The Messenger

22

Strongwind saw immediately that his warriors would not be able to hold their defenses for long. His bravest swordsmen stood shoulder to shoulder across the bottleneck gap, but the ogres were too big, too strong, too numerous. All they could do was sell their lives for precious minutes of survival.

Already the Arktos elders and children had retreated deeper into the cave, toward the base of the shaft discovered by Little Mouse. Many of Strongwind’s warriors had followed, though others remained at his side, ready to fight to the death in the big cavern. It was a fight that could have but one outcome. Already dozens of bleeding, wounded men were retreating past him, visible in the smoky light of the twin bonfires. Maybe a hundred of his men were already dead, an equal number grievously wounded.

Strongwind Whalebone was not an introspective man, but he found himself cursing the foolishness that had brought his army forth from Guilderglow. The Arktos woman had enraged him when she so rudely spurned him at their first meeting, then she had humiliated him by escaping from him. Most of all she had fascinated him in a way that no other person ever had. By Kradok, what madness had she worked, to bring him and his army to such a dolorous end?

The madness had come from within himself. His passion for her was a self-destructive delusion. Now, oddly, he found himself hoping that she might make it to Brackenrock, that she would be able to lead at least some of her people to safety.

“Here, you-King Strongwhistle!” He was startled by an elderly woman snapping at him.

“Strongwind!” he corrected the woman angrily, recognizing the cantankerous shaman of the Arktos tribe. “What do you want?”

“Are you going to stand here like one of those rock pillars, or do you want to do something that might give the ogres a little pause?”

“Tell me what you mean!” he declared, ready to seize on any possibility.

“Well, you have a god of your people, don’t you? You call him Kradok the Wild One, we call her Chislev Wilder. But it’s the same god-just like we’re the same people, ’cept some of us are thick skulled.”

“Do you have anything to say besides blasphemy?” demanded the king. For the first time he noticed, in the shadows behind the shaman, his own high priest, now garbed in his ceremonial robes. “Did you hear that foolishness?” he asked.

“Er, actually, sire,” said the man, an elder cleric who had guided the faith of the kingdom since Strongwind’s childhood, “there is an element of truth to her words.”

“This wild goddess? You tell me Kradok is a woman?” The king couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Such matters … really do not apply,” said the priest, his bear skull helm bobbing apologetically. “That is, they are not important now. I suggest that you hear what the shaman of the Arktos has to say.”

“Very well. What are you trying to tell me?” Strongwind said testily, glaring at the skinny old crone.

“Let’s start simple, so you can understand. You see, our goddess deserves respect, and she has a kind eye for her humans, undeserving though we may be. She doesn’t want to see us all butchered like fish in a barrel. So I think she will help us.”

“How?”

The woman-she was called Dinekki, he remembered suddenly-pointed to a great row of stalactites jutting from the ceiling in the middle of the cavern. “Well, she might be willing to knock those down for us. That would hold up the ogres a bit, don’t you think?”

“That could bottle up the whole cavern. It would take them a week to dig through!” He looked at his high priest. “What is your advice?”

“If the woman can form the framework of the spell, I will try to add my power to the earthquake. We may be able to cause quite a collapse-that is, I believe we can.”

“It would halt their attack.” Strongwind immediately saw the possibilities: A barrier would protect them from ogre pursuit long enough that possibly all of the humans could climb, or be lifted, up the chimney to Brackenrock.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” clucked the elderly priestess. “It will take a little spellcasting from us, and a little distraction from you. We’ve got to hold the ogres at that entrance for a bit longer, til we can get ourselves set.”

“How long do you need?” asked the king of the Highlanders.

“Ten minutes should do. Now, let’s get all those people-all them that aren’t fighting ogres, at least-deeper into the cave.”

Kerrick’s fingers probed at the icy snow behind him. The wet snow, where the Axe of Gonnas had touched it, was slushy and wet. For several minutes, he had been forming a fist-sized ball, compacting it into a chunk of ice as hard as a rock.

The huge ogress queen stood a dozen feet away, her back to the elf, looking across the cove at the battle raging around the mouth of the cavern. From here it was obvious that the humans were faring badly. The wall had collapsed in several places, and ogres were pouring into the cave mouth.

Kerrick saw a figure plodding away from the fight, coming towards them, and he recognized Baldruk Dinmaker. Several other ogres formed an escort for the queen, but they were a respectful distance away along the snowy shore. Cutter, still triple-roped to the stone pillar, rested in the placid water a short distance beyond the queen.

The ogress turned and clumped toward Kerrick, silhouetted against the purple sky paling toward brief daylight. He dropped the iceball, let it sit in the darkness next to his hip. The queen had that great axe in her hands, though the fire had faded from the edge of the blade. She turned her attention to the approaching dwarf. “What word do you bring?” she asked crossly.

“My queen, let me help you guard that wretch,” suggested Baldruk Dinmaker, only dozen paces away. “These elves are ever treacherous, wickedly dangerous.”

“You don’t look dangerous,” mused the massive, square-faced ogress, turning to look at Kerrick pensively. The water was now at her back, and the snowbank sloped sharply downward behind her. “Thanks be to Gonnas, we have warning of your wicked nature.”

“I know I don’t look dangerous,” Kerrick said casually, wrapping the fingers of his right hand around the ice ball. “But I am.”

He pivoted, sprang into a crouch, and threw the missile with all of his strength. He started a prayer to Zivilyn, but before he could complete the first word he saw the solid chunk of ice strike the queen between her eyes. She cried out and clapped both hands to her face, momentarily leaving the axe standing on its long haft.

Kerrick was sprinting, barely hearing the dwarf shout a warning. The elf reached the reeling ogress and smashed his shoulder into her gut, sending her staggering backward. His hands darted out and snatched the axe. Staggering under the weight, he raised the blade, sent it slashing downward toward the queen’s neck.

She was already overbalanced. Hands flailing, massive feet sliding down the steep snowbank, she fell backward and plunged into the waters of the cove. Roaring, cursing inarticulately, she clawed at the edge.

Instantly Kerrick whirled around. He heard shouts of alarm, and saw that several ogres had observed his escape. The dwarf was rushing toward him now, shouting curses in a foul, guttural tongue as he drew a silver dagger from his belt.

Cutter floated close beside him, and Kerrick again raised the massive gold-bladed axe. With a single chop he cut the ropes that had bound his boat to this shore for the long winter.

The dwarf was almost upon him now but halted as Kerrick raised the axe high. A single downward blow would have split that hateful skull, ended that wicked life, but this was not his intention. Not yet.

“Drop your knife and get on the boat or die,” growled the elf. “You have two heartbeats to choose.”

Glaring hatefully, the dwarf let the weapon slip from his fingers. He took a step toward the sailboat, while a half dozen ogres scrambled closer.

Kerrick brandished the axe again. “Move now, or else!”

The dwarf leaped onto the deck, landing with the easy balance of an experienced sailor.

“Get to the bow.”

Reluctantly, the glowering dwarf moved forward. A wild leap carried the elf, still holding the axe, to the boat, where he almost stumbled over the side. Catching his balance, he turned and waved the axe to hold the dwarf in place, and saw lumbering ogres a few dozen paces away, closing fast. With a smooth flip he planted the head of the axe against the shore and pushed the boat into deeper water.

One of the ogres stopped to cast a spear, and the elf knocked the weapon away with a sideways swipe. His luck continued, and before the next ogre thought to launch a weapon, Cutter and her two passengers were bobbing in placid water, safely out of range.

“Now!” Moreen said. Bruni threw her weight against the brick wall. The chiefwoman also pushed against the flimsy barrier, as did Mad Randall, Lars Redbeard, and several other of the big Highlanders.

In a clatter of dust and debris the wall burst inward, and the attackers exploded through the opening. Moreen carried the iron-bladed sword, and thrust it into the chest of a surprised thanoi as the brute scrambled to sit up on dirty straw mat.

“For Nangrid!” she shouted, a piercing cry.

“For Carann! For Marin! For Anka!”

The Arktos shouted the names of their deceased comrades. Moreen whirled into the tuskers with a vengeance, instinct wielding her weapon with surprising accuracy. She flew at another thanoi, dropping it with a vicious slash across the throat. She stabbed a walrus-man trying to scramble out of her way, chopped at one to the side. Everywhere the creatures were lunging to their feet, barking and shouting, reaching for their weapons. Many fell before the sudden, merciless onslaught.

One Highlander whirled among the tuskers like a deadly cyclone. It was Mad Randall. His voice was an animal howl, a nightmarish sound. His axe slashed through a circle of tuskers, and the survivors fell back, bleeding from cuts. Before they hit the floor the berserker had leaped over a table and charged another pair, killing one swiftly and sending the other tumbling backward into the fireplace, where it shrieked and flailed, trying to bat away flames. Thrashing desperately, the monster crawled out of the the blaze, but its fat was already melting, crackling into greasy flames. It died in a cloud of grimy smoke.

Moreen felt as though she was watching herself, a stranger, as if someone else was enjoying this horrible violence. She killed with pleasure, with hatred, her movements quick, efficient, relentless. Even when her hands were doused with warm blood, when the fishy stink of thanoi guts choked her nostrils, she enjoyed the killing.

On the far side of the room, Bruni swung her mighty stone hammer, bashing one thanoi after another as the creatures struggled to collect themselves, to raise weapons or flee. Tildey stood near the fallen wall, shooting arrows at any tusker that offered a clean target. Already a half dozen lay dead or dying, pierced by the archer’s lethal missiles.

After several minutes of frenzied battle, two score or more of the monsters lay scattered around the big chamber. Others had fled, ignoring the wide double doors, which were still latched, instead leaping out windows to the ground.

“Take the whole fortress!” cried Moreen. “Spread out and find the tuskers wherever they’re hiding!”

The humans moved rapidly in pursuit. Mad Randall wasted no time in smashing the doors apart with a blow of his great axe. His strange, shrieking war cry rang in the courtyard now as he led the Highlanders through the doorway. The berserker’s eyes were wide, his lips flecked with foam. He wielded his great battle axe with lightning blows, leaving one thanoi after another battered and bleeding in his wake. When a great bull lowered his tusks and charged him, Randall’s blade effortlessly cleaved his enemy from crown to sternum. Without pause the Highlander vaulted over the fallen thanoi, landing on his feet and somehow bringing his axe up for a slashing cut at another scrambling walrus-man.

Moreen heard a familiar voice cry out, and turned in horror to see Little Mouse taking on a big thanoi. The youth had a thin knife extended before him, while the hulking brute was lowering its bestial head to bring its sharp tusks into line. With startling speed the walrus-man sprang forward, driving the heavy body with long, supple legs.

Little Mouse went down, but Moreen saw that he had fallen and rolled, so that his knife could stab upward, ripping out a long cut in the monster’s belly. The tusker fell with a groan and a kick, and the lad was on him in a flash, driving the keen blade deep. Then Little Mouse scrambled up, took a spear from a pile of thanoi weapons, and hurried to continue the fight.

“To the walls!” Moreen shouted, as the last of the tuskers outside the barracks was cut down and eliminated. “Follow me to the gatehouse!”

Daylight had brightened the sky, and she saw some thanoi were fleeing out the gate. Others paused to touch torches to a large pile of oily firewood, discharging a spume of black smoke.

Everywhere the attackers spread out, striking and killing. Moreen shouted, a furious cry of exultation, fury, and grief. Her bloody sword held high, she ran forward, her tribemates following.

“Chislev Wilder, in our sight, show thy signal, light the light!” chanted Dinneki.

Strongwind Whalebone, fighting beside his men, couldn’t hear her exact words, but he saw a flash of brightness, emanating from somewhere behind the dozen Highlanders fighting here. The rest of Strongwind’s warriors had already withdrawn beyond the stone spires where the shaman prepared her spell.

“That’s the signal!” he cried, praying that the rest of Dinekki’s magic worked as well as this light spell that alerted the Highlanders to retreat and stunned the ogres into momentary awe.

An attacker facing the king raised both hands to his tusked face, crying out as the magical light momentarily blinded him. Strongwind stabbed his enemy in his belly, which bulged beneath a metal breastplate. The ogre dropped with a gurgling moan.

“Fall back!” shouted the king.

His men turned and ran, for a moment opening up a gap between themselves and the attackers, who had been momentarily stunned by the brightness.

Strongwind held back, making sure that all of his men had escaped. When the last had passed he started after. Something hard struck him, and he sprawled forward on the ground. As he lay on his face, a weapon ricocheted into the shadows, and he realized that he had been hit by an ogre spear.

He tried to clear his mind, to leap to his feet and run, but could only rise to his hands and knees, groggy and stunned. Knowing he had to get away, he pushed himself up, then everything whirled. His men had reached the safety of the deep cave, and the ground shook to the pounding of ogre boots. Crawling behind a big rock, Strongwind sat up and tried to get his bearings.

“Chislev Wilder, through the gloom-bring these ogres rocky doom!”

The shaman’s command resonated thunderously through the cavern, her voice impossibly loud for such a frail speaker. The floor pitched and buckled. Rocks splintered, and Strongwind smelled acrid dust. Shards of stone whizzed over his head, and a cloud of murk descended. The floor heaved, and more stone broke from the ceiling, crashing downward, piling onto the floor, rising upward to form a great barricade. Some ogres shrieked as the cascade crushed them. Most of the brutes stumbled backward, avoiding the rockfall but thwarted in the pursuit of the fleeing humans.

She had done it-that crotchety old woman had summoned up the godly power of the earth itself! For the time being, while the ogre army clawed through the rubble, the two tribes were safe.

Except for Strongwind Whalebone, who, as his head cleared, realized that he was on the ogre side of that barrier. He stumbled to his feet, seeing a dozen ogres within a stone’s throw, but they were also off balance. Several of them stared dumbly at the pile of debris.

“Move it!” roared an ogre voice from somewhere. “Dig it out of the way! After them!”

Strongwind rolled to the side, staying low, realizing that there was still adequate light here from the bonfires his men had burned. An ogre shouted and pointed. He had been seen!

At the edge of the cavern he saw a shadowy wall, pocked with niches, and he remembered something-Little Mouse and his spyhole!

Wincing from the pain in his shoulder, the Highlander king drove himself on, finding the opening, crawling up to slip inside the tunnel, desperately pulling himself through a winding passage. Fresh, cold air bathed his face, smelling of melting snow, and he knew he was on the right path.

Loud noises came from behind: shouts, grunts, and metallic scrapes, and he knew the ogres had seen him and were hot in pursuit.