The Messenger

20

Tap another keg, and fill my mug once more. Then shall we have some entertainment!” Strongwind Whalebone proclaimed with a wild flourish, to the deep, ringing cheers of this men. He stood in the center of the cavern, illuminated by two great bonfires his warriors had built, surrounded by a throng of Highlander warriors.

The Arktos were gathered together at the side of the big chamber, except for Moreen, who stood in the center of the room with Lars Redbeard and another bearded man flanking her. Along the wall was piled the great cache of supplies that had been unloaded from the Highlanders’ dogsleds. Much of that pile consisted of the ubiquitous casks of warqat, which the men had been drinking steadily over the past few days.

The Arktos had been segregated in a smaller chamber, though they had often been able to hear the raucous laughter and crude jeers of their drunken captors. Kerrick suspected it was only a matter of time before the women began to suffer even baser abuses at the hands of the crude men. He had spent his own captivity in grim anticipation of the sentence pronounced by the Highlander king.

Even so, he felt no regret about declaring his allegiance to the tribe. Contrasting the dignified captivity of the Arktos with the brawling revelry of the Highlanders, the elf found every reason to despise his captors. He was well aware that his contempt, unfortunately, did nothing to render these men less dangerous.

“You asked me about dragons,” King Strongwind chortled to Moreen, “and thus I knew you were seeking Brackenrock. Though little did I expect to find you in such snug shelter. That was well done, that wall you built across the cave mouth. I have given the order that it be rebuilt. I intend no harm to your people, if things go well between us.

“You should know, however,” he added with a harsh laugh. “Brackenrock was the ancestral home of my people, not yours!”

“That’s a lie!” declared the chiefwoman. “It is said that the Arktos came forth from that place during the Scattering. From that time we have made our villages on the shores of the White Bear Sea!”

The king shook his head, pointing a finger right at her face. “You say this, but you have no histories, no books, nothing for proof. I have the stories of this period written by Highlander bards three centuries ago!”

“Because if you write it down, that makes it true,” Dinekki muttered to Kerrick sarcastically, her voice too low for any of the Highlanders to hear.

The elf nodded, reluctant to attract attention to himself by making any reply.

Since the Highlanders had invaded the cave three or four days ago, they had not seemed in any great hurry to decide what to do with their prisoners.

Until now. Within the last hour, all of the Arktos had been summoned, then roughly herded into the great chamber. The bonfires had been lit, filling the air with lingering smoke that, at least, covered the smells of sweat and stink of many hundreds of unwashed men. The great stream of meltwater rushed along its trough in the floor, until it reached the chute in the center of the cave where it plunged downward and out of sight in a churning torrent. Several stones had been arrayed against the cavern wall, and it was on this makeshift throne that Strongwind Whalebone sat. For ten minutes he had been arguing with Moreen Bayguard, who stood before him under the protective watch of Lars Redbeard.

“Now,” the king finally said, cutting off any further debate with a gesture, “it is time for you to learn why we have gathered you all. Bring forward the elf, the one who sails that boat.”

Kerrick was quickly seized by two burly warriors, who brought him to face the king. Moreen stood nearby, looking at him with despair. He winked at her, trying to be encouraging, but was rewarded by a cuff.

“Save your attention for King Strongwind,” growled one of his guards.

Kerrick saw that the monarch was looking downward, examining the thin gold ring he held between his coarse fingers. He raised his eyes as the elf was brought close.

“This seems a silly trinket to kill-and to die-for,” Strongwind said. “It is too small for my own finger, but I will keep it, as a reminder of the only elf ever to come to the Icereach.”

Kerrick uttered a strangled cry and tried to break free. Only the strong grip of the Highlanders holding him by the arms kept him from throwing himself at the king.

It gave him some satisfaction to know that the man was too much a fool to recognize the worth of his prize. If he tried hard enough to put it on, the magical band would expand to fit his finger. The ring was a mixed blessing, and a part of Kerrick hoped to see the king wearing it.

Strongwind scowled at the elf, narrowing his blue eyes. “I have sentenced you to an ancient punishment, one exceptionally fit for this splendid cave. Perhaps your Arktos companions will find it instructional. My men will find it entertaining.”

Kerrick’s anger faded, replaced by a feeling of dread.

“Bring forth the ice slab!” cried the king.

Four strong men dragged a large, flat object out of the shadows, bringing it toward the center of the cavern. Kerrick saw that it was a massive block of ice, and that two chains, each with a manacle attached, had been embedded in the solid chunk.

King Strongwind laughed. “I give you a new boat, elf, one made by my artisans, just for you. It has been shaped with tender care and frozen solid over the past few days. They tell me it is ready, now.”

Kerrick struggled wildly, but the Highlanders threw him onto the flat surface and in short order bracketed his hands. The water gushed past him, inches from his head, plunging into a hole that, even to his keen elven eyes, was lightless, airless, and cold.

“No!” Moreen twisted hard, breaking free from Lars Redbeard. “You’re no better than the ogre!” she shouted, throwing herself at Strongwind Whalebone.

She reached out with every intention of clawing his eyes out, but the Highlander king leaned back in his makeshift throne and effortlessly struck her away. Lars and another warrior grabbed her again, and Strongwind laughed aloud.

“Hold her over here,” said the king, rising, sauntering past her. “I would have her watch this business-probably it will be the last chance she ever has to look at one of the elven race.” He wagged a mocking finger toward her. “After all, when I’ve got you settled in Guilderglow, I don’t think you should plan on getting out much … darling.”

The chiefwoman stared miserably at Kerrick, who was pale with fear. His arms were spreadeagled. Flat on his back, he lay shackled to the slab of ice. She had brought him to this end, she knew, just as surely as she had led Nangrid and Marin, young Banrik, and the others to their deaths. Her leadership had brought cruel death to many.

“Well, here, lad. It might be a cold ride,” Dinekki said, hobbling through the ring of Highlander guards and approaching Kerrick. “May the blessing of Chislev Wilder see you through the darkness.”

“Stop, hag!” cried one of the Highlanders, raising his hand to block her path.

“You stop, yourself!” snapped the shaman, poking a bony finger in the man’s face. “Perhaps you dare the wrath of Chislev Wilder?”

“Kradok protect me,” murmured the Highlander, recoiling and lifting both hands in prayer.

Moreen watched numbly as the old woman bent down to touch Kerrick’s face. She said something quietly, then Dinekki stood upright, gave the nearest Highlander a look of undisguised contempt, and hobbled back into the assemblage of Arktos.

Strongwind Whalebone looked impatient and once again raised his voice. “Send the elf into the depths!” he roared. Numbly, the chiefwoman watched the burly warriors muscle the slab into an upright position. The elven sailor hung there, looking at her briefly before they tipped him, face first, into the churning waters of the subterranean stream.

Kerrick barely had time to draw a deep breath before the current snatched him. He felt the weight of the ice slab as a crushing burden on his back. Liquid filled his nostrils, and he fought against panic, knowing that would be the fastest way to death … and realizing that nothing he could do was likely to delay the end of his life by more than a minute or two.

Above him, for an instant, he spied the hole in the floor and the firelit ceiling of the cavern, then darkness swallowed him. The slab tumbled and spun, and he landed face down in water that seemed frigid. He felt pain, a bizarre burning sensation, as if he had been poked by a multitude of red hot irons.

Water filled his mouth when he gasped involuntarily. Complete darkness enclosed him. Head first, he continued to plummet, twisting violently around in the current. Water tugged at him, and the manacles chafed his wrists, wrenched his arms. His feet and legs twisted outward, and he used all of his strength to pull himself against the ice slab.

The tunnel bore him along with remarkable velocity. The elf was tossed about and scraped against the side of the shaft. He expected at any second to be smashed to bits, but apparently the water had worn a smooth channel through this abyss. He careened onwards with a series of jolts, still surrounded by water.

Only then did he wonder that he wasn’t drowning.

He drew a deep breath without choking, though he was fully immersed. Again the slab pitched forward, tumbling down another chute, banging from side to side, then spinning lazily through a powerful current in a larger channel. Once more he took a breath, conscious of invigorating air flowing into his lungs-from the water!

The explanation came in a flash: Dinekki had cast a spell upon him. Somehow she had slyly given him the benefit of her magic, conveying Chislev’s enchantment upon him, giving him the power to breathe water. In the midst of the nightmare, he felt a sense of profound confidence and peace.

A sense of weightlessness overwhelmed him as he fell through a waterfall. Again the ice slab plunged into a churning maelstrom, whirling him upside down. A hot spring made the temperature almost tolerable. Then he was rising, floating toward the surface, lying on top of the ice slab, feeling the raft push, gently buoyant, against him. He was drained of energy, unable even to clench his aching fingers. He lacked even the strength to lift his head.

He felt air-bitterly cold air. When he blinked the wetness out of his eyes he saw a green star and a white star, side by side in the heavens. He was still lying flat on his back, arms splayed to the side, still manacled. Now he shivered, for his soaked body was exposed to the wind. The drops on his eyebrows turned to frost. He saw that he was outside on a cold, clear night, and he knew that he would freeze to death soon, but he also felt strangely glad that he had such a nice view of those two stars.

Something else loomed against the sky, a familiar post rising from a wooden hull. He almost chuckled, inanely amused to realize that the undersea spring had spewed him into the pool of water where Cutter floated. How fitting for him to die here, under the shadow of his own boat.

Something else moved across his vision, a concerned face, with a shadowy topknot draped over one shoulder. Now he knew he was delusional, for Kerrick was certain he heard Coraltop Netfisher’s voice.

“There you are!” the kender said, sounding rather vexed. “What in all Krynn kept you for so long?”

“This place will do nicely,” Strongwind Whalebone declared in satisfaction, examining the grotto in the light of the oil lamps two of his men had put in place. Another pair of his warriors held Moreen, who had exhausted herself by resisting them during the long walk through the cave. The king gestured to his men. “Leave us here. Stretch a bearskin across the door and wait without. Don’t worry if you hear a bit of a commotion-she’s a feisty wench!”

The men gave Moreen a hard shove away from the narrow entrance, before they retreated. Quickly a great white pelt was raised across the aperture. The two were shut off in a small chamber crowded with ornate rock formations studded all over with tiny crystals that sparked and twinkled in the light of the lamps. Shadows leaped and danced on the wall.

When the chiefwoman looked around, she noticed that the Highlander monarch was taking off the gold chains that dangled around his neck, and slipping out of his tall, metalbuckled boots. He slid the chains into the boots and stretched, looking at Moreen with an expression of amused contempt.

“You’d might as well make yourself comfortable,” he said. “We’re going to be here a while. The more you cooperate, the easier it will go for you.”

“I would die before I submit to you!” she spat.

“Did you consider that perhaps you don’t have a choice? I am stronger than you, and much bigger. My men are in control of your stronghold. For once, Moreen Chieftain’s Daughter, you would be wise to acknowledge the inevitable.”

It was her turn to laugh. “Do you know that, when you were showing me your citadel. I actually allowed myself to think that, perhaps, you were a great man, a great leader. How foolish I was. Now I see you are a mere beast. The ogres at least had the courage to fight our warriors. You Highlanders, it seems, would rather wait till the enemy’s warriors are gone, then come to force yourselves on the women. Perhaps you should call your two men back in here. If they held me down, you wouldn’t have to work so hard.”

The king glowered as he set his boots to the side. “You are rapidly destroying any intention I had of being gentle with you.

Moreen’s eyes cast around the grotto, seeking something, anything, she could use as a weapon. She saw the king of the Highlanders shrug out of his tunic. His body was muscular and huge.

Now she saw her chance.

“You’re looking somewhat worse for wear,” Coraltop Netfisher said with a scowl, “but your skin is getting kind of pink instead of all white and pasty like when I fished you out of the water.”

Kerrick wrapped his hands around the cup of tea, soaking up the warmth. At least he wasn’t shivering as much as before. He could hold the deep mug without flinging the contents all over the cabin.

“H-how did you find me … and w-where have you been?” he asked. “You didn’t spend the whole winter sleeping on the boat, did you?”

The kender shrugged. “It never got too cold. I think there’s a nice hot spring under here.”

“There is,” Kerrick agreed. “I came floating right out of it. But you-how? When we crashed … I saw you fall in the water … I looked-I looked everywhere.…” He shook his head in disbelief, trying not to doubt his good fortune at finding his shipmate alive. “Don’t tell me about that sleeping potion, again. I don’t know where you got it, but you didn’t have it with you when I found you!”

“Well, all right, I won’t tell you about it!” sniffed the kender. “Maybe you’d rather get back in the water then waste your time with me?”

Kerrick groaned and shook his head, but when he probed for more details, Coraltop was adamant in his refusal to offer an explanation. Finally the elf desisted, lacking the energy to continue.

By the time Coraltop, with a few twists of a little piece of wire, had freed the manacles from his wrists and helped the elf aboard the sailboat, Kerrick had slowly pieced together how he had come up in the spring-heated cove. The stream that vanished through the floor of the cave obviously carried a significant flowage into the sea, including some of the warm water that had kept this little patch of cove from freezing through the bitter winter. His makeshift raft had been borne by the current, through the deep channel, until it emerged in the cove where it had bobbed gently to the surface.

“So, are we going to go sailing again very soon?” Coraltop asked. “I mean, after you’ve had a bite to eat and a nap.”

Kerrick sighed. “We might be floating in water, but the last time I looked, this cove was still pretty well frozen in.”

“Well, you mean the sea, yes. That’s all ice and snowdrifts. But the whole cove is melted, now. We can float right over to the other side, where the road winds up the cliff. And the sun came out-why, it must have been up there for three or four hours today. Of course, I suppose it would be kind of boring, just sailing back and forth around here. Like my Grandmother Annatree used to say, ‘It’s not really a trip unless you go somewhere. Or fall down.’ ”

Kerrick chuckled. “I think we’re a long way from getting out to the sea, or the ocean. I’m going up on deck to have a look.”

Emerging from the cabin, Kerrick saw the sky was brightening from the midnight darkness. He noticed something else-people, big people, moving on the shore. They shuffled through the snow, cloaked in white, barely visible in the growing light. He saw a whole column of them, an army of warriors, larger and uglier even than the Highlanders. Several were gathered around Cutter’s anchor rope, and they pulled steadily on the line, hauling the sailboat toward shore.

“Stay right there!” growled a creature on shore that the shocked elf recognized as an ogre. He tried to think. The ogres were spread out along the shore, with several even now approaching the mouth of the cave where the Arktos and Highlanders were gathered.

“That’s it-don’t fight, and there’s no need to kill you. Not right away,” the ogre on shore said encouragingly.

The elf perceived that he had been mistaken about something-these were not all ogres. One squat figure pushed back his hood to reveal himself as a dwarf, a bristling-haired dark dwarf standing with the ogres who were drawing Cutter closer to shore. His breath steamed in the air as he snorted impatiently, and when the dwarf turned his face to look at the sailboat, the elf all but stumbled.

The last time he had seen that face, Baldruk Dinmaker had been looking over the transom of Silvanos Oak, as that mighty galley commenced her last departure from Silvanesti. His father Dimorian Fallabrine had been in command of the great ship, and this same bearded dwarf had served as second mate.