From an area of total whiteness, a spirit emerged. It was no bigger than a rabbit. The phagor whose ancestor it was said inwardly, ‘O sacred forebear, now integrating with earth, here you see us in grave danger by the edge of the drowning world. The Beasts-we-were ran upon us and will trample us down. Strengthen our arms, direct us from danger.’
Through their harneys the keratinous figure transmitted pictures the ancipitals knew well, pictures flowing fast, one to another. Pictures of the Circumpolar Regions with their ice, their bogs, their sombre enduring forests, and of the teeming life that ran there, even there, on the edge of the ice cap. The ice cap then much greater in extent, for Batalix ruled alone in the heavens. Pictures of hunted creatures hiding in caves, making an alliance with that mindless spirit called fire. Pictures of the humble Others taken as pets. Terrifying pictures of Freyr roaming, coming mottled black down the air-octaves, a giant spider-form, eddrechilling. The retreat of beautiful T’Sehn-Hrr, once silver in the tranquil skies. The Others proving themselves Sons of Freyr, running off carrying the mindless spirit fire on their shoulders. Many, many ancipitals dying, in flood, in heat, in battle with the monkey-browed Sons of Freyr.
‘Go fast, remember enmities. Retreat to safety of the wooden thing afloat on the drowning world, kill all Sons of Freyr. Stay safe there against the running of the Beasts-we-were. Be valiant. Be large. Hold horns high!’
The tiny voice fled to lands beyond knowing. They thanked the great-grandstallun with a deep churring in their throats.
They would obey its word. For the voice was his and the voice was theirs and there was no difference. Time and opinion had no place in their pale harneys.
They advanced slowly on the beached ship.
It was an alien thing to them. The sea was their dread. Water swallowed and extinguished them. The ship was outlined against the smouldering orange of Freyr, snoring just below the horizon, ready to leap from its hiding place in that same hungry sea.
They clutched their spears and moved with reluctant step towards the New Season.
The sand crunched beneath their tread. All the while, their twitching ears picked up the thunder of the approaching flambreg.
To one side lay the icebergs, no taller than the runt which walked close to its gillot. Some icebergs clung to the sides of the vessel; some, as if possessed by a mysterious will, described slow intricate figures over the still sea, ghostly in the dim light, their reflections caught as if in tether in the water.
As the sand spit narrowed, so the ancipital group had to narrow its front. Finally, two stalluns led the rest. The ship loomed above them without movement.
Things clattered and broke beneath the feet of the stalluns. They tried to halt but those behind pushed them forward. More breaking, more clattering. Looking down, they saw the thin white shards beneath their feet, and the whiteness stretching cracked all the way to the ship’s hull.
‘There is ice and it breaks,’ they said to each other, using the continuous present tense of Native Ancipital. ‘Go back or we fall into the drowning world.’
‘We must kill all Sons of Freyr, as it is said. Go forward.’
‘That we cannot do with the drowning world protecting them.’
‘Go back. Hold horns high.’
Crouching by the rail of the New Season, Luterin Shokerandit and Toress Lahl watched their enemies shuffle back to the shore and seek for shelter by the rock.
‘They may return. We have to get the ship afloat as soon as possible,’ Shokerandit said. ‘Let’s see how many of the crew have survived.’
Toress Lahl said, ‘Before we leave the coast we should kill some flambreg if they get within range. Otherwise everyone is going to starve.’
They looked uneasily at each other. The thought crossed their minds that they sailed with a cargo of the dead and the mad.
Standing with their backs to the mainmast, they set up a great shout, which rolled away across the wastes of water and land. After a pause, an answering cry came. They called again.
A man appeared from the forecastle, staggering. He had undergone the metamorphosis, and presented the typical barrel-figure of a survivor. His clothes were ill-fitting, his once boney face now broad and presenting a curiously stretched appearance. They hardly recognised him as Harbin Fashnalgid.
‘I’m glad you’re alive,’ Shokerandit said, going towards him.
The transformed Fashnalgid put out a warning hand and sat down heavily on the deck.
‘Don’t come near me,’ he said. He covered his face with his hands.
‘If you are fit enough, we need help in getting the ship on course again,’ Shokerandit said.
The other gave a laugh without looking up. Shokerandit saw that there was blood caked on his hands and clothes.
‘Leave him to recover,’ Toress Lahl said. At this Fashnalgid uttered a harsh cackle and started to shout at them, ‘Leave him to recover!’ How can a man recover? Why should he recover… I’ve been through the last few days eating raw arang — yes, and killing a man for the privilege of doing so… Entrails — everything… And now I find Besi’s dead. Besi, the dearest truest girl there ever was… Why do I want to recover? I want to be dead.’
‘You’ll feel better soon,’ said Toress Lahl. ‘You scarcely knew her.’
‘I’m sorry about Besi,’ Shokerandit said. ‘But we have to get the ship on course.’
Fashnalgid glared up at him. ‘That’s typical of you, you skerming conformist! No matter what happens, do what you’re supposed to do. Let the ship rot, for all I care.’
‘You’re drunk, Harbin!’ He felt morally superior to this abject figure.
‘Besi’s dead. What else matters?’ He sprawled on the deck.
Toress Lahl motioned to Shokerandit. They crept away.
They took fire hatchets to break into cabins and went below.
As Shokerandit reached the bottom of the companionway, a naked man threw himself on him. Shokerandit went down on one knee and was seized by the throat. His attacker — an Odim relation — snarled, more like a maddened animal than a human being. He clawed at Shokerandit without any coherent attempt to overcome him. Shokerandit stuck two knuckles in the man’s eyes, straightened his arm, and pushed hard. As the man fell away, he kicked him in the stomach, jumped on him, and pinned him to the deck.
‘Now what do we do? Throw him to the phagors?’
‘We’ll tie him up and leave him in a cabin.’
‘I’m not taking any chances.’ He picked up the hatchet he had dropped and clouted the prone man across the temple with the handle. The man went limp.
They tackled the captain’s cabin in the stern. The lock broke under their assault, and they burst in. They found themselves in a comfortably appointed quarter galley with windows opening above the water.
They drew up short. A man with an old-fashioned bell-mouthed musket was sitting with his back to the windows, aiming the gun at them.
‘Don’t shoot,’ Shokerandit said. ‘We intend no harm.’
The man rose to his feet. He lowered the weapon.
‘I would have blasted you if you were loonies.’
He was proportioned in the unaccustomed thickset way. He had passed through the Fat Death. They recognised him then as the captain. His officers lay about the cabin, their hands tied. Some were gagged.
‘We’ve had a high old time here,’ said the captain. ‘Fortunately, I was the first to recover, and we have lost only the first mate — for eating purposes, that was, excuse the expression. A few more hours and these officers will be back in action.’