The Messenger

“Faith,” Stariz said, her voice softening ominously, “sometimes require that we take chances.”

“You have very fine weapons,” Moreen told Kerrick, examining the keen metal sword he had brought from Cutter. Now that the winds had died down Kerrick was spending more time outside the cave, and, by agilely maneuvering himself from snowbank to rocks, he was able to get out to his boat, climb aboard, inspect it, and bring some of its contents to shore.

Moreen had accompanied him on his most recent trip out to Cutter, and he had enjoyed her company. Together they had looked at the sky, pointing out the stars of their respective gods, the emerald speck of Ziviliyn Greentree close beside bright Chislev Wilder, both stars in the zenith overhead.

“It occurs to me that, perhaps, you could teach my tribeswomen something about fighting,” Moreen suggested.

She never ceased her planning or working, it seemed. Ruefully Kerrick stretched his sore muscles, reflecting on how she had recruited him on so many of her goals. Just yesterday a group of them had finished their biggest project yet, a diversion of the warm stream that had run through the main cavern. Now they had a series of small pools for soaking and bathing, all of which were maintained at a comfortably hot temperature. The main stream, colder most of the time, vanished down a waterfall that still plunged through the hole in the center of the cave, but they had built a low wall around it to keep the children safe.

Those were nice benefits, the elf admitted. He considered the wall of ice they had built across the mouth of the cave. Certainly, if the tuskers were to attack, that would be an invaluable safeguard. What was the matter, though, once in awhile, with just resting and daydreaming?

He agreed that the Arktos women could use some training in combat and agreed to help. They tromped back through the snow, along a path now becoming a permanently worn groove. Back in the cave they gathered nearly thirty of the tribeswomen, as well as the enthusiastic Little Mouse, and filed through the darkness to a large, dry chamber lit by numerous oil lamps. A large, flat floor in the center of the room made the place ideal for training.

Kerrick set to drilling the Arktos with spears, the first type of weapon he had learned to use in his studies under his weapons master. Within three hours he had them thrusting, parrying, and blocking in relatively orderly sequence.

“If you can stay together when facing a number of opponents, they won’t be able to get between you. Each of you only has to worry about your front. That’s the way to prevail, even when you’re outnumbered.”

For another two hours they worked on hurling, using wooden shafts as spears, and charcoaled outlines on the cave wall as targets. Kerrick also let Moreen practice with his sword, showing her some basic maneuvers for attack and defense, pleased that she showed real aptitude with the weapon. In a short time she was carving big splinters out of the pine trunk he was using as a mock target. All of the women were breathing hard, faces glistening with sweat. Little Mouse alone still sprinted after his hurled “spear,” racing back to cast his shafts, one after the other, right into the target.

“Good,” Kerrick said approvingly, as with one final slash the chiefwoman cleaved the trunk in two. “Now we’ll work on a few simple commands-”

He was interrupted by a dull crunch that sounded in the air and pulsed through the floor underfoot.

“Avalanche!” cried Little Mouse.

“Worse!” Moreen was already flying out the door, still holding Kerrick’s sword. The other Arktos followed, and the elf ran after them, toward the great cavern near the mouth of the cave.

Even before they came around the last bend they heard cries of fear and panic. They charged into the hall.

Kerrick pushed through the Arktos women, who had halted in apprehension. Torches illuminated the great cavern all the way back to the bottleneck passageway and entry hall. Those brands were borne by men, bearded and tall, wearing thick furs and bearing axes, swords, and spears.

“Moreen Chiefwoman,” declared a cold, imperious voice. Strongwind Whalebone held a squirming, elderly Arktos man by the arm. Contemptuously he cast the fellow to the ground.

“See how easily we take your people. Your pathetic wall of ice fell to a single keg of warqat, touched by flame. Our brew is quite explosive.”

The Highlander king seemed very pleased with himself. More warriors spilled into the cave, scores of them spreading out to surround Moreen’s people, while additional ranks of Highlanders thronged behind in the narrow entry hall. A girl screamed, Feathertail squirming in the grasp of a Highlander.

“Release her!” demanded Moreen, stepping forward, brandishing the elven sword.

“The kitten has teeth?” chuckled the king. He nodded at the blade. “A fine bit of silver steel for a beachcombing barbarian!” He lifted his own weapon, which was a massive sword held in both strong hands.

Kerrick saw Moreen grow tense, ready to attack, and he quickly stepped to her side. “He’ll kill you!” he whispered. “Is that what you want?”

“Let the girl go-for now,” Strongwind said. Her captor released her and Feathertail sprinted over to the warriors. Bruni scooped her up and held her close. The big woman made a soft, soothing noise, but her eyes as they looked over the girl’s shoulder were flat, dark, and angry.

The king continued, “Chiefwoman of the Arktos, I have a thousand warriors here, and you are defenseless. We claim this cave and all its squatters in the name of Guilderglow!”

Moreen drew a hiss of breath. More and more of the Highlanders pressed in, moving back along both walls of the cave, hundreds of them here now. Clearly there was no hope of resisting. Strongwind Whalebone swaggered forward, sheathing his blade, then snatching the sword from Moreen’s hand with a swipe of his gloved fist.

“You Arktos are my prisoners. We claim your weapons and your food. You will remain here, under the guard of my warriors, while I decide what to do with you.” He glared at Moreen, his eyes running up and down her body as if he inspected a haunch of meat for purchase. “I will think a while, before I decide.”

The sun pushed its nose hesitantly over the horizon, each day lingering a little bit longer at the place called Icereach, where for a quarter of the year wind and snow and ice and cold had shut the world in darkness. Drifts shimmered and swelled across flat landscapes, while mountains and ridges were draped in vast cascades of white. Avalanches regularly tumbled down the long slopes, carrying rock and ice in crushing waves.

With each fleeting exposure to warmth and light, a small part of that snowy blanket shifted. Drifts softened, valleys began to trickle, streams flowing beneath the snow each day grew more vigorous. The wind still scoured across the lifeless world, but now, for a short time each day, that wind bore a hint of moisture and warmth. The winds of darkness were still killing and cold, but they were more tentative, lasting less long, than the gales that had raked the land for the past three months.

Now, at the base of Winterheim, Grimwar Bane gathered his ogre army and his dwarven adviser in the small hours before the next glimpse of that precious sun. Beside him was his wife, in her black obsidian mask. In her hands she bore the long-hafted and gold-bladed Axe of Gonnas, the most hallowed artifact of her great temple. She had explained her plan to the king, who by this time knew enough to keep his grumbling and his skepticism to himself.

Urgas Thanoi was there, too, incongruously dressed in the loin-cloth that seemed to be his only garment. In contrast, the ogres of the king’s army, a thousand strong, wore long capes, high boots, leather gauntlets, and bulky, sheepskin hoods. If the ogres were bundled warmly, Baldruk Dinmaker was all but buried in furs, a hood drawn so tight that only his eyes and nose were visible. They were all prepared for a brutal march, though the warriors, as well as Grimwar Bane himself, were still not clear as to how exactly they were going to march anywhere, not when snow lay ten or fifteen feet deep across the Black Ice Bay and the rest of Icereach beyond.

The tusker chieftain, of course, had the advantage of his broad, webbed feet. He had explained that he had walked mainly on top of the snow when following the track of the Fenriz Glacier to Winterheim. If Stariz was right, the ogres could take that same route.

A horn brayed from high up on the city’s atrium, the golden notes ringing through the halls, finally wafting down to the great gathering on the harbor docks. “The sun rises!” Stariz hissed, as if the king might have forgotten what the signal meant.

“Open the gates!” called Grimwar Bane. Immediately, four hundred slaves set to work, hauling on lines