The Messenger

17

Sturmfrost

A massive crack spidered its way across the Ice Wall, beginning at the spot where Grimtruth Bane’s blood soaked into the dam of frost. The sounds of fissuring ice split the air like staccato bursts of thunder. The Snow Sea surged against the multiplying cracks.

A huge slab of ice broke free from the crest of the wall to tumble down the sheer face. Other pieces were jarred free as the huge chunk crashed and shattered. More great sections tumbled. Finally the first real crevice appeared, and the Sturmfrost burst through with a shriek of gale force, an eruption of furious wind and snow.

That initial finger of storm tore at the gap, widened it until other pieces of the Ice Wall spun away. The whole vast surface quivered and expanded, additional fissures opening everywhere, gouts of storm erupting. Sounds of crashing ice made a roar to shake the world, as a thousand geysers of blizzard simultaneously exploded and cascaded.

At last the Ice Wall fell away along its entire length. The Sturmfrost hurled away mountainous pieces of the dam. Many crashed far away into the White Bear Sea, raising huge spumes of water. As the wind whipped past the water, they froze into fountains of ice, picked up again and hurled farther, rocketing through the sky with monstrous force. Winds screamed with hurricane power. The black waves billowed and surged with frigid violence.

As the storm spilled out of the Snow Sea, it spread, fanlike, to the east and west as well as covering the north. In the blackness of the Icereach night an even blacker face churned on its path, shaped and driven by the cold and vicious wind. The front was a mile high and utterly lightless, full of destructive energy, large enough to swallow anything and everything in its path.

“This is really boring.”

Coraltop Netfisher slumped on the roof of the cabin, chin resting in his hands. “No wind, no waves, nothing. I hate to complain, but at least when I was rowing it was more fun.”

Kerrick bit his tongue and didn’t break his rhythm of gentle oarstrokes. Back and forth he plied the single- bladed paddle, propelling Cutter slowly toward land. Listening to his shipmate’s complaints, he was tempted to invite the kender to take a swim. Coraltop’s attempt at rowing had involved turning a wide dizzying circle in the placid waters, and Kerrick was still trying to make up for the lost time.

They were far out at sea, in the middle of a still, starry night, and the weather was preternaturally calm. There was not even a whisper of wind. No ripple marred the mirror-still surface of the water.

“How far do you think it is, back to that steam cave?” Coraltop Netfisher wondered.

“I don’t know … maybe a mile, maybe less,” the elf replied. Because of the faint glow of starlight, he could make out the the strait, he thought, but he wasn’t sure how far away it was. He was startled to see, low in the west, a green star sparkling above the place where he remembered that cove to be.

“Hey, there’s Zivilyn Greentree,” he said. “Once again, right over my bearing.”

“Who’s Zivilyn Greentree?” asked Coraltop.

The kender listened and nodded as the elf explained about the god of his family tree. “It can be a good thing to trust in your god,” Coraltop observed.

A breeze stirred the air. Ripples marked the slick water, and the sail puffed and fluttered, filling slightly.

“It’s a bit of north wind,” Kerrick noted, perplexed. “It ought to be coming from the south.”

“Should we try for the ocean again?” Coraltop said, sauntering to the mast, ready to pay out the line. “Like my Grandmother Annatree used to say, ‘If you’re going to ride a horse, you should already be sitting in the saddle when it starts to run.’ ”

Kerrick was torn. He had decided to head back for temporary shelter with Moreen and her people. This fresh wind was coming from the wrong direction. Should he head back or sail on? Curious, he glanced to the south. What he saw filled him with foreboding.

A wall of darkness loomed, blocking out the stars along the horizon, rising higher as it approached. The monstrous seething thing extended across the whole southern horizon. Now he understood the light breeze from the north. He had encountered the same phenomenon with a few other ocean storms. Before the weather struck, it moved through a swath of low pressure, actually sucking air, water, and boats toward the front.

This was a storm like none he had ever experienced before.

“That looks kind of interesting,” the kender allowed, noticing the wall of Sturmfrost as it churned closer. “How far away is it?”

“Too close!” Ten miles or twenty, and the gap would certainly narrow in the next few minutes. “Raise the topsail!” he shouted.

He took the tiller and turned toward the faint firelight and the little cove, catching the gathering wind to push them along. Whether he sensed the urgency or was just glad to have something to do, Coraltop efficiently deployed the topsail and jib, and the sailboat began to cut through the fast rippling water with surprising speed.

When Kerrick next looked to the south, it seemed as though the dark wall had grown to block the sky. Tendrils of cloud reached from the mass, stretching, grasping, embracing, snuffing out all starlight. Now he heard it: more like a battle than a storm. The keening of wind was a supernatural noise, a constant violent wail mingled with a cacophony of crashing and banging.

The pillar and the cliff bracketing the entrance to the cove materialized before them. The temperature was dropping rapidly. Already the dampness on the deck had frozen into slick ice, and each breath they took solidified into droplets.

“There-that’s the signpost rock!” the kender shouted excitedly.

The wind whirled chaotically. Kerrick fiercely maneuvered the boom and the tiller as the sails alternately puffed and sagged. He tried to head toward shore, toward the remembered patch of warm water. “Bring in the sails!” he cried, and the kender leaped to obey.

Something heavy fell into the sea, raising a wave that sent the boat careening wildly. Kerrick saw a great slab of ice, shining slickly, and was stunned to realize that it had dropped right out of the sky.

The wind struck like a hammer. Coraltop had barely stored the jib and topsail when the main sheet ripped away and swirled into the darkness. The ocean heaved, and a wave hoisted Cutter and held her, poised in the air, seemingly for minutes, as if ready to hurl its brittle hull against the unforgiving rock.

Garta’s hand had been chopped off by a thanoi battle axe, and Moreen was certain the woman would bleed to death before they could reach the foot of the mountain. Despite the fact that she feared tusker pursuit, the chiefwoman stopped to rig a tourniquet.

“The rest of you-keep going!” she insisted. “I’ll bring Garta down.”

“Not by yourself, you won’t,” Bruni said. The big woman’s deerskin dress was soaked with blood, her long hair was tangled across her shoulders and down her back. With her face locked into a frown and the big hammer resting easily in her hands, she planted her feet and looked up the path toward Brackenrock.

“Well, we’re not leaving the two of you here alone,” Tildey said. “I still have a few arrows left. I’d like to see one of those tuskers come into range.”

Moreen sighed. In the dark night the walrus-men would be right on top of them before the archer could launch any arrow. Still, she was warmed by the loyalty of her companions and griefstricken over the brave Arktos they had left behind.

“Dinekki will be able to patch this up for you when we get back,” she said with forced confidence, not even sure Garta could hear her. The matron was white-faced, shivering. Her lips were pale, and her eyes, although they were open, did not focus. The chiefwoman lashed a strip of leather around the stump of the wounded woman’s wrist, and when she cinched it tight miraculously the wound stopped bleeding.

“Can you stand up?” Moreen asked. “We’ll help you.”

Garta lay on the rocky ground, her breath coming in short gasps. She made no sign that she understood or even heard the question.