The Messenger

13

Kerrick was dreaming, and in his dream he was deeply ashamed. His friend was dead and it was his fault. He knew he was to blame, even though no one would say it out loud.

He was a child in a tiny boat, and he had erected a broomstick with a blanket for a sail. Wind gusted with surprising force, and he went skidding across the waters of the Than-Thalas River. Silvanost, dominated by the graceful spire that was the Tower of the Stars, sparkled in the summer sun, and the waves splashed against the little hull, cooling him with moisture.

His father’s galley, Silvanos Oak, stood at anchor nearby and he steered under the shadow of the mighty ship. Crewmen, many of them Kerrick’s friends, gathered at the rail, cheering. Then the little boat shot past the hull of the great ship, into the windier water of the open river.

A gust of wind slammed Kerrick’s small boat onto its side. He heard the sound of the sail striking the water, a hard slap, as he tumbled sideways. Quickly the boat filled up, leaving the youth trapped by rising water. He tried to call for help but only choked and sputtered. He couldn’t see anything, and he couldn’t breathe. He needed air, desperately craved air.

He he found himself lying on the ground, feverish and chilled, in a forest grotto at night. He drew in great, ragged gulps of air, groaning aloud at the aching in his back and limbs. The stones on the ground felt as if some nocturnal fiend had filed their edges into daggers. Slowly his fear was replaced by a deep sadness.

“I’m sorry, Delthas,” he mouthed silently, blinking back the tears that inevitably came with the name and the memory.

Delthas Windrider. Kerrick hadn’t spoken that name in many years, but the memory of the young elf was never far from his thoughts, especially when he was sailing. He had learned the story in bits and pieces as he grew older. When Kerrick’s little boat had sunk, several young sailors, elves and humans both, had flung themselves into the water to rescue him. Two of them had seized Kerrick’s hands as he was descending into the indigo depths. Kicking hard, they pulled him to the surface, where he would be hauled onto the galley deck of his father’s ship.

His rescuers climbed aboard on rope ladders, then noticed Delthas Windrider was missing. He had jumped with the other sailors, but apparently his head had struck the side of the hull. He had vanished in the depths.

No one ever told Kerrick he was responsible for the young sailor’s death, but he had seen the tears in his father’s eyes when Dimorian had been informed of the missing elf, and he sensed a new reserve in the looks he got from the other men.

As it always did, the dream left him exhausted and filled with despair. He tried to collect himself, to forget the dream and to consider his course of action.

The night was utterly still, windless and dark. The fire had faded to a mound of gray ash, brightened only in a few places by the lingering crimson of glowing coals. Gradually turning his head, the elf studied the three bedrolls. His captors remained still, apparently sound asleep. Now he was almost grateful for the rocks that made his own position so uncomfortable. Undoubtedly they had helped to wake him, prodding him to escape.

Kerrick had already worked at the knot that held his hands together, concluding that he wouldn’t be able to loosen the tough, leathery bond. He hoped that would be only a minor impediment to escape, however. Taking care to keep as quiet as possible, he squirmed around and slipped the fingertips of his right hand into his belt pouch. With a wriggle he put on his ring.

Immediately the magical strength began to flow through him, energizing his muscles, driving the cramps and stiffness from his limbs. He snapped his bindings with a simple flex. Even his hearing seemed acute, as he listened to the regular breathing of his three captors. He rose and very carefully took a step away from the tree to which he had been tethered.

The camp was enclosed in the steep-walled grotto. Kerrick moved gingerly around the fire. His keen night vision compensated for the scant light emanating from the fire

Another few steps and he would be loose in the forest. He moved past a pile of loose, brittle firewood. Next to Tildey lay his bow and quiver of arrows. He wanted very much to take his weapons with him. He reached to grab the bundle and very gently started to lift.

There was a clatter of stones and a sharp outcry from one of his captors. Too late he saw that the bow was tied down and had been rigged with a trap of loose gravel. Abandoning stealth, cursing the loss of a fine weapon, he leaped over the pile of firewood. He came down awkwardly on a twisted root and fell. The magic of the ring hummed through him, and he bounced to his feet. Before he could take another step, however, a heavy body slammed into him, and he and Bruni tumbled together onto the forest floor.

Kerrick twisted and nearly broke free. Magical energy surged through his sinews as he grasped the woman’s big hands and pulled them apart. He whipped his head back, cracking into her chin, while his feet clawed and kicked at the rough ground. Even with her weight on his back he managed to rise to his knees, then his feet. One more twist, one frantic leap, and he would be gone.

Except that Bruni’s grip still wasn’t broken. It felt as though a bracket of iron had been clamped around Kerrick’s waist. Panicking, he kicked wildly, again feeling that pulse of magical strength. She grunted, but held him as tight as a manacle.

Moreen and Tildey stumbled toward the fracas. Finally the elf broke Bruni’s grip. The big woman fell back as he scrambled forward, only to be simultaneously tackled by the other two. Before he could react Bruni was back, bashing him on the head with a heavy piece of firewood. He fell, stunned, his skull throbbing as they dragged him back to the tree.

“Be still, now,” warned the big woman, shaking the log as though it was a mere twig. “I only hit you ’cuz you made me.” She rubbed her chin. “You know,” she admitted to her companions. “He’s stronger than he looks.”

“Are you sure you can keep him here?” Moreen asked Bruni. She spoke to the big woman quietly, as they stood under a cluster of cedars two dozen paces last night’s campfire. Dawn’s gray light filtered through the trees, creating a dim murk on the forest floor. Still, it was enough light that they could see their prisoner lying as though dead. They had bound his hands with extra loops, noting with surprise that he had apparently broken the original ropes. Tildey remained near the fire, keeping a closer watch.

“Oh, sure,” Bruni agreed, rubbing her bruised chin. “He’s a tough one, all right, but now that we have his arms tied real good I don’t think he’ll be going anywhere. We used plenty of rope, too. He’s probably sorer than I am and needs a long rest.”

“I hope so!” the chiefwoman snapped.

“Now, you can’t really blame him,” Bruni said good naturedly. “You or I would have tried the same thing.”

Moreen snorted. “He’s not much of a hunter, though.” For some reason she was irritated by Bruni’s sympathy for the unwary captive. “All we had to do was make a little noise in the brush. You’d think he expected to shoot a bull elk, the way he was creeping around.”

“Well, hurry up and bring the rest of the tribe,” said the big woman cheerfully. “Don’t worry about us.”

Still feeling those misgivings, Moreen nodded and started toward the south. She stayed on the beach, where the way was easiest, and as soon as she emerged from the cedar forest she broke into a steady, loping jog. It was a cold and murky day, but her exertion kept her warm. Curls of surf crunched into the beach, but there was no trace of the sun behind the leaden overcast.

Unencumbered by the need to explore or to accommodate slower companions, the chiefwoman made excellent time, and as the pale gray day finally slipped toward the deeper gray of nightfall she spied a familiar figure waving to her from an inland hilltop.

“Moreen! Up here! It’s Mouse!”

She began to feel the fatigue as she climbed. The youth trotted to meet her.

“The rest of the tribe is just over the hill,” he explained. “I’ve been staying close, scouting, like you told me to do.”

“Good job,” she said, pleased that the Arktos had made such progress on their northward trek. “Any sign of the Highlanders?”

“Well, yes,” Mouse reported. “That one, the redbeard with the wolf-cape, was hanging back there, one valley over. With a dozen of his men. I spied on them from the hilltop, but they didn’t see me. They know where the tribe is, though. They kept coming up to the ridge to watch.”

“You did well not to let them see you,” Moreen said sincerely. “Now, take me to the others.” She followed the boy around the hill to find Garta and Dinekki engaged in conversation while the rest of the tribe were starting the evening fires.

After welcoming embraces, the women looked at their chief with curiosity. “You’re alone, but I can tell you don’t bring bad news,” the shaman observed shrewdly.

“No, it might be that Chislev has smiled upon us with a rare opportunity,” Moreen declared. “How tired are the people? Is there any chance they could march through the night?”

Garta’s eyes widened at the question, but Dinekki all but cackled in amusement. “Of course we could!” she replied. “The walk would do us good, give us a chance to stretch those cramped muscles.”

“Yes-yes, I think we could keep going, if we had to,” the other woman agreed. “But we’re hungry and just got good fires going. Why do you want us to move on?”

Moreen consciously avoided looking up at the inland ridge where, she felt certain, Lars Redbeard or one of his men was watching. Instead, she answered with the plan that was still taking shape in her mind. “Go ahead and build the fires. Cook dinner. I want it to look as if we’re going to camp just like any other night. We won’t be moving out until it’s been dark for awhile, in any event.”

“Just so those Highland eyes are fooled, eh?” said Dinekki with a sly grin.

“I knew you’d understand, Grandmother,” the chiefwoman replied.

She joined her tribe for a meal of smoked whale, watercress, and roasted clams, making her way from fire to fire, greeting people. Feathertail proudly displayed a clean, soft sealskin she had prepared all by herself. Hilgrid showed her an ivory whistle she had been carving. To each in turn, Moreen explained her idea, and the Arktos played along, even unrolling their bedrolls in the growing darkness. By late afternoon it was fully dark but, for once the chiefwoman was grateful they’d have long hours of concealment ahead.

Finally Moreen took Hilgrid, Garta, and Dinekki aside for a whispered conference. She told them of the cedar grove, describing the unobstructed route along the beach that would lead them to the woods. “It’s important to make haste, as much as you can,” she encouraged. “If you haven’t reached the woods by dawn, keep going. Get under the cover of the trees before the Highlanders catch sight of you.”

The tribeswomen gathered their possession, taking care to stay away outside the dying light of their small fires. Satisfied they would be underway soon, Moreen again consulted with Little Mouse, who directed her toward the nearby ridge where he had last seen the Highlanders.

Despite the dark and the clouds, she made her way up the rise, and was rewarded by the sight of another campfire crackling brightly barely a quarter mile away. With no attempt at secrecy she began to walk toward it, making noise by scuffing stones and treading over the crackling dry brush.

Despite the fact that she was ready, she gasped in surprise when a human form rose from the shadows ten yards away. Something white flashed in the darkness, and she knew a speartip was being waved in her direction.

“Stop right there! Who are you?” demanded a gruff voice in the crisp Highlander accent.

“Moreen, Chiefwoman of the Arktos,” she replied sternly. “Who are you to accost me?”

“I … I am Daric Sheepskinner,” replied the sentry. “I am watching the approach to our camp. You startled me.… That is … what do you want, Moreen Chiefwoman?”

“I would speak with Lars Redbeard. He is here, is he not?”

The man seemed even more flustered than before at this statement and at her obvious lack of fear. “I … yes, yes he is.”

“Well, take me to him!” snapped Moreen.

“But … of course.” The man turned toward the glowing fire, and she could see other forms silhouetted in the dim light, men obviously roused by the commotion. “Be careful,” Daric warned. “There are sharp rocks here. It is easy to fall.”

“I have walked around rocks before.” She was grateful that the darkness concealed her half-smile. It pleased her to keep these burly Highlanders surprised and off balance.

“Lars Redbeard!” shouted the sentry, as they advanced toward the camp. “It is the chiefwoman of the Arktos. She has come to see you.”

“Moreen, daughter of Redfist Bayguard!” Lars Redbeard exclaimed, as he hastily adjusted his wolfskin cloak. “It is indeed an honor to have you visit our camp.”

“We Arktos share the honor, knowing Strongwind Whalebone sends only his most trusted advisers to spy upon an inconsequential tribe of women and elders.”

Lars nodded, then frowned as he realized she was mocking him. “No, not spy,” he said quickly. “In truth, we want no harm to come to you, and my king has entrusted me with ensuring your safety.”

“How comforting,” she replied dryly. “May I be seated?”

“Yes, of course!” Redbeard gestured to a pair of flat rocks near the fire. “Erikal, bring us warqat! Marlat, put more wood on the fire.”

Moreen enjoyed the spectacle of the Highlanders scrambling to refresh their camp fire and to make her comfortable. She took her time in settling herself. Erikal brought a leather sack. Lars Redbeard poured several drams of dark liquid into two small, golden cups and extended one to her.

“I would drink from that one,” she said, pointing to the cup the Highlander had kept for himself. “That is, if it makes no difference to you.”

“What?” He was taken aback and clearly insulted but quickly switched around the two vessels. “No, of course it makes no difference. Here.”

The scent of the draught was pungent in her nostrils. She remembered the strong, bitter sensation from the drink offered to her by Strongwind Whalebone. Reminding herself to stick with small sips, she felt the fiery warmth slide across her tongue, then sting the rest of the way down her throat. It took all of her effort not to reveal her discomfort, but she made no sound and lowered the cup to her lap with dignity.

“Thank you,” she said, surprised as the word came out breathy and forced.

Now it was Lars Redbeard’s turn to smile smugly. “That draught is from the royal cask itself. It is renowned for its smoothness.”

“Obviously,” replied Moreen, her voice returning to normal. “Now, tell me, why does Strongwind Whalebone take such interest in our little tribe? Surely you and your men would be more comfortable in Guilderglow, not camping on the damp tundra as the winter winds begin to blow harsh. Despite his offer, I have made it clear to him that I will not be his wife.”

“You told him that?” The Highlander’s eyes opened wide with amazement.

“Yes. He didn’t take it well.”

“My liege is worried about those same winter winds. He fears that your tribe will suffer unduly when the snows come, and he wants it known that you are still welcome in his city.”

“Yes, but on what terms?” Moreen said sarcastically. She managed to hold her temper in check by reminding herself that she was not here to provoke an argument. “In fact, you may tell the king that I have been thinking about his-” she wanted to say “demand,” but she bit her tongue. “-offer.”

“Strongwind Whalebone will be delighted to know that,” Lars said sincerely. Flames rose from the fire and as the emissary glanced to the side he brought his wolfshead cap directly into line with Moreen’s gaze. She imagined that she saw cunning and amusement reflected in that lupine visage.

“Perhaps you will carry my message to him, as soon as possible?” she suggested quietly. “If he was to come to this valley, I could speak with him. It may be that we could arrive at an understanding on matters that eluded us in our previous conversation.”

“It would be my pleasure, Lady Chiefwoman!” pledged Lars. “In fact, I will dispatch a runner to him at first light.”

“First light?” She sighed in disappointment. “Of course, the night is dark, and there are many dangers abroad. Very well, I understand that your man cannot depart until dawn.”

She heard mutters of displeasure from the other men, who were hanging politely back but close enough to hear the conversation. Lars looked pained at her words, and she felt a momentary stab of guilt. She took another sip of the warqat, acknowledging a certain pleasant heat to the stuff as it trickled down her insides.

“I will go immediately!” one of the Highlanders volunteered to Lars. She looked up and smiled at the sincerity of the sentry, Daric. “There is no threat in this night that should delay a warrior of Guilderglow!”

“No, none!” came the chorus of agreement.

“You are right,” Lars said firmly. “Daric, begin at once. Take provisions for two days, and do not rest until you reach the castle.”

“Remember, ask the king to come here, to this valley,” Moreen said.

“It shall be done!” Daric promised. The sentry made his preparations with impressive speed, nodded a farewell to his companions, bowed to the chiefwoman, and trotted away into the night.

“Would you like an escort back to your camp?” asked Lars.

“No!” Moreen replied, more sharply than she wanted. “No, I came up the hill in the dark. I can make my way back down it as well.”

“Very good,” Lars replied. “We will see you in the morning.”

“Of course.” She spoke the lie easily, knowing that she ought to be miles away by dawn.