The Messenger

9

How many more days?” Garta asked Moreen, as the tribe broke camp on a drizzly fall morning. The wind was light, fortunately, but dampness permeated every one of the Arktos, and there was no wood to spare for a breakfast fire. “Remember, Little Mouse said he found a cave yesterday. Wouldn’t it be a good idea to at least have a look at it before we go any farther north?”

“I did have a look at it,” the chiefwoman replied, with a shake of her head.

“When?” the matron inquired, surprised. “You were still up when I got the last of the children bedded down, and that was halfway into the night!”

Moreen sighed. “I went up there early this morning, before the rest of you stirred. Mouse was right. It was pretty big, and it was dry-but not big enough for all of us, unless you want to spend the winter standing up. It had a wide mouth facing south, so it wouldn’t provide any shelter against the Sturmfrost.”

Garta blanched and drew a deep breath. It was an awareness they all shared-the onslaught of the Sturmfrost was less than three months away, now.

“Well, we have to find something better then, don’t we?” she said with forced cheerfulness. “How far can it be to this Tall Cedar Bay you told us about? Surely we must be getting close?”

Moreen nodded, once again wondering if she should share her secret, her hope of finding safety for the tribe in ancient Brackenrock. Instead, she changed the subject. “Our food situation is very good, now.”

They had plenty of food, thanks to the black whale. Immediately after the battle with the thanoi, the women had set to work with skinning knives, carving long strips of flesh from the meaty carcass. For two weeks the elders tended low fires and suspended the strips of meat on makeshift racks made from the weapons recovered from the slain walrus-men.

Garta’s hand came to rest on Moreen’s shoulder. “I don’t mean to question your judgment,” she said softly. “You already know how hard this is on the little ones-”

“And the elders, yes.” The chiefwoman looked at the hobbling grandfathers and grandmothers, most of them accompanied by a child or toddler. She saw the women hoisting great backpacks, the bundles of dried whale meat that weighed them down so much they couldn’t move any faster than the elders.

“Up the coast again today?” Bruni asked cheerfully, coming up to the pair. The big woman carried a pack twice as large as anyone else’s, with a bundle of harpoons and spears lashed crossways to the top that gave her the appearance of some great, antlered beast.

“Yes. A few more days, maybe a week, along here.”

Bruni narrowed her eyes shrewdly. “My grandfather told me once of an old ruin, a place built by the Arktos in generations past. What was it called, again?”

“Brackenrock?” Garta said in surprise. “You’re not taking us there, are you?”

Moreen sighed. “The thought had crossed my mind.”

“But-but even if it exists, it was taken over by monsters! Dragons!” Garta’s round face was a picture of astonishment, then she blinked and lowered her eyes. “I mean, I’m not trying to question your judgment, but what are you thinking?”

“First, I believe Brackenrock exists. Dinekki saw it in a vision, and we have to trust the guidance of Chislev Wilder. Dinekki could see it, up on the hills above the water. Steam was rising from several vents, so perhaps the legends are true, and Brackenrock stays warm all winter, even through the Sturmfrost.”

“What about the dragons? What about the Scattering? What about the risks of going there?”

“Dinekki also says that there are no dragons there. I trust her. Chislev protect us-we’ll find a way to make it.”

“Moreen! Come quick!” Little Mouse was running towards them along the hilltop above the beach.

“What is it now?” she snapped, more irritably than she intended.

“It’s that Highlander. He’s back again, with two dozen warriors. He wants to talk to you again.”

Lars Redbeard again wore the great wolfskin cloak, with the lupine head, jaws agape, resting like a crown on his scalp. He was waiting for Moreen on the next hill, with his band of fur-clad spearmen.

Little Mouse and Bruni accompanied the chiefwoman, who stopped twenty paces short of the sub-chief and crossed her arms over her chest.

“I bring you greetings from Strongwind Whalebone, king of Icereach.”

“Send the ‘king’ my greetings in return.” She couldn’t keep the irony out of her voice. Who was this Strongwind Whalebone, who thought he was a monarch of all Icereach?

“Hear me, Moreen Seal-Slayer.”

“She is Moreen Chiefwoman now,” Bruni chided. “Daughter of Redfist Bayguard, and heir to the Black Bearskin.”

Redbeard’s eyes widened, and he bowed stiffly from the waist. Moreen wasn’t sure if she was being mocked or not. “I bring you another invitation from Strongwind Whalebone-he desires that you come to Guildgerglow to meet with him.”

“My answer remains the same,” Moreen retorted. “My tribe is here, and they need me. If Strongwind Whalebone wants to meet with me, he should come to the coast. We will not walk too fast for him to catch us,” she added with a snort.

“We realize that we insulted you before, that we erred with clumsy words. Strongwind Whalebone admits his mistakes and tries to learn from them. To this end he has authorized a gift, something he alone can offer.”

Lars Redbeard gestured, and one of his men came forward with a small, but obviously very heavy, box. He set it down on a flat rock and lifted the top to reveal a stack of gleaming gold coins.

“This treasure is considerable, enough to justify a noble rank among our people. My king offers it to you as proof of his honor and his good intentions. Will you accept his gift and accompany me to his castle?”

“What need have I of the yellow metal?” snapped Moreen.

Lars Redbeard did not seem to take offense. “Why, everyone has a use for gold,” he replied earnestly. “You can use it for barter or for ornamentation!”

“It’s too heavy-it would make more sense for you to give us food,” replied the chiefwoman.

“Oh, I think we might accept the king’s gift,” Bruni said gently.

Moreen looked into the strongbox, impressed in spite of herself. The yellow metal had a beauty, a purity, a seductive gleam, she had to admit. She felt angry at her weakness, glared at Bruni, and once again shook her head firmly. “No-thank you.”

The emissary stiffened and cleared his throat. “It is important. You must come with me.”

“Why, you big wolf!” snapped Little Mouse, stepping between Bruni and Moreen to glare up at the Highlander. “You can’t talk to my chiefwoman that way!”

He took another step forward as Lars Redbeard narrowed his eyes menacingly. Despite the bulk of her heavy pack, Bruni leaned down and snatched the lad by his tunic, pulling him back.

Moreen was glad for the momentary distraction. She felt trapped, uncertain.

“I know you are concerned for your people,” Lars continued. “I give you my word-they will be safe. They will be under the protection of my warriors.” He gestured behind him, though his eyes never left the chiefwoman’s face. “Look, we have brought food and furs, enough to greatly improve the comfort of your tribe.”

For the first time Moreen noticed the large bundles that were sitting on the ground just beyond the party of Highlanders. She saw sheepskins and several large white bear pelts. There were a number of stout casks, as well as bags bulging with what she supposed must be grains or dried food. She had spoken too rashly. Surely these were well-intended gifts.

Her eyes also took in the strangers’ clubs and axes, the stout spears and several great longbows outfitting the band. Finally she made her decision.

“Let me see the bounty you have brought,” she declared imperiously, striding past Lars Redbeard to look at the food and furs scattered on the ground.

She knelt and touched a sheepskin. The wool was soft and clean, the leather expertly tanned-this one pelt alone might mean the difference between life and death for one of the Arktos children. She quickly saw that the sacks were full of edibles. She smelled barley, saw the pebbly outlines of dried berries. Two of the casks had the glossy sheen and briny stink of fish oil, another valuable commodity, while a third, with a distinct smell of its own, undoubtedly contained warqat, the pungent brew the Highlanders reportedly consumed by the barrelful to while away the boredom of winter.

If this was a trick, it was a very generous one.

“Very well,” she declared, standing up and looking frankly at Lars Redbeard. She was surprised, and secretly pleased, at the palpable relief flooding his features. “I will visit King Strongwind Whalebone of the Highlanders. You may tell him that Moreen Bayguard, chief of the Arktos, agrees to be his guest.”

As soon as they came through the pass on the inland ridge, Moreen knew that “village” was a clear misnomer for the Highlander stronghold. Indeed, she had never seen, nor even imagined, such a sprawling and solid-looking community. Most of Guilderglow was concealed by a lofty stone wall, but she could see towers, several smoking chimneys, and a great blockhouse of a building all rising beyond the rampart. The near slopes were scored with regular terraces, autumn brown now but showing the last hints of summer colors. The shallow valley before them sparkled with ponds and streams. She paused, not just because she was out of breath but to take in the view and wonder, once again, whether she was doing the right thing.

“Quite a place, don’t you think?” Lars Redbeard said.

“I know I’ve never seen the like,” Bruni admitted, saving Moreen the task of muttering her impressions.

The two women had been escorted here by four of the Highlanders, while the rest of Redbeard’s band had stayed with the Arktos. They agreed to keep moving northward while she took this detour inland, a trek that had required four days, most of the journey uphill.

“We’ll rest up here for a bit,” Strongwind’s emissary said. “That climb up to the pass takes a lot out of even a veteran Highlander. I admit, the two of you did very well.”

Moreen, who wanted nothing more than to collapse on the ground and gasp for breath, nodded gravely. “I can see why these are called the Highlands,” she said, then immediately wished she hadn’t said anything so obvious and foolish.

Indeed, they were surrounded by an array of dazzling mountain peaks. Some of the summits rose like stony needles into the sky, with great slabs of bare cliff plummeting down every side. Lofty cornices of snow curled like graceful decorations upon their unattainable heights. Other mountains were domed and more gradual of slope, but every bit as high in their elevations, often laced with dazzling snowfields and great, crevassed swaths of glacier. The autumn sun was low, but even in the limited light the effect was nearly blinding. She could only imagine this vista under the brilliant glare of summer’s sun.

It seemed strangely incongruous to see such a wintry landscape and at the same time wide pastures and irrigated fields below the walls of Guilderglow.

“Those are the Scarred Rocks.”

Lars pointed to a tangle of dark stone on the valley floor. The route down from the pass led into the maze, where it twisted and curled this way and that before emerging to climb terraced slopes on the far side.

“Our first line of defense,” the Highlander said. “Any army coming to attack us must force its way through traps and ambushes and many other obstacles.”

“I will remember that, in case my meeting with your king does not go smoothly.” Moreen was immediately aware that her words were bluster. Seeing Guilderglow she could think of Strongwind Whalebone as a king, and her fears were reawakened.

It amazed her to observe white specks dotting the pastures-thousands of sheep, all within her field of view. Lower down, where the ground was marshy, she spotted herds of large brown cattle. How much firewood did it take to account for the black columns of smoke rising from so many chimneys?

“Are you rested, ready to go the rest of the way?” asked Lars Redbeard solicitously.

“Yes,” the chiefwoman replied, wishing desperately that she had her grandfather’s black bear cloak or some visible symbol of her leadership status. She felt very plain, ordinary, but there was nothing to do but continue onward. “Yes,” she repeated. “Let us go and meet the king of the Highlanders.”

Shaggy, fox-faced dogs ran everywhere, chasing children or being chased in return. The stink of manure and sweat and soot permeated the air, the walls and, apparently, the people. It cloyed so thickly in Moreen’s nostrils that she knew she would be smelling it for days after she left Guilderglow.

From a great, blocky building she heard hammering and shouting, and Lars told her this was a smelter, where men broke up coal for burning, and extracted gold from precious ore. The great city gates had opened wide for their approach. The chiefwoman was acutely conscious of the stares of bearded scowling men and suspicious scowling women who thronged both sides of the narrow street or looked down from the balconies that seemed to line the front of every house.

The road crested a little hill, then descended steeply to cross a shallow stream over a stone bridge. On one side of the bridge loomed a tall mill, waterwheel churning, while the other had a porch with many benches and tables. Here Highlanders, all of them men except for some serving wenches, sat hunched over mugs of warqat. They watched her pass with unreadable expressions.

Looking down, she noticed that the shallow water below the bridge was brown, spotted with refuse. Every space of land within the city walls seemed crammed with overuse: tiny, walled yards filled with linens hanging in the sun; houses that crowded together and loomed surprisingly high, with frail balconies leaning over the muddy street. From the gutters the stink of sewage was abominable.

They reached the next crest and she saw, lying ahead, the castle of King Strongwind. It occupied a low knoll in the midst of the city’s rolling terrain. Its wall was higher than the city wall, though it had several wide gaps revealing the courtyard and royal buildings. Judging by the scaffolding, the great stacks of stone already cut into blocks, Moreen deduced that the royal domicile was a work in progress.

The little party strolled through the uncompleted gate in the castle perimeter, and the chiefwoman was stunned as she caught sight of the huge doors leading into the keep.

“Are those solid gold?” she asked, in spite of her determination to keep her amazement to herself.

“Solid gold. Each weighs many tons,” Lars said proudly. “Strongwind Whalebone had them carved with his own crest.”

That crest, she saw, was a long-hafted battle axe crossed with a great spear, the combination crowned by the antlered head of a massive elk. However, the raised pattern on smooth metal was crudely rendered. Moreen had seen Dinekki, even after her hands had become gnarled with age, do finer work on an ivory carving.

The mighty doors rumbled outward on tracks that vibrated with enough force that Moreen could feel it underfoot. They parted to reveal a great hall, with a lofty, arched ceiling and a dozen or more stout wooden columns lining each wall. These pillars held several sconces, and bright oil lamps were suspended from each, combining to cast a brilliant glow through the middle of the great chamber. The far end remained shadowed.

Many people stood behind these columns, watching with the same surly expressions she had sensed from the folk in the city. The main difference here was that these people, in dyed woolen capes and gowns, feathered caps, oil-polished boots and sandals, were much better dressed than those she’d encountered amid the city streets.

The center of the hall was empty, except for a carpet of white bearskin extending like a line into the shadows at the far end. Her eyes were drawn to a lofty chair. More lights flared into existence-magical globes that floated in the air, ignited perfectly on cue, to reveal the great man himself, sitting high up in his thrown and looking down upon the small party advancing along the bearskin carpet. A great helm, with a rack of elk antlers crowning a metal cap, adorned his head, and his yellow beard was thick, with the ends braided into twin strands. He wore gold chains around his neck, gold bracelets on his wrists, and his boots were bright with gold buckles.

Everything about this place, she suddenly realized, was designed to flaunt his greatness, and she found herself wondering: How great can he really be that he needs this exaggeration to awe me?

She came to a stop below the lofty throne. She was only vaguely aware that Lars and Bruni had stopped somewhere behind her. Her mounting irritation, as it so often did, found its way to her tongue.

“Are you Strongwind Whalebone?” she demanded. “I can hardly see you way up there!”

She heard gasps and mutters from the surrounding galleries, and footsteps behind her indicated that Lars Redbeard was hastening forward. Those footsteps ceased when Strongwind held up a hand glittering with gold rings. Moreen was startled to see amusement sparkling in his eyes, which-now that she looked closely-were a rather appealing shade of light blue.

“I had better climb down, then” he said mildly, scrambling out of the big chair and down the several steps to the floor with surprising ease-surprising, considering the full weight of gold that was draped about his person, his wardrobe, including the massive, antlered, solid-gold-seeming helm. “I greet you, Moreen Bayguard, chief of the Arktos.”

There were some snickers at his words, but the king-she couldn’t help now but think of him as a king-glared sternly into the galleries, and the rebuked fell instantly silent.

“And I greet you, Strongwind Whalebone, King of the Highlanders.”

“Thank you for coming to see me,” he said, and he sounded genuinely grateful. “I know this has been a tragic year for your people, and I want you to know that you have my sympathy and my support.”

Moreen was suddenly glad she had come. To her, the Highlanders had always been strange and vaguely frightening beings whom the Arktos had encountered only rarely. Sometimes these meetings resulted in trade, sometimes in violence, but never had she stopped to consider that the Highlanders were humans like herself.

“Please, may I have the honor of showing you my castle?” inquired the king, with a tone of utmost respect. He gestured toward a door in the side of the great hall.

“I would be greatly interested,” Moreen replied sincerely. He extended his arm and, after a moment’s hesitation, she put her hand on his elbow. The courtiers in their path scurried out of the way as he led her away, and the door closed behind them. She felt stronger, somehow, emboldened by the fact that they were now beyond the hostile scrutiny of his citizens.

They went down a long, partially open hallway, meeting only a few servants who scuttled, eyes downcast, out of the way. To their left was a series of columns, beyond which lay a small courtyard. Moreen took in an array of laundry tubs and saw a large cage where dogs barked and yelped, scampering back and forth as they spotted the king.

“My pack,” the king said proudly. “They pull sleds over the snow in the winter and chase game during the warmer months.” He indicated the antlers that hung so ostentatiously from his helm. “It was my dogs that brought this stag to bay, though I myself took it with a spearcast.”

They went into a square, stone-walled building where he proudly showed her his mint, where molten gold was poured into molds, shaped into small bars with the emblem of the weapons and antlers embossed on each. This was a dark, sooty place, with a scent of smoke that stung Moreen’s nostrils, but she listened politely as he showed her the melting vats and the great, coal-fired furnaces that melted metal. The woman had not seen coal before, but she nodded and watched as the firetenders shoveled the stuff into the great roaring maw. Even from across the room she could feel the tremendous heat, knew that this was a blaze hotter than any fueled by wood or charcoal.

“We mine gold from the highland valleys above Guilderglow,” explained Strongwind. “We possess the richest ore-fields in all the Icereach.”

“This gold is why you call yourself king of Icereach?” Moreen asked bluntly.

The monarch scowled, momentarily irritated. “No! It has helped me to ensure that the other lords appreciate my status,” he admitted. “Here, let me show you something in my map room.”

He led her into a large chamber, with a mosaic of tiles and several small pieces of gold set into the floor. Much of the floor was blue granite, which met the more detailed tiles along a twisting and irregular line. Other tiles were green, white, or black.

“Here is Guilderglow,” Strongwind proclaimed, indicating the largest of the gold markers, one that had been stamped into the shape of a star. He stepped to the side, straddling the smooth sheet of blue stone. “This is the White Bear Sea, upon which shore your people have made their villages. Here is the place you called Bayguard.”

Moreen was startled to see how accurately her world was portrayed. She recognized the land enclosing the small bay and the rugged coastline to the north.

“This white stone is glacier and permanent icefield,” the king was explaining, now walking around the floor and indicating a portion of the map showing terrain to the east of his city. “These lands I do not think you know, as your people have stayed near the coast.”

“Where is the place called Ice End?” she asked.

Strongwind paused to take two small glasses from a servant who had entered, quietly, bearing a small tray. “Please, will you try our beverage? It is called warqat.”

“Uh, I have heard of warqat,” Moreen admitted, taking the glass and sniffing. She blinked in surprise-never before had she smelled anything so pungent. It burned, in an admittedly pleasant fashion, all the way down her throat.

“It is brewed from grain, steeped in the ice of a secret glacier.”

“All of your people drink it?”

The king shrugged. “For us, it is the Winterfire. It takes the place of the sun during the long, dark months.”

The Highlander drank his entire glass in a single gulp, but she took only one more sip and set her drink besides Strongwind’s empty glass on the servant’s tray. Yet it was warm in her belly and seemed to bring a pleasant lightness to her mood.

“Now, Ice End?” she repeated, finding a smile coming easily to her lips. Still, she remained alert. In the back of her mind she was wondering about Brackenrock. Though she looked along the northern reach of the map she could find nothing suggesting such a ruined citadel.

“Yes, of course. Here is the extent of Icereach,” Strongwind replied, pointing. She saw a narrow peninsula marking the terminus of the land. Somewhere just south of there, she suspected, the Arktos might find their ruin.

Moreen indicated another mass of land, across a narrow swath of blue. “What’s that?”

The king shrugged. “You would know better than I what lies on the far shore of the White Bear Sea. The narrows here I have heard called the Bluewater Strait, but as to the western coast, only a boat could visit there.”

“Indeed.” Moreen agreed, though she had never taken a kayak far enough to see the opposite coast of the gulf of Bayguard. At the strait, of course, it looked much narrower. She remembered her visit to Tall Cedar Bay-there she and her father had seen a rugged horizon across the sea. Now, looking at the map, she could see how that coastline extended south, making a long shore on the other side of the White Bear Sea.

One more question occurred to her. “What of monsters called dragons?” she asked. “Are they known to you?”

The king looked surprised, shaking his head. “Do you not know the legend of Huma and the banishing of dragons? That happened four centuries ago, so my teachers claim. I have no reason to dispute them.” His eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”

Moreen did not want the conversation to turn toward legendary Brackenrock, so she merely shrugged and pretended to study the gold inlays, each of which, the king quickly explained, symbolized one of the many clanholds of Highlanders.

“Come-I have much more to show you,” Strongwind said, again extending an arm. Once more she walked at his side.

Next they arrived at a large courtyard, where dozens of young men were launching arrows at targets across a wide space. “These are the new recruits of my archer regiment,” the king boasted. “Young men, all. By the time they are finished with their training they will be able to hit the target with ten out of ten shots.”

“Impressive,” Moreen murmured. That was no greater accuracy than Tildey could claim, but she was keenly aware that her tribe had but one Tildey, while the Highlanders were training numerous archers-and these would swell the ranks of a band that already counted only Chislev knew how many trained bowmen. How weak the Arktos were by comparison!

“What is that across the way-that image of a bear?” Moreen gestured to a statue, taller than life, of a great bear rearing onto its hind legs.

Strongwind’s eyes widened in surprise. “You do not know Kradok, the Wild One, god of all Icereach?”

Moreen’s jaw clenched stubbornly. “We give proper worship to Chislev Wilder, and she sees to our lives with good care!”

“Please, I did not mean to offend.” From somewhere the king had picked up another glass of warqat, and he casually tilted that into his mouth. “There are gods-and problems-enough for all people,” he said with a reassuring laugh.

She was offered a look into the royal armory, a vault with walls lined with spears, wooden shields, axes, and hammers. A few of the hammerheads were dark and exceptionally hard, made from the metal called iron which Moreen had seen only a few times in her life. There was one man on guard at the door of the armory, and on the way out the king paused to introduce him to Moreen.

“This is Randall Graywool,” Strongwind said. “I present Moreen Bayguard, chiefwoman of the Arktos.”

“The pleasure is all mine, my lady,” declared Randall. He was smaller than most of the Highlanders she had seen, and his beard was trimmed neatly short. He smiled bowed to kiss Moreen’s outstretched hand. “I hope we will all be seeing much more of you.”

“Perhaps,” she said noncommittally, unsettled by something about the man’s dark, flashing eyes.

As they continued on, the king leaned over as soon as they were out of earshot. “He’s called Mad Randall,” Strongwind said. “Believe it or not, he is the most fearsome berserker among all the clans.”

“Berserker?” she asked, again confused-and angry with herself for her lack of sophistication.

The king seemed only too glad to explain. “When he goes into battle he … well, he ‘loses himself in the fight’, as we say. He shows no fear and has the strength of ten men. I myself would not care to fight him-and you should know that Strongwind Whalebone fears neither man nor ogre!”

“I well believe you,” Moreen replied, casting a glance back. Randall was leaning against the armory door, his eyes on the drifting clouds, whistling.

Next they passed a great smoking shed from which the alluring odor of roasting beef reached her nostrils and provoked an unintended growl from her belly. If the king heard, he was polite enough to make no comment.

“That is my royal smokehouse,” he pointed out. “Many kinds of beef and mutton are brought here for preservation. Of course, the best cuts are fresh. I trust you will come to enjoy the taste of steak. I know that it is not a staple of the Arktos diet.”

“No, we are fishers and hunters of seals.” She wanted to add that her people gathered clams and crabs and lobsters and other delicacies along the beaches, but suddenly the memory of those long days of foraging seemed somehow embarrassing when contrasted against the industry and productivity so obvious around here.

“Sometimes we will take a whale,” she added tentatively, “harpooning from our kayaks.”

“That must be a cause for feasting,” Strongwind said politely, although his tone caused her to bristle.

She was thinking now, and as they climbed the steps to a tower parapet she stopped and disentangled her hand from the king’s arm. “What did you mean-I will ‘come to enjoy the taste of steak’? And why did Randall sound as if he expected to see a lot more of me?”

Strongwind Whalebone took a step away from her, so that he came to the battlement at the edge of the tower. He raised his eyes and looked into the distance, toward the fertile valley, over the Scarred Rocks, onto the craggy mountains that formed a bowl around this citadel of Guilderglow. When he turned back to her his blue eyes were soft, and strangely penetrating.

“Guilderglow is the heart of my kingdom,” he began, “and my kingdom is destined to be the greatest realm in all Icereach. I know there is an ogre stronghold, far away from here, where the brute ruler fancies himself a king in his own right.”

“King Grimtruth Bane in Winterheim,” Moreen supplied, strangely anxious to display that she had some knowledge of this land that was her home. “It was his son who destroyed my village.”

“Yes. He raided the whole coast of the Ice Gulf, over the last few summers. Every one of the Arktos villages was struck, destroyed, the people slain or carried into slavery.”

“Every … one?” asked Moreen. She had never imagined the devastation was so extreme, and yet somehow she believed-she knew-that Strongwind was telling the truth.

“A few escaped, like yourselves,” the Highlander said. “Not many, and hardly a warrior among them. The Arktos survivors are women, for the most part. That is why I was so anxious to meet you again and to have you see, with your own eyes, the glories of my realm.”

“What do you mean, again?” Moreen’s voice was calm, but she felt violent emotions rising in her heart, her mind.

“I saw you once, when you were hunting, and I was doing the same!” Strongwind forged ahead in a torrent of words. “I tried to talk to you, but you jumped into your kayak and paddled away.”

“That was you?” Moreen remembered the incident. Now she recalled the blue eyes of the man, the intensity of his voice as he pleaded with her to stop, to return to shore.

“Of course, it was easy to find which village you came from-my scouts simply observed your boat from land. When they summoned me to Bayguard, I could see that you dwelled in the great hut in the center of the village. Obviously, you were daughter of the chief!”

“But, why? Why would you go to all this trouble?” Moreen wondered how often these shaggy men had observed her surreptitiously, spying from the surrounding hilltops.

“Because I could see right away that you are different, different from the wenches around here, from any woman I have ever seen. You are strong and proud … and so beautiful!”

Moreen shook her head, angry and a little afraid. “Why are you saying this?” she demanded.

“I mean to say, that you should come to Guilderglow-you must come here. I have need of a wife, and you are the leader of the Arktos. Arktos and Highlanders-we are all humans, the natural enemies of the ogres. You and your people will swell our numbers-you have many women of childbearing age, and that will increase our population. We will breed a great nation of warriors, you and I and our people, and within a generation we will be ready to strike at Grimtruth Bane, ready to attack Winterheim itself.”

Moreen stepped backward, felt the cold stone of the parapet meet her back. She gaped at the king, felt the flush of humiliation wash over her face. Apparently Strongwind Whalebone did not recognize the signs, for he advanced, hands outstretched.

“Think of it, Moreen Chieftain’s Daughter! You have seen the wealth of my realm-there will be homes here for all of your people. Many of my men will be eager to take a second wife! Within two years our children will be crowding under our feet!”

“And me?” Her tone was icy enough that the king stopped short. “Will I be a second wife? Or perhaps a concubine, given a luxurious apartment so that I can make babies for you?”

“Oh, no!” Strongwind looked relieved, apparently concluding that he could give her the answer she desired. “You will reign here as my sole queen, having the rights to all the bounties of my realm! I have no wife, but I want one. I want you!”

Moreen stood as tall as her slight frame would allow, turning the full force of her glare on the king. “Let it be known that I am not a commodity to be harvested or minted-not like your wool and your gold and your beef and your hounds. I am the chiefwoman of the Arktos, and I will not be summoned to become anyone’s wife. Not even for a king who wears stag’s antlers on his head. Incidentally, did anyone ever tell you how ridiculous they look?”

The king’s jaw dropped in an almost comical expression of shock. He reached up to touch the broad rack extending to either side of his scalp, and for a moment a strange emotion-a wounded sense of hurt-flashed in his eyes. That expression of vulnerability vanished, and those blue eyes darkened to a color like that of a boiling sea.

“Think about what you are saying,” he declared grimly. “Do you really think your people will survive the Sturmfrost, much less the coming years, without men to protect them? I am offering you that protection, and you would be wise to-”

“I would be wise to make my own decisions!” snapped Moreen, turning to start down the stairs. She spotted Bruni, waiting below in the courtyard, looking upward with a curious expression.

“Do not do this-do not shame me thus!” hissed the Highlander, his hand seizing her arm in a vicelike grip. His expression was so dark and furious that Moreen, for the first time, felt a twinge of real terror. But that could not overcome her stubbornness.

“Shame?” she spat back at him, fiercely twisting her arm away. “What greater shame could there be, than to sell myself, sell my whole tribe, for the chance to eat steak?”

“You will regret this mockery,” growled the monarch. He shook his head, astonishment obviously tempering his rage, giving him a moment’s pause. “I tell you again-do not do scorn me!”

“Know this, Strongwind Whalebone, king of the Highlanders,” she replied. “I am chiefwoman of the Arktos, and I shall do as I please. No man, be he slave or peasant or king, will order me otherwise!”

Her fury did not abate as she hurried away. Bruni joined her, hastening to keep up as she stalked out of the castle, down the city streets, and finally through the gate and away from the citadel called Guilderglow.