“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…”
XII
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 The sailors had withdrawn to the rear half of the ship. 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 at 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 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 off the final attack…” He left the rest unsaid.
One of the nomads was helped—none too gently—over 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 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 of 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?”
“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.”
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 along the walls, armed with huge double-edged swords.
At the far end of the room was an incredible throne made from trail 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 meterstick 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, “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 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?”