Skalter stared after her, hands on hips; then he turned and shrugged, "Grease the lancetips, Timbo," he said, "and see them safely stowed. We bide a time at the Black King, for it’s my notion we follow the Mother’s will. .
Skalter had picked the lad up in Abersgalt, on his last fleeting visit to his home, Timbo intrigued him; he had learned the hand-words by degrees, till he could converse nearly as nimbly as the boy himself. It was in this fashion they talked, one dim, howling evening two months after Skalter had first taken up his lodgings at the Black King. "Now of all mysteries," he mimed rapidly, "this is surely the greatest. For who till now heard of a wench who shrugged at the sight of gold?" He gestured irritably at the smoke- blackened walls of the little chamber. "I could buy this hovel ten times over, and that she knows full well., and her father too. And further--" he stuck his chest out indignantly, "--am I, Skalter of Abersgalt, to be passed over lightly, in silence Answer me that. ."
Timbo smiled, dark hair dropping across long, slant-tailed eyes.
"I know, I know," jeered Skalter, "Ye are of the Mother’s faith. Her patience is endless as the ice. But mine is not: so expound me no more mysteries. . ." He scowled at the. single burning striplight. "I bathed my skin away," He said, "I sweetened myself with creams and essences till I stank like a Fyorsgeppian streetwalker; that was thy doing, Timbo.". He aimed an accusing finger at the boy, "Out there at the mole lies a thousand nobles’ worth of ice yacht; such a craft as once I’d have scorned to travel in, let alone own. Did she take pleasure in it? By the Son Himself, she did not, but stared and smiled,
Then she bade me swift journeying and a safe haven-making. The Mother’s shrine groans with my gifts; night after night have I sat in this mournful hole, roistering and boasting with every underfed gallant Djobhabn owns; and for what? Frey Skalter, whom no woman ever refused, has been rendered eternally foolish; while the profits of half a voyaging are. . .pftf’t.. .gone with the Mother’s winds. By every troll in the undercaverns, by the Waiting Wolf himself, what else has a man to do?’
Timbo touched his master’s arm, and smiled again. The hand talk is good; it means life in a silent world. But there are some things the fingers are ill-equipped to say,
Matters came to a head the following evening.
As usual, the handful of locals who formed the tavern’s staple trade had gathered in the long ill-lit room to talk and brood, drink their dark beer and rattle the dice in their carved bone cups. The object of Skalter’s exasperation-- Shun was the name they had given her--moved as usual among the tables, emptying ashtrays, replenishing beer pots. Her hair, dark and braided, gleamed in the cold, dull light, rare and rich as yet; and she moved, to Skalter’s eyes, as gracefully and lightly as the Mother herself. Frey sat moodily to one side of the room, a beer jug at his elbow, a rank-smelling cheroot clamped between his teeth. He was playing chess with his weapon bearer; the ancient game had survived, in spirit at least, the holocaust that had precipitated the Fourth Ice Age, though its pieces and their moves had changed nearly beyond recognition.
"Now Timbo," said Skalter grimly, "my lancer menaces thy shiplord, while the unicorns guard diagonal and file. Answer that, with thy Mother-given wits. "
Timbo frowned, and countered. Skalter saw, too late, the trap into which he had fallen; but the game, already lost, was destined never to be completed. The door of the room burst open, with remarkable violence. Heads turned, and a silence fell, broken only by the eternal buzzing of the fluorescent roof- tubes.
The man in the doorway was as tall or taller than Skalter. Furs--the stinking furs of a whaler--swathed his great frame from head to foot. A black beard, greasy and unkempt, covered most of his features; above it his single eye, small and deep-set, glowered a pale, icy blue. The other was hidden by a guard of carved whalebone; from beneath it a deep, disfiguring scar branched down across his cheek.
The intruder stood for a moment, staring; then he marched forward to the bar. The bone-topped table round which the dice players had grouped stood in his way; ;he gripped its edge with one massive fist, and. heaved. Beer spilled; a chair toppled, rolling its surprised occupant across the floor. Daggers snicked instantly from their sheaths, but the newcomer turned, glaring, and the room fell quiet. Behind him had tramped a dozen men, as unwholesome as their leader and each armed to the teeth.
"Know me, Djobhabnians," said the giant rumblingIy " Saskran Truehelm is my name, and well was it earned. I turn aside from no course I lay: in love, in war, in hatred, in the chase. Who among ye wilt be the first to give me nay?"
The silence intensified, and Truehelm. still glaring, swivelled slowly to face Skalter. The Abersgaltian sat easily, long legs crossed: but his body had tensed, and his face was set like stone. Half unconsciously he fingered the massive ring he wore: the raw gold mount, set with an uncut gem. that four seasons back, in a Keltshillian brothel brawl, had rid Truehelm of the sight of his good right eye. Always, since that day Skalter had known a time of reckoning must come. but Truehelm’s path had never since crossed his own.
That the other had recognised him was obvious enough. but for a moment longer the silence was preserved. Then Truehelm bellowed. throwing his head back opening his mouth to show blackened teeth.
"Skalter of Abersgalt ,‘‘ he shouted. "By the Mothers will " He advanced on the table. Skalter half crouched, as if ready to spring: and the giant’s arm shot out, took his shoulder in a vice-like grip.
"Gently. my friend,’’ muttered Truehelm. "Gently..." His one eye. baleful and cold as the eye of a fish. searched Skalter’s face. "Man, but that was a craft blow ye dealt me that night." he said. " A crafty blow. Had I been in my full wits, and not fuddled with bad ale, ye would never have worked y’r will.
"I have the power to deal another," said Skalter between his teeth. "Do not tempt the Mother, Truehelm. I bear thee no ill-will; leave me in peace."
"Ill-will?’’ shouted the newcomer. "Ill--will? Who spoke of ill-will?" He spread his arms appealingly. "The ice is wide, the Mother’s realm eternal; who am I to bear ill-will for a little blow? Lightly given, even more lightly received?" He hauled Skalter from the table by main force. "Ye’ll drink with me," he shouted. "Aye, drink, to old times, and better times, the women we have laid, the others we have yet to breach....ls this one thine’?’’ He pawed for Shurl across the counter top. The girl eeled back out of his reach. "A poor enough thing i’ truth, an’ my one good eye sees clearly,’’ mumbled Truehelm. "But fitting, maybe, for an AbersgaItian."
"Not mine," said Skalter between set lips. ‘‘Nor thine either, old mate.’’ He punched the giant cheerfully, and leaned closer. "Rough ice needs a better sprung vessel. .
Truehelm roared again, enveloping Skalter, to his disgust, in a fetid and bear-like hug.
The long bar of the Black King resounded to snores. Skalter, dressed for the ice, eased the door ajar, peered round cautiously. The floor, still awash with beer, was heaped with recumbent forms; even Truehelm had at last succumbed, vast though his capacity undoubtedly was. Skalter’s head was spinning vilely, but at least he had remained on his feet. He turned away, face set, edged the door closed softly behind him. A wiser man, he reflected, might have ended the business then and there with a well-placed dagger thrust, but that was not the way of an Abersgaltian, whose fastidiousness might yet end in his death.
Tubes flickered and hummed in the long ice-corridors of the inn. Skalter leaned for a moment against the wall, rolling his head, feeling the coldness against his temples; he rubbed his eyes to clear them, grimaced and walked steadily away, He paused at a door, tapped cautiously at first, then louder. A wait and a voice answered uncertainly. He called softly, heard the ivory bars withdrawn. A face peeped into the corridor, a startled face with huge dark eyes, topped by a tangle of black hair. Skalter moved swiftly, Shun was borne back, kicking, to the skin bed from which she had risen. She writhed, arcing her body and trying to bite; but Skalter’s palm, clapped across her face, effectively prevented speech
.
"Be quiet," he hissed." Stupid girl. There is a great peril, and I mean you no harm."
He felt her relax by degrees, and cautiously removed his hand. "That’s better," he said. "Now listen, and know me for a friend."
He spoke rapidly. Of all the villains roaming the wide ice, Truehelm was undoubtedly the worst. Pirate, murderer, few men of the Eight Cities had not heard his name. His black whaler, Kissing Bitch, had quartered the ice for years, robbing and pillaging where she could, but none had been found to call Truehelm to answer for his crimes. "In Fyorsgep," said Skalter, "at sight of his topsails, they blockade the mole, In Brershill, Friesgalt, in my own Abersgalt, he dare not show his face. Where he has sailed, where havened, this past three seasons no man knows; but now he has come here, to Djobhabn and your house, which is an evil thing."
Shurl stared up in bewilderment. "But he spoke well of you," she said, "calling you a friend."
Skalter laughed shortly. "Insofar as his lying throat knows truth," he said, "it was truth he spoke when he named himself for what he is. There can be no swerving aside for Truehelm; He has vowed my life." He outlined his plan, briefly. "Skalter runs from no man," he said, "But Mother guard me, Shun, I can see no harm come to thee. And harm will come, certainly; for drunken he might be, and a rogue, but no fool. One glance, to Saskran, speaks what others read in a book." He swallowed. "I shall break anchors with the dawn wind," he said, "You must rouse him for the chase; but gently, his temper is fiendish when he wakes. So I shall draw him from you to the wide ice, and there.. the Mother will guard her own."
The girl frowned. "But if he follows--"
"Dancer has the heels of any lumbering whaler," said Skalter lightly. "We’ll play him, like a warmpond carp; and land him maybe, on the gallows rig of Abersgalt. . ."
Shun shivered, and gathered the furs closer round her throat. "But why?" she said. "Why should Skalter of Abersgalt make such a sport for me?"
"Because I love thee," said Skalter testily. "And had the Mother willed it would have given thee great lands, and honour as my wife." She opened her mouth, and he laid a finger on her lips, "No more: he may not sleep long. Remember what I told thee; an hour’s start is all we need." He rose, flicked the heavy furs round him, smiled down briefly, and was gone.
She stared alter him, frowning and biting her lips. Then she pushed tile covers back. The air of the little chamber struck chill. In one corner, roughly hewn from the rock wall, was a shrine to the Mother. She knelt before it shivering, chin sunk on her breast. A long time she waited silently; then she rose and began to dress.
At first light, twin shadows moved across the ice. No word was spoken between them. The lances, swung inboard by Timbo, clattered softly to Dancer’s deck. Skalter ran forward, casting off the lashings that held the nylon sails to their booms. Blocks squealed; clouds of whiteness bellied from the delicate spars. The dawn was a dark rose flush, joining ice and sky, when the yacht slipped between the long moles. Skalter turned her bow due north, to where, three hundred miles or more beyond the ghostly horizon, lay Abersgalt and safety.
He stared behind him. Astern, fading fast now in the murk, was the spar forest of the Djobhabn pound and the squat. menacing shadow of Truehelm’s boat, moored hard by the mole. "He always was a drunkard and a slug." He said. "The Mother keep him in his natural mind. . ."
The runners crisped, singing sweetly over the ice, throwing back line plumes of’ crystals that stung Skalter’s face and eyes. The wind, freshening, thrummed in the rigging; and Timbo caught his master’s eye and grinned. Frey laughed back, catching the boy‘s mood. It would be a long, hard chase, with death as the prize: but whatever the outcome, it would make a tale for the Abersgaitian songsmiths to tell for years to come.
The sun climbed to starboard, becoming a ball of white fire. Dazzling reflections lanced across the ice. Its surface was smooth here, worn by years of traffic; Skalter held his course steadily, concerned only for speed. He glanced astern at the empty, brilliant horizon, gestured to Timbo and laughed again; but the boy ignored him, He was staring forward, jaw sagging. Skalter followed the direction of his gaze and gasped in his turn. Sometimes, it is said, Ice Mother herself appears to the lonely and condemned. When she comes, It is as a young maiden, dark-eyed and sad. She stood facing them now. on the bow of the boat, her cloak flying in the wind: But it was with Shurl’s voice she spoke.
"You never talked of love, she said falteringly. ‘‘Nor dare I think it, believing myself unworthy. But I knew you for my lord.."
Skalter’s bellow had in it something of the rage of a wounded bull calf. He ran forward, deserting the tiller. Timbo grabbed the shalt as Dancer yawed. "You little fool,’’ shouted Frey . "Oh, you bloody little fool…" He grabbed her shoulders and shook, saw her eyes widen in fear,
The anger left him. It was no good, useless to explain how, in his heart, He had no hope. In light airs, Dancer might have stood a chance; but in this wind, Kissing Bitch, with her great area of sail, would overhaul her by nightfall. Shurl had consigned herself to almost certain death,
"Sit down,’ said Skalter gently. "Here. sit by me. Or the Mothers breath will freeze you.
The runners sang steadily over the ice.
At midday Timbo cried, wordless as a bird, and pointed astern.
Skalter was with him instantly. standing with one arm on the girl’s shoulder. screwing his eyes against the keen bite of the wind. The sky had clouded, through the forenoon: the horizon was once more milky and vague, For a time he was unsure,
Then he’ saw it; the pale-blue smudge, wavering and dancing with mirage A vessel was following; site was still hull-down, but coming on fast.
He took the tiller, gesturing tersely to the boy to trim the sails,
The day wore on. For an hour, maybe two, the ice yacht seemed to hold her own, but inexorably the pursuer’s vaster spread of sail began to tell. Timbo sweated at the ropes, trimming the yacht’s tall wings again and again, drawing the utmost from every puff of wind. Astern, the silhouette grew clearer; there was no mistaking now, the savage, brutal lines. The sun sank with painful slowness. Dancer fled on, beneath a sky of burning copper, and Skalter’s hope partly revived. After nightfall, there would still he a chance. But the race had been lost before it was started. With sunset the wind steadied again from the south. Frey noted, dully, the lessening of the gap between him and his enemy. The whaler was a towering shadow, grim against the pouring light; from her, carried on the wind, came the insistent booming of a gong.
The sun touched the ice, in a blood-red blaze. The Bitch was close enough now for heads to be distinguished above her gunwales. Skalter turned from her bitterly, The game was played through: soon Truehelm would be close enough to take his wind. He searched the horizon ahead, but it was empty. No witnesses out here, to a private game of murder,
A voice echoed down the wind. "Skalter...heave to, ye’ll never leave me…."
Skalter swore, signing to Timbo to take the tiller. Shurl crouched in the bottom boards, raised a white appalled face, She said through dry lips. ‘I’m sorry. . .‘‘ Skalter stared, then stooped, gripped her shoulder silently, and moved on. He lifted the harpoons from where they lay on the deck, hefted each in his palm, He shook the shafts to clear the long gaudy streamers of the silks and glanced back to the whaler, measuring his cast. Nothing ethereal about Kissing Bitch now: she bulked against the brilliance, the sun glare striking between her broad, straddled runners. Her shadow, black arid spiked, reached forward as if to engulf the smaller craft Skalter saw the complication of her yards and rigging, the cavernous grinning of the land whale skulls at her stem. As he watched, he heard Dancer’s sails begin to flog. The ice yacht was alee,
A lance snicked overhead, followed by another. Skalter frowned, flexed his shoulders, gauged his distance again and cast. Truehelm, posed spectacularly in the whaler’s high bow, flung himself flat in the nick of time. The shaft took a man directly behind him, nailing him to the foremast. His shriek reached h
ollowly across the ice: on board the big vessel the ringing of the gongs intensified.
Truehelm jumped back, face dark with rage. "Now the Mother guard thee, Skalter," he bellowed. "I would have given thee any easy death.."
Another shout and a dozen lances flickered from the whaler. One hissed by Skalter’s head: another gouged long splinters from the yacht’s side; a third heavy shaft struck her mast, stuck thrumming and quivering. Skalter poised his second weapon, but the cast was never made. Above him the weakened spar gave abruptly, shedding sail and boom. A hammer blow flung him to the deck while Dancer, encumbered by the trailing mass of nylon and cordage, spun on her heel, came into irons and grated to a halt. Frey, struggling up, heard the long shriek of runners as Kissing Bitch glissaded past, turning majestically into the wind.
One other image came to him, of Timbo sitting coughing, red-muzzled. hands gripped across his chest. Between the fingers stood the long steel of a harpoon. So much Skalter saw unconnectedly: then the night of the Mother claimed him.
To Frey, the return to awareness was like the slow climb from art abyss. His skull, it seemed, was split from ear to ear: Pain raged through his head, augmented by the throbbing din that surrounded him, the fierce, erratic vibrations that shook his body. He opened his eyes cautiously, examined dim grey shapes that made no sense. His arms and legs were pinioned in some way; there was pain when he tried to move them, and more pain at his back.
Certainly he was dead and in Hell. He grappled with the notion, trying to force his bruised brain to work. The chase he remembered vaguely, and the man he had killed, and Shun, like a creature from a warmer world.
His lips parted. He hung his aching head from side to side, grinning like an animal. He had remembered Timbo.