The Horned Prow

When the ice closed in, the ships were caught. Thane Ranne’s wounded fleet lay close to a rocky shore, the ice too thick to force a way through. The half-dozen longships groaned as the ice locked them in and winter descended, coating their dragon prows with ice. The sky was low and heavy with snow, and the winds from the northern seas were bitter and hungry, seeking for blood.

Buran was a young hearthman, and this raid had not borne him the fruits he had hoped for. He huddled against the rail on watch, keeping his gaze on the ice. He could not see far in the dim light, and the haze of the low clouds made the world a place of shadow and darkness. This had been his first taste of war, and it had been bitter.

A dozen war craft had set out, planning a surprise attack on the shores of Hadrad. It was the closing days of autumn, and no one would expect a sudden attack in ill weather and cold seas. They had planned to fire King Arnan’s hall and then range along the shores and pillage settlements and the halls of lesser thanes. Then they would slip back north before the freeze and return home covered in glory and laden with plunder.

But the ice came early and slowed their passage southward. Arnan and his war-hound Crune had been warned, and when they went ashore they met a heavy force of steel-clad warriors that threw them back into the sea with a price of blood. Buran had taken a hard blow on the helm and been carried senseless back to the ships as they escaped. Two had been burned before they could put to sea, and the others were short of crew.

There had been other raids in the weeks since, ships going ashore to plunder for firewood and food, rather than gold. Ranne still dreamed of a rich strike to fill the ship holds with treasure, but there was nothing. The heavy autumn mists separated the longships and now they were only six, with many wounded and hungry men. Now the winter had come and trapped them, and they would have to remain here until the thaw came in spring. The men looked ahead to privation and hunger and long winter nights. Already there were bitter words and hidden anger.

Orl came and struck him lightly on the shoulder. “You watch is up, go below. The Thane wants to see you.”

Buran shrugged his fur closer around himself and made his way out of the wind without complaint. The center of the ship was a well that led down to the benches for the rowers. Now it had been roofed over with heavy sailcloth to make a shelter against the winter. It was not truly warm inside, but at least the wind did not bite his flesh.

Buran had not won glory in the battle, and so he did not know why he was summoned to the presence of the Thane. He wore his sword, because he had the right to wear it, but he thought perhaps he would be sent out to scout the land. The island they were up against was stony and small – too small to provide enough food for so many. With the ice thickening they might cross over to larger islands and find wood for fires and meat for men.

He made his way aft to where Ranne held his small court. There was a chair draped in furs and Ranne sat in it, surrounded by his closest hearthmen and his guards. He well knew many men already cursed him for leading them here. He would be a fool to go without protection.

Buran bowed, hand to his heart, and Ranne acknowledged him with a small gesture. He had been wounded in the face in the battle, and his left eye was still swollen shut, his cheek discolored beneath his blond beard.

“My Thane,” Buran said.

“Buran, you did not win glory in the battle. Now I give you the chance to make amends for that.” Ranne looked at him searchingly with his one good eye, as if seeking a weakness.

Buran struggled not to show his anger at the insult on his face. Some of the other hearthmen hid smiles and he promised them repayment someday. “I would be glad to aid you, my Thane.”

“Good. The men I sent seal hunting have returned, and they did not come empty handed. But while they were away, they believe they saw one of the missing ships.” Ranne shifted his seat and idly stroked the pin of his wolfskin cloak. “They were cold, and had meat to bring back, so they did not pursue it. I am sending you. It was almost straight north of us, around the rocks and just in sight of another headland. Find it, and if there are men there bring them back, along with any supplies they have. To live this winter, we will all have to live and work as one.” He tapped his fingers on his sword hilt. “As one.”

Buran worked hard to keep the resentment from his face. Sent alone after a ship frost-addled hunters imagined they saw. It was a punishment, and nothing less. An insult because they thought he had no courage. He swallowed his pride and nodded. “It shall be done, my Thane.” He bowed again and left without waiting to be dismissed, and that was a slight balm. He would find what there was to find.

o0o

Crossing the ice was always treacherous, and alone he would be in danger. He slung a shield over his back, and he carried a stout spear to help him balance if the ice cracked or shifted. He borrowed an additional layer of furs and pulled his helm down low over his face, tied a cloth over his mouth and nose. He would have to move quickly, lest he be caught in the open once night fell.

Buran had crossed ice many times, but this was different. The freshly frozen autumn ice was not yet solid, and he felt it shift and settle when he put his weight on it. It creaked and cracked and sang little notes, and soon he was alone with the small sounds and the ruffle of the wind. If he looked back he saw the ships clustered near to the shore, masts bare and black in the deepening light. It was full day, but through the heavy clouds the sun was no more than a presence that brought neither warmth nor comfort.

He walked with the spear held in both hands, extended side to side so if he fell through a weak point it might catch him and give him a way to escape. Sometimes he used it to probe the surface ahead of him, seeking hidden cracks. The snow began to fall, scattering across the ice, and he knew it would make the path more treacherous.

The way north was well-marked by the rocky tip of the island, gray stones jutting up into the sky. He followed the shoreline where the ice was thicker, watchful for any movement. He did not think the warriors of Hadrad would venture forth in pursuit of them in this weather, but there were other dangers than men out here in the cold. Every man heard tales of the Undergods when he was a boy – those dark gods who had ruled men before the Speargod drove them away to linger in the hidden corners of the earth. Sceatha the Worm, Marrow the Sea-Hunger, Thurr the Kin-Eater, and the others spoken of even less. Buran knew more deadly things than men prowled the deep places of the world.

He passed the headland, where the seal-hunters had dragged up their prey and butchered it. Blood lay on the ice, staining the white with the deadly red turning black. It gave him a feeling of foreboding, seeing the slaughter ground there beneath the rearing stones, like sacrificial rocks. He gripped his spear more closely, and he turned his face to the open ice north of him.

Once beyond the shelter of the island, the wind grew harsher, and he shrugged deeper into his cloak. If the hunters had seen a ship, then he should be able to see it soon, even with the thickening snow. He pushed out onto the ice, hearing it groan under him as he left the shore and crossed deeper waters. He imagined the hidden places under him, what manner of things might be there, watching his shadow, and it made him shiver.

He looked back, telling himself that he would not go beyond sight of the island, otherwise he might become lost and wander out here in the cold until it took him. The ice here was slippery, and he needed his spearpoint to dig in and keep him on his feet. He looked north, squinting. He would not go much farther. He swore it to himself.

He saw the shadow out on the ice and hesitated. He could not tell for certain what it was. It would be another small island, or a rock, or even a break in the ice. A glance back showed him the island fading into the mist of the dark and the swirling snow. He could not go very much farther.

Buran stood for a moment, leaning on his spear, torn between one path and the other. He could go back and say he had seen nothing, and it would not be a lie. All he could make out was a shadow, and it would be foolish to wander out and die for a shadow. Yet if he went back with nothing to show, he would not gain any estimation in the eyes of the Thane or the other hearthmen. If he could find another ship and bring back men and supplies, then he would have shown he was not unworthy. He had to decide.

It was far too cold here for him to ponder very long. He ground his teeth and then he stabbed his spear into the ice so it stood upright. If he left it here as a way-marker he could go farther and might see what there was to see. He tested the shaft to be sure it was well-planted, and then he squared his shoulders and headed north, into the wind.

The shadow grew, and he soon saw it was indeed a ship, the dragon prow jutting up into the sky. The ship lay in the ice at an angle, as though it had begun to sink at the stern before the cold closed in and fixed it in place. Buran walked carefully, testing the ice. It would be thinner here, and might be worse close in to the hull. Snow almost blinded him and he ducked his head so the brow of his helm would shield his eyes. When he looked up he saw the corpses.

The ice around the ship was littered with still, dark shapes only now beginning to vanish into the snow. He saw scattered swords and axes, broken shields and spears. He slowed, looking for any sign of motion, or life, but he saw nothing.

Slowly, he swung his shield around from his back and gripped it in his left hand, letting the strap take the weight. He groped at his side and drew his axe from its loop, held it ready in his fist. The wind moaned over the ice, through the upthrust mast of the silent ship. The dead lay where they had fallen.

There was more cold within him than without as he crept closer to the ship. He saw the dead had been slain with axes or swords, hacked and cut apart. There was cold blood on the arching hull of the ship, so much that it had dripped down and frozen in place like dagger points. The wind scattered snow across the dead like salt, and he saw their faces, mouths wide and screaming into death.

He thought for a long moment of simply going back – go back and say he saw nothing – but he knew that was a coward’s thinking. He approached carefully, and then he walked along the side of the ship until he reached the place where it was sunk into the ice. The mast thrust up from below, and he saw the wood fade from sight as the ice thickened. It was frozen well down, with no water that he could see. It had been here long enough to be locked in, and there would be no freeing it.

Buran climbed over the rail and stood on the deck. It was canted at an angle, but not too steep, and he could stand on it if he leaned toward the prow. There was blood on the deck, and he saw sword-strokes on the wood of the deck and the rails. There had been a fight here, against what he did not know. He saw dead men entombed in the ice down in the rowers well, the benches dark with where they had bled to death, the oars locked in their white hands. Whatever had come, it had come swiftly.

He went forward and ducked down to push at the small door that led to the food storage. It was rimed with ice and he struck it with his axe-haft, the sound very loud in the quiet. The snow was drifting down more heavily now, and he wondered if he would be able to return. He wanted to go, leave this death-ship behind, but he had to look and see what supply might still remain. It would be a long winter locked in ice, and food would make the difference between life and death.

The door screeched as he pried it open, the hinges thick with ice, and then he was able to force his way inside. The space here was small, nestled up against the prow, and here were barrels of salted fish and dried berries, hard bread and pickled blubber. He stepped into the dark, and then something lashed out for his face. There was a grating sound, and the scent of blood suddenly caught at him like a dark hook.

He ducked back, and he felt a blow on his shield, then he shoved forward and struck something, heard a curse, and then he sidestepped enough to let in some of the feeble light and saw a man there on the floor, bloody-faced and breathing hard.

He was young, not even as old as Buran himself, and he clutched a dagger in his right hand. His left leg was a mass of darkened blood, and it was plain he could not stand. His eyes were wide and staring, and the blood on his thin beard had long ago frozen into crimson beads.

“Don’t think you will have me!” the boy hissed through gritted teeth. “I will not fall to you!”

Buran stepped back and pushed his helm up on his head. “Easy, I am no enemy. What happened here?”

The boy peered at him, and his face did not lose the pain-mad grimace that clutched it. “Who? Who are you? Who speaks?”

“I am Buran, hearth-man of the Thane. Who are you, what came here?” He felt the awareness of the dead ship at his back, nothing but the sound of the winds, and he shifted a little so he could see behind him. The quarters were so close in here he would not have room to swing his axe, but it was good to be out of the wind.

The boy’s eyes seemed to clear a little. Buran could see his leg wound was very bad. If the blood had not frozen, he would likely have bled white hours ago. There was the close smell of an old wound in this cramped place.

“I am Erun, my father was Thrade, a hearthman himself. We came south with the warships, we raided the main lands, and then the cold and the mist, we were lost.” His blue eyes stared as if seeing something beyond the ship. “In the night came the mist, and the cold, and the ship was caught. I heard the grinding of the hull, like teeth. Like teeth.” He was pale, and his face had a gray sheen that spoke of death.

“Ice did not kill those men out there,” Buran said. “What happened? Tell me.” He was annoyed with the dying man, wanted answers before he could no longer give them. And he was afraid, though he strove to force it away. He felt something close, as if they were watched.

“They came,” the boy said, laughing as though he could hardly breathe. “They came from the dark. The ship with the horned prow. The ship of death.” Bloody slaver ran from his mouth. “The ship of the dead men, the dead men who walk, the dead men who kill. But they won’t have me.” He put the point of his knife under his own jaw, against the soft place just beneath the jawbone. “They won’t have me.”

He drove the steel point in with a sudden convulsion, and Buran stepped back as blood gushed out, sudden and dark. The boy made choking sounds and thrashed there in the darkness of the hold, gagging on his own blood until he was still, his last breath rasping out slow through his ravaged throat.

The silence loomed, and Buran shook off the sense of foreboding that lay over him like a cloak. The boy was dead, and his ravings were just that. Men in pain from wounds said all manner of things, and he could not let himself believe any of it. Food remained in the storage hold, and that he would take back with him. There was just time, if he was quick.

He took a long look around the desolate ice, seeing nothing but shadows in the haze and the descending snow. Nothing moved, and he put his axe back in the loop on his belt and slung his shield back over his shoulder. If he wished to get back, he had to set to work. He did not want to remain out here after nightfall.

o0o

He stripped a sheet of sailcloth from the ship and lay it on the ice, then he piled it high with the barrels of salt fish and the sacks of bread, and then he lashed it all together into a bundle that was far too heavy to lift, but could be dragged. He fixed ropes to it and slung them over his shoulder, gave an experimental pull to see how hard it was to shift, but it slid rather easily on the snow-dusted ice.

The weather gave him worry, because while he was busy the sky grew darker, and the wind had the restless shifting if an oncoming storm. The snow was thinner and dry, pelting his face in tiny beads of ice. A storm would blind him and he would never find his way, he had to get moving.

Buran pulled, and began to drag his prize across the ice, careful not to move too fast and exhaust himself, or too wildly and slip on the treacherous footing. The wind made it difficult, pushing him first one way, and then another. He oriented himself by the wreck, and then he struck out southward, head down against the biting gale.

He tried not to think of the dead men, of the bodies hacked to pieces, and what the mad boy had said. The dead men who walk. The men had fought over food or some other cause, and killed one another, leaving only one survivor. The rest of them must lie beneath the ice, caught at their oars and frozen into death. An end he could only shudder when he thought of it. Give him a clean death on the edge of a sword, not the grip of ice and cold. Not that.

The world around him was darkening, and he tried to quicken his pace. He should reach his spear soon, if it still stood, and then he would be sure he was on the right path. He tried to remember how far he had come to get from where he left it to the wreck, and he could not. He worried he would go too far the wrong way, and then he would be truly lost. There was no way to tell heading out here in the wind.

The snow grew heavier, and he heard the ice shifting and cracking as the wind pushed against it. It sounded like something forcing a path through the water, a ship, or some beast. He kept wanting to look up, to look around and seek for anything moving, but he tried to keep his head down, tried to keep moving in the same direction, to not let the gusts of wind push him off his course.

He heard the ice cracking, and he could not help himself. He looked up, and something loomed through the blinding snow. He saw a towering shape, like a serpent rearing up out of the ice, and then he saw it was the prow of a ship. There was no device carved on the end, only a tangle of antlers hung there, red and black with old blood.

Buran did not believe it, shook his head as though the vision would disappear, but then he saw the black bulk of the ship behind the nameless prow, and he saw the hulked forms of men at the shield-hung rail. Warriors crawled over the side and dropped to the ice, and he saw they did not walk like men; they hunched and staggered, as though they were not men, but the host of the dead.

Terror clawed at him, and he let the ropes drop from his hands and reeled back, not quite believing what he saw. It was the ship of the dead, the war-galley of Marrow, the Hunger of the Sea. The Cold Lady who gathered in all the drowned and frozen and crewed her ships with the dead.

They came for him, and it was madness, but he was alone, with no sun, and no one to help him. He slung his shield from his back and gripped it, drew out his war axe and held it ready. The dead were slow, their flesh black beneath their helms, eyes like sunken white stones. Their mail was corroded and covered in ice, and their swords gleamed with a pale fire.

He fell back, and back, so they could not surround him, but there were too many. If he retreated, they could not catch him, but he would grow weary and cold and then they would take him anyway. The ship crushed through the ice like a living thing, and the horned prow seemed to watch him eyelessly.

Better the edge of steel than cold water. He set himself, gave a cry, and charged the dead. When he drew near he felt them, the cold that bled from them like a mist. They screamed as one, a chorus of howls, and then he was among them. His first axe-stroke shattered a ruined cuirass and sent frozen mail and splintered flesh shattering to the ice. They closed in on him and he battered them back with his shield, hacked and smashed with his axe.

Their blows were slow but fierce, and they notched his shield and then split it, dashed his axe from his hand. He threw the haft aside and reached for his sword, but they closed in on him and bore him down, cold arms as inexorable as winter. He screamed to be so close to them, their dead jaws yawning, the cold burning through his clothes like a fire.

They dragged him across the ice, and he screamed again, fighting to get free of them, but they held him in hands like cold iron. He saw the ship looming over him, and in the shadow of it he felt a cold he could never have believed. His breath turned to ice on his lips, and he shivered as his strength was wrung out of him.

Flung down on the frozen deck, he saw it was heavy with ice, and blood stained the blackened wood. A mist flowed across it, and he saw the hem of a woman’s gown, and feet pale as snow, and he knew who he faced, and he knew to look on her was worse than death. “Spare me!” he gasped, shivering so savagely he could not catch his breath. “Spare me!”

“Look on me,” came a sweet voice that was many voices, and he remembered the stories of Marrow, the White Maiden. They said her face was only a mouth, and her eyes were mouths as well, and if you looked on her, you would be devoured from within.

“Look on me,” she said, and he felt a terrible will forcing him to do what she wanted. He opened his eyes and looked across the rail of the ship, keeping his eyes from her, and he saw there his spear, driven into the ice and now etched with frost.

“I can, I can lead you to more,” he gasped. “Many more! The Thane’s ships lie at anchor against the island. You can have them all. You can have them all if you spare me!”

There was silence, and then a white hand came down and took his beard, and held him with hideous strength. He feared she would drag him up and make him face her. But then her voices came again, closer. He felt her cold breath. “Show me the way,” she said.

“I will,” he said. “I will.” Her shadow was on him, and then, before he could stop himself, he looked into her face.