"Darn! Now I'll have to find a fire and melt this out." Then he fell over in a dead faint.
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 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.
"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-ping. 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 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 tunes 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 downs"
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.
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 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 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 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 snatch 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 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 magnet, most surely we could, Kellivar," replied Balavere. "But we need one in two days."
"Could we net," 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?"
"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 net 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 hack 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-doer, and set fire to that gimcrack by band, 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, puss certainly this time. "At night."
Ethan glanced around tine 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 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, 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 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.
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. 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 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."
Below the howl of the wind-at least 60 kph, he ibought, 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 h
e 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 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 DeathTreader 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 bad 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.