — 


“Hear it, young feller?” murmured September. 

“Yes . . . yes, I do,” he whispered back, unaware that he'd 
done so. 

The sound was faint, distant. A carefully controlled tsunami. 
Continuous rumble welling out of the ice itself. 

Their attackers heard it too. Questioning looks assaulted 
the eastern horizon. As the susuration grew louder it began to 
assume a definite rhythm, rolling and booming like heavy surf. 

A nomad hesitated in mid-cut with his sword, another 
thrust his spear with less authority, yet a third drew his bow and 
let the bowstring sag limp. 

The Slanderscree began to back free of the dead 
mountain. Ethan was sure he could hear a slight metallic groan 
from forward and belowdecks. He ignored it. Maybe it would go 
away. Whatever it was, the roped-together runner did not buckle. 

Fires erupted in the encirclement on all sides of the raft as 
stockpiled wood was ignited. Rafts of dried wood soaked in oil 
were made ready to be pushed against the ponderous, slowly

— 542 —



moving great raft. Here and there torchbearers began to move 
toward the slip. 

But at the same time, other nomads were beginning to slip 
back down their boarding ropes, stumble off the ladders. They 
fought against those pressing forward. 

The torchbearers got halfway to the turning raft, now 
dripping warriors from its sides. 

“There, I see them!” Ethan yelled. September turned too, 
and then Hunnar, and then the few of the enemy who still fought. 

Far off in the distance eastward, a tiny clump of steel-gray 
bumps hove into view, like a herd of great whales. Except that the 
slightest of these was greater than the greatest whale that had 
ever swum Terra's seas. 

Adamantine sunlight encountered thin paired strips of 
white and flashed. The sound of thunder floated ominously over 
the glass-earth. 

Ta-hoding ignored the occasional arrows which still flew 
over the deck and scrambled for the wheel. Another sailor joined 

— 543 —



him. Now there were four sets of powerful arms pulling at the fifth 
runner, two above and two below deck. Ethan watched the 
captain's suety face swell as he strained to get the ship clear of 
the corpse. 

They would only need seconds to pick up wind and start 
southward. There was no question of running into the wind now. 
Against it they could outrun the Horde, but not the herd. They 
might get out of their path. They had to get out of their path. 

Utter confusion extended invisible claws, gripped the 
barbarian ranks as the word was passed. Spears and axes and 
torches were dropped as the remaining nomads spread their dan 
and chivaned for their lives. A few of the barbarian rafts were 
struggling with reduced crews to pull out their ice-anchors and 
get under sail as well. It was impossible to tell at that distance, 
but Ethan supposed many of those anchors were being cut free. 

The majority of the nomads seemed determined to gain the 
distance to the rafts, the only homes they'd ever known. A few, 
less concerned, scattered in all directions, though it was hard 

— 544 —



going against the wind, or north, or south. A few milled about 
aimlessly. Others were trampled under chiv by their hysterical 
fellows. 

Hunnar was growling low in his throat, glancing from the 
sails to the straining captain, then astern. 

“Get her nose around, Ta! Get her nose around!” 

Now the herd was close enough for Ethan to discern 
individuals. Close enough to see the long, gargantuan tusks 
curved partway back into the cavernous mouths. Even battling 
wind-noise, their thunder dominated as they inhaled cubic liters 
of air, forced it out of the fleshy jets near their rear. 

The tran of the Slanderscree fought like demons to put on 
every centimeter of sail. There was a crackling and snapping. The 
still shattered bowsprit turned with agonizing patience to the 
south. Nearly free now of the attentions of the Horde, she began 
to move. 

She passed the half-putrid corpse with nail-biting slowness 

— the corpse whose rotting stink had drawn the furious, 
— 545 — 


bellowing herd from feeding grounds far over the horizon to 

gather and mourn over one of their dead. 

Just as Eer-Meesach had said it would. 

Ethan found himself pounding the rail with a fist. 

“Move, ship, move! Please move!” Rippling wave-thunder 
drowned out all sounds now, hammered relentlessly against his 
eardrums. Prayers went unheard. 

A few, a very few, of the barbarian rafts had put on sail. The 
rest were trying. 

The herd moved in slow motion upon the rafts. With them. 
Among them. 

Through them. 

There were no more rafts. 

The Slansderscree was pulling away as her sails ate wind. 
The bad runner held for a minute, then a second, and another, 
until it was forgotten in other concerns. Ethan stood frozen to the 
rail as the herd approached at an incredible pace. They were 
moving at least 100 kph — into the wind! 

— 546 — 


What remained of the once omnipotent Horde of the 
Scourge vanished beneath several million kilos of gray flesh, 
became a red-brown smear on the shining ice. 

The herd drew closer. For a second time Ethan gazed down 
the throat of Leviathan. 

It paused, froze in space. 

Began to recede. 

“They're stopping at the body,” murmured Hunnar finally, 
long after they were safely away southward. He had to clear his 
throat once before the words came out. “Thank all the Gods!” 

“It didn't look like many of them managed to escape,” 
said Ethan. 

“No,” agreed Hunnar, curiously unemotional. “Not many.” 

“Cubs, too,” continued Ethan, his voice dropping to a 
barely audible mutter. 

September showed no such concern. He was rubbing both 
hands together and chatting with sailors and soldiers, as happy 
as if a freshly baked cake had exited the oven without falling. 

— 547 —



Hunnar was leaning over the stern, straining to pick out shapes 
among the rapidly receding forms. 

“I didn't see Sagyanak's raft in those final seconds. Could 
the devil-bitch have escaped again?” 

“Sorry to kill all the bad dreams you half-hoped to have, 
friend Hunnar,” said September. He grabbed at his hood as a 
sudden gust of wind threatened to tear it off. “I did.” 

“What do they do with the dead young one, the stavanzers? 
Now that they've found it?” asked Ethan. 

“If the wizard's information is accurate, and it has been 
thus far,” the knight replied, “then the thunder-eaters will 
remain with the dead for several days. I have never seen such a 
thing myself. Supposedly they prod the body with their tusks, 
nudge it every so often in the apparent hope that they may stir it 
to life once again. . . Eventually, some inner desire satisfied, they 
will move off, never to return to that spot again. Or perhaps they 
merely grow hungry. None know for certain. Among my people, 
at least, the observation of the thunder-eater's habits from close 

— 548 —



range 'tis not over-popular. And thunder-eaters do not die 
often.” 

“I don't wonder at your caution.” Ethan noticed that Tahoding was only a short breath from total collapse, now that the 
Slanderscree was out of danger. A sweaty heap of fur and flesh, 
the captain had sunk to the deck next to the big wheel. He stared 
into nothingness. All his efforts seemed directed to following 
each breath with another. 

“Noble animals,” Ethan mumbled. 

“What?” September came over. “Those supra-nourished 
grotesque herbivores? Get a hold on yourself, lad!” 

Ethan sighed. “Skua, sometimes I think you have no poetry 
in your soul.” 

“Now as to that, young feller-me-lad, firstly you'd have to 
establish the existence of the latter. And you're one to talk!” He 
sniffed with exaggerated force. The resultant supercilious pose 
was so comical that Ethan couldn't keep from laughing. “You 
kindly explain to me, lad, the poetry in volume buying or 

— 549 — 


discount pricing.” 

Ethan started to do just that, but had to pause in the middle 
of the first sentence. 

Why did someone have to keep reminding him of where he 
wasn't? 

— 550 —



Chapter Thirteen 

There was little new to look at as the raft continued to devour the 
kilometers. The journey rapidly became a dull cycle of rising, 
pacing the too-familiar deck, talking, eating, and returning to 
sleep. The humans, in one respect, were fortunate. They had the 
added extra task of fighting to stay that one step ahead of 
frostbite. 

They'd entered a new region, filled with innumerable small 
islands. Many rose nearly perpendicular from the ice — dark, 
black stone, the stumps and cores of long-eroded volcanos. They 
served to break the monotony of flat horizon, but just barely, 
since the next was much like its predecessor. 

A few of the islands were inhabited. Tiny villages clung 
precariously to the cliffs. 

Occasionally a small raft or party of wandering hunters 
would parallel the Slanderscree for a few dozen meters. The 

— 551 —



dialect here differed from that of Sofold. Ta-hoding, a good 
merchant, was able to converse with them like a neighbor. After 
the first few encounters, even Ethan and the other humans could 
make themselves understood, though they lacked the captain's 
fluency. 

The Trannish language had a universal planetary base, then. 
Local variations did not preclude adequate communication 
between widely scattered groups. Another plus as far as trade 
and commerce were concerned. 

No matter how skilled or strong, the locals rapidly dropped 
behind, unable to match the big raft's speed. 

Things grew so dull that Ethan found himself wishing for 
another storm — but not a Rifs. That bored he wasn't. 

He got it. 

After the third consecutive day of freezing wind and even a 
little razor-sharp sleet, he was damning himself for a romantic 
idiot and praying for a return to the clear sameness of days 
before. Anything for a reprise of calm weather! 

— 552 — 


Constant maneuvering in the high wind had finally cracked 
several of the top cross-spars and weakened the repaired 
foremast. Ta-hoding also wanted to fix the still-amputated 
bowsprit, and there was no telling what the storm had done to 
the awkwardly repaired runner. They still had a long way to go 
and you couldn't tell when you'd need every square centimeter 
of sail and solid, dependable runners. 

The little informal council met once again — on a much 
less anxious note than the last time. Suggestions were easily 
made, as easily rejected. It was finally agreed that they would 
take the time to put in at the first town or village which offered 
the raft protection from the westwind, a decent harbor. 

Ethan was on deck the next morning when the lookout 
gave the cry, so he was one of the first to see the monastery of 
Evonin-ta-ban. He joined Ta-hoding as the refuge came into full 
view, shining dark in the light of the fast-rising sun. 

“Odd-looking sort of place,” said Ethan. “What is it? We 
haven't passed anything like it before. Surely it's not a hunting or 

— 553 —



farming community.” 

“I do not know what it is, noble sir,” the captain replied 
uneasily. “Truly, I have ne'er seen the likes of it before. But 
Dagstev, the lookout, was right about the harbor. It looks to be 
sufficient . . . at this distance, anyhow. There do not appear to be 
any ships within, so it cannot be a trading community. Very, very 
strange. Perhaps . . . perhaps we'd best not land here, noble sir.” 

“Glassfeathers. You've got to learn to face the cosmos with 
a more open mind, Ta-hoding. One of these days you may even 
skippership between the stars.” 

The captain's reply was direct and left no room for semantic 
nitpicking. 

“Not if all the devils that ever were got behind me and 
pushed, Sir Ethan!” 

“Why not, captain? Your own ancestors probably had the 
power of flight.” 

“And had the good sense to give it up, too,” Ta-hoding 
countered religiously. “Give me a good ship with sharp runners, 

— 554 —



smooth ice beneath her keel, and a strong wind astern and I'll be 
quite satisfied. I leave the skies to those who wish them. And say 
nothing about their sanity, however questionable.” He concluded 
on a note of finality and commenced barking landing orders to 
the crew. The Slanderscree was angling for the harbor entrance 
and Ethan decided to leave the captain alone. 

One by one the wide sails were reefed in. He went below, 
roused September from his lingering breakfast and informed 
Hunnar, the du Kanes, and several others of their incipient 
landfall. 

Hunnar joined him and they ascended to the bow. Together 
they stared over the broken bowsprit. 

“Ta-hoding said he'd never seen anything like it, Hunnar.” 

“Nor have I, friend Ethan, nor have I. But I find its aspect 
only unusual, not threatening. Though whoever built it surely 
had an eye to its defense. It seems impregnable. A strange place 
indeed.” 

Such as it was, the harbor was simply a natural gap in the 

— 555 — 


crust of the island. Fingers of dark, worn rock extended on two 
sides to embrace the slowing Slanderscree. Except for some 
flat land to the right of the harbor, the entire island consisted of 
several sheer, jagged peaks that shot straight out of the ice to a 
height of four and five hundred meters. Low vegetation struggled 
in the shelter of the shadowy cliff-face. A band of the ever-
present pika-pina was just visible as they entered the harbor, 
extending from the west side of the mountains into the wind. The 
flat area to their right appeared to be under intensive cultivation. 

Three-quarters of the way up the vertical basalt, cradled in a 
notch between the two highest peaks, sat an odd jumble of 
multi-tiered structures which seemed to grow from the naked 
stone. The architecture was elaborate, far more so than anything 
Ethan had observed to date. 

Turrets and battlements he knew from Wannome, but these 
buildings also boasted spires, minarets, and even true domes — 
the first he'd seen on the planet. What looked to be a long, 
surprisingly spacious series of ramps and stairs began near the 

— 556 —



base of the cliff and ascended via a number of switchbacks to the 
lowest of the precariously situated structures. 

The single dock gave every indication of being carefully 
kept and maintained, if not often used. There were no ships tied 
up to it and none in the harbor. But the preservation and nearby 
cultivated fields were signs that the place was inhabited. At least 
they'd have a place to tie up and could forgo the trouble of 
utilizing the bulky ice-anchors. In the lee of the sky-tickling 
crags there was hardly a hint of wind. It was almost calm. 

September joined them silently, staring upwards until he 
risked a neck-crick. 

“Whoever put that pile of vertiginous masonry together, 
friend Hunnar, spent more than spare time at it. Without the aid 
of lifters and impellers, and in this climate, I'll not hesitate in 
calling it a tremendous piece of raw engineering. Going to be a 
respectable hike to the front door.” 

“You think we'll be going today?” asked Ethan. 

“I could not venture a prediction,” put in Hunnar hastily, 

— 557 — 


before the big man could verbally commit them to another 
arduous enterprise. “But if you will lower your eyes you will see 
that our arrival has not gone unobserved.” 

A figure was coming toward the dock from the base of the 
stairway. Apparently male, the tran's stride was purposeful but 
not hurried. Open greeting, or forewarned is forearmed, mused 
Ethan. They watched the native with interest. 

He seemed in no way unusual. While his beard was longer 
than Hunnar's and whiter than Balavere's, the welcoming 
committee of one showed no other signs of advanced age. He 
was of average trannish height and built slimmer than most of 
the tran on board the raft. 

He wore only a long white fur, done up in a sort of toga 
arrangement, instead of the now-familiar tran outer garment that 
snapped closed at the shoulders. It and its wearer were devoid of 
personal ornamentation — unless you counted the body-length 
staff in his right paw. 

At first Ethan thought it was wood, but as the native came 

— 558 — 


closer he saw that it had been carved from some porous green 
stone. More importantly, the tran didn't seem the least bit afraid 
of them. That suggested once again either honest friendliness or 
the presence of ten thousand spearmen hidden in the rocks. As it 
developed, the more reasonable guess was correct. 

The landing ramp was put across. Hunnar, Ethan, and 
September debarked while the sailors and soldiers on deck and 
in the rigging continued their tasks. Each kept a curious eye on 
their oddly-clad host's approach. 

Ethan was thinking it would be a good idea to have Tahoding present to handle any language difficulties. As it 
developed, the captain's linguistic abilities weren't needed. 

“I am Fahdig, gentlesirs,” he said. “And this is the 
monastery of Evonin-ta-ban. You are welcome here.” 

“Our thanks,” replied Hunnar. “I hight Sir Hunnar 
Redbeard, and these,” he indicated the two humans, “are visitors 
from a far place, noblemen of another land: Sir September and 
Sir Fortune. We ask to remain within your protecting harbor for a 

— 559 —



few days to effect needed repairs. If there is a harbor fee we can 

pay. . .” 

The other gestured with the stone staff. 

“There is no fee. The facilities of the monastery are open to 
any reasoning man. Few have ever been turned away wanting. 
But it is for the Brotherhood to decide and not I.” 

“I didn't know you had religious orders,” whispered Ethan 
to Hunnar. The staff-bearer overheard. 

“Know I not what you mean, strange knight. The 
Brotherhood is an association of free spirits and minds, gathered 
in this place to preserve the knowledge and histories of the 
universe against the onslaughts of the Dark One. We are 
scholars, sir, not sychophants.” 

“Starseeds,” mumbled Ethan. “Wait 'til Williams and Eer-
Meesach find out we've stumbled onto a local society of 
researchers.” 

September's comment was blunt. “Frankly, I couldn't give 
a damn about how they built rafts or grew pika-pina on this ice 

— 560 —



cube a couple of thousand years ago. That's the sort of thing 
you're likely to find in these old storehouses of ‘knowledge.’ 
Useless trivia. Religious nuts, all right!” All of which, of course, 
was declaimed carefully in Terranglo. “They just worship 
something other than a supernatural being, is all. Doesn't change 
their style from religious fanaticism to enlightened 
guardianship.” 

“Well, they don't seem very fanatical to me,” Ethan 
countered in Terranglo, as Hunnar continued to exchange 
pleasantries and information with their host. 

“Maybe it's not obvious, but. . .” September granted. He 
looked heavenward to where windswept towers and steeples had 
been hewn into the naked rock. “Anyhow I'd like a look-see 
inside their cubby. I admire good workmanship no matter what 
the source.” 

September didn't have to translate his request. Unbidden, 
Fahdig had invited them to accompany him to the monastery for 
the Brotherhood's ruling. 

— 561 — 


“I hope they keep the haggling to a minimum,” September 
grumbled undiplomatically in Trannish. “I, at least, am still in a 
hurry.” 

“The decision-making should take but a heartbeat of time, 
gentlesir,” replied Fahdig. “Only long enough for the Prior to 
satisfy himself as to your reason. Until then you are guests. The 
harbor is yours.” 

“Before we start unpacking,” pressed September, “how 
long before the Brotherhood and your Prior can take action on 
our request?” 

“Do but follow me and it shall be seen to as soon as we 
arrive.” 

“Well, that's fine! Just fine.” The big man turned, cupped 
hands to mouth. 

“Hey, du Kane! Hellespont du Kane!” 

The slim figure of the financier appeared at the railing of the 
raft. 

“Yes, Mr. September?” 

— 562 — 


The big man switched to Terranglo again. “The lad, Hunnar, 
and I are going for a hike with his beardship, here! Seems we've 
run across a bunch of hermetic scholars! Harmless enough. 
We've got temporary permission to park here and make repairs, 
but we've got to make the walk-up to satisfy the local high 
mucky-muck we're reasonable . . . whatever that means. Tell Tahoding to get cracking on his work and to keep an eye on the 
monastery . . . that's what they call it. If he doesn't see my coat 
waving in the next hour he can go ahead and work full speed. 
Got that?” 

“I rarely misconstrue any information consigned to my 
care, Mr. September. Rest assured that I shall convey the 
message to the captain with the utmost precision. What if you 
should be detected gesticulating with your garments?” 

“Then he's to raise sail and get the hell out of here!” 
September snorted and turned to their guide, speaking in 
Trannish. 

“All right, friend Fahdig, let's go meet your Brotherhood.” 

— 563 — 


Ethan was quite sure that heights held no terror for him. 
He'd sipped cocktails on transparent balconies ninety stories 
above steaming swampland. 

However, he'd been completely enclosed in a comfortable 
tower suite at the time. It was rather different mounting hundreds 
of steps with a sheer drop of hundreds of meters on your right, 
then on your left. Almost unconsciously he edged away until he 
was walking with a decided preference for the section of stairway 
nearest the mountainside. 

The stairs themselves had been cut from the bare rock, an 
agonizing task that probably took more years than he cared to 
speculate at. At least it was broad enough for several men or tran 
to walk side by side. So he didn't feel cramped. There was also a 
wide, if low, stone railing on the cliffside. 

But as the raft, which now seemed to sit directly below 
them, and the harbor grew smaller and smaller, so did his 
stomach. 

Halfway up he found himself beginning to pant. September 

— 564 — 


still looked fresh, but Sir Hunnar was gritting his teeth at the pain 
shooting through his thighs and calves. The tran were not 
constructed for steady climbing. Fahdig, on the other hand, was 
clearly inured to the pain. 

There was no guard at the simple, solemn archway which 
framed the entrance to the monastery. The door was of 
unadorned wood, through which Fahdig led them. 

Ethan spared a last glance over the side of the stairway. 
They were now nearly five hundred meters above the harbor. The 
raft was a child's toy resting on a plate of waxen crystal. 

Then he was through the door and standing in a darkish, 
tomb-like hallway. Lamps glowed along the walls even though it 
was bright day outside. 

“Kind of a gloomy atmosphere you fellas take to,” said 
September as they strolled down the hall. 

“We are in the lower levels of the monastery,” their guide 
informed them. “As we go higher it will become lighter. 
Windows here are neither necessary nor would they be 

— 565 — 


structurally sound.” 

Fahdig was as good as his word. They soon found 
themselves walking through well-lit high-beamed rooms and 
halls. Occasionally they encountered another of the 
Brotherhood, some older, some younger than their guide. A few 
were mere cubs. They reacted to the presence of the humans 
with a lot more open surprise than had Fahdig. A few stopped to 
stare after them long after they'd passed by. 

“I didn't see an ice-path outside,” September said to 
Hunnar. “On the stairway.” 

“I am not surprised, friend Skua. There are limits to any 
tran's skill with dan and chiv. Coupled with a tricky breeze and 
sharp turns, such a steep descent would tax the skill of the most 
accomplished soldier. Nay, even of a dancer.” 

“I thought so. But there could be other reasons why 
they've dispensed with it. Aesthetic, maybe, or ascetic.” 

“That is possible,” the knight agreed. “It may be 
considered virtuous among them to move only on foot.” 

— 566 — 


They hadn't been walking too long before Fahdig bade 
them wait outside an iron-banded door. He disappeared within, 
reappeared several moments later. 

“The Prior will see you now.” They followed him in. 

Ethan didn't know what to expect — another throne room, 
perhaps, like Kurdagh-Vlata's. But the room they entered was 
plainly furnished, without being Spartan. Only the wide, richly 
carved and polished table hinted at wealth of any kind. A few 
chairs completed the alcove's furnishings. 

They were obviously in one of the upper levels of the 
monastery now. Light poured in through windows set in the 
eastern and southern walls. But most of the illumination came 
from the skylight, another first for Tran-ky-ky. 

The startling feature, however, was the walls. From floor to 
ceiling on all sides, save the one they'd entered from, the walls 
were solid with shelves, crammed row upon row with 
meticulously kept, neatly aligned books. 

He'd encountered tough, long-wearing paper of pika-pina 

— 567 — 


fiber in Wannome but very little. The Sofoldians seemed to prefer 
vellum and parchment for writing, since the fibrous paper was 
difficult to write on without constant blotting. 

Obviously the Brotherhood had solved that problem. Or 
else it had been solved for them, because the open books on the 
table were filled with neither parchment nor vellum. 

He whispered to September. “We'd better reconsider 
before bringing Williams or Eer-Meesach up here. We might 
never drag them away.” 

“Huh!” September gave the shelves a quick survey. 
“Wonder if they just collect and store them, or if they really 
bother to read any.” 

The Prior himself turned out to be a placid-looking old tran. 
He sported a beard much longer than Hunnar's. His mane was 
pure white and his manner pleasant and relaxed. If he was 
shocked by Ethan and September's appearance he was too 
courteous to show it. 

He also retained one of the ubiquitous staves. It rested 

— 568 — 


against the table. 

“You'll forgive my not rising to greet you, gentlesirs. I am 
not in the best of health today.” 

“We sorrow for you and wish your Priorship to recover 
vibrant as the winter wind,” Hunnar said smoothly. 

The oldster smiled a little. “Fahdig has told me of your 
magnificent ship and your request to remain with us for a few 
days. And of your haste.” 

“Especially our haste,” put in September. “Now, about this 
vote or whatever. . .” The Prior waved him down. 

“It will not be necessary to consult the Brotherhood, to 
draw them from their daily labors on so simple a matter. You 
may remain as long as you wish. Our fare here at Evonin-ta-ban 
is simple but nourishing. Do us the honor of taking evening meal 
with us and enjoying our hospitality for a night!” 

Hunnar nodded before either of the humans could speak, 
so Ethan assumed the knight anticipated the food's being edible, 
if not up to the level of the royal chefs. 

— 569 — 


“Retire now, gentlesirs, and leave me to rest. We will talk 
more tonight, of your plans and needs and journey.” 

They walked out. 

“Thanks, Fahdig,” said Ethan sincerely, “for your help in 
speeding things through for us.” 

“Your thanks are welcome but ill-directed, gentlesir. No 
one ‘speeds’ anything past the Prior. I merely repeated to him 
what you told me. He decided in your favor by himself.” 

“You'd already agreed to let us stay the day,” declared 
September. “What if he'd over ridden that decision and told us to 
leave immediately?” 

Fahdig looked shocked. “He would not do that! Not even 
the Prior will counter a decision previously reached by a Brother. 
We live by reason and logic here. This trust in one another's 
rationality is an integral part of the Brotherhood.” 

“Yeah, sure. But let's say he had . . . differed severely with 
your evaluation of the situation.” 

“Why then,” said Fahdig, obviously struggling with an 

— 570 — 


unfamiliar concept, “it would be good manners for me to 
withdraw my recommendation.” 

“The Prior keeps a very impressive library,” put in Ethan 
to change the subject. 

“Oh, that was not the Prior's library.” Their guide seemed 
amused. “'Twas merely the room in which he is studying today. 
There are a great many similar rooms in the monastery. All are 
filled with histories, studies, and scientific papers accumulated 
over thousands of years.” 

“I see,” Ethan murmured. “There are two men with us of 
identical sentiment with the Brotherhood. One of your kind and 
one of mine.” 

“Their profession makes them thrice welcome, then,” said 
Fahdig. 

“Yes. What I want to know is, would it be possible for them 
to have a look through your libraries? They'd both be forever 
grateful.” 

“'Tis not often done with outsiders, but then few express 

— 571 — 


the desire to share of our knowledge. Peasants! Most who stop at 
the monastery are of lower fifes, merchants and dealers with 
goods to barter.” 

“I understand perfectly,” replied Ethan with a straight face. 

Fahdig continued more cheerfully. “But if these 
companions of yours are true scholars, I am sure the 
Brotherhood would be pleased to have them enjoy the results of 
many years' labor. Yes, consider it agreed!” 

“Thank you, Fahdig. I'm sure they'll be demonstrably 
grateful.” 

“If knowledge is spread,” intoned their guide a bit 
pompously, “then that is thanks enough, for it holds back the 
encroachment of the Dark One!” 

“Oh, absolutely,” agreed Ethan. 

Fahdig accompanied them to the bottom of the 
switchbacks and said he would meet them there an hour before 
the sun disappeared behind the mountains. 

Hunnar formally accepted the Prior's invitation and they 

— 572 — 


started back to the raft. 

Ta-hoding's anxious face conveyed more questions than a 
thousand words. 

“Everything is fine, captain,” said September. “This place is 
run by a crowd of desiccated old bookworms. Didn't see a spear 
or bow in the whole mausoleum. We've got permission to use the 
harbor for as long as we need. They won't give us any trouble. . . 
Oh, one other thing.” He paused. “We've been invited to 
supper.” 

Ta-hoding raised his eyes meaningfully. “Up there?” 

“Did you think it was going to be catered?” 

“Then,” the captain replied, “you will extend my regrets to 
our hosts for any absence. I must decline . . . until you return to 
us with another sky-boat. Your pardon.” He shuffled off and 
began bawling out a crewman who'd mistied a knot. 

Their report drew a mixed reaction from the others. 
Balavere in particular found their isolated hosts too polite for his 
liking. But Hunnar reminded the general that the small farming 

— 573 —



and hunting villages they'd passed had seemed equally open and 
unmilitary. Clearly this area was not visited by such as the 
Horde. 

“We've also been extended the services of the monastery 
for this night, at least,” he added. Ethan expressed his own 
pleasure at the chance to sleep in a real bed for a change. One 
that did not rock with the wind. 

Hellespont du Kane professed indifference, but Colette was 
plainly as excited by the offer as Ethan. Even if it meant a five-
hundred-meter ascent. 

When they received the news about the libraries, of course, 
there was no holding the two wizards, just as Ethan had 
predicted. In fact, they insisted on leaving immediately and 
making their own way to the top. 

Hunnar argued mildly that arriving early might be 
construed as a breach of local etiquette. But Ethan and 
September disagreed, citing the unfailing kindness and open 
helpfulness of the Prior and Fahdig. Without waiting for an official 

— 574 —



decision, both Eer-Meesach and Williams vanished up the 
nearest hatchway. 

“That's the last we'll see of those two for a while,” said 
Budjir gruffly. Ethan was surprised. Rarely did either of the 
squires offer an unsolicited comment. 

“Why do you say that, Budjir?” 

“I do not understand those two,” he replied. “Their 
constant chatter hurts my head.” 

“Don't let it bother you, Budjir,” said September jovially, 
clapping the huge tran on the shoulder. “Sometimes I find 
myself in complete agreement with you. Now a tall tankard of 
reedle and a shapely female, eh?” 

The squire grinned and the slitted pupils focused fondly on 
something in the far distance. 

Ethan observed this comradely by-play and muttered, 
“Communication . . . it's wonderful,” and turned to go to his own 
cabin to prepare himself for the overnight stay. 

Work on the repairs proceeded steadily and at a relaxed 

— 575 — 


pace. There was no need to rush the workmen. This time they 
could make a decent job of the foremast, too. And while the 
temporary repairs on the fore port runner had held up better 
than anyone had a right to expect, Ta-hoding was relieved at the 
chance to fix it properly. Timbers and bracing had been set up 
beneath the bow and the metalworkers were already beginning 
to rebolt the recalcitrant skate to the raft hull. That would be 
finished by the time it grew too dark to work. The broken spars, 
foremast, and bowsprit could be fixed tomorrow. On the open ice 
in an average wind the work would have taken at least a week. In 
the protective shadow of the towering crags they could finish the 
same tasks in two days. 

The humans were not alone in their desire to experience a 
soft, stable bed. Most of the crew would have gone along too. But 
Hunnar and Ethan remembered the Prior's comments about his 
“simple but nourishing fare.” Despite the old scholar's obvious 
willingness to share all, there was no need to overdo their 
welcome. 

— 576 — 


So the overnight party consisted of the little band of 
humans, Hunnar and his two squires, and Elfa. The two wizards 
were already on their way up. Still suffering from his arrow 
wound, General Balavere elected to remain on board. 

Fahdig awaited them at the cliff base. His clothing was the 
same white robe, but he carried a lamp in case, as he put it, 
“some among you should find the climb excessively strenuous 
and wish to turn back with some light.” 

As it turned out, everyone finished the ascent. Colette's fear 
of the black abyss to one side was openly evident. Ethan felt no 
shame in joining her in hugging the mountainside. 

Much to everyone's distraction, Elfa insisted on running 
and skipping alongside the inadequate stone railing, not to 
mention leaning over the edge and pointing out this or that 
unusual feature in the depths below. 

Once, laughing, she even climbed onto the rail itself. She 
walked along the narrow stone coping, teetering on the lip of the 
drop. Ethan couldn't watch her. It didn't go on for long, because 

— 577 —



Hunnar threatened to tie her wrists to her ankles and drag hear 
the rest of the way up. 

She grumbled, but climbed down — to everyone's 
immense relief. 

Once they'd passed through the first dark hallway, Fahdig 
led them upwards via a different route than the one they'd first 
traversed. They passed a long, comfortable looking room and he 
indicated the beds neatly lined against both walls inside. 

“For tonight,” he informed them unnecessarily. 

There was no wall fireplace. Instead, a central pit was sunk 
into the center of the floor and filled with logs and brush. Just 
above the pit a large wooden funnel lined with copper narrowed 
into a long black pipe that disappeared into the ceiling. 

In one respect, then, these isolated scholars were ahead of 
the busy commercial port of Wannome. They'd developed a 
rudimentary form of real heating. It was more efficient than a 
fireplace — provided all the waste particles went up the funnel 
and not onto one's bed. Several windows in the east wall would 

— 578 —



let in the morning light. Lamps and torches were mounted on 
the walls. With the single door shut it would be very comfortable. 

“Very pleasant-looking dormitory,” complimented 
September. “Is this how you fellas live?” 

“Oh no,” Fahdig replied. “Each of the Brothers has his own 
small vestibule. This is a study room.” 

“With beds?” 

“In a gesture of friendship, some among the Brotherhood 
have given up their beds for the night. They will sleep on pallets. 
'Tis good for the body and the mind, now and then. Tables and 
chairs normally fill this room. They will return when you have 
departed.” 

“That's very considerate of you,” said Ethan. “We're sorry 
to put you to so much trouble.” 

“Hospitality is never trouble,” their imperturbable guide 
replied. “If you will come this way, please.” 

They continued down the hall and went up one more level, 
where Fahdig motioned them into another room. They seemed 

— 579 —



to be in one of the highest levels of the monastery. Evening light 
poured in from the huge skylight that occupied most of the 
ceiling. Ethan wondered if the beautiful skylights had been 
developed and built by the scholars themselves or if they were a 
bit of art once known but long forgotten in Wannome. There was 
no way of telling, and it might not be good manners to ask. 

The table was long and simple. So were the foods that other 
members of the Brotherhood were setting on it. The Prior sat at 
the head of the table with several other elderly tran. Williams and 
Eer-Meesach were there to greet them. 

The little schoolmaster fairly exploded out of his seat when 
they entered. He walked straight to Ethan. 

“My dear friend, you have no idea, no idea what a 
treasurehouse this place is! Malmeevyn and I have been 
overwhelmed by one amazing volume after another. Some of the 
older books stored here go back literally thousands of years . . . 
or so Malmeevyn tells me. There's much I can't translate. The 
books themselves are astonishing. But the amount of pure 

— 580 —



information and data stored inside . . . it would take a hundred 
xenologists years with a good computer just to properly 
document and catalogue the material the Brotherhood holds.” 

“I don't want to dampen your enthusiasm,” replied Ethan, 
gazing at the fresh vegetables set in front of him with similar 
excitement, “but we'll only be here another day. The repairs will 
be completed by then and we'll be on our way back to 
civilization. You remember civilization?” 

“Not with overwhelming fondness, Ethan. You're right, of 
course. But the things we have discovered already . . . did you 
realize that at one time this world averaged a hundred fifty 
degrees warmer? There was ice only at the poles. For some 
reason the climate changed suddenly. The seas froze and most 
of the land was pressed beneath the water. It was yesterday, 
geologically speaking.” 

“That's interesting,” agreed Ethan absently, his stomach 
growling for attention. He took a seat. 

“And besides that. . .” Williams stopped, his tone changing 

— 581 —



to one of admonishment. “You weren't even listening. You're 
like the others, only interested in liquor and money and 
women.” 

“Look, Milliken, I'm fascinated. But I'm also starving after 
those two climbs. Later, huh?” He fastened his gaze on the 
platter of steaming meat that magically appeared in front of him. 

Williams ignored him and stalked away. He took his seat 
and seemed to forget the conversation entirely as he plunged 
into debate with Eer-Meesach. They might have been alone at 
the table. 

They quieted, however, when the Prior raised a clawed old 
paw and gestured for silence. Ethan hadn't expected a pre-meal 
prayer. What he got was just that, and a curious something else. 

“We eat of the product of resourcefulness and thought,” 
said the Prior solemnly. “Our reason says that this is so. May the 
Brotherhood never falter in its purpose, nor its strength diminish, 
so that we may forever continue to hold back the ravages of the 
Dark One.” 

— 582 — 


That was all. Then the other Brothers — not servants, but 
members of the society acting in that capacity tonight — began 
to pass around the plates of meat, vegetables, and baked foods. 

Ethan tried several dishes, found them bland but filling. 

Hunnar and the two squires fidgeted noticeably at this 
polite departure from normal table manners. They were not used 
to eating in a restrained manner. Here, the “he who gets there 
firstest gets the bestest” theorem did not apply. They managed 
to keep from attacking the table and allowed themselves to be 
served like all the others. 

For a while, then, no one did anything but eat. The 
members of the Brotherhood seemed willing to permit matters 
to continue that way. But gradually, as stomachs were filled, 
thoughts other than of consumption occupied the minds of those 
seated around the table and they began to ask questions. 

With Hunnar doing most of the talking, they explained to 
their attentive hosts how they fought and defeated the Horde, 
how they came to build the great ice clipper, and their 

— 583 — 


subsequent use of a herd of thunder-eaters to destroy the 
remainder of the Horde. 

When it came to the origin of the humans, Ethan thought a 
few of the Brothers looked more than just casually interested. 
One was unabashedly fascinated by the bowdlerized version of 
their initial landing and first contacts with Hunnar's folk. 

September chipped in with occasional comments and 
corrections. The du Kanes continued to eat and listen in silence. 
And the two wizards were off in their own private world, oblivious 
to human and tran alike. 

“An amazing account,” commented the Prior finally, with 
becoming control. “And one that should be set down for the 
records . . . even though some of it taxes the credulity. Alas, you 
maintain you have not the time.” 

“I'm afraid not,” said September, not at all contrite. “We 
ought to and will be on our way again as soon as repairs on the 
raft are completed.” 

“What a shame,” the Prior added. He sipped easily of a 

— 584 — 


mild brew from his large earthen mug. “'Twould make a fine 
subject for a poem, would it not, Brother Hodjay?” 

“Truly it would,” sighed Hodjay. “A pity existence is so 
brief. You are quite positive you cannot stay?” He looked at 
Ethan. 

“I'm sorry, we really can't. We should take advantage of the 
good weather, too.” 

The Prior picked at something that looked like a baked 
pudding with his knife. 

“How far have you still to travel?” 

“Fifty or sixty satch,” said Hunnar. He added 
conversationally, “But first we have to reach The-Place-Where-
The-Earth's-Blood-Burns.” 

There was a crash. 

“I . . . my clumsiness shames me,” said one of the Brothers. 
He pushed back his chair and knelt to help one of the servers 
gather up the shards of broken mug. 

“Alas, Brother Podren's development has gone wholly to 

— 585 — 


the brain,” chuckled the Prior easily. The other Brothers made 

the tran laugh-equivalent. To Ethan it seemed a little forced. 

The Prior continued as though nothing had happened.
“Do not be surprised at Brother Podren's reaction. Not
many folk travel to The-Place-Where-The-Earth's-Blood-Burns.”


“Why not?” asked September a little sharply, and then 
Ethan knew he wasn't alone in detecting their hosts' reactions. 

The Prior spread his arms, opened his paws. “Superstition. 
The common folk say strange things about the great smoking 
mountain.” 

“It is a volcano, then,” muttered Ethan to himself. They'd 
assumed as much all along, but it was nice to have additional 
confirmation. 

“Could you elaborate, Prior?” September pressed. 

“Surely. Those who pass too close are said to have their 
minds affected. Some report seeing odd visions, while others see 
nothing at all and remain untouched. Others, they say, are drawn 
toward the mountain as a starving being may be drawn to food. 

— 586 —



Again, their companions may experience nothing. There is no 

soil and little grows there. None would live there anyway.” 

“Superstition is all that keeps them away?” asked Ethan. 

“That, and the fact that the mountain throws out melted 
earth and choking black dust very often.” 

“Oh.” 

“But you've been there,” said September shrewdly. 

The old tran nodded. “I have been close by the place,” he 
conceded. “I did not set foot on the ground.” 

“Because of the superstitions?” September toyed with his 
pseudo-pudding. 

“No. Because at the time it was throwing out melted stone 
in huge quantities and the heat was appalling. The danger was 
real and not imaginary. My spirit was quite safe, but there was a 
real danger to the body. So the ship I was on did not linger in the 
area. Hopefully, you will have better luck.” 

“We expect to,” September replied. 

“And now, tell me once more of your miraculous sky-boat 

— 587 —



and its unfathomable mechanisms. I did not understand the first 
time and probably will not this time either, but there is merit in 
trying.” 

Dinner ended with a pleasant little liqueur. Conversation 
continued for another hour or so. Then Colette yawned widely, 
and Budjir confessed that he had to rise early on the morrow to 
help oversee the setting of the new bowsprit. So the Prior 
declared the gathering at an end. 

The group of visiting humans and tran were guided back to 
their communal sleeping room. Ethan walked next to 
September. 

“What do you think of our hosts?” said the big man. 

“Hmmm? Oh, I guess they're okay. A little dry and self-
centered maybe, but okay. For a second there, when Hunnar 
mentioned our destination and what's-his-name dropped his 
mug. . .” 

“Podren.” 

“Yes, Podren. I thought there was something very 

— 588 — 


unfriendly in his expression. He covered it fast, though, and I'm 
sure no expert at interpreting alien facial expressions. On the 
other hand, it didn't seem to affect the Prior at all.” 

“He was probably right . . . our going to a place regarded as 
a home for devils and spirits and what-not, young feller. Leaking 
gases could explain the hallucinations and weird reactions 
among passing natives.” 

“I suppose so. In any case, we'll have the chance to find out 
for ourselves before long.” 

They reached the room. The central firepit was crackling 
and spitting merrily, throwing welcome heat to every corner of 
the room. It had apparently been burning during the meal, as a 
respectable pile of coals had accumulated in the bottom of the 
pit. These added to the pleasant heat. 

Ethan made his goodnights to everyone else. There were no 
dividers between the beds. It wasn't a problem, however, since 
none of the humans had any intention of exposing their bare 
skin to the still-frigid air. 

— 589 — 


He climbed into bed. Hunnar and September split up and 
set about extinguishing the lamps that burned on the walls. 
Ethan would have helped, but they hung at tran height and that 
was a bit too high for him. 

There were fewer furs and blankets on the bed than he'd 
grown used to. Their hosts, of course, had no way of knowing 
that the hairless strangers were far more affected by the cold 
than Hunnar and the squires and Elfa. Then, too, this was not the 
castle of Wannome, nor were they the privileged passengers on a 
great raft. 

Hunnar and the squires took the beds placed farthest from 
the firepit. Elfa insisted on doing likewise, as did old Eer-
Meesach. That was fine with Ethan. He had no desire to play the 
Stoic Terran. A place near the dying blaze was worth any moral 
oversight. 

He drifted almost immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep. 

— 590 —



It seemed minutes later when he awoke, but it wasn't. He sat up 
in near total darkness to an uncomfortably familiar scream. The 
fire was gone, but there was enough light from the star-filled 
windows and the failing coals to make out shapes. 

The room was filled with struggling, swearing, darting 
forms. The first scream wasn't repeated, but there were plenty of 
yells and bellows of outrage. He could recognize Hunnar's and 
September's among them. 

The half of the room nearest the doorway was full of white-
robed, bearded silhouettes. A pair of muscular paws grabbed at 
him as he sat in the bed and pulled him bodily out of it. He 
fought in the tight grasp and got to his knees. 

Leaning backward, he pulled hard. His proportionately 
greater body weight obviously startled his attacker. The 
clutching paws went limp in surprise as their owner was 
suddenly tugged off balance. 

Something struck him on the right shoulder and he turned 

— 591 —



and swung blindly. He felt a bearded face under his knuckles. 

Still frantically trying to blink the sleep from his eyes, he 
was knocked roughly sideways into a huge figure. He pulled at it. 

“It's OK, young feller-me-lad, it's me!” September pressed 
a still-warm log into Ethan's hands and turned to swing at a dim 
shape. 

They were shoved backwards by the sheer press of bodies 
pouring into the room. The Brothers also fought with clubs, but 
they seemed to be taking care not to kill anyone. However, that 
did not necessarily hint of compassion to come. 

It did make things a bit more difficult for them, since no 
such compunction existed on the part of those they were 
fighting. But the tightly-packed crowd made it hard just to swing 
a club. 

“This way!” came a cry from the back of the room. Ethan 
whirled, spotted Budjir leaning from the sill of one of the high 
east-side windows. He parried another blow, swung downward 
and felt the wood meet bone with a satisfying crunch. 

— 592 — 


Then he turned and ran. Hunnar was there to give him a 
boost up. The powerful arms of the big squire went under his. 
Another moment and he was through the window, standing 
underneath the impartial stars on a chill, pebble-topped roof. 

Fortunately there was little wind. Dark, monolithic forms 
loomed to the west, the spires and steeples of the highest 
monastery. Elfa and Suaxus were already on the roof. 

Another second and he was helping Eer-Meesach through. 

Ethan braced himself against the wall and the old wizard 
came up easily. His breathing was ragged. Aged eyes blinked in 
the darkness. 

The sounds of fighting below seemed far away, surreal. 
Hunnar himself fairly shot through the opening. September 
followed close behind. One of the Brothers was wrapped around 
the big man's left leg. It took several kicks from its poweful twin 
to dislodge the persistent scholar. Ethan was still in too much of 
a daze to ask questions. He glanced around and saw that their 
company was far from complete. 

— 593 — 


“Hey, where . . . where are the others? Milliken and. . .” 

“Our pacific hosts got 'em,” September growled back. “I 
don't think for the purposes of advancing the frontiers of 
beneficent research, either. They nearly got us all. Would have, if 
Hunnar hadn't gotten up to put some new wood on the damned 
fire. So he was awake when the first of them came sneaking in.” 

“I don't understand it,” mused the knight, as stunned as 
Ethan. “There is no reason for this. They seemed so really 
decent and—” 

“—schizoid,” finished September. “We'll chat about their 
unfortunate aberrations later.” He knelt and stuck his head a 
little ways into the room. 

“They've gone. I expect they'll be out on the rooftops after 
us in a minute. Deity knows they're more familiar with them than 
us. Now, there's only one way down from this rockpile. And 
while our knowledgeable friends don't appear to be militarily 
inclined . . . witness their performance in that room . . . sooner or 
later some bright boy among them's going to realize that by 

— 594 —



blocking off the stairway they'll have us trapped up here.” 

The next minutes were a slow-motion dream-scheme of 
running, hurtling parapets, darting across rooftops, and dropping 
one level at a time. Hunnar and September assumed the lead. 
They all had to move fast and carefully. One wrong step in an 
unfamiliar place and they might step off the side of the mountain. 

Ages later the two lead men returned to the group with a 
sign to keep silent. 

“We're just above the gateway,” September whispered. 

“There's a single Brother on guard there and he doesn't 
look awkwardly tense about things.” Ethan looked past the big 
man, saw no sign of Sir Hunnar. 

A minute later there was a short, sharp whistle from below. 
They ran to the edge of the building. September didn't hesitate. 
He turned, grabbed the coping, and let go. Without thinking, or 
he might have hesitated, Ethan copied him. 

The drop wasn't bad, and the big man and Hunnar were 
there to catch him. Suaxus came next, and immediately took up 

— 595 —



a position next to the closed door. Lanterns burned on either 
side of the entrance. 

Crying mournfully, the slight breeze flowed over the peaks 
and down into the black abyss. 

Carefully, old Eer-Meesach was lowered to the stairs, then 
Elfa. Budjir hung from the edge for a second and then they were 
all gathered below. They turned to descend. 

Hunnar held back a moment. He picked up the green stone 
staff of the unconscious brother, stripped off the white robe. 
Carefully he lifted one of the lanterns from its holder. 

Transferring it from the staff to one paw, he whirled it once 
in a circle, arced it against the wooden door. Flaming oil 
splattered on the grain, flickered unsteadily for a moment, then 
sprang up brightly. 

“That ought to keep their reasoning minds busy for a 
while,” he muttered grimly. 

They ran as quickly as they dared in the darkness. Eer-
Meesach had to be considered, too. The wizard was holding up 

— 596 —



well under the strain, but there would come a time when his 
body, no matter how strong his spirit, would fail him. 

They made fair speed down the black stairs. Now fully 
awake, Ethan took a cautious look over the edge. The unending 
ice sheet shone unreal in the starlight, speckled here and there 
with ebon spires that were other, friendly islands. 

A last glance behind showed a bright glow from the still-
burning doorway. 

By the time they reached the last stair, Ethan was puffing 
noticeably. Eer-Meesach, on the other hand, was near collapse. 
They moved the wizard into the shelter of some big boulders. 

Budjir had gone on ahead to the ship. He returned and 
between gasps told them he'd seen tran moving on board the 
Slanderscree — and too many of them had beards, wore long 
robes, and carried green staves. 

Simultaneous curses passed among the little assembly. 
Languages differed but sentiments were identical. 

“Not quite as naïve as I thought,” September murmured. 

— 597 — 


“Could you see any of our people, Budjir?” 

“Not a one of the crew. They must all be trapped 
belowdecks.” 

“Couldn't have been too hard,” the big man mused. “One 
man on watch, and him not expecting anything.” 

“They couldn't have overcome the whole crew,” said Ethan 
in disbelief. “Not with clubs.” 

“Hah! I doubt if they even had to hit anybody, except 
maybe the watch. Quietly bolt all the hatches, what, and keep a 
look-see for anyone trying to break out elsewhere. Balavere and 
the rest probably still don't know what hit 'em. How many'd you 
spot, Budjir?” 

“Eight . . . perhaps nine. There may be more I did not see.” 

“Not likely. That much know-how I don't credit them with.” 
September looked thoughtful. “Ta-hoding and his bunch weren't 
expecting them. They won't be expecting us.” 

— 598 —



Durnad was the one who noticed the tiny band coming toward 
the dock. He started. Fully six of the infidels were in the group. 
They trooped along, heads downcast, with their hands and paws 
clasped behind their backs. A single Brother followed behind. 

“Come here, Brother Tydin.” Another white-robed figure 
joined Durnad at the head of the landing ramp. 

“What, Durnad . . . oh!” He'd also spotted the approaching 
procession. “What means this?” 

“Hail, Brother!” shouted Durnad. “What has happened at 
the Home? We saw a great light.” 

The Brother's reply was low, but intelligible. 

“All fairs well. These are to be kept aboard their ship until 
the morrow.” 

“That is strange, Brother,” said Tydin, clearly puzzled. The 
group marched up the ramp. “I had heard that all the infidels 
were to be dealt with in the great dome this very night. Why do 
you hide your face? Have you been hurt by these devils?” Tydin 

— 599 —



took an uncertain step backwards. 

“There's been a change in plans, Brother,” yelled 
September. He brought his clasped hands around and came 
down hard with the rock concealed in them. Tydin collapsed 
without a sound. 

“Help, Brothers!” shouted Durnad. “We are tricked!” 

As it developed there were nine of the Brotherhood 
guarding the Slanderscree — less Tydin. The odds were 
bearable. 

The Brothers fought furiously, wielding their clubs and 
green staves like madmen. You'd have thought they were 
battling the devil himself. But they were not trained fighters. 
Without the advantages of surprise and overwhelming numbers, 
such as they'd possessed in the monastery, they were only a 
good exercise for the likes of Budjir, Suaxus, and Hunnar. Elfa 
swung a broken staff with as much skill as any of them. 

Ethan used his surprising mass to bowl over a pair of 
opponents. It would be more even in an honest fight with a 

— 600 —



knowing tran, but this time the surprise was his. September had 
thrown one Brother halfway across the deck and was 
dismantling another like a pale chicken. 

Ethan stooped and grabbed up a club dropped by one of 
the Brothers. His attacker pursued him and swung his staff again. 
Ethan ducked to one side, rammed the club blunt-end first into 
the other's midsection. 

The Brother whoofed and doubled over. Ethan brought the 
club down hard and whirled to face the next attacker. 

There was no next attacker. 

Suaxus stood to one side, panting heavily. “What shall we 
do with them, Sir?” The expression on the squire's face was 
typically noncommital. But if he were asked, Ethan didn't doubt 
he'd have a ready suggestion or two. 

“Tie them up and dump them belowdecks,” Hunnar 
ordered. He paused, startled. “Belowdecks!” A sharp turn and 
he was over the nearest hatchway. 

A simple pin and loop arrangement sufficed to dog the 

— 601 — 


hatch cover down. Hunnar pulled the pin, released the loop. Up 
came the cover. 

The anxious face of captain Ta-hoding stared up at him, 
blinking in the torchlight. 

“We heard sounds of struggle above,” he grunted as he 
exited the hold. “We had hoped 'twould be you and our friends, 
Sir Hunnar.” 

Sailors and soldiers streamed out on deck. They set about 
binding the white-robed figures. A few of the Brothers were 
beginning to regain consciousness. The men who'd been locked 
in the dark hold all evening were not particularly careful in their 
handling of the bodies. 

“We were embarrassedly surprised, but none were hurt,” 
Ta-hoding informed them. “All is well now, then.” 

“All is not well,” countered Hunnar as the two tran walked 
over to where Ethan and September stood. “Three of our friends 
are held still in the hands of these monsters.” 

Ta-hoding sputtered. “Counterwind! We must mount an 

— 602 — 


expedition, then! Besiege the place and—” 

September shook his head slowly. “No, my good captain. It 
cannot be done that way.” 

“Sir Skua is right, Ta,” said Hunnar. “Those vermin above 
will probably assume we've been taken by their minions here.” 
Said minions were now being unceremoniously hauled below. 
“But even so, they will post guards upon the stairway. Not to do 
so would be an act of such cub intelligence that I cannot think 
they would fail to do it. A few could hold the entrance to the 
monastery against an army. Which,” he continued, turning to 
September, “worries me greatly, friend Skua. How are we to 
rescue our companions?” 

“Frankly, Hunnar, I'd been too busy the last hour to give it 
much thought. Let's see, now. . .” 

“I suppose we'll have to find a way around them,” said 
Ethan hesitantly. 

“Sir Ethan,” reminded Hunnar a bit impatiently, “there is 
no way around. There is but the single carefully watched 

— 603 — 


entrance, with a sheer drop on one side and, I venture to say, 
equal precipitousness on the other.” 

“I agree,” said September. “It will have to be a small group 
in any case. Too many people . . . too much noise and 
movement.” He turned to Ta-hoding, “Captain, is there any 
climbing gear on board?” 

Ta-hoding was obviously confused, and with reason. 
Mountaineering was not an art practiced by his folk. 

“Climbing gear? Well . . . we have rope, of course, but I do 
not know what you mean by ‘gear’.” 

“I see. Another problem.” September grunted. “My fault. I 
should have guessed you wouldn't know a crampon from a 
creampuff. Glassfeathers!” 

“Strange words,” said Hunnar. “More of your odd devices, 
friend Skua?” 

“In a sense.” The big man stared thoughtfully at the deck 
for a moment, then back at the knight. “Do we carry any kind of 
solid, strong hooks on board?” 

— 604 — 


“Hooks?” The red-tinged mane shook. Then he 
brightened. “Why surely! We must have a number of fine 
boarding grapples, taken on the last attack. They would be in the 
armory.” 

“Those would be perfect.” 

“Suaxus!” snapped Hunnar. The squire nodded and 
disappeared down the hatchway. 

“What do you think, young feller me-lad?” 

“Well, actually,” replied Ethan, who'd listened to the 
progress of the conversation with the fascination of a bird 
watching the approach of a king snake, “I've always been kind of 
afraid of heights and—” 

“Nonsense, lad, nonsense! All in your mind. Just don't look 
down . . . course, climbing at night'll be a little rough, but there's 
nothing to it, what?” 

“Oh sure.” 

September looked at them all intently. “Now, we'll stop at 
the last bend in the stairway, just out of sight of the monastery 

— 605 —



entrance. If we're lucky they'll still be occupied with Hunnar's 
fire. They won't be looking for anyone to be dropping in on 'em 
from above. I'll plant the first grapple. . .” 

— 606 —



Chapter Fourteen 

The room wasn't very large, and the members of the 
Brotherhood filled it to capacity. Each pressed close upon the 
other for a better look at the minions of the Dark One. Real 
infidels were rarely available for purging and none among the 
brotherhood wanted to miss the infrequent, interesting 
ceremonies. 

Light from lamps and lanterns surrounding the curved 
circular room threw dancing shadows against the dome. High 
braziers were filled with burning oil and wood. The stars shone 
brightly through the round skylight. 

Three bronze basins with sloping bottoms flashed green-
gold on the bare floor. Each contained a single body with head 
set higher than feet. Hellespont du Kane was the tallest of the 
three and his head did not reach the top of tile basin. Like the 
others he was tightly bound with his hands fixed to his sides. 

— 607 —



Milliken Williams occupied the basin to his right, with 
Colette to his left. She'd managed to break the bonds on her feet 
early and leave a number of very sore brothers in her wake, but 
to no avail. 

The brothers had slowly keen filling the basins with water, a 
bucket at a time, brought in from the melding room. 

Since the room was not heated, the cold night air of Tranky-ky was gradually freezing each successive dose of water. The 
captives were now encased up to the shoulders in a jacket of 
diamond-clear ice. 

Colette continued to rain verbal destruction on the 
gathering in several languages, none of which the brothers 
understood. A small chorus of same continued to moan the 
same unmelodic drone they'd sung since the water-pouring had 
begun. Only their superb survival suits had kept the captives 
from serious frostbite thus far — and these wouldn't help when 
the ice rose over their heads. 

Colette looked from her father, motionless in both ice and 

— 608 — 


trance, and then up at the watching Brothers. 

“We've done nothing to you. Why are you doing this 
thing?” 

The kindly Prior stared amusedly down at her. “Tch! That a 
servant of the Dark One should have the audacity to ask for 
mercy.” 

“Listen,” she sighed tiredly, giving a little shiver. The cold 
was beginning to exceed her suit's capacity to withstand it. “We 
don't even know what your damned Dark One is! If you're 
moronic enough to believe that we're the disciples of some local 
devil of yours, I feel sorry for you!” 

“No, She, it is I who must be sorry for you,” replied the 
Prior righteously. “'Tis known to all that The-Place-Where-The-
Earth's-Blood-Burns is the home of the Dark One himself. From 
whatever homeland people come, all know that. 'Twas fortunate 
that you inadvertently revealed your destination to us, so that we 
could take proper steps. We are not ignorant peasants here!” 

He looked skyward into the night. “And as you shall 

— 609 — 


partake of the Cold that has held our beloved home, lo, these 
many centuries, so shall the Time of the Final Warming be 
brought closer!” He looked back at her. “That is our end and 
goal.” 

“Look here.” Williams was feeling the cold more than any 
of them and now he was having trouble speaking. “If we're 
minions of this Dark One or not, freezing us isn't going to heat 
your world.” 

“'Tis written in the Great Old Books that for every servant 
of the Dark One who is returned to the primeval cold, our world 
shall grow a little warmer, a little softer, a little greener. To this 
end is the Brotherhood Pledged!” 

“Listen,” continued the schoolmaster desperately, “Tranky-ky might be made warm and green again. My people know a 
process called terraforming that could conceivably melt this ice 
and raise the planetary temperature. But you couldn't adapt if it 
were to happen in your lifetime. Besides, you'd all drown.” 

“You lie most intriguingly, Evil One, but think not to 

— 610 — 


deceive us.” 

Two of the Brothers approached. They carried a large 
bronze kettle between them. Carefully, they distributed its load 
of water between the three basins. Colette tried to pull herself 
higher as they poured the ice water into hers, but it brought the 
water level up to her neck. The pair left for the melting room for 
another load. 

Almost immediately a crust began to form on top of the 
water. Another few trips and the ice would be over her head. Or 
maybe the insulation on her suit would give out before that. 

“We come openly, as guests, and you receive us with 
murder,” she said, a little frightened now. Any kind of 
reasonable, logical argument she could fend aside and handle. 
But religious fanatics! . . . “We needed your help, dammit!” 

“We intend to help you,” soothed the Prior. He turned to 
the shifting, watching mob. 

“Brothers! These poor, degenerate minds cry out to us for 
salvation! Let us pray for them, that their souls may meet in the 

— 611 —



next plane of existence uncontaminated by illogic and 
unreason.” 

“Let it be so!” hummed the assembled Brotherhood. They 
joined the uninspired choir in its steady, dissonant drone, the 
noise broken only by Colette's hysterical sobbing. 

There was a sudden, violent crack from above. A deep voice 
moaned in terrifying, sepulchral tones. . . 

“LET IT BE KNOWN THAT THE DARK ONE PROTECTS 
HIS OWN!” Rapidly, it added it Terranglo, “COVER YOUR 
EYES!” 

Immediately all the trannish eyes in the room shot upward, 
while the trio of imprisoned humans bent their heads and 
squeezed theirs shut tight. 

Explosion. Bodies flying. Those left standing made a 
concerted, panicked dash for the exit, tramping some of the 
wounded in an unbrotherly haste to escape. Above, the weird 
voice boomed. 

“I AM THE POWER AND THE GLORY OF DARKNESS 

— 612 — 


AND ALL WHO STAND AGAINST ME SHALL BE SLAIN!” 

There was another explosion and more of the Brotherhood 
fell. A lesser crash sounded from above. It was followed by 
brilliantine tinkling as the skylight was shattered. A cable ladder 
snaked into the room. Before the bottom had unrolled, Skua 
September was already halfway down its swaying length. Ethan, 
Hunnar, and several soldiers followed. 

The big man went immediately to the single doorway. He 
needed Hunnar's help to clear away the bodies. 

“Thank Deity for small favors!” he breathed. “It bolts from 
the inside!” Hunnar threw the latch. 

“'Tis not strong, Sir Skua. It will not stand against a 
determined rush.” 

Ethan and the soldiers all had torches strapped to their 
waists. They were intended to provide light if the Brothers blew 
out lamps. Now they were put to a different use. A quick thrust 
into a hanging lantern and they were lit. Then they began the 
slow, dangerous job of trying to melt the trapped prisoners free. 

— 613 —



Ethan was working on one side of the copper basin that 
held Colette. 

“Hurry, please!” she pleaded. “I . . . I can't feel my legs 
anymore.” 

“How much time?” September asked Hunnar. 

“One cannot say.” The knight stared at the bolted door. 
“These are not soldiers and do not react as such. Yet it will soon 
occur to the last of the escapees that we are far from 
supernatural in shape or form, and some might have recognized 
us.” 

It took four of them to lift each metal coffin. Two tilted the 
heavy container upward. One at a time, the three prisoners slid 
free, each still encased in a block of ice. Now the melting could 
proceed at a decent pace. 

“'Tis a difficult decision for them,” Hunnar continued. “If 
we are truly servitors of the Dark One, as our ability to throw 
thunder and lightning might suggest, then I would not expect 
them to attack again at all. But they might consider us to be only 

— 614 —



mortal servants of the Dark One, deluded mortals, in which 

case—” 

“Shove the Dark One! How much time've we got?” 

There was a thump as someone tried the door, then a 
rattling of the latch. This was quickly followed by a series of 
heavy bumps, then silence. 

“Well, that answers that,” the big man growled. He turned 
back to the center of the room. 

The melting was nearing completion and Williams, Colette, 
and the motionless senior du Kane were almost free. 

“You know,” said Ethan conversationally as he melted 
away the last of the clinging ice from her ankles, “you'd look 
absolutely awesome in a martini.” 

“I could use one about that size right now,” she replied 
tightly. “Thank the Devices for these suits!” He started to rub 
her legs and she didn't protest. 

“I'm okay,” she said finally. “Help the teacher.” Ethan 
looked over at the senior du Kane, who lay still and quiet on the 

— 615 —



stone floor. 

“Your father . . . is he. . .?” 

“Watch.” She bent over him and Ethan heard her whisper 
in his ear. “Free credit. . .” 

A hand twitched, then a leg. Stillness, and then the old man 
sat up, blinking, and looked up at his daughter. She put a big arm 
under his left and helped him to his feet. 

“Well my dear, are we safe or are we dead?” 

“It's still a moot point, father, but we incline to the former.” 

He sighed. “Ah well. Pity.” Click. “I was so wondering 
what kind of flowers they have in the next world.” 

“Only flower-souls, I've told you that, father. Come on now, 
move around a little. That's it.” At Ethan's slack-jawed stare she 
replied, “Automatic protective trance. He goes into it whenever 
his system is overloaded. This isn't the first time it's saved his 
life.” 

There was a loud crash and the door shook violently. 

“We've overstayed our welcome,” suggested Ethan. 

— 616 — 


September stood facing the door, watching it silently. He 
held a small, tightly bound package of vol leather in one hand. It 
had a short, stubby fuse projecting from it and he nonchalantly 
tossed it from one hand, to the other, back and forth, back and 
forth. 

“Let's step lively there, folks, what?” 

There was another crash and the door bulged inward 
alarmingly. Williams was being helped through the shattered 
skylight. Hellespont du Kane was halfway up the ladder and 
Ethan waited with Colette at the bottom. 

“Let's go,” he said finally. 

She looked uncertainly at the swaying ladder. “I . . . I don't 
know. I'm not built for this kind of exercise.” 

“Would you rather be in that martini? Come on, go. I'll help 
you.” She started up. He put a hand under her enormous rear — 
it felt like a cake of sherbet — and tried to give her weight a 
boost upwards. Then he mounted the ladder close behind. If she 
fell he didn't know what he could do. While she climbed and 

— 617 —



grunted, he climbed and prayed. Hunnar was right behind him. 

September walked to the bottom of the ladder. The crackle 
of splintering wood filled the room and the door exploded 
inward. A mob of howling, robed scholars piled into the entrance. 
They pulled up short at the sight of September standing calmly 
under the ladder. 

A few carried knives this time, probably appropriated from 
the monastery kitchens. The Brothers were fast losing their 
intellectual detachment. September reached out and touched the 
fuse to a nearby lamp. He looked at it for a moment, then gently 
tossed it. 

It landed at the feet of the unmoving Brothers. September 
coutinued to watch it with interest. The fuse shrank. Then in one 
motion he turned, leaped, and was halfway up the ladder before 
someone in the mob unfroze and threw the first club. 

Ethan was peering anxiously down through the broken 
glass. He extended a desperate hand and Hunnar another. 
Together they yanked hard and Ethan fell backwards. September 

— 618 —



came out of the opening, tumbled onto the roof, and was 
followed by a geyser of dust and pulverized stone. 

“Quite a banger,” he murmured, feeling his side where a 
thrown staff had grazed him. “Glad I saved that one for last.” 

For the second time that night Ethan found himself running 
blindly over rooftops, dodging pillars and buttresses, dropping 
from level to level toward the stairway. Apparently the Brothers 
were too disorganized, or demoralized, to offer ready pursuit. Or 
maybe that last bomb had eliminated the sanctimonious Prior 
and several of his deputies. 

At any rate, they met no opposition in their hectic scramble 
downwards. They reached the last roof above the stairway 
without being challenged. 

To their left a long black streak extended back into the 
monastery, a charred wound. The results of Hunnar's covering 
blaze set earlier that night. A large band of Brothers stood in 
front of the burnt entrance, armed with the usual clubs and 
staves. 

— 619 — 


They were expecting an attack from the front. Clearly no 
one had brought them the word about the return of the Dark 
One's other servants. Not very military. Hunnar's soldiers 
surprised them completely. 

There was no pursuit as they started their second dash 
down the stairway. 

“So much for rule by reason and logic,” September grunted. He 
was breathing heavily. The run down from the monastery had 
finally tired even him. But now they were safe on board the 
Slanderscree and there weren't enough Brothers in the world to 
get them off it again. The big man was staring up at the 
monastery buildings, faint ghosts against the black crags. 

“Well, it performed well enough — within their own tight 
little precepts,” Ethan countered. Behind him, Ta-hoding was 
sending the crew aloft, yelling dire threats at imagined slackers. 

— 620 —



The Slanderscree began to move out of the harbor. Astern, 
a quartet of soldiers were ungently dumping the Brothers who'd 
taken the raft earlier. It was more humane than similar actions 
that had been performed on Terra ages ago, for there was no 
water for the captives to drown in. 

On the other hand, the ice wasn't especially soft. 

The wind blew and the Slanderscree enslaved it, cutting 
west, then south, to take advantage of the slightest 
counterbreeze. Ta-hoding didn't miss many. 

A week later they saw the first smoke. It blew steadily to the east, 
black and sooty and well up in the atmosphere. From there Tahoding was able to ignore the compass and follow the black line. 
They made even better time. It was another two days before they 
had their first glimpse of The-Place-Where-The-Earth's-Blood-
Burns, and another two before the base of the giant volcano 

— 621 —



came into view. 

Mottled brown and black, splashed higher up with ice and 
snow — fourteen kilometers of vertical hell shrouded in ice and 
rock. It was magnificent, awesome, and a little bit frightening. 

“Well, no hallucinations so far,” Ethan mused. 

“How,” Colette snapped back, “could you tell the 
difference?” 

Williams voice sounded behind them. “I'd very much like to 
land.” 

Ethan turned. Eer-Meesach was there, too. “Really, 
Milliken, in light of the past weeks, don't you think. . .” 

A huge paw came down easily on his shoulder. “We did 
leave without properly fixing the bowsprit, friend Ethan,” said 
Hunnar. “Nor did the crew receive their promised chance for a 
rest on shore.” 

“You're not afraid the spirits and goblins will object?” 

The knight didn't smile. He gazed over the ice at the sky-
rubbing cone. 

— 622 — 


“As a cub I might have been. As a younger man I'd have 
been uncertain. But the wizards have explained to me what it 
really is, a thing neither supernatural nor inherently inimical, and 
I am not afraid.” 

They followed the jagged shore southward, searching for a 
place to put in. Hundreds of meters of broken, tortured rock fell 
in undisciplined cataracts onto the clear ice. But nowhere did it 
level off. 

Just as they rounded the southern tip of the island-
mountain, hitting into the wind again, the plutonic crust abruptly 
gave way to a smooth, level stone beach. Ropy lines of pahoehoe 
marched gently into the frozen sea. 

They tied up half into the wind, still protected by the 
sheltering bulk of the volcano. Ice-anchors were used this time, 
set with care and precision under Ta-hoding's experienced 
watch. Once again the repair crew set about their tasks — for the 
last time, one hoped. 

Considering what they'd gone through the past weeks, 

— 623 — 


though, there were none who blamed the craftsmen for an 
occasional over-the-shoulder glance. You couldn't be too sure 
that the ground would not still deliver up yet another fiendish 
surprise, hey? So the carpenters and sailweavers worked a little 
slower, a little more observantly. 

Rolling blackness. Distant night-stars of plasmoid terror. Vast 
spaces unmeasureable. False concepts of life and death. The 
living dark came, a loathsomeness of long licorice tentacles and 
soul-draining fangs. 

It groped for him in the emptiness, reaching, twisting. He 
ran faster and faster on a sea of gurgling tar, an oil-sky overhead. 
The ocean grabbed and tugged at him. Down he looked and saw 
in horror that it wasn't a sea at all. He was running on the back of 
an amorphous amoeba that humped and shook and laughed. 

He tried to jump, but now fat greasy pseudopods held him 

— 624 — 


firm. All about the nightmare, shapes flowed up and around. In 
the middle of each the faces of things not human chuckled and 
puckered at him. 

Black fronds clutched tighter, enveloping, suffocating. He 
tried to scream and one of the inky ropes dove down his throat, 
choking him. They crawled over his eyes, under his ears into his 
nostrils. Cilia brushed and tickled obscenely. 

He couldn't breathe. He coughed, gagged. The thing in his 
throat was curling into his belly, swelling, filling him with gravid 
blackness. 

The interior of the cabin was dark, too. But it was a comforting, 
familiar, prosaic dark — not sticky, not malevolent, not full of 
nightmare shapes. Despite the cold he was sweating profusely 
and heaving like he'd just finished marathon. 

Shaking, he reached for the lamp, then caught himself. His 

— 625 —



hand paused in mid-air, drew away slowly. No . . . no. It was a bad 
dream. Nothing more. Happens to everyone. 

He put both hands on the bed, palms flat against the 
blankets and furs, and lay down slowly, staring at the bare 
outline of the ceiling. With a conscious effort he closed his eyes 
and breathed out, long and low. Then he hunched slowly on his 
side and fluffed the blanket under his head. 

His last thought before falling asleep was that he hadn't had 
a nightmare since childhood. He wondered about it, for a second. 

Morning light bit like a mosquito. The volcano did not shine or 
sparkle in the false alpenglow. If anything, the black volcanic 
rock absorbed the light. Only at upper elevations did ice and 
snow work to do eye-pleasing things with the rich light. 

A dark, brooding ziggurat, the mountain gave no hint of the 
burning core that steamed in its depths. Even the cloud

— 626 — 


scudding black smoke was a cold coal. 

There was nothing so palpable as an air of menace about 
the mountain, but neither was it pleasant to be near. It needed 
companion mountains, a sibling range around its base, before 
mere humans could relate to it. Alone, it was as impersonal and 
alien as a lost moon. 

Ethan leaned on the rail and gazed at the ropy beach. He'd 
almost have preferred to stay on board, but there was always the 
thin chance that something interesting might turn up. He only 
stumbled once as they made their way across the ice and onto 
the rock. Small cause for pride. 

On the frozen lava the humans had an advantage over their 
tran companions. The natives had to pick their way carefully on 
unclad feet over the nastier sections of aa and scoria. 

The two wizards could have gone by themselves. However, 
someone had to go along to tell the two learned beings when it 
was time to return to the Slanderscree. Left to themselves, they 
would wander about the island 'til dark, get lost, and then there'd 

— 627 —



be a broken leg or twisted ankle and the hard work of carrying 
them back to the ship in the dark. 

The slopes of the gigantic cone seemed to soar up and up 
into the opalescent blue until they merged at the artist's 
vanishing point. You could tell there was a top only because of 
the black smoke that issued there from somewhere in the clouds. 

Well, they could spend the morning picking around at the 
rocks in the shelter of the east slope, acquire a few specimens, 
and return to the ship. The rocks ought to keep Williams and 
Eer-Meesach occupied and out of trouble until they'd reached 
Arsudun. 

Ethan didn't expect any surprises — even Williams had 
enough sense to forgo suggesting an ascent — but he hadn't 
counted on the cave. 

It was well concealed by rock and low brush as he walked 
past the entrance. It looked no different from any other section of 
immolated stone. Only the early morning light shining straight 
into it gave any hint that it might be larger than the thousands of 

— 628 —



similar pockets which dotted the lava. He bent and peered inside. 

It was large enough for a tran to walk upright in, so he 
called the others over. 

“Fascinating,” said the schoolmaster, staring inside. Before 
anyone could stop him, the teacher had stepped carefully over a 
chunk of aa and was standing on the smooth floor of the cave. 

“Get out of there, Milliken,” said September. “The business 
could come down on you any second.” 

“Pish-tosh! This is a structure built by nature, not mere 
man, Mr. September. Once a tube like this has been formed, it 
will remain so until a violent upheaval cracks the set rock. My 
dear Eer-Meesach, you must see this!” 

“What is it?” The tran wizard had knelt slowly and was 
staring into the hole now. 

Williams' voice floated back from some ways in. “The walls 
of the tube are lined with a luminescent lichen or fungi of some 
sort. I can see quite clearly even though I'm well away from the 
entrance.” There was a pause. “It appears to extend into the 

— 629 —



mountain for some distance.” 

“Then by all means,” replied Eer-Meesach, scrambling 
over the lip of the hole, “we must explore further.” 

Hunnar looked resignedly at September. “I'd as soon wait 
here, Sir Skua. But those two would surely lose themselves at the 
first pairing of passageways.” 

The big man dug into a coat pocket and pulled out one of 
the small compasses from the survival supplies. 

“I expect you're right,” he agreed. “Might as well go 
myself.” 

Hunnar hopped down into the tunnel, followed closely by 
Budjir and Suaxus. September went next, turned and looked 
back at Ethan. 

“Coming, young feller-me-lad?” 

He hesitated. The tunnel did not look especially inviting. 
But they could be watching from the ship. Colette had already 
confessed a fear of the dark; it was the only thing that seemed to 
faze her. Naturally he had to go in. 

— 630 — 


It was a good thing he had no time to work on the logic of 
his thinking or he wouldn't have been terribly happy with the 
resultant picture. 

They walked at a leisurely pace, moving deeper and deeper 
into the mountain. The walls, ceiling, and floor had been scoured 
almost slippery smooth. There were places where the ceiling 
rose to two and three times the height of a tran. And here and 
there there were vents of green clay. Green clay in volcanic vents. 
Now, where had he seen that before? He puzzled over it. 

The glowing plant life grew no more luxuriantly as they 
moved down the tunnel, but it didn't grow dimmer, either. And it 
supplied enough light to show occasional boulders and rocks 
that had fallen from the roof (green clay in volcanic vents?). The 
number was small, Ethan noted gratefully. He moved ahead to 
listen to the schoolmaster. 

“Lava has gone through this passage fairly recently,” 
Williams explained, “which accounts for the smooth sides.” 

“Now that's a comforting thought,” grinned Ethan. He 

— 631 — 


thought of the millions of tons of hot magma beneath their feet, 
whose outlet had once been the tube in which they now trod. 

After an hour's hike Hunnar finally declared a halt. The 
wizards gave no sign of tiring and the tunnel no signs of ending. 

“Scientific exploration is all very well and good,” the knight 
said, crouching against the cold gray wall, “but we've brought no 
provisions with us. I do not believe further exploration of this 
hole, which could run clear through the mountain, is worth 
missing the midday meal.” 

This opinion was seconded immediately by September, 
Ethan, and both squires. Outvoted, the two scholars capitulated 
gracefully. 

“I, too, confess to being somewhat wearied and hungered,” 
admitted Eer-Meesach. “And we seem to have learned all that 
we might. Yet it would be interesting to know if this tube opens 
near the central vent itself.” 

“I'm cold,” September quipped, “but not that cold.” He sat 
down across from Hunnar and began flipping pebbles against 

— 632 —



the far wall. 

Ethan took a few steps forward and prepared to rest also. 
He squinted hard down the tunnel. 

“Hey . . . it does seem to get a little brighter ahead.” 

“Your eyes are tired from straining in this light, lad.” The 
big man glanced down the tunnel without getting up. “Looks the 
same to me.” 

“No, really, it does,” Ethan continued. He took another 
couple of steps forward. “It does.” He started to walk down the 
tunnel. 

“Don't go too far,” September warned him. “Don't go out 
of voice range. I don't want you making a wrong turn into some 
endless maze. If you do, I'm not coming after you, what?” 

“Don't worry, Skua. I'm not going to go far.” The tunnel 
made a sharp turn to the right, just ahead. That would be far 
enough. 

He turned and stepped into the chamber. 

It was larger than the tunnel, perhaps three or four times as 

— 633 —



wide as the passageway and equally as high. There were no more 
phosphorescent plants here than behind him, but the light was 
blinding. Blinding, dazzling, overpowering — and green. 

Now he remembered where he'd read of green clay in 
volcanic vents. 

Ozmidine was mined in only two places in the known 
universe. One was on a tiny island in the middle of a lake on the 
thranx world of Drax IV. Drax IV was a hell world, a steaming, 
sweltering moldy ball of corruption that would drive a man 
insane if the Po'pione or Turabisi Delphius didn't get him first. 
The thranx could survive the heat and humidity, but the local 
flora and fauna made no species distinctions when it came to 
dinner. 

But there was ozmidine there, so they stayed. 

The other lode had been found on Mantis, one of the first 
worlds settled by humanity after the discovery of the KK-drive. It 
had been discovered, not by lonely prospector, nor by mining 
combine, nor by official survey. A driller pushing a new subway 

— 634 —



tunnel through the heart of downtown Locust had come on the 
first deposits. Now there was an ugly, dark, smoky hole in the 
middle of the planet's capital city. But the inhabitants didn't 
mind. It made them rich. 

On the scale of comparative hardness for minerals, 
diamond is the hardest at 10. Or rather, it was until ozmidine was 
found to have a hardness rating of about 14. And the crystals of 
the raw mineral were of a deep green shading to violet that made 
the finest emeralds look like soapstone. 

Ozmidine was only found in igneous rocks, in vents of 
greenish clay. 

Ethan stumbled forward, his eyes adjusting to the light 
thrown back at him from an endless hall of green hexagonal 
crystal. Ozmidine hang from the ceiling like stalactites. It grew 
outward from the walls like decorative swords, filled the floor with 
spikes and crushed crystals from the ceiling. 

He'd once seen a picture of the Green Nova. The Green 
Nova was a piece of pure ozmidine from the Drax IV mine. It was 

— 635 —



as big as a man's fist and had taken thirteen months to cut and 
facet by the finest stonecutter on Terra, using laser and ozmidine 
cutting tools. It had no price. 

He stumbled, wincing at the pain in his toe. He'd tripped 
over a chunk of clear ozmidine the size of a basketball. 

This wasn't wealth — there was no way, no means of 
comparing this to normal human pursuits. The ownership of 
whole worlds lay in this tunnel. Power to alter the structure of 
governments, even enough to shake the Church itself. 

“Hey, young fella!. . .” came September's voice. “It's time 
to. . .” 

Dimly, Ethan recognized the voice of September and the 
others behind him. But he didn't turn. He knew what they 
looked like. 

Something shook underfoot. He felt it, ignored it. 

“My dear Eer-Meesach, this is wonderful!” Williams 
whispered. “Such symmetry of forge, such amazing variety. . .” 
He frowned. “Was that a tremor?” 

— 636 — 


“EEYAHOO!” bellowed September. He grabbed Ethan and 
danced in a circle while Ethan hung on for dear life, his feet 
centimeters off the floor. “Gods and Devils and broken hearts, 
and broken names, and all the lost promises down the trail of 
time!” He stopped, let Ethan down. Ethan felt himself to make 
sure no bones were broken. 

He grinned up at the other. “My sentiments exactly.” 

September bent to pick up a flawless piece of crystal as big 
as his thumb. He landed on his rump. 

The earth shook. 

Shards of priceless gemstone, any one worth a king's life, 
pelted Ethan's unprotected face. When the shaking stopped, he 
felt himself gingerly. He received some very expensive scratches. 

Below, a steady rumbling had begun. There were demons 
afoot in the mountain. 

Williams was backing toward the tunnel proper, a little of 
his scientific detachment gone. He watched the walls warily. 

“I . . . I do believe it would be best if we returned to the ship. 

— 637 —



I think something may happen.” 

His words penetrated the green haze surrounding Ethan. 
He was dimly aware that September was shaking him. 

“Better do what he says, young feller. We can come back 
tomorrow . . . maybe. Time to leave.” 

“Leave. . .?” Ethan stuttered. “Return. . .?” He looked up at 
the big man, blinked. “Leave this . . . no, absolutely no!” 

“Now young feller. . .” began September. 

“No, I won't . . . I found it, dammit . . . I'm staying . . . you 
go!” 

September chuckled. “All right, lad, have it your way.” He 
turned and walked past Ethan . . . and clipped him neatly on the 
jaw as he passed. He knelt, scooped up the slumping body, and 
threw it over his shoulder. 

“Let's go.” He took a last glance over his shoulder, 
muttered so low no one could rear him, “Shana . . . forgive me,” 
and started out of the tunnel. 

The run back to the raft turned into a nightmare, with 

— 638 — 


groanings and heavings and cyclopean creakings alternating 
with distant detonations. One was powerful enough to throw 
them off their feet. It bloodied September's nose. He uttered a 
few choice curses, hefted Ethan higher on his shoulder, and 
continued forward at a jog. 

If anything, their emergence from the cavern into clean 
daylight inspired them to move faster. They were met at the 
shoreline by Balavere and a party from the ship. 

“All be thanked!” said the old general clasping Hunnar by 
the shoulders. “We thought the mountain had got you.” Then he 
noticed the scrapes and bruises and Ethan's unmoving form. 
“What did happen in there?” 

“I shall tell you later, honored general,” replied Hunnar, “if 
I still believe in it myself, then.” 

There was an awesome roar behind them and they were 
nearly thrown again. 

“But if that interesting talk is to take place, we must depart 
this accursed island now. Quickly!” 

— 639 — 


They hurried to the ice. Two of the soldiers carried Ethan 
between them. They moved much faster on the ice than 
September could have. 

“Put your men aloft, captain!” Hunnar bellowed as they 
boarded the raft. But it wasn't needed. Ta-hoding had heard the 
explosions and was moving over the deck like a frightened 
k'nith, swearing tearfully that though he lived a thousand years 
he'd never see this befouled ship fully repaired. 

The ice-anchors were brought in. Wind caught the sails and 
the Slanderscree moved. 

Drawn by the noise, the du Kanes emerged on deck. 
Colette looked at the volcano and turned to question September. 
Then she saw Ethan's unconscious form. 

“What happened to him?” she asked casually — a little too 
casually, September thought. He squinted down at her as 
another explosion — they were growing more frequent — 
drowned out all possibility of communication. 

When it had died slightly, he shouted, “He . . . ah . . . 

— 640 — 


bumped his head coming out of the tunnel.” He shoved the limp 
form at her. “Why don't you take care of him?” 

Colette backed away a step. “Me? I'm not a damned nurse. 
Let Williams or Eer-Meesach look after him.” 

“Oh, just watch him for a minute, hey?” 

She considered, chewing her lower lip. “Oh, all right, give 
him here.” September bent and passed the dead weight to 
Colette. She handled it easily and sat down next to the rest with 
him, studying his face. September grunted appreciatively. 

They'd rounded the last spur of black earth and were 
leaving the volcano astern. The smoke now billowing from the 
cone was tinged with crimson and seemed to have grown greatly 
in volume. 

There was a tremendous ear-shattering explosion, coupled 
with a moaning, ripping sound. The Skanderscree was lifted off 
the ice and slammed down a dozen meters on. A few spars 
cracked. Somehow, the runners held. 

Tran were picking themselves up off the deck, some of them 

— 641 —



very slowly. One had been thrown from the rigging and was now 
a grotesque tangle of arms and legs near one hatch. 

“Bedamned!” sputtered September, shaking the wrist he'd 
fallen on as he pulled himself off the planking. Ethan had come 
around just in time to get thrown into Colette. He bounced off. 

“Green clay,” he mumbled, then looked confused. “There 
was something about green clay . . . but I've forgotten. What 
happened to me?” 

“You hit your head coming out of the tunnel,” supplied 
Colette. She gently but firmly moved him off her legs. “And I 
don't know anything about any green clay.” 

Ethan rubbed his jaw . . . funny place to fall on . . . and 
thought hard. He looked up at her and she was staring down at 
him strangely. 

“Oh well . . . couldn't have been very important,” he said. 

“How would you like to be rich beyond your wildest 
dreams?” 

“Huh?” 

— 642 — 


“Marry me.” 

“I beg your pardon, Miss du Kane?” 

“Under the circumstances, you may call me Colette. 
Well?” 

“Wait a minute, wait a minute.” He must still be dazed. “I 
didn't even think you liked me . . . let alone loved me.” 

Those startling green (green?) eyes stared down at him. 
“Who said anything about love? I'm asking you to marry me! 
You're reasonably attractive, reasonably intelligent — and 
kinder than most. The only people who ask me to marry them 
are money-hunters. I can read the contempt in their eyes. 
There's no contempt in yours. A little pity, but I'm used to that. 
Well?” 

Ethan thought. “This is too fast and I'm still dazed. Let me 
. . . let me think it over. What would your father say?” 

She gave him a twisted smile. “Father? Father's been 
intermittently insane for the past four years.” She stood up and 
stared down at him from a great height. “Who do you think's 

— 643 —



been running du Kane Enterprises for the last four years, Ethan 
Fortune?” 

“Look to the mountain!” yelled a voice. Those who could 
staggered to the rail. 

A kilometer or so up the side of the volcano, a huge fissure 
dozens of meters wide had cleft the mountainside like an ax-
blow. A broad river of fiery red and yellow spilled from the 
gaping fissure, overflowing the edges of the break. 

The amber stream gained the ice. Immediately a jet of 
superheated steam roared skywards, obscuring much of the 
peak from view. 

“Quite a sight,” said September appreciatively. There was a 
loud yelp behind him. 

Williams was absolutely terrified. He was flailing and 
gesturing as though he'd lost control of his arms. 

“Easy, schoolmaster. What's the matter? Spirits?” 

“We've got to put on more sail!” he piped frantically. “Tell 
the crew to blow into them, if we must! We've got to . . . to get 

— 644 —



away from here!” 

“Why?” September glanced behind them. “We've got a 
little wind with us now. At this rate we'll be out of sight of the 
island before dark.” 

“Not . . . not good enough!” panted the out-of-breath 
Williams. 

“Now look, surely we're in no danger from the lava. I'm no 
geologist, but. . .” 

“Not the lava. Not the lava!” Williams was pleading. Tahoding had walked over and was now an interested listener. So 
was Hunnar. 

“You don't understand! The lava will melt the ice. And that 
fissure may have cracked the whole island. If the cold sea water 
beneath the ice reaches the core . . . the pressure . . . 
incalculable. . .” He subsided, out of breath. 

“What does the small wizard mean?” asked Hunnar 
uncertainly. September rubbed the full crop of whiskers that now 
coated that jutting chin under his face shield. 

— 645 — 


“He says the mountain's going to blow up, I think.” 

“Blow-up?” Ta-hoding's fat face was comical. His anxiety 
was not. “Blow-up?” he repeated stupidly. Then he whirled and 
began rattling off hysterical orders and commands. The deck of 
the Slanderscree became a madhouse. 

The crew strove to mount every square centimeter of sail 
left in the lockers. They were even stringing it from rigging to 
hatch covers. Green-brown pika-pina sailcloth went everywhere, 
until the Slanderscree resembled a moving island. 

Nothing happened all the rest of that day, nor all night. 
They were still running rapidly to the southwest the next 
morning when it happened. The volcano was far astern and long 
out of sight. But they heard the rumble. There was a crackling. 

The whole sky northeast of them lit up in a titanic eruption 
of fire and flaming gases. Lightning smashed every section of 
unbruised sky. A pillar of red-black smoke and ash sown with 
lightning billowed into the stratosphere. This time it was 
September who grabbed the megaphone and roared for 

— 646 — 


everyone to hug the deck. A second later he was imitating a 
termite. 

Nothing happened. The eruptions continued. An ominous 
lowing breeze swept over the ship, challenging the westwind. 
Then the full force of displaced air struck them as the giant 
volcano began to tear itself to pieces. 

The maelstrom that came down on the raft made the Rifs 
seem like a spring zephyr. The Slanderscree exploded forward 
across the ice. But most of the super-tough sails held. Most of 
the rigging held. And the lashings on the great wheel held. 

The borean monster fell to a simple cyclone. September 
crawled to the rail and raised his head into that sky-tearing gale. 
Then he rose to his full height, somehow keeping his balance in 
the gale. 

“Sonuvabitch!” he howled, “what a ride!” Then his feet 
were blown out from under him and he had to wrap his arms 
around a shroud to keep from being swept off the deck. 

Pity the lad couldn't see this, he thought. Or mayhap better 

— 647 —



he doesn't. The ozmidine? Melted, or pulverized to green dust, 
perhaps. Immortality was short. He looked across the planking. 
Colette was using her bulk to shield Ethan from some of the 
wind. On the other hand, he reflected, smiling, mining is work. A 
soft touch of a friend, now . . . that was much more civilized! 

The Slanderscree shot southwestward at close to three 
hundred kilometers an hour. 

The prop-jet hummed smoothly on the two-man ice-skimmer as 
it curved in its daily patrol out from the humanx settlement of 
Brass Monkey and headed up the frozen fjord. 

The two men inside had grown accustomed to the 
icelocked world and its gruff, somber native populace. But they 
were completely unprepared for the gigantic raft, dozens of sails 
billowing, which rounded the entrance to the fjord and shot past 
them before they could waken to challenge it. 

— 648 — 


“Mother, did you see that?” exclaimed the pilot. 

“How could I miss it, Marcel,” replied his copilot, “seeing 
as how it practically ran us down.” He was doing things to 
dashboard controls. “Take over your stick before we pile into a 
cliffside, will you?” 

Abashed, Marcel did so. “Thought I'd seen every size and 
shape of ice-craft this backwater had to offer,” he mumbled. 

“Moving like the proverbial bat out of hell,” the copilot 
agreed admiringly. “Somebody did a helluva job on that baby.” 
They swung the tiny skimmer around. The prop groaned at the 
strain. 

“You'd better get on the comm, tell Docking and Receiving 
to expect that thing or someone's liable to have a fit and take a 
shot at it. I want to meet the natives who built that.” 

Marcel goosed the engine to a high whine. “I'll have to 
call. For sure we're not going to overhaul it.” He leaned to hit the 
comm switch and chuckled. 

“You know . . . it's funny, this glare and all . . . but that damn 

— 649 —



thing went by so fast I thought I saw a set of broad's underwear 
flying astern in place of the usual native banner. Biggest pair I 
ever saw. Ain't that a kick?” He hit another button and the 
screen over the angled windshield began to brighten. 

“Aw, you're batty.” 

“Sure . . . all in the mind,” the pilot agreed. 

The copilot looked thoughtful. “Then it's all in mine, too, 
because I could swear I saw the same damn thing.” 

The glance they exchanged was profound. 

The End 

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About the Author


Born in New York City in 1946, Alan Dean Foster was raised in 
Los Angeles, California. After receiving a bachelor's degree in 
political science and a Master of Fine Arts in motion pictures 
from UCLA in 1968–69, he worked for two years as a public 
relations copywriter in a small Studio City, California, firm. 

His writing career began in 1968 when August Derleth 
bought a long letter of Foster's and published it as a short story 
in his biannual Arkham Collector Magazine. Sales of short 
fiction to other magazines followed. His first try at a novel, The 
Tar-Aiym Krang, was published by Ballantine Books in 1972. 

Foster has toured extensively through Asia and the isles of 
the Pacific. Besides traveling, he enjoys classical and rock music, 
old films, basketball, body surfing, and karate. He has taught 
screenwriting, literature, and film history at UCLA and Los 
Angeles City College. 

Currently, he resides in Arizona with his wife, JoAnn (who is 
reputed to have the only extant recipe for Barbarian Cream Pie) 

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Original e-text created: 2001-04-18 
Version 2.0 created: 2003-12-28 
Version 2.1 created: 2007-04-08 

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