The Flame Upon the Ice Read online

  THE SPECTERS OF FEAR

  “Go back,” a voice whispered softly. “It is not yet time. Go back.”

  He looked to the shadows and another form drifted from the swirling darkness. “Who are you?” Michael whispered.

  It started to turn. “Michael,” the spirit said, “where were you to protect them?”

  The shadows started to draw away, into the darkness of night.

  “Wait!” he cried.

  The apparitions stopped, turned. Their faces were no longer human—dark, skull-like eyes peered out at him. He felt his sanity drifting away. Suddenly he recognized the images, and he screamed…

  Also by William R. Forstchen

  Published by Ballantine Books:

  ICE PROPHET

  THE FLAME UPON

  THE ICE

  WILLIAM R. FORSTCHEN

  A Del Rey Book

  BALLANTINE BOOKS • NEW YORK

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  BOOK III CHAPTER, 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  BOOK IV CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  About the Author

  Landmarks

  Cover

  A Del Rey Book

  Published by Ballantine Books

  Copyright © 1984 by William R. Forstchen

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright 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: 83-91240

  ISBN 0-345-31137-X

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition: April 1984 Cover art by Darrell K. Sweet

  For Ida Singer, Betty Keller, and, of course, for

  Thomas Seay, who had said I could.

  When there was the need for a teacher, I always found one.

  PROLOGUE

  It was a war unlike any witnessed on the Frozen Sea, as the fleets of Michael Ormson carried his word across the Southward Sea. The old orders crumbled against the onslaught of the new. The islands of the south, the harbors of piracy, and the religious colonies of old knew that the days of northern dominance were finished at last. The power of the Prophet grew with a fierceness and vitality undreamed of. In the north, there was war as well. Not of fleets but of maneuver, innuendo, and the poisoned dagger.

  All were linked, all intertwined, and all knew that a final confrontation must come. N

  Five years had passed since the miracle before the Mathinian Pass. To some it was the twenty-ninth year of the Prophet; to others, it was the year 1029, the five hundredth anniversary of St. Elbreck the III, first of the Holy Sees to die from assassination. He was not the last.

  BOOK III

  CHAPTER, 1

  Deck ho! Dead ahead, not four leagues off.”

  The captain came up behind the hooded form of the archbishop and shouted against the shrieking wind. “My lord Zimri, the lookout’s spotted them dead ahead. Shall I send up the recognition flares?”

  Without turning to face the sailing master, Zimri of Mor gave a curt nod and continued to look forward across the glaring, frost-white sea.

  Behind him, the roar of the rockets slashed across the deck, then flamed upward to burst downwind in the colors of recognition. Moments later, four rockets exploded on the horizon several leagues ahead. He breathed an involuntary sigh of relief.

  The riggings of the Golau du Mor shrieked as the light frigate ran across the wind at nearly a hundred miles an hour. The thundering gale forced Zimri to huddle against the scant protection of the wind barrier, but the icy wind cut through him, numbing his hands and feet. In another minute, the approaching frigates were hull up over the horizon, riding on their downwind outriggers as they kept full canvas to the howling gale. The deck lurched beneath Zimri’s feet as the Golau turned to the northwest and slid into the eye of the wind.

  “Ease off all sheets; fasten down all sails,” Gimrath shouted. His commands were taken up by the mast captains, who drove their men aloft.

  Zimri leaned back and watched as the crew scurried up the riggings, struggling against the wind, which could pluck a man off the ropes and hurl him to the ice below. The frigate reached the eye of the wind, and the loosened sails cracked and thundered as the wind struck them evenly on either side. Zimri turned his attention away from the ice sailors aloft and watched as two frigates closed in on the port side, their runners kicking up a wake of showering crystals that the wind whipped away to the southeast—toward Comath, two score miles below the horizon.

  “All gunners stand by your guns,” Gimrath shouted through the hatchway. Zimri could feel the deck vibrating beneath his feet as the guns were run out.

  The two frigates were closing up fast and now stood only half a mile off, approaching in line abreast as the Golau du Mor slowed to a walking pace. Zimri walked over to Gimrath and said softly, “Remember, only on my command do you fire.”

  The two frigates turned to the northwest and swept in on the Golau. It was a tense moment, and Zimri watched them closely. The two ships dropped into a line astern formation, and the first one drew abreast of the Morian ship. Zimri recognized it as belonging to Mord Rinn, the Brotherhood of the Inquisition. He held his breath as it skated across the ice with guns run out. Zimri noticed the tense silence as his monks watched the ship sail by.

  “Blessings of the Saints,” Zimri whispered as the ship passed them without a shot. Good, they were holding to their bargain. It wasn’t a trap.

  The second ship, belonging to the monks of the First Choice, crossed astern of the Golau on the starboard side, sailed past them, and parked several hundred yards downwind, so that the three stationary vessels formed a rough triangle on the frozen, windswept sea.

  A red rocket rose from the deck of the Mord Rinn ship, and with a smile, Zimri turned to Gimrath. “Gimrath, send up the blue in response; only Madoc knew that signal,sand only I know the final blue.” Zimri could barely conceal his relief.

  “Have your men stand down but ready for battle stations at a moment’s notice. I think we’re safe, but if this meeting doesn’t work, we might have to fight our way out of here.”

  Gimrath nodded slowly, keeping a wary eye on the flagships of the two rival orders.

  Zimri turned away and walked over to the rope ladder that two priests had lowered over the side. Zimri waited for his four escorts and eyed them approvingly as they came to stand by his side. They walked with catlike ease, their goggles removed to improve their vision. Their eyes never rested on a spot but were always shifting, always moving, always searching. They were the best the brotherhood could buy. He had lost three so far, but each had died protecting him from assassination.

  Gimrath turned his attention from the two ships and shouted a command through the open hatchway, his orders echoing across the decks below. Zimri felt a vibration underfoot, and looking over the railing, he saw the stem hatch of the Golau swing outward. Several dozen monks swarmed from its interior, carrying bundles of lumber, which they dragged across the ice to the center of the triangle formed by the three ships. With practiced skill, they fitted the pieces of wood together, forming a wind barrier twelve feet on a side and eight feet in height. Another half
-dozen monks from the Golau carried a large brazier filled to the brim with shimmering coals that burned fiercely in the howling gale. Three high-back chairs were carried out as well and set inside the temporary shelter, the bearers returning quickly in order to escape the cold.

  “Hoist the banner,” Zimri shouted. And the guard next to him raised the standard of Mor, the silhouette of an iceboat on a blue field, the Arch overhead. From the other two ships, the banners rose heavenward in response, the scarlet field of Mord Rinn and the black banner of the Brotherhood of Ceauth Cerath.

  With a bow to the sacristy and the sacred relics held aloft by the priests, Zimri made the Sign of Blessing as clouds of incense wafted across the windswept deck. Turning away, he lowered himself over the side and started toward the temporary shelter, his four guards in an arc behind him. From the other two ships, similiar processions emerged, from the one, the burgundy robes of Mord Rinn, and from the other, the jet black robes of the Protectors of the First Choice. A wave of excitement passed through Zimri—after five years he was returning.

  After the disaster at Mathin, there was only one recourse open to Zimri—-to avoid abdication, he and his followers went into self-imposed exile on the windswept barrens of North Prydain. A forced abdication was barely avoided when the survivors of the battle before Mathin claimed that he had betrayed them. As planned, Peter took most of the blame and spent several years in ecclesiastical prison before going into exile as ambassador to one of the minor Ezrian brotherhoods. Zimri thought of Peter for a moment and then forced him out of his mind. There were more important things to deal with now.

  With a subtle hand gesture, Zimri ordered his guards to stop a hundred yards out, and he proceeded alone, walking slowly toward the leaders of the other two groups. They approached each other across the frozen sea until they were ten yards apart.

  “My lord Madoc of Mord Rinn?”

  “Yes, it is I, my lord Zimri of Mor,” responded a cold, chilling voice from beneath the folds of the swirling burgundy robes.

  “And my lord Balor of the First Choice?” Zimri looked closely at the masked and hooded form before him. They had met on the night of Zimri’s ascension to Archbishop of Mor; it was Balor who revealed the final truth of the First Choice. Only Balor, his fifty assistants, and the ruling hierarchy knew that the Arch was merely the rubble of a destroyed moon, and that the legends of the Garden and its loss were nothing more than fables. That was the final insight that weighed upon the ruling elite—the true and hidden purpose of the Churches was to save man from his own knowledge and the destruction such knowledge created.

  Without another word, the three archbishops walked into the relative warmth of the enclosure and gathered around the glowing brazier. Removing his goggles and face mask, Zimri turned and faced the archbishops, waiting for them to open the parley. Madoc ignored Zimri for several minutes, and then, with a gesture of disdain, he pulled aside his mask to reveal sharp, cunning eyes and full red lips, which were compressed in a sardonic smile. Balor stood next to him, masked and silent.

  “It’s been five years now, has it not?” Madoc said coldly. “I was surprised to receive your request for this rather unorthodox meeting. So tell me, Zimri, how does your self-imposed exile fare these days?”

  “Difficult, my dear Madoc. Difficult and painful when I see what we have sunk to. And that is why I have decided to return.”

  Madoc nodded slowly; his face an impenetrable mask. “I must assume, Zimri, that you do not drag me fifty miles out here to inform me of your desire to reenter the Council of Archbishops. I think it interesting that your timing coincides with the assassination of our good Holy See, Alnar the III. I take it that you look for something else in this unusual meeting that you’ve requested.”

  “Of course, Madoc, there is a reason,” Zimri said, suppressing a retort to Madoc’s barb. “You see, I wish to do several things. The Holy See—our third in five years—is dead, and. Michael Ormson rules the Southward Ice. We are losing, Madoc; I warned the archbishops five years ago about this, and they would not listen. The Prophet and the dark ones behind him have sprung forth, and the dogmas of our past no longer apply. Look at us, Madoc. Look how we meet here—alone and afraid, in secret, half a hundred miles from land. You know who is behind this, don’t you?”

  “Inys Gloi.” Madoc spit out the distasteful words.

  Zimri hesitated for a moment, nervous at having to say the name aloud to his rival archbishops.

  “Yes, Madoc, Inys Gloi.” Zimri looked to the two hooded forms before him. Placing his hands over the brazier, he rubbed them vigorously, attempting to drive out the numbness.

  “It’s Inys Gloi and their damned Prophet,” Balor said at last, breaking his silence.

  Madoc turned away from Zimri and casually examined the carvings on the wooden barrier that protected them from the wind and from being overheard. “What are your thoughts on this, Zimri?” he asked, his back still turned to the other two.

  “First of all, Madoc, can I trust you?” Zimri asked coldly. “I know you want the seat of the Holy See. I could be an obstacle, could I not?”

  Madoc turned and examined Zimri dispassionately. “Why do you speak the obvious, Zimri?”

  “Because it is time to go beyond the obvious and look to

  what is hidden within. Each of us wants the Holy See; only one can succeed next spring. But damn it, that is the least important issue confronting us. Madoc, we have to bury our rivalry for the moment if we wish to survive.”

  “Ah, my lord Zimri,” Balor whispered, “you say that it’s time for trust, but can we trust you? After all, the disaster at Mathin is the working of your hand.”

  “I know that, Balor,” Zimri said heatedly. “But you had your hand in Mathin. If my reports are correct, you and Rifton sent a messenger to Ormson as well. Of course, that never came out in the Council meetings, did it?”

  Balor nodded his head. “I told my friend in the beginning to kill that boy, but he would not listen. I should have done it myself, but now it is too late.”

  Balor turned away from Zimri and looked at Madoc. “We have to listen to him, Madoc. The rivalry within the Church must end if we are to survive.”

  Madoc looked at Balor with disdain, “So, you’ll forgive him, will you?” And he pointed an accusing finger at Zimri. “Damn it, you had them all in the palm of your hand. I still can’t believe that you let that Seth Facinn of Inys Gloi escape from you. Damn you, Zimri, I can’t forget, nor will I trust you. I need you as an ally against Inys Gloi, but I will be damned if I trust you. The Prophet would be dead now except for your inept bunglings.”

  Zimri looked into the eyes of Madoc, and their gazes locked. Balor could sense the battle of wills as each one tried to force the other down. After several moments of uncomfortable silence, Madoc’s gaze broke away, and he shifted his feet uneasily while poking the glowing coals with the butt of his staff.

  “I will only say it once, Madoc,” Zimri said. “I was wrong. I lost the Holy See as a result, and I’ve taken my punishment. But my time of exile is over, and I shall return to vote next summer. Mark my words, Madoc. My vote will be crucial.” “We were talking of Inys Gloi,” Balor said softly, shifting the topic to grounds of mutual agreement. “Or did you summon us to argue about the past?”

  Overhead, the wind increased in its fury, and Zimri looked heavenward. The faint shadow of the Arch was etched across the afternoon sky. So far away, he thought whimsically, and then forced his thoughts to return.

  “My brothers,” he said softly, his voice barely audible against the shrieking of the icy wind. “We’ve lost three Holy Sees in five years, one definitely from poison, and possibly another. Five archbishops have died as well. All this at the same time that the Prophet appears. With Ezra, the confusion is the same.”

  “You think that Inys Gloi is behind all of the deaths, then?” Madoc asked cautiously.

  “Obviously,” Balor exclaimed. “Damn it, let’s stop wasting time. You know the
truth, Madoc, and so does Zimri. Their agents are in all our brotherhoods. This Seth managed to get all the way to the Prophet in spite of Rifton’s precautions. What we say here better not get beyond the three of us. I don’t even trust some, of our fellow archbishops. If Inys Gloi’s agents heard of this meeting, their blades would find us within the month.”

  “We’re already marked,” Zimri said. “We’d be fools to think otherwise.”

  “So why are we meeting, then?” Madoc said sarcastically. “To share our fears, then scurry back to our holes and wait?”

  “Ah, my dear Madoc,” Zimri responded, “at last you bring us to the arena where we can find agreement. We have to act against both Inys Gloi and this Prophet at once; otherwise, we are doomed.”

  “How?” Madoc said in response, looking into the fire. “Their fortress is impregnable and could withstand a siege of years. From what little information we have, it can be assumed that Inys Gloi has at least five hundred monks in disguise across the Ice and on the Flowing Sea. Each of them gathering information, sowing discord. Each trained as an assassin. If we openly attack Inys Gloi, we would all be dead within a year. For the time being, such action is closed to us.”

  “We can never take them directly; at least not yet,” Zimri responded. “But there is another way. Madoc, tell me, how many of your men are secretly enlisted in my ranks?”

  Madoc looked up at Zimri and smiled. “Ah, if you only knew!”