"Who? who calls the Landgrave's daughter?"

"And give us some help," the voice added, ignoring her request. Two figures limped out from behind an enormous boulder. One promptly slumped to a sitting position. The other figure fell atop the first, rolled off to one side and lay panting on the ice.

"I have a broken leg and torn dan, and this soldier of Moulokin is sorely hurt. I sewed up his belly as best I could, but I am no seamstress or physician."

"Hunnar? Hunnar Redbeard?" She slid off the section of ruined mainmast, chivaned recklessly toward the two shapes.

Tonx Ghin Rakossa did not die easily. The same forces that powered the demons within him refused to let him perish.

He snugged the too-small cloak more tightly around his torso, leaned against the howling wind. Curse the leperworm RoVijar for the damage he'd done before he died! Rakossa's dan were too badly torn to give the wind purchase, and his left arm dangled uselessly from the shoulder.

But the former Landgrave of Arsudun was worse off. Rakossa warmed himself with the memory of RoVijar's neck snapping beneath his fingers. The Arsudunite had been weak in the end, weak from the softness inflicted on him by offworld luxuries.

When we return to Poyolavomaar and reclaim the throne, he thought venomously, we will deal with these offworlders once and for all.

His return to the citystate would provoke much consternation on the part of T'hosjer and the other traitors. How he would enjoy that confrontation! His allies remained safe at court and his lineage as Land-grave was unchallengeable. His claim would hold, and his very presence make liars of the traitors.

To salvage their own precious necks, many of the common soldiers who survived would suddenly have second thoughts about any tale T'hosjer could conjur. Then he would have the pleasure of watching those traitors toast over low coals, until their fur blackened and their bare skin began to peel away.

But first he had to get there.

The walls of the plateau were growing gradually nearer, despite his arduous means of traveling by use of his legs alone. He was safely distant from vengeful Moulokin and should encounter no soldiers this far from the city. Within the lee of the cliffs he should find some shelter from the nightwinds, and likely some scattered pikapina or other vegetation to eat.

Trading vessels should pa.s.s this way soon. He would hail one leaving Moulokin. Of his ability to pa.s.s him-self off as a survivor of the battle he had no doubt, for words had always been his most effective weapon. While not clad in Moulokinese attire, his adopting of RoVijar's would not mark him as a dangerous Poyo either. The brotherhood of ice sailors being what it was, he would likely be treated kindly and carried to the merchant's home port.

Once there, he could eventually buy, steal, or cajole a raft to carry him home to Poyolavomaar and revenge.

Something moved on the ice to the south. He froze, until he saw it was no roving carnivore but a ship, and a tiny one at that. Too small to be a merchantman, it probably held ice gleaners searching the cliffs for edible plants or animals. Simple hunters and gatherers, now able to ply their trade outside the secured city. In RoVijar's cloak he should not immediately be regarded as an enemy. If they were not of Moulokin he could retain his first plan. If they were of the city, he could feed them a formidable tale of shipwreck and woe.

Either way, he could gain their confidence long enough to give time to dispatch them, despite his one useless arm. That would give him a raft far sooner than he'd dared hoped. Why, it was not inconceivable that he could reach Poyolavomaar ahead of the traitors. How gratifying it would be to stand at the harbor front and greet T'hosjer upon his arrival!

The little raft drew nearer. He slumped to the ice. Let them think him more sorely afflicted than he was, the better to lull any suspicions they might have of him. Stone chiv braked to a halt nearby. There was the noise of someone stepping onto the ice. Slow chivaning sounds reached him, then stopped. He waited patiently, but no further indication of movement came. Only the ever-present wind, skipping and moaning over the ice like a mournful spinster.

Best to show them he was alive. He made his voice a weak croak. "Blessed are those who give succor to the wounded in time of trouble."

The chivaning started again, but moved not toward him. Instead, it seemed as if he was being slowly circled.

"Blessed are those who deal in justice, to reward the persistent."

That voice sounded half familiar, despite the wind's distorting. He rolled over, wishing for a sword. A glimpse of his hoped-for savior made his wide yellow eyes bulge wider.

_"YOU!"_.

For the first time in several days, screams rang across the ocean. They lingered, growing progressively fainter, for three days before ceasing altogether.

No one thought to question Teeliam Hoh when she sailed her tiny raft back into the harbor of Moulokin many days after the Great Battle, and none dared ask the source of the terrible content that shone in her face. She became a much-respected member of the Lady K'ferr's household staff and lived a long and fruitful life in Moulokin. She had many pleasurable affairs and encounters, though she never mated, since relationships always faded whenever any male grew close enough to see what remained forever fixed within her eyes.

"What will you do now, friend Ethan?" Hunnar rocked awkwardly on his crutches as the _Slanderscree_ heeled slightly to port.

They'd left Moulokin several days ago, promising to return and complete formal doc.u.mentation of alliance between Sofold and the canyon city at first oppor-tunity. Meanwhile the Moulokinese would sail out to spread the gospel of the Union of Ice and the confederation of all Tran among surrounding city-states and towns.

"I still have a job to return to." Ethan spoke ruefully. "At least, I think I do. I'm a bit overdue at my next scheduled stop."

Skua September stood nearby, his suit hood back, enjoying the minus twenty-five degree wind blowing in his face. He had one foot up on the railing and held himself steady with a ma.s.sive hand entwined in the pikapina rigging as he gazed out across the ice ocean. They had many satch to travel before reaching Bra.s.s Monkey.

"You really goin' back to that business, young feller-me-lad?"

"It's what I know best. If I'm lucky, I might be promoted to a management position in a few years."

September made an impolite noise.

"M'nag, what is that, friend Ethan?" Hunnar looked curious.

"I would direct others at the job I'm doing now, supervise them. When the next Commissioner arrives here and begins recruiting a network of Tran to act as Commonwealth agents for Tran-ky-ky, he'll be delegating similar jobs. You'd be a good candidate for one such important post, Hunnar."

"He is candidate for no post," said Elfa KurdaghVlata, laying a possessive paw on the knight's shoulder. With his broken leg, Hunnar was unable to draw away -not that he wished to. "Upon my father's pa.s.sing, he is to be my ruler-mate in Wannome."

"Well, that's a pretty good management position too," Ethan admitted with a smile. They could see the smile through his survival-suit mask. Copying September, he slid it back, gasped as the cold air struck him.

The shock pa.s.sed quickly. The wind was blowing no more than a dozen k.p.h. Coupled with the gentle tem-perature, it made the day seem positively tropical. He watched the white sea skim by beneath the icerigger's duralloy runners. Perhaps he would doff the survival suit altogether, plus the clothes beneath, and enjoy a sunbath in the shelter of the central cabin.

He considered other options besides the obvious. What of the distant, wealthy Colette du Kane? By now he had acquired almost enough self-confidence to deal equally with that ma.s.sively composed woman. It was a possibility he should reconsider.

Especially if he had lost his job.

"Will you come back, Sir Ethan?" Hunnar asked hopefully.

"I'd like to."

"Me also, feller-me-lad."

Leaving Hunnar and Elfa locked in more than just conversation, the two humans moved off across the deck.

"We've made a lot of friends here, Skua."

"Oh, I wouldn't come back just for that reason, lad." The giant grinned that knowing grin which gave him the look of a man half devil, half prophet. "I've friends scattered all over the Commonwealth, on more worlds than I can remember. Fact is, I've other places to visit.

"There's this gal on Alaspin, she's an archeologist thinks she's onto somethin'. Been wantin' me to come 'round that way for a couple o' years and help her out on some big dig. As I've only been to Alaspin once be-fore, I think I might just drop down that way and look her up again."

"Then if not for the friends, why would you want to come back?"

"Why, young feller-me-lad?" September's smile widened. "You saw the carvings and inscriptions and mo-saics in the mountain-city, and you heard our teacher friend Milliken hypothesize a different ecology, where the predominant color's green 'stead of white.

"Yes, I'd like to come back all-right. In about ten thousand years or so when this world swings close by its star again and the cycle shifts from cold to warm. I'd like to sail these same oceans again in a real boat, though the ol' _Slanderscree's_ got her points." He tapped the wooden rail affectionately.

"Think on those carvings again, feller-me-lad. Ten thousand years from now, why, it'd be nice to be here. Because when those frozen seeds thaw out fast, there's gonna be a few hundred billion flowers all bloomin' at once."

--- Copyright

A Del Rey Book Published by Ballantine Books Copyright 1979 by Alan Dean Foster All rights reserved under International and PanAmerican Copy-right Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 7870603 ISBN 0345333225 Manufactured in the United States of America First Edition: April 1979 Tenth Printing: May 1989 Cover Art by Michael Herring --- *About the Author*

Born in New York City in 1946, Alan Dean Foster was raised in Los Angeles, California. After receiv-ing a Bachelor's degree in Political Science and a Master of Fine Arts in Motion Pictures from UCLA in 196869, he worked for two years as a public relations copywriter in a small Studio City, Califor-nia firm.

His writing career began in 1968 when August Derleth bought a long letter of Foster's and published it as a short story in his biannual _Arkham Collector Magazine_. Sales of short fiction to other magazines followed. His first try at a novel, _The TarAiym Krang_, was published by Ballantine Books in 1972.

Foster has toured extensively through Asia and the isles of the Pacific. Besides traveling he enjoys cla.s.sical and rock music, old films, basketball, body surfing, and karate. He has taught screen writing, lit-erature, and film history at UCLA and Los Angeles City College.

Currently he resides in Arizona with his wife JoAnn (who is reputed to have the only extant recipe for Barbarian Cream Pie).