The Messenger

the tusks, slicing its throat.

A trio of the tusked brutes had reached the beach, with a few more, badly wounded, limping along behind, or still working their way down the hillside. The thanoi wasted no time in starting for the surf, two dozen paces away, though one fell before it took two steps, punctured by another of Tildey’s lethal arrows. A few Arktos cast spears, and a second tusker tumbled and thrashed, pierced in the hamstring by a lucky throw.

Moreen was on the beach now, sprinting past bleeding, dying walrus-men as she raced in pursuit. One thanoi moved with surprising speed, flat feet slapping across the stones as it lunged toward the water and plunged into a breaking wave with a smooth dive. The chieftain’s daughter halted at the water’s edge. With a practiced movement she took the end of the cord from her wrist and slipped in through the eyehole in the weapon’s haft. Then she pulled it back, held the shaft beside her head, and squinted into the sun-brightened surf.

All around her she heard the groans and shrieks of wounded thanoi, the beasts grunting and snarling as the women raced among them, using their sharp bone knives to finish the work they had begun with spear, club, and stone.

There! The rounded head of the beast broke the surface, two dozen paces from shore.

“Just like killing a seal,” Moreen told herself, and let fly. She didn’t aim for the head, but sought to hit the muscular body.

The sleek harpoon shot into the water, and the thanoi bellowed in pain and instantly dove under. Planting her feet, Moreen grasped the cord and set her weight in anticipation of the creature’s power. Even so, the tug on the line pulled her off of her feet, and she was dragged across the rough stones of the beach. An icy wave washed over her as she was pulled into the sea.

Bruni was beside her, her strong arms wrapped around Moreen’s waist, pulling her-and the wounded tusker- back to land. The chieftain’s daughter climbed to her feet, and they both tugged, hand over hand, reeling in the monster. Soon it was in the shallows, rolling in the surf, then suddenly, surprisingly, it sprang upward, lunging toward the women, wet, slick tusks jabbing like spears.

Tildey was standing nearby, with one more arrow pulled back, and her aim was true. The walrus-man froze, an arrow suddenly protruding from the middle of its face. With a sputtering groan it wobbled, then flopped downward. Blood washed into the water lapping at Moreen’s feet.

“You did it, Moreen, Chieftain’s Daughter!” Little Mouse was at her side, jumping up and down in excitement. “You led us into battle, and we won!”

She looked around numbly. “Garta?” she asked, looking back at the rocky knoll.

“Dinekki’s helping her-she’s going to be all right,” the boy assured her.

“Mouse is right,” Bruni said, placing a big arm around Moreen’s shoulders, steadying her as her legs suddenly grew weak. “Except perhaps we shouldn’t call you ‘chieftain’s daughter’ any more.”

“No,” Tildey said, nudging the floating, bleeding tusker with her toe. “I think you are Moreen, Chiefwoman, now.”

7

Winterheim

The knocking on the cabin door slowly penetrated Grimwar Bane’s awareness. The ogre prince snorted, stirred, and tried to claw his way out of a dream. In that dream he had been wandering through a fog, seeking something, a person he could know, trust. Faces floated around in the murk. His mother was there, her face soft and round and warm. Now she was gone, replaced by his father, King Grimtruth. The prince saw Baldruk Dinmaker’s bearded face, followed by the image of his own wife, Stariz ber Glacierheim ber Bane.

Finally came an image of the king’s young bride, the voluptuous ogress Thraid Dimmarkull. That last image was a pleasant one, one that filled him with longing, with aching desire. She, too, disappeared, and again he was confronted by the forbidding visage of his father. Eyes bleary, breath reeking of warqat, Grimtruth raised his fist for a blow, and the son was powerless to fend him off.

He awoke. With a sense of relief he recognized his cabin, this ship, where he was the master. He grunted in acknowledgement, knowing that his crew wouldn’t awaken him for any trivial reason.

“Lookout reports that Ice Gates are in sight, Your Highness!”

Mumbling gruffly, the great ogre swung his feet out of the sea bunk, ducking his head as he reached for his boots and cloak. The captain’s cabin in Goldwing was the most spacious enclosure on the ship, but even so Grimwar felt cramped and confined. Part of it was the monotony of the long months at sea, he knew, and so the announcement that awakened him was good news.

Still, he was in a foul mood as he pushed open the door and emerged onto the deck of the massive galley. His eyes immediately fell upon the massive palisades that marked the approach to Winterheim.

The Ice Gates were twin mountains, massifs bracketing the mouth of a narrow fjord, rising so that their icy summits seemed to scrape the very heavens. Each was draped in cascading glaciers, blue-white sheets of ice spilling downward in a chaotic jumble of precipice, chasm, and snowy cornice. Here and there a rough shoulder of bedrock showed, black rock glistening in the sunlight, in stark contrast to the frozen surroundings.

Now, in early autumn, streams still cascaded downward among the glacial faces, plumes of water spilling into long streams of spray, sparkling like a million diamonds in the pale sunlight. At night these streams would freeze into elegant icicles, only to liquefy again under the heat of the next day’s sun.

It was impossible to tell which of the two peaks was greater. From sea level each loomed impossibly high, spires of rock that seemed to challenge the laws of gravity. The mountains were so close together that the entry to the fjord was all but invisible to enemy vessels. The ogre helmsman, Barelip Seacaster, guided the galley with skill, however, and Grimwar stood and watched, knowing what was about to unfold.

The ship approached the shoreline and veered to port. Gradually, as they drew close, the shoreline became visible in clear relief. Finally the shade from the low sun cut a swath across the mountainside, and the ogre prince could see the opening of the narrow channel.

Barelip Seacaster hauled on the great tiller as the drumbeats slowed and the rowers settled their pace. The ship followed a smooth curve, moving with stately grace, easing toward the entrance. When they passed behind the looming shoulder of mountain the shadows embraced them chillingly, a sense of frost that penetrated through Grimwar’s heavy sea cape and brought visible mist to each royal exhalation.

They moved through utterly still water, oars dipping, pushing, rising to drip across the calm surface, before once more gently immersing for another stroke. Each side of the fjord was close enough that the prince could have struck it with a well-thrown stone. The wall emerging from the deep water sloped steeply upward, slick with ice and glowering dark stone. Every time he passed through here the hulking ogre felt small and vulnerable.

“By Gonnas, it’s good to be going home,” Grimwar noted as Baldruk Dinmaker joined him in the prow.

“Aye-and ’tis a fair pleasure to bid goodbye to that cursed sun, Your Highness,” agreed the dwarf heartily. “Will we see the city before nightfall?”

“I hope.” The prince had been through this channel on many occasions, but he didn’t dare make a prediction. Sunset occurred earlier with each passing day, the season waning so fast that he wasn’t sure. Still, he hoped they would get a glimpse of Winterheim while there was still light, for there was no finer view that he had ever seen in his life.

There, an hour later, it was. The galley slipped from between the close walls of the fjord and emerged into a watery bowl called Black Ice Bay, an enclosure that was completely sheltered from the sea except for this dangerous approach. The shadows were long, the water inky dark and still, but Grimwar’s eyes were drawn to the alabaster facade sprawling across the full stretch of the southern horizon. The clear sky, rich with the deep indigo of twilight, brought the snowfields, cornices, and glaciers into splendid, purple relief.

Winterheim was a city, but it was also a mountain. If the Ice Gates were towering pillars, Winterheim itself was a monument of sublime wonder that dwarfed every surrounding elevation.

Fading sunlight glimmered with phosphorescent brilliance along the crest of the great mountain, a corona of white light sparkling along an arcing ridge of pristine snow. Fresh powder blanketed the upper palisades. Even in