Ice Prophet

  BERSERKER!

  With maniacal fury Michael cut his way through the crowd. Casting aside his shield, he grasped the giant’s head and held it aloft. Then he screamed savagely and slashed at the man before him. The lifeless eyes of their leader looked out at the Ezrians—and they fell back before his gaze.

  Michael was the instrument of war now, and the backs of his enemies so enraged him that he drove after them, hurling the head at their retreating forms. Along the length of the wall they ran, while the sound of gunfire swelled in the distance. Suddenly a shadow fell from above and crashed into him. Michael’s thoughts fled and he tumbled into darkness…

  Also by William R. Forstchen

  Published by Ballantine Books:

  THE FLAME UPON THE ICE

  A Del Rey Book Published by Ballantine Books

  Copyright © 1983 by William R. Forstchen All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copy-

  right Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and si-

  multaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited,

  Toronto.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 82-91204

  ISBN 0-345-30790-9

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition: August 1983

  Cover art by Darrell K. Sweet

  Maps and illustrations by Tom Hudson

  To Marilyn, who was always there.

  And for Tappy, who was there in spirit.

  BOOK I

  CHAPTER 1

  It had been a quiet moment there upon the pinnacle of watching, but the time had passed all too quickly with the setting of the sun beyond the Frozen Sea. Already the first lights of the evening sky were appearing. Removing his mask for a moment, Archbishop Rirton of St. Awstin turned his gaze heavenward to watch the first dim traces of the Holy Arch appear. He knew he was resisting what had to be done, but he let the icy fingers of the night air tingle and then numb his cheeks until the polite whisper recalled him to his duty.

  “Yes, Brother Niail. I know, damn it, I know,” he whispered as he turned and left the evening sky of peace behind.

  The fetid warmth of the caverns was a shock, but he paid little heed to the stench of home, of the cloisters, of the thousands of men living beneath the mountains in the dead of winter’s night. Downward he walked, barely acknowledging the bows and mumbled blessings of the brothers, who were lining up in rank for the procession. He swiftly entered the antechamber of his apartments, where his archdeacons awaited him.

  “Yes, brothers, I know I’m late,” he growled, and with a wave he beckoned to Brother Niall, who began to dress him in the ceremonial robes.

  “Your Holiness, all is ready for the procession,” Brother Ceadac said in his soft lisping voice.

  “Thank you, Ceadac. How are things with you, Brother Mather? Is all prepared?”

  Mather smiled his usual demonic grin but merely nodded. Rifton found something distasteful about Mather; nevertheless, it was useful to have a renegade priest of Mor on one’s side.

  Within a few moments Niall had completed his task, and Rifton was robed in the white and golden cassock proper for the Night of Supplication. Niall stepped aside humbly and bowed as Rifton made the sign of blessing.

  “Niall, could you please fetch him for me?” Rifton said softly.

  “Of course, your Excellency. He is waiting down the hall.”

  “Fine, give me a couple of minutes, though.” Rifton turned from his archdeacons and they knew they were dismissed. The door closed softly behind him.

  The book lay upon his desk, where he had studied and wrestled with its words often enough. Its soft black leather was worn around the edges from years of use. He looked briefly at the cover’s gold-leaf characters, which read The Book of Prophecies, then turned to the pages that had tormented him for so long.

  “Chapter three, verse one through four,” he whispered, and then started to read aloud.

  “And behold there shall come a night of fire when the heavens shall cast out all those of the Saints that do not believe, and upon that night he shall come when the great light hovers in the sky, neither to the north nor the south of the Arch.

  “His light shall be one with, the light of his fire. And it shall search into the souls of men. And all that shall see him shall come to follow him, or in their fear shall spurn him and curse him. Yet with his coming shall be an end to all and the dawning of the new age.”

  Rifton stopped for a moment, then read on: “And at this time, there shall be two above all others. And one shall be of the light and the other shall be of the darkness, and long they shall wrestle. The one of darkness shall lead his people into sin. But the one of light shall bring about the final days, when the Choosing of the First shall be complete and a new light shall dawn upon the Ice. Then the Father shall return. Then shall the power of old be shaken and revealed. But in this time of darkness even shall father strike down his son and the son his family as well.”

  A knock sounded at the door. He pushed the book aside and looked up, the only sign of his pain the nervous movement of his fingers at the edge of his robe.

  “Come in, Michael.”

  The door swung open and, bending low, a young man dressed in the garb of an ice runner made his way into the plainly furnished room of the Archbishop of St. Awstin.

  “I see that Niall has prepared you,” Rifton said evenly.

  “Yes, your Excellency.” The young man lifted his head and looked into Rifton’s eyes. His expression was one of confusion and anxiety.

  Rifton studied him for several seconds but stoically ignored the fear in the young man’s eyes. “Do you have the equipment that you need?”

  “Yes, Niall even gave me a cloak that you wore long ago.”

  “Do you understand what is expected of you, Michael?”

  “Yes.”

  “Beware the brothers of Mor. Most likely they have their own orders concerning you. There are no guards, so keep a close watch. Remember that you are really nothing more than a hostage of the Morians now, so take care and you should be here safely in the spring.”

  “Couldn’t you just say no to Zimri and let me remain? I have no desire for the Ice. I would much rather stay in the monastery with you.”

  “Michael, you are Ormson. Take the responsibility of it.”

  Michael sensed the rebuke in his tone.

  “It was a good maneuver on Zimri’s part to ask for you personally in front of all the other archbishops. To refuse.

  Michael, would have shown favoritism and brought a loss of face to our family. Besides, you’re on the admiral’s ship and Halvin is a close friend; he’ll help you when he can. To be a ship’s chart reader and keeper of the log is something a man your age should find exciting. Why, Michael, you’ll see the Southward Isles and a thousand other sights as well.”

  Michael stood quietly.

  “Michael, you must go. The others are waiting. Now take my blessing.”

  Michael knelt silently and Rifton made the sign of the Arch over him.

  “May all the Saints watch over thee upon the Ice and return you safely to our brotherhood. Amen.”

  Michael rose and managed a wan smile. “Good-bye, Uncle,” he said softly through his tears.

  Rifton’s control broke and he threw his arms around the only one in the world whom he could trust and love. The last of his family alive after the forty years of war and plague.

  “Good-bye, my boy, and the Saints bless you.”

  Michael turned and left the room and each man hid his tears from the other.

  Darkness spread across the city as the columns of monks issued from their cloistered halls and made their way
to the central square, where the procession would begin.

  The alleyways were barely wide enough for two men to pass abreast and they were thick with the fetid stench of thousands who lived in tiny one-room hovels during the winter’s freezing night. Half the rooms were carved into the limestone hill that squatted beneath Comath, while the rest were of quarried stone or, occasionally, of precious wood. The alleyways seemed dark tunnels, as the second and third floors of the surrounding buildings rose over and leaned against their neighbors across the way. The monks waded through dirty snow, refuse, and offal tossed from the windows above. When spring thaw arrived in late May, only the poorest stayed in Comath, for the streets became stagnant rivers of filth.

  Rifton rode at the head of his five hundred monks as they approached the Great Square, which faced out over the harbor. From other alleyways converged the different brotherhoods of the Church. Rifton halted his column to let them pass. Some grumbling arose from the rear but this was quickly stilled as his shadowy figure turned to look down upon them.

  First came the good friars of Braith de Borth, the brothers of poverty, their long rough robes scant protection in the night’s cold. Each carried the traditional bowl of life that the pious filled with coin or bread. Behind came twenty brothers of the Braith de Creidman, the brothers of salvation, who would sail upon the venture as missionaries to the followers of the false prophet. At a gap in the passing of the brothers, Rifton turned quickly to Brother Mather, and Mather merely smiled. Long minutes passed and the men stamped their feet impatiently as the various orders of the fourteen brotherhoods passed before them.

  The Braith de Narn, the silent ones, came in ghostly quiet, followed by the Braith de Dochas, the healing order. A cold stillness fell over all as the Mord Rinn passed. As always, they walked in groups of three, and their burgundy robes shone in the glow of the torches they carried. Their cowls completely concealed any human feature. They were the Inquisitioners, the seekers of Orthodoxy; their word could sustain life or bring death.

  The various contingents appeared, then were swallowed up by the night as they descended to the harbor. Several of the orders had monasteries at Comath but most only visited for the yearly sailing and the Supplication. St. Awstin’s monastery, their home abbey, was the largest in the city, but tonight one order would have far more present.

  From the distance Rifton could hear their chanting, a deep dissonant bass that reached into the very bones to send shivers down the spine. The soft whispers around Rifton grew silent. At first their procession was a shadow in the darkness, then without warning it burst forth with a blazing light as eight hundred torches flared and were held aloft at once at the end of the shadowy square. The Brotherhood of Mor was coming.

  The chanting swelled as the dissonant bass called out the rhythm of “To the Saints and Mor,” the minor-key Gregorian chant that had been the sign of their brotherhood for a thousand years. The first chant ended as the head of the column came abreast of Rifton, and the drum called out the rhythm of “To the Return of the Father.” Clouds of incense wafted from the column, the yellow-green smoke bearing the foul stench of sulfur. Six monks dressed in the dark-blue robes of the brotherhood led the column. Before them they carried the icon of St. Mor of Baileth, behind rode a cloaked figure who turned aside and came up to Rifton. The brothers of Mor slowly passed by.

  “My brother Rifton,” a low, almost melodic voice whispered, “the blessings of the Saints be upon you.”

  “And also on you. Zimri,” Rifton said coldly.

  Rifton turned and looked at the Archbishop of Mor. In the torchlight he could barely see the features of the man. The cowl was pulled up, but Zimri wore no mask against the cold and his soft, doelike eyes were mirrors of piety. The thin, bloodless lips and the high, arching cheekbones were pale in the cold light, as if Zimri’s once handsome features had been carved from lifeless marble. The right side of Zimri’s face was tom and scarred from temple to jaw. As he looked at Zimri in the torchlight, Rifton could almost feel pity for him. He could almost understand. With a mumbled curse he turned away. No, no pity for Zimri.

  “It’s a good night for a sailing,” Zimri said, and a faint smile curled the edge of his mouth.

  Rifton did not answer.

  “Tell me, good brother, do you think the Supplication will succeed this year?” With that Zimri laughed softly.

  “Of course. Brother Zimri,” Rifton replied so that all could hear. “Of course, I believe the Supplication will succeed. Why, do you doubt Holy Writ?”

  The monks around them stopped their conversation and turned to stare. Zimri glared at Rifton for a moment then silently galloped off to the head of his column.

  “That was dangerous, your Holiness,” Niall murmured from the darkness, “especially now.”

  Rifton waved the advice aside. He watched his enemy disappear into the dark. Rifton, the Archbishop of St. Awstin, the order of scribes, chartmakers, and knowledge-keepers, was locked in a death struggle with the young Archbishop of Mor, of the warrior order, and he had to attack whenever possible. By tradition, as head of the oldest brotherhood, St. Awstin’s Archbishop would rise to the seat of Holy Father, and so it had been for a thousand years. But all was changed. With the plague years and the Forty Years’ War, Mor’s warrior brethren had risen in power until now Zimri was making inroads with the council. He had just been appointed Secretary to the Holy Father and his next target was obvious.

  The attack had taken a new turn only the week before at the close of the council of bishops. The archbishops and the fifty brothers of the hidden image were at the closing meeting when Zimri made his move.

  “By the way, Rifton, Halvin’s chart reader and scribe has fallen ill and cannot sail. Can you help me with this?”

  Rifton sensed a trap; assignment of personnel was a job for a secretary, not an archbishop. “I shall look into it.”

  “Fine, fine,” Zimri said, turning away as if the matter were dropped. He turned back suddenly and added, “By the way I understand you have a nephew of sailing age.”

  The archbishops now looked toward Rifton. None of them had known.

  “Yes,” Rifton said coldly.

  “Funny, I’ve never seen him.”

  Rifton cursed silently. What traitor had told Zimri? “Yes. You see, he is in the cloistered life.”

  “Well, then,” Zimri said with a cold smile, “a voyage in service to our Church would be a fine change for him. Don’t you think?” Thus was Michael’s fate sealed.

  Niall nudged Rifton’s leg and brought him back from his thoughts. “It’s time,” Niall whispered.

  Rifton looked up to find that the procession of Mor was long past. He signaled to the archdeacons, and the five hundred brothers of St. Awstin filed across the square and out onto the harbor plain.

  At harbor’s edge, the bare masts of twenty ships cut a patchwork of lines that were silhouetted by the flickering lights of the aurora that shimmered in the northern sky. Overhead the Arch was unusually bright, rising in the east and passing straight overhead to set on the western Ice.

  The ships, whose sleek lines and sharp blades seemed to speak of speed and grace, were motionless; their decks empty; the crews drawn up before them by rank and house. In the bundled garb of the ice runners, the crews appeared to be long lines of faceless bearlike creatures. Only the family crest sewed over the right breast or the guild or brotherhood sign embossed upon the fur helmets identified any man.

  There was an air of excitement about them as they stood in ordered ranks and awaited the coming of the holy brothers. True, it was the Night of Supplication, but it was also the night of sailing, the start of another campaign that would leave some of them rich, and many others buried beneath the Frozen Sea. For a few, though, there was another reason—it was the night that had long been foretold, the night that they had waited and plotted over for years.

  From the city the gentle wind carried the sound of chanting, and gradually the men grew silent. The age-old
ritual set down in the Books of the Saints was about to take place, in this the two thousand and twenty-first year of the Ice.

  At first the men could just see the glimmering light of the torches, then gradually the forms became visible as the orders shuffled across the ice. Onward the column came, with the brotherhoods forming a great arch facing the ships and crews. Those who would sail stepped forward from the various orders to join their crews.

  The Brotherhood of Mor now marched into view, and from that column almost half the brothers stepped forward and went to the twenty ships of the fleet. They were the gundeacons, the powder handlers, the warrior brothers who comprised the gun crews of the fleet. The dark blue robes mingled with the great mass of men and all then stood silent.

  Finally the brothers of Saint Awstin walked upon the ice. The tenors started the chant to St. Awstin. With the first chilling ICE PROPHET

  note, the column exploded with light, the brothers held their torches aloft, and with their chant echoing across the ice, they marched to the great pulpit that had been prepared in the center of the harbor.

  Upon his mare, Rifton looked out at the people and laughed quietly with pleasure. Mather’s little trick with the torches had impressed the crowd. Zimri would be wondering how St. Awstin had learned the Morian secret of lighting without flint.

  The holy procession soon ended as the chant to St. Awstin came to its peaceful conclusion. Removing his hood and face mask, Rifton looked upward to the Arch. It was shining so brightly that he felt he could reach up and touch it. During the year the shining band of light had shifted back and forth across the heavens, but for the Night of Supplication it divided the sky evenly into two. For several moments he sat in silent thought, oblivious to those awaiting him.