For a moment the whaling captain’s legs kicked, then they too disappeared. Arflane had automatically turned the wheel again, to go to the rescue of his friend, but it was too late.
As they bore down on the towering bulk of the bull, he saw that Urquart was no longer at the bow. Manfred Rorsefne stood in his place, swinging the great harpoon gun into line.
Arflane grabbed his megaphone and yelled through it.
‘Rorsefne! Fool! Don’t shoot it!’
The other evidently heard him, waved a one-handed acknowledgment, then bent back over the gun.
Arflane tried to turn the boat’s runners in time, but it was too late. There was a thudding concussion that ran all along the boat as the massive harpoon left the gun and, its line racing behind it, buried itself deep in the whale’s side.
The monster rose on its hind flippers, its front limbs waving. A high screaming sound came from its open jaws and its shadow completely covered the yacht. The boat lurched forward, dragged by the harpoon line, its forward runners rising off the ice. Then the line came free. Rorsefne had not secured it properly. The boat thudded down.
The bull lowered his bulk to the ice and began to move rapidly towards the yacht, its jaws snapping. Arflane managed to turn again; the jaws missed the prow, but the gigantic body smashed against the starboard side. The yacht rocked, nearly toppled, then righted herself.
Manfred Rorsefne was fumbling with the gun, trying to load another harpoon. Then the starboard runners, strained beyond endurance by the jolt they had taken, cracked and broke. The yacht collapsed on to her starboard side, the deck sloping at a steep angle. Arflane was sent flying against the bulkhead as the yacht skidded sideways across the ice, colliding with the rear quarters of the whale as it turned to attack.
Arflane reached out and grabbed the rail of the companionway. He began with great difficulty to crawl up to the bridge. His only thoughts now were for the safety of Ulrica Ulsenn.
As he clambered up, he stared into the terrified face of Janek Ulsenn. He swung aside to let the man push past him. When he reached the bridge, he saw Ulrica lying crumpled against the rail.
Arflane slithered across the sloping deck, and crouched to turn her over. She was not dead, but there was a livid bruise on her forehead;
Arflane paused, staring at the beautiful face; then he swung her across his shoulder and began to fight his way back to the companionway as the whale bellowed and returned to the attack.
When he reached the deck the crewmen were clambering desperately over the port rail, dropping to the ice and running for their lives. Manfred Rorsefne, Urquart, and Haeber were nowhere to be seen; but Arflane made out the figure of Janek Ulsenn being helped away from the wrecked boat by two of the crew.
Climbing across the sloping deck by means of the tangle of rigging, Arflane had almost reached the rail when the whale crashed down on the boat’s bow. He fell backwards against the wheelhouse, seeing the vast bulk of the creature’s head a few feet away from him.
He lost his hold on Ulrica and she rolled away from him towards the stern. He crawled after her, grabbing at the trailing fabric of her long skirt. Again the boat listed, this time towards the bow; he barely managed to stop himself from being catapulted into the gaping jaws by clinging to the mainmast shrouds. Supporting the woman with one arm, he glanced around for a means of escape.
As the whale’s head turned, the cold, pain-glazed eyes of the monster regarding him, he grabbed the starboard rail and flung himself and the girl towards and over it, careless of any consideration other than escaping the beast for a few moments.
They fell heavily to the snow. He dragged himself upright, once again got Ulrica Ulsenn over his shoulder, and began to stumble away, his boots sliding on the ice beneath the thin covering of snow. Ahead of him lay a harpoon that must have been shaken from the ship. He paused to pick it up, then staggered on. Behind him the whale snorted; he heard the thump of its flippers, felt them shaking the ground as the beast lumbered in pursuit.
He turned, saw the creature bearing down on him, threw Ulrica’s body as far away from him as possible, and poised the harpoon. His only chance was to strike one of the eyes and pierce the brain, killing the beast before it killed him; then he might save Ulrica.
He flung the harpoon at the whale’s glaring right eye. The barbs struck true, pierced, but did not reach the brain. The whale stopped in its tracks, turning as it attempted to shake the lance from its blinded eye.
Then the left eye saw Arflane.
The creature paused, snorting and squealing in a curiously high-pitched tone.
Then, before it could come at him again, Arflane glimpsed a movement to his right. The whale also saw the movement and it lifted its head, opening its jaws.
Urquart, with his huge harpoon held in one hand, came running at the beast, hurled himself without stopping at its body, his fingers grasping its hair.
The whale reared again, but could not dislodge the harpooner. Urquart began relentlessly to climb up on to its back. The whale, instinctively aware that once it rolled over and exposed its belly it would be lost, bucked and threshed, but could not rid itself of the small creature that had now reached its back and, on hands and knees, was moving up to its head.
The whale saw Arflane again and snorted.
Cautiously, it pushed itself forward on its flippers, forgetting its burden. Arflane was transfixed, watching in fascination as Urquart slowly rose to a standing position, planting his feet firmly on the whale’s back and raising his harpoon in both hands.
The whale quivered, as if anticipating its death. Then Urquart’s muscles strained as, with all his strength, he drove the mighty harpoon deep into the creature’s vertebrae, dragged it clear, and plunged it in again.
A great column of blood gouted from the whale’s back, obscuring all sight of Urquart and spattering down on Arflane. He turned towards Ulrica Ulsenn as she stirred and moaned.
The hot black blood rained down her too, drenching them both.
She stood up dazedly and opened her arms, her golden eyes looking into Arflane’s.
He stepped forward and embraced her, holding her tightly against his blood-slippery body while behind them the monster screamed, shuddered, and died. For minutes its pungent, salty blood gushed out in huge spurts, drenching them, but they were hardly aware of it.
Arflane held the woman to him. Her hands clutched at his back as she shivered and whimpered. She had begun to weep.
He stood there holding her for several minutes at the very least, his own eyes tightly shut, before he became aware of the presence of others.
He opened his eyes and looked about him.
Urquart lounged nearby, his body relaxed, his eyes hooded, his face as sternly set as ever. Near him was Manfred Rorsefne. The young man’s left arm hung limply at his side and his face was white with pain, but when he spoke it was in the same light, insouciant tone he always used.
‘Forgive me this interruption, captain. But I think we are about to see the noble Lord Janek . . .’
Reluctantly Arflane released Ulrica; she wiped blood from her face and looked about her vaguely. For a second she held his arm, then released it as she recognized her cousin.
Arflane turned and saw the dead bulk of the monster towering over them only a few feet away. Rounding it, aided by two of his men, came Janek Ulsenn. He had broken at least one leg, probably both.
‘Haeber is dead,’ Manfred said. ‘And half the crew.’
‘We all deserve to be dead,’ grunted Arflane. ‘I knew that boat was too brittle - and you were a fool to use the harpoon. It might have avoided us if you hadn’t provoked it.’
‘And then we should have missed the excitement!’ Rorsefne exclaimed. ‘Don’t be ungrateful, captain.’
Janek Ulsenn looked at his wife and saw something in her expression which made him frown. He glanced at Arflane questioningly. Manfred Rorsefne stepped forward and gave Ulsenn a mock salute.
‘Your wife is still in
one piece, Janek, if that’s what concerns you. Doubtless you’re curious as to her fate after you left her on the bridge . . .’
Arflane looked at Rorsefne. ‘How did you know he did that?’
Manfred smiled. ‘I, captain, climbed the rigging. I had a splendid view. I saw everything. No one saw me.’ He turned his attention back to Janek Ulsenn. ‘Ulrica’s life was saved by Captain Arflane and later, when he killed the whale, by cousin Urquart. Will you thank them, my lord?’
Janek Ulsenn said: ‘I have broken both my legs.’
Ulrica Ulsenn spoke for the first time. Her voice was as vibrant as ever, though a little distant, as if she had not entirely recovered from her shock.
‘Thank you, Captain Arflane. I am very grateful. You seem to make it your business, saving Rorsefnes.’ She smiled weakly and looked round at Urquart. ‘Thank you, Long Lance. You are a brave man. You are both brave.’
The glance she then turned on her husband was one of pure contempt. His own expression, already drawn by the pain from his broken legs, became increasingly tense. He spoke sharply. ‘There is a ship which will take us back.’ He motioned with his head. ‘It is over there. We will go to it, Ulrica.’
When Ulrica obediently followed her departing husband as he was helped away by his men, Arflane made to step forward; but Manfred Rorsefne’s hand gripped his shoulder.
‘She is his wife,’ Manfred said softly and quite seriously.
Arflane tried to shake off the young man’s grip. In a lighter tone Manfred added: ‘Surely you, of all people, respect our old laws and customs most, Captain Arflane?’
Arflane spat on the ice.
7 The Funeral on the Ice
Lord Pyotr Rorsefne had died in their absence; two days later his funeral took place.
Also to be buried that day were Brenn of the Tender Maiden and Haeber, first officer of the ice yacht. There were three separate funerals being held beyond the city, but only Rorsefne’s was splendid.
Looking across the white ice, with its surface snow whipped into eddying movement by the frigid wind, Arflane could see all three burial parties. He reflected that it was the Rorsefnes who had killed his old friend Brenn, and Haeber too; their jaunt to the whaling grounds had caused both deaths. But he could not feel much bitterness.
On his distant left and right were black sledges bearing the plain coffins of Brenn and Haeber, while ahead of him moved the funeral procession of Pyotr Rorsefne, of which he was part, coming behind the relatives and before the servants and other mourners. His face was solemn but Arflane felt very little emotion at all, although initially he had been shocked to learn of Rorsefne’s death.
Wearing the black sealskin mourning cloak stitched with the red insignia of the Rorsefne clan, Arflane sat in a sleigh drawn by wolves with black-dyed coats. He held the reins himself. Also in heavy black cloaks, Manfred Rorsefne and the dead man’s daughter, Ulrica, sat together on another sleigh drawn by black wolves, and behind them were miscellaneous members of the Rorsefne and Ulsenn families. Janek Ulsenn was too ill to attend. At the head of the procession, moving slowly, was the black funeral sleigh, with its high prow and stern, bearing the ornate ivory coffin in which lay the dead Lord Rorsefne.
Ponderously, the dark procession crossed the ice. Above it, heavy white clouds gathered and the sun was obscured. Light snow was falling.
At length the burial pit came into sight. It had been carved from the ice and gleaming blocks of ice stood piled to one side. Near this pile stood a large loading boom which had been used to haul up the blocks. The boom with its struts and hanging tackle resembled a gallows, silhouetted against the cold sky.
The air was very quiet, save for the slow scrape of the runners and the faint moan of the wind.
A motionless figure stood near the piled ice blocks. It was Urquart, face frozen as usual, bearing his long lance as usual, come to witness his father’s burial. Snow had settled on his piled hair and his shoulders, increasing his resemblance to a member of the Ice Mother’s hierarchy.
They came nearer and Arflane was able to hear the creak of the loading beam as it swung in the wind; he saw that Urquart’s face was not quite without expression. There was a peculiar look of disappointment there, as well as a trace of anger.
The procession gradually came to a halt near the black hole in the ice. Snow pattered on the coffin and the wind caught their cloaks and ripped the hood from Ulrica Ulsenn’s head. Arflane glimpsed her tear-streaked face as she pulled the fabric back into place. Manfred Rorsefne, his broken arm in a sling beneath his cloak, turned to nod at Arflane. They got down from their sleighs and, with four of the male relatives, approached the coffin.
Manfred, helped by a boy of about fifteen, cut loose the black wolves and handed their harness to two servants who stood ready. Then, three men on either side, they pushed the heavy sleigh to the pit.
It balanced on the edge for a moment, as if in reluctance, then slid over and fell into the darkness. They heard it crash at the bottom; then they walked to the pile of ice blocks to throw them into the pit and seal it. But Urquart had already taken the first block in both hands, his harpoon for once lying on the ice where he had placed it. He lifted the block high and flung it down with great force, his lips drawn back from his teeth, his eyes full of fire. He paused, looking into the pit, wiping his hands on his greasy coat, then, picking up his harpoon, he walked away as Arflane and the others began to push the rest of the blocks towards the edge.
It took an hour to fill the pit and erect the flag bearing the Rorsefne arms. The flag fluttered in the wind. Gathered around it now were the mourners, their heads bowed as Manfred Rorsefne used his good hand to climb clumsily to the top of the heaped ice to begin the funeral oration.
‘The Ice Mother’s son returns to her cold womb,’ he began in the traditional way. ‘As she gave him life, she takes it; but he will exist now for eternity in the halls of ice where the Mother holds court. Imperishable, she rules the world. Imperishable are those who join her now. Imperishable, she will make the world one thing, without age or movement; without desire or frustration; without anger or joy; perfect and whole and silent. Let us join her soon.’
He had spoken well and clearly, with some emotion.
Arflane dropped to one knee and repeated the final sentence. ‘Let us join her soon.’
Behind him, responding with less fervour, the others followed his example, muttering the words where he had spoken them boldly.
8 Rorsefne’s Will
Arflane, possibly more than anyone, sensed the guilt Ulrica Ulsenn felt over her father’s death. Very little guilt, or indeed grief now, showed on her features, but her manner was at once remote and tense. It was at her instigation, as well as Manfred’s, that the disastrous expedition had set off on the very day her father had died.
Arflane realized that she was not to blame for thinking him almost completely recovered; in fact there seemed no logical reason why he should have weakened so rapidly. It appeared that his heart, always considered healthy, had given out soon after he had dictated a will which was to be read later that afternoon to Arflane and the close relatives. Pyotr Rorsefne had died at about the same time the whale had attacked and destroyed the yacht, a few hours after he had spoken to Arflane of New York.
Sitting stiffly upright in a chair, hands clasped in her lap, Ulrica Ulsenn waited with Arflane, Manfred Rorsefne, and her husband, who lay on a raised stretcher, in the anteroom adjoining what had been her father’s study. The room was small, its walls crowded with hunting trophies from Pyotr Rorsefne’s youth. Arflane found unpleasant the musty smell that came from the heads of the beasts.
The door of the study opened and Strom, the wizened old man who had been Pyotr Rorsefne’s general retainer, beckoned them wordlessly into the room.
Arflane and Manfred Rorsefne stooped to pick up Ulsenn’s stretcher and followed Ulrica Ulsenn into the study.
The study was reminiscent of a ship’s cabin, though the light came from dim
lighting strips instead of portholes. Its walls were lined from floor to ceiling with lockers. A large desk of yellow ivory stood in the centre; on it rested a single sheet of thin plastic. The sheet was large and covered in brown writing, as if it had been inscribed in blood. It curled at the ends; evidently it had been unrolled only recently.
The old man took Manfred Rorsefne to the desk and sat him down in front of the paper; then he left the room.
Manfred sighed and tapped his fingers on the desk as he read the will. Normally Janek Ulsenn should have fulfilled this function, but the fever which had followed his accident had left him weak and only now was he pushing himself into a sitting position so that he could look over the top of the desk and regard his wife’s cousin through baleful, disturbed eyes.
‘What does it say?’ he asked weakly but impatiently.
‘Little that we did not expect,’ Manfred told him, still reading. There was a slight smile on his lips now.
‘Why is this man here?’ Ulsenn motioned with his hand towards Arflane.
‘He is mentioned in the will, cousin.’
Arflane glanced over Ulsenn’s head at Ulrica, but she refused to look in his direction.
‘Read it out,’ said Ulsenn, sinking back on to one arm. ‘Read it out, Manfred.’
Manfred shrugged and began to read.
‘“The Will of Pyotr Rorsefne, Chief Ship Lord of Friesgait,”‘ he began. “The Rorsefne is dead. The Ulsenn rules,’” he glanced sardonically at the reclining figure. ‘“Save all my fortune and estates and ships, which I hereby will to be divided equally between my daughter and my nephew. I hereby present the command of my schooner the Ice Spirit to Captain Konrad Arflane of Brershill, so that he may take her to New York on the course charted on the maps I also leave to him. If Captain Arflane should find the city of New York and live to return to Friesgalt, he shall become whole owner of the Ice Spirit, and any cargo she may then carry. To benefit from my will, my daughter Ulrica and my nephew Manfred must accompany Captain Arflane upon his voyage. Captain Arflane shall have complete power over all who sail with him. Pyotr Rorsefne of Friesgalt.”‘