The Messenger

12

That smoke will be visible for miles,” Moreen said with concern. She, Bruni and Tildey stood atop a rocky hill, watching the camp where the Arktos were beginning to stir on this cold, misty morning. During these short days, the tribe rose before dawn and continued marching long into the hours of darkness. “Do you think there are any thanoi around here?”

“It seems like those whale-killers are everywhere these days,” Bruni said with a grim shake of her head.

“Best to keep a constant lookout,” Tildey remarked. She looked at her half-empty quiver. “I wish I had more arrows.” After the fight with the thanoi, she had recovered about ten of her lethal missiles, but that was all she had.

“The way is probably clear to the south and east,” the chiefwoman continued, thinking aloud. “I’d like to head north for another day’s march, though, to scout in that direction. We must be getting close to the place my father called Tall Cedar Bay. I’d like to find Tall Cedar Bay and maybe take shelter there until we can find Brackenrock.”

“Good idea,” Bruni said, as Tildey nodded too. “We’ll come with you.”

Moreen’s eyes rose from the campsite, her gaze sweeping past the strip of beach onto the gray water of the gulf. Many days it rained now, and just yesterday an icy wind off the gulf had turned the rain into stinging sleet, forcing the Arktos into an early camp. To take advantage of the halt, they had erected racks, and continued the process of curing whale meat above slow-burning fires.

“Is it just the thanoi that worries you?” Bruni asked, her round face frowning thoughtfully.

“No. In truth, I’d feel better if the Highlanders didn’t know how to find us by looking for our smoke.” Unconsciously she glanced over her shoulder, across the landscape of rolling, hilly tundra. There was no sign of any of Strongwind Whalebone’s men, but the chiefwoman had no doubt that some remained in the vicinity, keeping track of the slow-moving and poorly armed band.

“The cedars might give us some cover,” Bruni agreed cheerfully. “Not to mention we’d be able to build some nice fires.”

As if in response to her assertion, the wind picked up a notch, chilling Moreen’s face, tugging at the strands of hair that broke free from her braids. “Let’s go, then,” she said.

Dinekki, who was overseeing the drying racks, smacked her toothless gums in appreciation of Moreen’s plan. “Good. Watch out for tuskers,” she said. “I’ll keep an eye on things around here.”

“Thank you, Grandmother. We’ll be back in two or three days.”

“I’m coming with you!” Little Mouse, who had been squatting near a drying fire a dozen paces away, jumped up and ran towards them.

“The ears on that boy,” Bruni said with a laugh. “He could hear a flower bud, I swear he could.”

“Not that there’ll be much of that in the next half year,” Dinekki clucked. “You, Mouse-you’re needed to stick close around here. Every camp of the Arktos needs a scout, and with these three off sightseeing who else do you think I’m going to count on?”

“But-!” The youth’s objection died in his throat. “A scout? You mean, to kind of look around the area, keep an eye out for trouble and the like?”

“As I said, if not you, who?” the shaman demanded. “Would you send a little toddler out to do some scouting? How about your mother? Or maybe you think old Dinekki has nothing better to do than march up and down these hills on her old bones?”

“No, I’ll do it!” Mouse declared. He raced to the tribe’s small cache of weapons and picked up the spear he had claimed after the battle with the tuskers. “Nothing’s going to sneak up on the tribe while I’m the scout!” he declared proudly.

“I’m glad we can count on you,” Moreen said, feeling emotion tighten her throat. He looked so sincere, so brave, so young. The chiefwoman, Bruni, and Tildey had been all through the area in the past day, and she felt reasonably confident there was no threat in the immediate vicinity.

“All right-stay alert, and come and tell Dinekki if you see anything unusual.”

“I will!” he promised. He slung the spear over his shoulder and started up a hill, as the trio of women armed themselves and took a few provisions and a waterskin from the tribe’s supplies. The last thing the chiefwoman saw, before they started up the beach, was the black-haired youth bracing himself against the wind, long spear in his hands, earnestly peering out over the land.

“I admit I wasn’t sure where we were, or that there was any hospitable land around here,” Kerrick said as he and Coraltop gazed across placid water at an enclosed valley, dark green with a dense grove of evergreens. Two ridges faced by steep, rocky precipices extended inland. It seemed that trees-the first such timber they had seen on this rugged coast-thrived between the elevations.

“Oh, I knew we would find some place to land sooner or later,” the kender said breezily. “It was just a matter of staying patient. As for me, I’m always patient. As my grandmother used to say, ‘Coraltop, you are the very soul of patience.’ ”

Kerrick was standing at the front of the cabin and looking down into the empty fish locker. “Well,” the elf said, “we timed it right anyway. We’ve run out of food.”

For five days after spotting the mountainous horizon rising to the south they had steered along a rocky coast of exceptionally barren and apparently uninhabited terrain. The rugged skyline rose steeply only a few miles inland from the shore, and the edge of the land was in most places a high cliff of jagged, weatherworn stone. Kerrick had taken Cutter into a few narrow inlets, but even there the shore had been rocky and treacherous. Since the regular rainstorms had resulted in the water barrel remaining comfortably full, the elf had elected to keep sailing while searching for a more promising landfall.

At last they had come upon a strait of deep water extending between two rugged shores less than ten miles apart. Here they had veered south, hoping to find anchorage.

Now their search was rewarded, in the discovery of this bay on the eastern shore just inside the bottleneck. Kerrick studied the forest, confident they would find game-deer, pheasant, or rabbit-somewhere in the woods. His belly rumbled, and his mouth watered at the remembered taste of grilled meat. He checked his bowstring and arrows. Unwilling to leave the powerful talisman behind, the elf tucked his magical ring into a small pouch inside of his belt. Ready at last, he stood in the stern and looked for the most promising spot to begin the hunt.

The trees were barely half as tall as the pines that grew so commonly in Silvanesti, but their color was lush, and the ground showed mossy meadow and fern-bedded dale. A stone’s throw away was a stretch of sand beach, backed by trees that looked especially inviting.

“How are you getting to shore?” Caroltop asked, frowning.

“ ‘We’re going to swim,” Kerrick replied.

“Good idea,” the kender replied cheerfully. “Except, who will watch the boat?”

“Don’t you know how to swim?”

“What kind of question is that? Netfisher practically means ‘swimming,’ in kenderspeak! But I think I could do some pretty good fishing right here, just in case your luck as a hunter is the same as your luck as a sailor.”

Kerrick opened his mouth to reply when he realized that he wouldn’t mind spending a few hours by himself. The kender, surprisingly enough, had proved a companionable shipmate, and of course, he had saved the elf’s life. However, Coraltop talked a lot, even when he didn’t seem to have anything noteworthy to say.

“All right. Why don’t you drop a line in the water, and I’ll have a hunt in the woods. Tomorrow we’ll put both together and have a feast.”

The elf tied his weapons and clothes into a nearly watertight bundle inside his oilskin, and slipped over the gunwale and into the chilly, slightly choppy water. He felt the cold instantly, but it was an invigorating sensation, and his spirits lifted as he tugged his floating garments along behind him and stroked toward shore.

A minute later he emerged onto the smooth, grainy sand, shivering in the breeze. The morning sun was up, but it was barely a blur low on the horizon. It seemed to offer little heat, so rapidly the elf donned his moccasins, woolen shirt, and leggings. He left his leather cloak behind a tree at the edge of the narrow beach strand, and quickly strung his bow.

Ready, he turned to wave goodbye at the kender, but Coraltop wasn’t anywhere in sight. Kerrick sighed.

“You’d better catch a few fish if you want any dinner,” he muttered irritatedly, suppressing his urge to shout only because he didn’t want to startle any nearby game. He readied an arrow against his bowstring, relished a deep breath of cool pine-scented air, and stepped into the woods.

“That cloud across the gulf-do you notice how it’s lingered there all day?” Moreen asked worriedly, as she and her two companions made their way along a ridge that ran parallel to the shore, perhaps a half mile inland.

“Yes, as if a part of the far shore is obscured,” Bruni noted. “It goes away when the wind blows, then comes right back.”

They were far enough north, now, that the opposite side of the gulf had come into view across the passage that Strongwind Whalebone had called the Bluewater Strait. They could see the shore when the fog and drizzle lifted enough, during the few hours of daylight. No more than ten miles away, they observed a rugged landscape of coastal bluff and steep mountains looming on the far side of the water.

“There-now the sun’s hitting it. What does it look like to you?”

“It’s a kind of wall!” Tildey said quickly, “and a tower, there on that hilltop over the sea. It’s some kind of citadel!”

“She’s right,” Bruni confirmed after a moment’s scrutiny. “A big one too, to show up so well at this distance.”

“I think that must be Brackenrock,” Moreen said, a knot in her stomach.

“The steam is coming from caverns below the city?” mused Bruni. “It makes sense to me. You were right!”

“No, I couldn’t have been more wrong!” She was thinking of Strongwind’s map, the fact that this ancient ruin had not been displayed there, and now she thought she understood why.

“It’s way across the water, isn’t it?” Tildey said quietly.

Moreen slumped down onto a rock and nodded bleakly. The truth was in plain sight: The citadel, the mythical place where the chiefwoman had hoped to find safety for her tribe, was miles away, way beyond any map, on the far side of this impassable bay.

“If we still had the kayaks …”

Bruni’s voice trailed off and Moreen bit back her sharp retort. Not only had the ogres broken up all the tribe’s little boats, but they had slashed all the sealskin shells when they abandoned Bayguard. It took a skilled builder the better part of a year to make a kayak, and one kayak could only carry one person, perhaps with one small passenger. That was no solution for the entire tribe.

“What about an ice crossing?” Tildey ventured, tentatively.

“After the Sturmfrost?” Moreen couldn’t keep the scorn out of her voice. She wondered to herself: How many of us will even be alive, after the assault of that first, lethal blizzard?

“Well, there’s no point in going back to Bayguard,” Bruni said. “Let’s keep going north somewhere. We might find that woods that you remembered. We have to be getting close. Being in a forest is better shelter than camping out here on the tundra.”

Moreen nodded stoically and let her friends hoist her to her feet. Her mind drifted. She pictured Gulderglow, with its high walls, heat-producing coal, stockpiles of food. The Arktos could survive the winter there, although Strongwind had made the price of that shelter very clear. Still, paying that price was better than starving, wasn’t it? Or leaving infants and elders outside where the Sturmfrost would certainly doom them? Suddenly the mantle of “chief” felt very heavy on her shoulders.

The three continued to make their way along the crest of a ridge toward a low hill. When they finally came over the hill, they stared in awe. Before them stretched a whole valley green with trees, lush evergreens spilling like a dark carpet across the miles of level ground between them and more rugged elevation. Down below was a small expanse of water, a sheltered cove. The surface was gray, streaked with gentle waves.

“This must be Tall Cedar Bay!” Moreen announced with relief. “I’m sure of it.” The memory of her long trek by kayak with her father, the only other time she had seen this protected inlet, came flooding back. This was more wood than she’d ever imagined, a treasure of fuel and building material. So their journey hadn’t been in vain, after all.

“What’s that?” Bruni asked ominously, pointing toward an object bobbing near the shore. “Another ogre ship?”

Instinctively they dropped to the ground, staring at what was clearly some kind of modest-sized watercraft. Unlike a kayak or galley, it was distinguished by a long pole rising straight up from the center of the deck.

“I don’t think ogres have boats like that,” Moreen said. Her heart pounded with sudden excitement, and her mind whirled. Perhaps Brackenrock wasn’t unreachable after all! “Let’s get down there and look.”

The chiefwoman pointed to a nearby ravine, a shallow-sided cut in the ridge that would allow them to descend with good cover. One by one, the three Arktos she-warriors moved in that direction and started down, working their way toward the suddenly ominous-looking beach fringed by woods.

Almost immediately Kerrick had found a game trail, a narrow track of dirt amid the pine needles and brush covering the ground. No tracks were discernible on the hard, dry surface, but he took the path with confidence. His feet made no sound as he advanced into the wind, eyes scanning his surroundings. He relished the sweet, powerful scent of pine, after his months at sea.

Sunlight filtered through the thick branches at a steep angle, but though the trees were stunted by Silvanesti standards, the forest floor was shaded and dark. Ferns and juniper clustered between large, square-edged boulders. Kerrick wondered if he might be the first person in the history of Krynn to traverse this ground.

The trail followed parallel to the beach for a while, and several times he peered out to see his boat still at anchor, bobbing in the swells that were growing high even within the deep cove. Still, no sign of that damned kender, however.

Before long the path curved inland and the trees closed in to surround him on all sides. He found some pebbly droppings, and his heart raced. Whether it was a deer, elk, or large sheep that had left the spoor, the elven hunter felt keen anticipation. Jogging as fast as he could without making too much noise, he held his bow ready, arrow crossed at his chest.

Nor did he grow discouraged after a full hour passed with no sign of game. Several more times he spied the neat prints of small, cloven hooves. Fairly certain he was after a deer now, Kerrick’s mind entertained a dozen tempting imagined recipes for venison. He wondered if he might find wild chive or onions growing near one of the small boggy wetlands he passed. The trail had taken him across the valley, toward the base of the southern ridge, and now he skirted the edge of a small pond. Cedars reflected in the still water, and the reedy shoreline showed muddy tracks, slowly filling with water. Apparently his quarry had stopped to drink here, not minutes ago.

Again the trail entered the woods, and the elf slowed his pace. He was still out of shape after all his injuries and time at sea. He came to a steep-walled ravine that swung down to cut a low rocky swath through the forest.

Across the ravine, he saw the deer. It was a doe, large and brown and rigid with alertness, staring at him with long ears upraised. In a flash it whirled and bounded away, gone before he could even raise his bow. Returning the arrow to his quiver, he slung the bow over his shoulder and found a place where he could descend the rocky wall into the ravine. Stepping on stones, he passed the narrow stream at the bottom without getting too wet, then jogged along until he found a tall pine trunk, with branches jutting like the rungs of a ladder, leaning against the opposite wall. Quickly he climbed up and plunged in the direction taken by the doe.

Every sense alert, he continued on and froze as he heard a rustle in the brush ahead. The arrow was drawn now, bowstring tight as he drew a bead on a leafy thicket. He tried to anticipate. If the deer broke from cover it could go in any direction, and he would have a split second to aim and shoot.

Instead, the rustle was repeated, but he saw no sign of movement. His whole body vibrated with tension as he advanced, one step after the next, taking care to keep his footing.

He was utterly unprepared for the attack from behind. When something solid smashed into him he toppled forward, releasing the arrow into the ground and sprawling on his face. The force of the tackle knocked the wind from his lungs, and he gasped under the weight of a heavy body.

More attackers went for his arms, pulling away the bow, pressing him against the ground. He saw leather moccasins, several sets of leggings, one foot pushed firmly down on his hand. Finally he was hauled to his knees, then pushed onto his back as the first attacker-a massive human woman with a round, curious face-sat on his belly.

With smooth movements, the other two, also human women, lashed his hands. Still without talking, they hoisted him to his feet and started pushing him through the woods.

They were heading directly for the shore, toward the little cove where Cutter stood at anchor.

“This is a good spot,” Moreen announced, after a mile of walking along the rim of the deep, steep-sided ravine. She gestured to a small, mossy grotto above the gully. “We can build a fire back there, and it won’t be seen unless someone’s right nearby. Those rocks will make it all that much harder for our prisoner to escape.”

“Sounds good to me,” Bruni agreed. “What about you, stranger?” She looked quizzically at their captive, who returned a blank stare, giving no sign that he understood their language.

Tildey stood three paces behind them, an arrow ready in case the man made some threatening move. Thus far, however, he had merely plodded along in listless, demoralized silence.

“Tie him to that tree, and keep his wrists bound. Oh, and search through his pack, and see if he has anything in his pockets.”

Bruni and Tildey went about securing the prisoner while Moreen gathered a pile of dried pine limbs. She kindled a fire, and quickly the warmth spread through the grotto area, driving back the damp chill of early nightfall. Huge, square boulders rose like walls to the right, left, and rear.

“What was he carrying?” she asked, as her two companions made themselves comfortable near the blaze. The prisoner was seated a short distance away, still illuminated by firelight.

“He had a bow and arrows, a knife-sharper than any blade I’ve ever seen-and this beaded waterskin,” Tildey said, laying out the stranger’s possessions. She held up the skin. “Nice craftsmanship.”

“Maybe he’s a rich Highlander,” Bruni said with a chuckle, and a quick glance at the still-impassive prisoner. He was leaning backward, his straggly blond hair hanging limply down on both sides of his head.

Moreen snorted. “He’s no Highlander. No beard, and his face is too skinny. Also there’s something about those big eyes that seems strange to me.”

“Yes, I know,” Tildey said, scrutinizing the stranger. “It’s as if he’s got a boy’s skin but much older eyes.”

The chiefwoman’s eyes, meanwhile, turned west, toward the coast hidden by the trees. “We could use that ship,” Moreen said softly. Bruni snorted and shook her head, while Tildey gazed at the fire.

The wind swirled, carrying the smoke toward the prisoner. Unable to move out of the way, he choked and coughed, finally twisting onto his side for relief. The Arktos took no note of his discomfort.

Finally, Bruni heaved a sigh. “Why do you want a ship so bad?” she asked.

“Because we could cross to Brackenrock, before the Sturmfrost! We could be into the old fortress, snug in the steam caves, by the time the first blizzard begins.”

“You can’t put the whole tribe on that little boat!” snorted the big woman.

“Not all at once, no,” Moreen acknowledged. “But you saw the far shore this morning-it’s not such a far crossing, and we could take the whole tribe in many trips.”

Bruni shook her head. “I’m not getting in that boat,” she said stubbornly.

“So you’d prefer the Sturmfrost, hunkered down here in the woods? Not just you, but Dinekki, Feathertail-every one of us? The elders? The children?” Moreen snapped impatiently. “Or perhaps we should go back to Guilderglow. You could be some Highlander’s concubine!”

“What?” demanded Bruni, her eyes blazing.

“That was the cost of shelter there,” the chiefwoman continued, feeling guilty about the outburst. “They offered us … me … a place to live, for a price.”

The large woman sighed, and looked in the direction of the sea. “I never cared much for those kayaks, but that’s a bigger boat out there. I’ll have to think about it.”

“What do we do with him?” asked Moreen, gesturing to the prisoner.

“Maybe we should kill him?” This was Tildey, more of a question than a suggestion. “He may not be an ogre or a tusker, but he’s not one of the tribe. I agree with Moreen. I don’t think he’s any Highlander, either.”

It took all of Kerrick’s self-discipline to feign ignorance of the language as he strained to listen. He grunted, shifted onto the rocks, half-turned his back to the women.

There was no feigning his search of a comfortable position as he twisted on the rocky ground. He couldn’t move far since his hands, lashed together at the wrists, were tethered to a pine tree with only a foot of loose line. Nor could he feel much of the warmth of the fire, which was several feet away.

At first, the elf pretended utter disinterest as he tried to eavesdrop on the women’s conversation. As they led him through the forest he had begun to understand some of their words: “camp,” “ogre” and “fire.” Their language was very similar to a coastal dialect common to humans from Tarsis to Balifor, and their accent was heavy. Still, many of the crewmen on his father’s galley had used the language, and he had learned it as a child.

The big one was called Bruni, and the other two were Moreen and Tildey. Moreen seemed to be in charge.

“So we kill him?” It was the one called Bruni who at last replied to Tildey’s suggestion. “What now? Are we ogres?” Kerrick was beginning to think fondly of this bovine human, who was in no hurry to steal his boat and now, apparently, saw no purpose in cold-blooded murder.

“No, we’re not,” Moreen agreed decisively. “I think we should keep him tied up and bring the tribe here, to the cedar grove. There are many mysteries here, including who he is, where he came from, and what is the nature and mission of his ship.”

“Do you know how to paddle that thing?” Bruni asked her.

“I think he can be convinced to show us. He understands our language-can’t you tell?”

Moreen had been watching Kerrick, slyly. For the first time she looked amused. He noticed the way her mouth bent into a wry smile before he glanced away, quickly.

“Why do you say that?” asked Tildey.

“He tensed up when you asked if we should kill him.” Moreen continued to stare at Kerrick. “You do know what we’re saying, don’t you, stranger?”

He saw no point in continuing the charade. “Yes,” he replied in that same rough tongue. “At least, I think I understood the important points. You might kill me.”

“Understand this: We will kill you if you prove a danger to our tribe, or if you prove to be uncooperative. Tomorrow we will go aboard your ship, and you will show us how it works. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Kerrick replied. He shifted around so he could better inspect his three captors. He understood something else: When the women had searched him, they had failed to find the hidden belt pouch where he had placed his father’s ring. That secret, he hoped, would save him. Until the right moment, he had only to be patient, and to avoid antagonizing his captors.

“These look like ogre tools,” Tildey noted, holding up his steel-headed arrows and sleek, double-curved bow.

Kerrick almost revealed his surprise but remained impassive. What could she mean? The slender elven shafts and keen steel arrowheads bore no resemblance to the crude weapons of that monstrous race.

“He’s not an ogre,” Bruni argued. “A boy, not even shaving yet?”

“Did you notice his ear?” Moreen asked. “One is cut and scarred, but the other is long. I’ve never seen any like it.” Her tone was hard, and she gave him a cold, appraising look. Kerrick flushed, the shame of his scarring a withering memory.

“How did he come to have ogre weapons?” wondered Tildey.

“And an ogre ship?” added the big woman, who looked more puzzled than fierce.

“I don’t think it’s an ogre ship, and I don’t think he’s an ogre.” The intensity of Moreen’s gaze made Kerrick squirm. “No, I think he’s something new entirely.”

“The ogres came in a different kind of ship, I admit,” Bruni mused. “His has that big post sticking out of it. The ogre ship had all those paddles on the side.”

Kerrick wondered what kind of savages these were, never to have seen a sailboat before. He was not reassured by their ignorance. He wondered if they had even heard of Silvanesti or elves. For the time being he would be content to let them think he was a “boy, not even shaving.”

Later, when they were sleeping and he could slip on the ring, they would learn of their mistake.