The Messenger

The big one was called Bruni, and the other two were Moreen and Tildey. Moreen seemed to be in charge.

“So we kill him?” It was the one called Bruni who at last replied to Tildey’s suggestion. “What now? Are we ogres?” Kerrick was beginning to think fondly of this bovine human, who was in no hurry to steal his boat and now, apparently, saw no purpose in cold-blooded murder.

“No, we’re not,” Moreen agreed decisively. “I think we should keep him tied up and bring the tribe here, to the cedar grove. There are many mysteries here, including who he is, where he came from, and what is the nature and mission of his ship.”

“Do you know how to paddle that thing?” Bruni asked her.

“I think he can be convinced to show us. He understands our language-can’t you tell?”

Moreen had been watching Kerrick, slyly. For the first time she looked amused. He noticed the way her mouth bent into a wry smile before he glanced away, quickly.

“Why do you say that?” asked Tildey.

“He tensed up when you asked if we should kill him.” Moreen continued to stare at Kerrick. “You do know what we’re saying, don’t you, stranger?”

He saw no point in continuing the charade. “Yes,” he replied in that same rough tongue. “At least, I think I understood the important points. You might kill me.”

“Understand this: We will kill you if you prove a danger to our tribe, or if you prove to be uncooperative. Tomorrow we will go aboard your ship, and you will show us how it works. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Kerrick replied. He shifted around so he could better inspect his three captors. He understood something else: When the women had searched him, they had failed to find the hidden belt pouch where he had placed his father’s ring. That secret, he hoped, would save him. Until the right moment, he had only to be patient, and to avoid antagonizing his captors.

“These look like ogre tools,” Tildey noted, holding up his steel-headed arrows and sleek, double-curved bow.

Kerrick almost revealed his surprise but remained impassive. What could she mean? The slender elven shafts and keen steel arrowheads bore no resemblance to the crude weapons of that monstrous race.

“He’s not an ogre,” Bruni argued. “A boy, not even shaving yet?”

“Did you notice his ear?” Moreen asked. “One is cut and scarred, but the other is long. I’ve never seen any like it.” Her tone was hard, and she gave him a cold, appraising look. Kerrick flushed, the shame of his scarring a withering memory.

“How did he come to have ogre weapons?” wondered Tildey.

“And an ogre ship?” added the big woman, who looked more puzzled than fierce.

“I don’t think it’s an ogre ship, and I don’t think he’s an ogre.” The intensity of Moreen’s gaze made Kerrick squirm. “No, I think he’s something new entirely.”

“The ogres came in a different kind of ship, I admit,” Bruni mused. “His has that big post sticking out of it. The ogre ship had all those paddles on the side.”

Kerrick wondered what kind of savages these were, never to have seen a sailboat before. He was not reassured by their ignorance. He wondered if they had even heard of Silvanesti or elves. For the time being he would be content to let them think he was a “boy, not even shaving.”

Later, when they were sleeping and he could slip on the ring, they would learn of their mistake.

13

Pawns and a Prisoner

Kerrick was dreaming, and in his dream he was deeply ashamed. His friend was dead and it was his fault. He knew he was to blame, even though no one would say it out loud.

He was a child in a tiny boat, and he had erected a broomstick with a blanket for a sail. Wind gusted with surprising force, and he went skidding across the waters of the Than-Thalas River. Silvanost, dominated by the graceful spire that was the Tower of the Stars, sparkled in the summer sun, and the waves splashed against the little hull, cooling him with moisture.

His father’s galley, Silvanos Oak, stood at anchor nearby and he steered under the shadow of the mighty ship. Crewmen, many of them Kerrick’s friends, gathered at the rail, cheering. Then the little boat shot past the hull of the great ship, into the windier water of the open river.

A gust of wind slammed Kerrick’s small boat onto its side. He heard the sound of the sail striking the water, a hard slap, as he tumbled sideways. Quickly the boat filled up, leaving the youth trapped by rising water. He tried to call for help but only choked and sputtered. He couldn’t see anything, and he couldn’t breathe. He needed air, desperately craved air.

He he found himself lying on the ground, feverish and chilled, in a forest grotto at night. He drew in great, ragged gulps of air, groaning aloud at the aching in his back and limbs. The stones on the ground felt as if some nocturnal fiend had filed their edges into daggers. Slowly his fear was replaced by a deep sadness.

“I’m sorry, Delthas,” he mouthed silently, blinking back the tears that inevitably came with the name and the memory.

Delthas Windrider. Kerrick hadn’t spoken that name in many years, but the memory of the young elf was never far from his thoughts, especially when he was sailing. He had learned the story in bits and pieces as he grew older. When Kerrick’s little boat had sunk, several young sailors, elves and humans both, had flung themselves into the water to rescue him. Two of them had seized Kerrick’s hands as he was descending into the indigo depths. Kicking hard, they pulled him to the surface, where he would be hauled onto the galley deck of his father’s ship.

His rescuers climbed aboard on rope ladders, then noticed Delthas Windrider was missing. He had jumped with the other sailors, but apparently his head had struck the side of the hull. He had vanished in the depths.

No one ever told Kerrick he was responsible for the young sailor’s death, but he had seen the tears in his father’s eyes when Dimorian had been informed of the missing elf, and he sensed a new reserve in the looks he got from the other men.

As it always did, the dream left him exhausted and filled with despair. He tried to collect himself, to forget the dream and to consider his course of action.

The night was utterly still, windless and dark. The fire had faded to a mound of gray ash, brightened only in a few places by the lingering crimson of glowing coals. Gradually turning his head, the elf studied the three bedrolls. His captors remained still, apparently sound asleep. Now he was almost grateful for the rocks that made his own position so uncomfortable. Undoubtedly they had helped to wake him, prodding him to escape.

Kerrick had already worked at the knot that held his hands together, concluding that he wouldn’t be able to loosen the tough, leathery bond. He hoped that would be only a minor impediment to escape, however. Taking care to keep as quiet as possible, he squirmed around and slipped the fingertips of his right hand into his belt pouch. With a wriggle he put on his ring.

Immediately the magical strength began to flow through him, energizing his muscles, driving the cramps and stiffness from his limbs. He snapped his bindings with a simple flex. Even his hearing seemed acute, as he listened to the regular breathing of his three captors. He rose and very carefully took a step away from the tree to which he had been tethered.

The camp was enclosed in the steep-walled grotto. Kerrick moved gingerly around the fire. His keen night vision compensated for the scant light emanating from the fire

Another few steps and he would be loose in the forest. He moved past a pile of loose, brittle firewood. Next to Tildey lay his bow and quiver of arrows. He wanted very much to take his weapons with him. He reached to grab the bundle and very gently started to lift.

There was a clatter of stones and a sharp outcry from one of his captors. Too late he saw that the bow was tied down and had been rigged with a trap of loose gravel. Abandoning stealth, cursing the loss of a fine weapon,