The Messenger

19

Though Thraid Dimmarkull Ber Bane put on an admirable show of grief in public, the widowed ogress left no doubt during her private moments with Grimwar Bane that she was very thankful indeed that Winterheim had a new ruler.

It was only Grimwar’s fear of mortal consequences-not so much from his priestess wife but from her connection with Gonnas the Mighty, the Willful One-that caused the new king to exercise some discretion in his dalliance with his father’s widow.

“She is expecting me for an augury session,” he explained apologetically to Thraid, while his new mistress, beautifully, elegantly recumbent upon her huge, fur-covered bed, pouted coyly. The king looked into those deep, limpid eyes and fought surrender. With a sigh he reached out to wrestle his foot down into his tall boot.

“You have slaves for that sort of thing,” Thraid suggested with a gesture, deliberately allowing the fur blanket to droop seductively off her shoulder. “Even the minor nobles don’t have to put on their own boots.”

“Yes, well …” The king grunted in irritation.

They had been over this topic more than once. At this point, only six weeks after the death of his father, Grimwar was taking no chances. He intended to keep the affair secret even from the most insignificant slaves who, it seemed, were almost always underfoot. Why did he have to repeat his explanations, every time the two of them stole an hour or two of privacy?

Grunting from the uncharacteristic exertion-it was not as easy to bend double as he thought it used to be-Grimwar reached for the other boot, his mood souring fast. When he was done wooing Thraid, he only wanted to be away from her, to get out of her chambers without being seen-at least by anyone who might report his activities to Stariz. Throwing his cloak over his shoulders, he leaned over the massive bed for a farewell kiss, but the voluptuous Thraid was sulking and had turned her back to him.

He muttered his goodbyes and slipped out of her sleeping chamber. The great hall was empty. He turned down a back corridor leading to the king’s study, where he had ostensibly been poring over mining reports, after having left strict orders not to be disturbed.

“Spring will come early this year-soon, before you are prepared for its challenges,” Stariz said, studying the knucklebones she had tossed in a large golden bowl.

“Pah! Spring comes, and the snow melts. Same thing every year. How is one prepared or not?” Grimwar retorted skeptically.

Stariz glared at him with an expression that insinuated he was rather a slow-witted child and she was working very hard to pass on her wisdom.

“Perhaps … perhaps our god means to tell you-” Strariz spoke painfully slow-“that when the spring comes, you should be prepared to act.”

“To do what?” demanded the king impatiently.

The queen set her jaw in a tusk-baring scowl. “Well, that would be up to you, presumably, but we must keep our eyes open, our minds ready for signs of the god’s will. Just last night I had a new dream-”

A knock interrupted the scrying session, and Grimwar raised his head, relieved.

“What is it?” he demanded, in a tone perhaps gruff enough that his joy at being interrupted would not be noted by Stariz.

“Sire, my deepest apologies for the interruption.” It was Lord Hakkan, pushing the door open slightly but not stepping into the room.

The king waved away the apology. “What is it?”

“There is a messenger come to Winterheim. He wishes to speak with you.”

“A messenger? Here? He has journeyed through the Sturmfrost?” Grimwar Bane asked in amazement, even as he welcomed the diversion. Stariz had been about to begin what would surely be a painstakingly detailed interpretation of one of her dreams, and that was reason enough for him to see the visitor.

“Who is it?” the king asked.

“It is … well, it is a thanoi, Sire,” Hakkan said with obvious distaste. “He is waiting in the harbor well.”

“The harbor will be fine,” Grimwar said. He could just imagine how the ice cart, not to mention the air in the royal apartments, would smell if the fish-eating visitor was brought into the upper reaches.

“I’m coming with you!” declared Stariz, immediately rising and hurrying after him.

“This is a king’s matter,” Grimwar protested, as Hakkan tactfully withdrew, closing the door behind him.

“No!” Stariz said heatedly. “Don’t you see-this is the sign from Gonnas. The thanoi has come to show you the will of the god!”

Urgas Thanoi was as wrinkled and fishy smelling as Grimwar Bane remembered. Yet the king tried to overlook those unpleasant features, for in this crude and tusked brute, he had an ally.

“The Arktos survivors have come to your citadel?” Grimwar asked in disbelief.

“Yes, a small tribe of women. They attacked my fortress, and we defeated them, drove them away with much killing.”

“Of course.” Grimwar wondered how “much killing” the walrus-men had accomplished. After all, their chief had come here, plodding a hundred miles through deep snows, to seek the aid of the ogres in dealing with the hated humans.

Grimwar was not displeased. Indeed, the tusker’s news might provide the key to his wife’s nagging and prophecies.

“Human women, do you hear that?” he asked Stariz, baring his tusks in a grin of pleasure.

“An elf-did they have an elf with them?” she asked anxiously, speaking bluntly and directly to Urgas.

“No, my Lady Queen. None was present in the group that attacked my castle.”

“He must be there. He is there!” insisted the ogress.

“It is indeed possible.” Urgas was hasty to agree. His piggish eyes tightened as he appeared to concentrate his thoughts. “My spies reported to me the presence of a strange watercraft, unlike either the kayaks of the Arktos or the great galley of Your Most Noble Highness. This boat arrived after the battle. It may be that the elf was borne in that.”

“Yes. Most certainly, that is the elf’s boat,” the queen said, leaning back and glaring triumphantly at Grimwar Bane.

“Well, of course!” snapped the ogre monarch. “I never disputed your auguries! The boat makes sense. After all, elves cannot fly!”

“What are you going to do? Remember the augury-spring will come early! You must be prepared to act!”

Grimwar snorted. “Of course I will act, when it’s possible to do something! We can march to the citadel. I can take my whole army there, over land, down the Fenriz Glacier! And I will do so. We will enslave the humans, and exterminate this rumored elf. But ogres are not thanoi-we cannot march through snow for a week, and expect to reach the end of the journey with any hope of fighting a decent battle. So I will indeed act in spring! The snowmelt is months away!”

“When the Willful One demands action, he who would honor his god must act!”

“How?” demanded the king hotly. “By taking a thousand ogre warriors out where they will freeze to death?”

“Faith,” Stariz said, her voice softening ominously, “sometimes require that we take chances.”

“You have very fine weapons,” Moreen told Kerrick, examining the keen metal sword he had brought from Cutter. Now that the winds had died down Kerrick was spending more time outside the cave, and, by agilely maneuvering himself from snowbank to rocks, he was able to get out to his boat, climb aboard, inspect it, and bring some of its contents to shore.

Moreen had accompanied him on his most recent trip out to Cutter, and he had enjoyed her company. Together they had looked at the sky, pointing out the stars of their respective gods, the emerald speck of Ziviliyn Greentree close beside bright Chislev Wilder, both stars in the zenith overhead.

“It occurs to me that, perhaps, you could teach my tribeswomen something about fighting,” Moreen suggested.

She never ceased her planning or working, it seemed. Ruefully Kerrick stretched his sore muscles, reflecting on how she had recruited him on so many of her goals. Just yesterday a group of them had finished their biggest project yet, a diversion of the warm stream that had run through the main cavern. Now they had a series of small pools for soaking and bathing, all of which were maintained at a comfortably hot temperature. The main stream, colder most of the time, vanished down a waterfall that still plunged through the hole in the center of the cave, but they had built a low wall around it to keep the children safe.

Those were nice benefits, the elf admitted. He considered the wall of ice they had built across the mouth of the cave. Certainly, if the tuskers were to attack, that would be an invaluable safeguard. What was the matter, though, once in awhile, with just resting and daydreaming?

He agreed that the Arktos women could use some training in combat and agreed to help. They tromped back through the snow, along a path now becoming a permanently worn groove. Back in the cave they gathered nearly thirty of the tribeswomen, as well as the enthusiastic Little Mouse, and filed through the darkness to a large, dry chamber lit by numerous oil lamps. A large, flat floor in the center of the room made the place ideal for training.

Kerrick set to drilling the Arktos with spears, the first type of weapon he had learned to use in his studies under his weapons master. Within three hours he had them thrusting, parrying, and blocking in relatively orderly sequence.

“If you can stay together when facing a number of opponents, they won’t be able to get between you. Each of you only has to worry about your front. That’s the way to prevail, even when you’re outnumbered.”

For another two hours they worked on hurling, using wooden shafts as spears, and charcoaled outlines on the cave wall as targets. Kerrick also let Moreen practice with his sword, showing her some basic maneuvers for attack and defense, pleased that she showed real aptitude with the weapon. In a short time she was carving big splinters out of the pine trunk he was using as a mock target. All of the women were breathing hard, faces glistening with sweat. Little Mouse alone still sprinted after his hurled “spear,” racing back to cast his shafts, one after the other, right into the target.

“Good,” Kerrick said approvingly, as with one final slash the chiefwoman cleaved the trunk in two. “Now we’ll work on a few simple commands-”

He was interrupted by a dull crunch that sounded in the air and pulsed through the floor underfoot.

“Avalanche!” cried Little Mouse.

“Worse!” Moreen was already flying out the door, still holding Kerrick’s sword. The other Arktos followed, and the elf ran after them, toward the great cavern near the mouth of the cave.

Even before they came around the last bend they heard cries of fear and panic. They charged into the hall.

Kerrick pushed through the Arktos women, who had halted in apprehension. Torches illuminated the great cavern all the way back to the bottleneck passageway and entry hall. Those brands were borne by men, bearded and tall, wearing thick furs and bearing axes, swords, and spears.

“Moreen Chiefwoman,” declared a cold, imperious voice. Strongwind Whalebone held a squirming, elderly Arktos man by the arm. Contemptuously he cast the fellow to the ground.

“See how easily we take your people. Your pathetic wall of ice fell to a single keg of warqat, touched by flame. Our brew is quite explosive.”

The Highlander king seemed very pleased with himself. More warriors spilled into the cave, scores of them spreading out to surround Moreen’s people, while additional ranks of Highlanders thronged behind in the narrow entry hall. A girl screamed, Feathertail squirming in the grasp of a Highlander.

“Release her!” demanded Moreen, stepping forward, brandishing the elven sword.

“The kitten has teeth?” chuckled the king. He nodded at the blade. “A fine bit of silver steel for a beachcombing barbarian!” He lifted his own weapon, which was a massive sword held in both strong hands.

Kerrick saw Moreen grow tense, ready to attack, and he quickly stepped to her side. “He’ll kill you!” he whispered. “Is that what you want?”

“Let the girl go-for now,” Strongwind said. Her captor released her and Feathertail sprinted over to the warriors. Bruni scooped her up and held her close. The big woman made a soft, soothing noise, but her eyes as they looked over the girl’s shoulder were flat, dark, and angry.

The king continued, “Chiefwoman of the Arktos, I have a thousand warriors here, and you are defenseless. We claim this cave and all its squatters in the name of Guilderglow!”

Moreen drew a hiss of breath. More and more of the Highlanders pressed in, moving back along both walls of the cave, hundreds of them here now. Clearly there was no hope of resisting. Strongwind Whalebone swaggered forward, sheathing his blade, then snatching the sword from Moreen’s hand with a swipe of his gloved fist.

“You Arktos are my prisoners. We claim your weapons and your food. You will remain here, under the guard of my warriors, while I decide what to do with you.” He glared at Moreen, his eyes running up and down her body as if he inspected a haunch of meat for purchase. “I will think a while, before I decide.”

The sun pushed its nose hesitantly over the horizon, each day lingering a little bit longer at the place called Icereach, where for a quarter of the year wind and snow and ice and cold had shut the world in darkness. Drifts shimmered and swelled across flat landscapes, while mountains and ridges were draped in vast cascades of white. Avalanches regularly tumbled down the long slopes, carrying rock and ice in crushing waves.

With each fleeting exposure to warmth and light, a small part of that snowy blanket shifted. Drifts softened, valleys began to trickle, streams flowing beneath the snow each day grew more vigorous. The wind still scoured across the lifeless world, but now, for a short time each day, that wind bore a hint of moisture and warmth. The winds of darkness were still killing and cold, but they were more tentative, lasting less long, than the gales that had raked the land for the past three months.

Now, at the base of Winterheim, Grimwar Bane gathered his ogre army and his dwarven adviser in the small hours before the next glimpse of that precious sun. Beside him was his wife, in her black obsidian mask. In her hands she bore the long-hafted and gold-bladed Axe of Gonnas, the most hallowed artifact of her great temple. She had explained her plan to the king, who by this time knew enough to keep his grumbling and his skepticism to himself.

Urgas Thanoi was there, too, incongruously dressed in the loin-cloth that seemed to be his only garment. In contrast, the ogres of the king’s army, a thousand strong, wore long capes, high boots, leather gauntlets, and bulky, sheepskin hoods. If the ogres were bundled warmly, Baldruk Dinmaker was all but buried in furs, a hood drawn so tight that only his eyes and nose were visible. They were all prepared for a brutal march, though the warriors, as well as Grimwar Bane himself, were still not clear as to how exactly they were going to march anywhere, not when snow lay ten or fifteen feet deep across the Black Ice Bay and the rest of Icereach beyond.

The tusker chieftain, of course, had the advantage of his broad, webbed feet. He had explained that he had walked mainly on top of the snow when following the track of the Fenriz Glacier to Winterheim. If Stariz was right, the ogres could take that same route.

A horn brayed from high up on the city’s atrium, the golden notes ringing through the halls, finally wafting down to the great gathering on the harbor docks. “The sun rises!” Stariz hissed, as if the king might have forgotten what the signal meant.

“Open the gates!” called Grimwar Bane. Immediately, four hundred slaves set to work, hauling on lines connected to the huge capstans. The rumble of the massive slabs shook the stone floor. The cold air blasted in as the gates parted wider. The sky in the north was pale blue and cloudless.

Black Ice Bay was a frozen swath of drifted snow. When the gates had opened wide enough, Stariz strode along the stone edge of the dock to halt before the wall of snow, perhaps twenty feet high, rising almost to the top of the Stormgates. She held the treasured Axe of Gonnas in two hands, high above her head, declaiming loudly. Baldruk stood beside the king, his pale eyes shining as they watched the priestess begin her incantations.

“Gonnas, our Immortal Protector, Gonnas the Mighty, Gonnas the Strong, show us thy will, and thy path!”

Grimwar felt awe as he looked at that gleaming axehead, saw it glowing with a light from within. Blue flame licked along the keen edge, rising and waving in a magical dance. When his wife swept the mighty weapon through the air, it seemed to make an audible hiss. Steam swirled through the air, like the moist gout of a hot spring, obscuring vision and slicking skin.

Stariz seemed to vanish into that mist, walking forward out of Winterheim and heading down toward the great snow wall. Grimwar and Baldruk hurried forward. The king saw her walking down a wide trench, making a deep gouge through the snow covering the sea. The axe struck, and more snow hissed and evaporated.

The ogre warriors, awestruck but disciplined, marched quickly behind their leader, the entire column snaking out of the city and onto the bay. Again Stariz gestured with her axe, and another great length of path was carved out of the snow. The icy drifts loomed to each side, but the base was solidly frozen bay, and the gap fully thirty feet wide-room for five or six ogres to march abreast.

The daylight was feeble, and only lasted for a few hours, but in that time Stariz was able to work wonders with her axe, and the ogre army crossed the bay and headed onto the smooth surface of Fenriz Glacier. They kept marching even into darkness, the arrival of which caused Baldruk Dinmaker to snort with pleasure even as frosty air closed around them. The blue flames on the Axe of Gonnas flickered unnaturally bright in the night.

Grimwar announced their stops for sleep would be brief. The route of their march led northward between the mountains. A hundred miles away they expected to emerge at the sea very near Brackenrock.

“You Arktos will stay here while we explore your cave,” Strongwind Whalebone declared. A dozen of his warriors, as well as the high priest in his fur and bear-skull raiments, stood back as the tribespeople filed into a small side cavern just off of the main chamber.

“You, elf. Stay here.”

Kerrick halted, watching as the Arktos trudged through the narrow entry. Bruni turned to look back at him, then ducked to enter as a barbarian warrior raised his spear threateningly. Moreen was last, but she halted and then shrugged off a restraining hand, coming back to stand at Kerrick’s side.

“He is not your enemy,” she said, as the Highlander king narrowed his eyes. “We took him captive and coerced him into carrying us across the strait.”

“Is this true?” growled Strongwind Whalebone.

Kerrick was strongly tempted to say “yes.” Perhaps the Highlanders would spare him whatever fate they planned for the Arktos. Clearly they held the power here, and there was nothing to be gained by allying himself with Moreen’s doomed tribe.

“It’s true,” the chiefwoman insisted, glaring at the elf, but he saw the hidden plea in her eyes, urging him to deny the Arktos, to seek whatever escape he could. It was that plea, more than anything else, that forced him to speak the truth.

“I helped the Arktos willingly,” he told the barbarian monarch. “I consider them my friends.”

Strongwind grinned in mocking pleasure. “It is as I suspected. With your skill with your boat, you could have escaped easily enough. You-go!”

Moreen slumped in defeat as two Highlanders dragged her away. Strongwind turned back to Kerrick.

“I have heard that elves are magical people. Search this one. Let us divide him from his treasures.”

They ungirded his scabbard and set it aside. Rough hands lifted his knife, his small pouch of tinder and flint. Blunt fingers slipped underneath his belt, around his side. The hidden pouch was plucked away.

“No!” he cried, lunging, snatching back the small fold of material. The drawstring was tight-he couldn’t get his hands on the ring-but he broke the hold of the burly warrior clutching his arm.

“Stop him!” cried the king.

Kerrick heard steel slip from a sheath behind him, and he twisted out of the way, barely avoiding a stab in the back. The other Highlander, the one who had been searching him, drew a dagger and thrust at him.

His training took over. Feinting left, Kerrick twisted to the right and seized the man’s knife arm by the wrist. Pivoting, using his attacker’s momentum against him, he pulled the man past, sent him tumbling into the other warrior waving his sword.

More hands seized Kerrick as a dozen of the king’s men closed in. The pouch was yanked from his fingers. The elf was watching the two men who had collided and collapsed to the ground. The swordsman scrambled to his feet, looking in revulsion at his bloody blade. A groan of pain came from the other man. His chest was covered with blood.

“I … I didn’t …” Kerrick stared in horror, conscious of being gripped so tightly he could hardly breathe.

“Nevertheless, you did,” sternly declared the king of the Highlanders. He glared at the elf. “For that, you will pay the penalty customary among our people for the crime of murder.”

He nodded to his men. “Put him temporarily in the cave with the Arktos. Let him try to stay warm in there, as we prepare a slab for the Ice Death.”