The Hammer of the Sun (15 page)

Elof turned away at last, upon unsteady legs, to find Roc looking up at him, his broad face unreadable and pensive. "Well?" demanded Elof. "I suppose you'll think me mad to go bowing and scraping thus?"

Roc considered a moment, gnawing idly at his lip. "Had it in mind to do much the same thing myself, as it happens. If, that is, I didn't just kneel down and bang my head upon the decking. I'm not one to stand on my dignity, me…"

Elof sighed and sat down heavily. "So you felt the same? I'm glad. That head… that
face
… as if, as if-"

He never finished. A booming crash rocked the
Sea/ire
and he was flung flat on the deck amidst a shower of ice from the sail. The timbers quivered as something jagged rasped along the keel like a giant saw, then came another crashing impact that set the rigging thrumming; the mast-stays sang like harp strings, then where the floe had plucked at them they frayed, snapped and flew free. The gaff reeled and dropped down in a flurry of sailcloth, the mast tottered, sagged in its footing and toppled. Elof could only clap his hands over his head and hope; he felt and heard the thudding fall, and the broken rail that pinioned his ankles and the tangle of cordage and blocks that struck him painfully in the back felt like the end of everything. But in the next breath he looked up, to find himself face to face with Roc, only a few inches away, peering out from under great swathes of grey sailcloth. In Roc's face he read the same realisation, the same overwhelming horror and momentary panic; they spoke no word, but their thoughts ran in dark communion. Held in the thrall of the Devourer, they had forgotten the other perils all around them; for that moment of forgetfulness they might well be about to pay the price. At any instant black water might come welling over those gunwales to stop their hearts in its chill embrace, as it had so many others this day.

They scrambled to their feet, forgetting their pains, and stared anxiously about them. The deck
felt
strangely still and heavy underfoot, and across it lay the mast like a severed tree, the sails strewn beneath it, trailing half in the water. But that water was not black; even in this failing light it was the palest of blues, like a mockery of warmer climes. They stumbled to the side, stared down for a moment, and then they turned as one, still without speaking,
to
look across at the other side, and beyond, and up. They knew now why the deck was still; wind and water and their own folly had conspired to drive them aground, but where there was no ground. They had come to rest upon the margins of the seaborne glaciers, upon the utmost shores of the Ice.

Chapter Four
- The High Gate

Roc tore his eyes away from the heights above, and tugged his fur jacket closer about him. "Well. How long before they come for us, d'you reckon?"

At first Elof could not understand the question, so numbed was his mind by the mere presence of the Ice. Even standing on the deck he seemed to feel something of that sickening, burning pain that contact with it had always brought him; the very air ran like fire in his nostrils, already raw with the cold, and pulling up his scarf made little difference. "Come for us…?" Then he realised who Roc meant, but was carefully not naming, and as he considered he felt a sudden flicker of warmth awaken. "You know… they may not be able to find us so easily -"

Roc raised a sceptical eyebrow. "They're not daft; they've only to look, haven't they?"

Elof rounded on him. "That's just what they can't do! They've senses we haven't; they're aware of us, yes -but they can't see us; not as we would see, anyhow!"

"They managed just fine when they dropped that cliff, didn't they?"

"Only with their thralls' sight to guide them! And even then they weren't close enough, were they?" He scanned the cold cliffs in the greying light. "We're too small for their minds to grasp. Even to Tapiau we were only shadows, and… these will be far less attuned to live things than he. They can only gain living senses by taking on living shape, and that'll be their last resort!"

Roc grabbed him by the shoulders. "You mean we've still time? Then What're we standing here for? Let's get this hulk afloat again!"

But it was scarcely that easy. First, most urgently, they had to haul in the sail, leaden-heavy with water and already half-frozen, and disentangle it from the jumble of twisted cordage around the fallen mast. Then they had to clamber down into the bilges, which, poor seamen that they were, they had failed to clean out often enough, there to struggle through slime and stink by the light of a sputtering lamp to check the hull for damage They found less than they feared, but several seams had been sprung, and Roc at once set to work melting their small store of pitch on the stove, while Elof went back on deck to begin what Roc could not do, dismantling the ruined rigging and reeving new lines where needed. From time to time as he worked he would glance up at the sun, now resting like a redhot brazen shield upon the rim of the Ice cliffs. He wondered, almost idly, how much of the day remained, and how they would fare after dark; the powers of this place hated and feared the sun, however weak, and were doubly formidable in its absence. Beneath him the hull boomed and quivered to the thump of Roc's caulking mallet; it was the only sound not born of wind and wave, and to Elof s ears it seemed to echo around the cliffs above. Surely the Powers must sense that as tremors in the Ice, if nothing else. It was a great relief to him when it stopped, and a minute later Roc emerged, streaked with pitch and slime, gasping with exhaustion. Elof helped him up and found him a flask of wine.

"Enough…" Roc wheezed. "Must've been just about shouting
Come and get us
! to 'em, with all that row."

"Probably!" agreed Elof. "Couldn't be helped, though. But you've finished? Good! That was hard on you…"

"Not so light on yourself!" grimaced Roc, looking at Elof s raw and bleeding hands. "And at least I was out of the cold. What now? The mast?"

"If you're strong enough…"

"I'll manage."

Manage they did, though raising that mast can have been no easy task even with block and tackle. Neither of them had the advantage of height, and had they not both possessed the sinews of smiths, and an exceptional endurance, they might well never have achieved it. The sun was setting by the time the mast stood stepped, and the headsail at least was made ready to raise; but by then Roc, who had had the heavier labour of caulking, was near to collapse.

"Come on!" encouraged Elof, as they warmed themselves over the cooling stove. "We've only to launch her now, that's all -"

"Go' to rest," mumbled Roc. "Jus' minute… arms won't move…" He slumped down against the stove, and curled into himself.

"All right!" said Elof, and sighed. "I'll keep watch -but remember, a few minutes may be all we have…" Pulling his furs tight, he scrambled back up on deck, and peered anxiously overside at the fearsome water that washed and gurgled under the scarred hull, lurching it a little on the ice-shoal. It was hard to make out the tide on this mockery of a coast, but it seemed to be more or less at its height; they could hope for no more help from it. He could rig some kind of spring cable, such as the corsairs had used to launch their ship, but that required a fixed point somewhere, a very strong one…

Elof swallowed. There was no getting around it; one of them, at least, would have to get down hip-deep into that fearsome water and wade ashore. And it could not be Roc; in his exhausted state the sea might kill him. Elof was hardly more sure of himself, but he knew he had little choice. There were things abroad to which death might well be preferable. Swiftly he set about gathering gear, made fast a long line about his waist, and lowered himself gingerly over the curve of the hull. Only as his feet touched the water did he realise he had not told Roc what he was doing, but left him sleeping. He hesitated, but decided not to turn back; the longer Roc could rest, the better, he reassured himself. But in truth, he feared that if he once turned back now, he would lack the courage to try again.

The bite of the water about his legs was fearful at first, smiting the breath out of him, yet after that it seemed possible to endure; down he clambered, shiver-ing uncontrollably, fearing the touch of the ice below. He had reason; it felt as if his boots touched molten glass, and he almost put his teeth through his lower lip with the effort not to scream. For long seconds he could only cling to the hull timbers, cursing his own folly; he should have let Roc go, Roc would not have felt this nerve-searing, nobody did but he. Why? Was it the smithcraft afire within him? Yet the Mastersmith had trodden the Ice freely; perhaps, like other votaries of the Ice, that dark creature had welcomed the pain, treated it almost as a mark of honour, a special summons, or a call . What the Mastersmith Mylio had endured, then, so could the Mastersmith Elof Valantor. Hammering away at his will as he might at toughened steel, he set his back to the hull, took up the slack on the line, and took a stiff, staggering step forward. He had moved not a moment too soon; already his legs were deadened, tingling masses, hard to control. He would have fallen on that glassy slickness, if he had not been able to dig in the heavy metal spikes he carried for support. But after only a few strides he was already rising into the shallows, and scouting about him for a suitably flat spot. Choosing one with no rough edges to chew and fray rope, he plucked the great hammer from his belt, tapped a spike to seat it and then drove it down deep with a few tremendous blows; the other he drove in a few paces further on, wound the line around the two stanchions and straightened up with a sigh. The wind was rising once again, rolling down over the cliffs above, and he peered up at them uneasily. Who could tell what he might have awakened now? But with so sound a leverage point he could almost launch the
Seafire
by himself, in minutes…

He squinted suddenly, pulled off a glove to rub his tired eyes; was he starting at shadows in this dismal half-light? He was sure he was not; something had moved atop the slope there, at the notch which led between the lowest cliffs. He cursed, turned to get back to the ship, then stopped, hesitated; he was afraid, afraid of what might rush down upon him while he was off his guard in that water, and the pain in his limbs was almost an exquisite thing now, fair and clean as a flame. His head whirled with it; he must see, he must know… With a savage growl he drew the dark sword Gorthawer, and with his hammer in his other hand he stumbled up the short slope. Once or twice he glanced around to see that the cutter was all right; but not often. The slope demanded all his attention, and once or twice he had to fall on all fours and crawl; the agony in his hands almost made him laugh aloud. At last, as he reached the crest of the pass, some shred of his wits he won back, and with a flash of fear and anger he understood; he had been drawn here, he had been summoned. Cautiously, fighting down the piercing ache, he shuffled over into the shadow of a riven pillar of ice, stood up and looked out to the openness beyond.

He had seen the Ice before; but at its landward margins only. He had marvelled at its bitter beauty, bright as a hoard of jewels and as perilous; but this was a new aspect. He saw a flat plain that seemed to reach out to an infinite horizon, broken by nothing save a few low hills, grey against the twilit sky as if they had been painted on it with shadows. Nothing moved on that plain but low wind - rows of powder snow, too cold even to lie and compact with the rest, rustling in the wind as if to mock the soft sigh of growing things. Here nothing grew, not the humblest mould or lichen; no feature was different from another. Hill, plain, snow were all one single, uniform thing, forms without meaning, movement without life. The flakes that danced before his eyes were swelling, thickening, but the one that melted to nothing upon his palm had as much meaning, as much identity, as the whole vast expanse before him, for they were made of the self-same thing, no more, no less. As free water it had been forever in motion, flowing, evaporating and condensing; it had been a vital link in the great chain that was life and it had had a beauty of its own. Yet what was it as ice? Frozen into a single shape, a fair shape indeed, but incapable of adding to or enriching that beauty. A snowflake was the opposite of a seed, of a thought; it could spawn nothing, it
was
merely an end in itself. It might endure till the end of all years, and then still be no greater, no less, than it now was. Standing in the failing light upon that lonely ridge, he knew that he had looked into the deepest heart of the Ice, void of the glamour it might lay upon itself; and that he had found there only the ultimate sterility. It was not reverence that lowered his eyes before it. He thought back to the Halls of Summer, and the undying ones that Tapiau sheltered. Exactly as they were, the Ice was immortal - and useless. What could it be that bred in so many Powers this need to hinder the passing years? A dread, perhaps, of themselves, of their own inability to cope with any new order?

Then he looked up swiftly, for it was as if a curtain was flung over his eyes. A rush of snowflakes blotted the last light from the sky, and he was lost in featureless greyness. He ducked down a moment in breathless panic, and it was as well he did; across the slope of the ridge he saw a shape move, and it was like the shadow of a man in a dark robe, with a high hood drawn low across the face. But this shadow was immense, and it drifted, as on some wind milder than the blast which blew. Past him it glided, higher than the mast of his ship, the peaked cowl nodding with a slow regularity that seemed anything but benign; he had seen gelatinous things drift thus in clear waters, pulsing things that could sting and envelop. He shrank away, quaking, lest it chance upon him as it swept by.