The Messenger

mainsail guyline when Coraltop Netfisher’s voice, incongruously cheerful, reached him.

“Here it comes!” chirped the kender, pointing into the ocean deeps.

Kerrick felt the boat slide sideways and grabbed onto the mast as Cutter tilted violently. He swung into space, certain they would capsize, but the little boat spilled down the water rushing off of the great carapace. The dragon turtle’s great head broke from the surface, rising past the boat, one eye glaring coldly. Its jaws were wide, blue-green brine gushing out, as the elf tumbled, getting tangled in the sail. Coraltop fell sprawling on the deck of the cockpit.

“Look out!” shouted the kender, his narrow face split by a wide, toothy grin, as he tried unsuccessfully to lift himself up.

“Zivilyn Greentree protect us!” the elf prayed fervently, lost in the folds of the sail, clutching the mast and feeling the impact as the sailboat spilled off the shell and plunged back into the ocean.

The bow and half the hull vanished into blue water, but in another instant Cutter’s sharp prow rose up out of the sea, water pouring off the deck. The elf swung wildly, free of the sail now, still clinging to the mast, then slamming into the boom and feeling-hearing-his arm snap. He saw the monster’s rough, scaled shell rolling past, looming out of the water like a mountainous horizon, then following the head, which had already plunged into the depths.

The last thing he saw was the spiked tail, long and wicked as a dragon. It lashed overhead, striking the mast and boom with a sickening crack of timber. Kerrick was buried under a wave of billowing blue canvas as a hard beam smashed him in the skull.

The blue faded to black.

9

Strongwind Whalebone

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.