The elf nodded, reluctant to attract attention to himself by making any reply.
Since the Highlanders had invaded the cave three or four days ago, they had not seemed in any great hurry to decide what to do with their prisoners.
Until now. Within the last hour, all of the Arktos had been summoned, then roughly herded into the great chamber. The bonfires had been lit, filling the air with lingering smoke that, at least, covered the smells of sweat and stink of many hundreds of unwashed men. The great stream of meltwater rushed along its trough in the floor, until it reached the chute in the center of the cave where it plunged downward and out of sight in a churning torrent. Several stones had been arrayed against the cavern wall, and it was on this makeshift throne that Strongwind Whalebone sat. For ten minutes he had been arguing with Moreen Bayguard, who stood before him under the protective watch of Lars Redbeard.
“Now,” the king finally said, cutting off any further debate with a gesture, “it is time for you to learn why we have gathered you all. Bring forward the elf, the one who sails that boat.”
Kerrick was quickly seized by two burly warriors, who brought him to face the king. Moreen stood nearby, looking at him with despair. He winked at her, trying to be encouraging, but was rewarded by a cuff.
“Save your attention for King Strongwind,” growled one of his guards.
Kerrick saw that the monarch was looking downward, examining the thin gold ring he held between his coarse fingers. He raised his eyes as the elf was brought close.
“This seems a silly trinket to kill-and to die-for,” Strongwind said. “It is too small for my own finger, but I will keep it, as a reminder of the only elf ever to come to the Icereach.”
Kerrick uttered a strangled cry and tried to break free. Only the strong grip of the Highlanders holding him by the arms kept him from throwing himself at the king.
It gave him some satisfaction to know that the man was too much a fool to recognize the worth of his prize. If he tried hard enough to put it on, the magical band would expand to fit his finger. The ring was a mixed blessing, and a part of Kerrick hoped to see the king wearing it.
Strongwind scowled at the elf, narrowing his blue eyes. “I have sentenced you to an ancient punishment, one exceptionally fit for this splendid cave. Perhaps your Arktos companions will find it instructional. My men will find it entertaining.”
Kerrick’s anger faded, replaced by a feeling of dread.
“Bring forth the ice slab!” cried the king.
Four strong men dragged a large, flat object out of the shadows, bringing it toward the center of the cavern. Kerrick saw that it was a massive block of ice, and that two chains, each with a manacle attached, had been embedded in the solid chunk.
King Strongwind laughed. “I give you a new boat, elf, one made by my artisans, just for you. It has been shaped with tender care and frozen solid over the past few days. They tell me it is ready, now.”
Kerrick struggled wildly, but the Highlanders threw him onto the flat surface and in short order bracketed his hands. The water gushed past him, inches from his head, plunging into a hole that, even to his keen elven eyes, was lightless, airless, and cold.
“No!” Moreen twisted hard, breaking free from Lars Redbeard. “You’re no better than the ogre!” she shouted, throwing herself at Strongwind Whalebone.
She reached out with every intention of clawing his eyes out, but the Highlander king leaned back in his makeshift throne and effortlessly struck her away. Lars and another warrior grabbed her again, and Strongwind laughed aloud.
“Hold her over here,” said the king, rising, sauntering past her. “I would have her watch this business- probably it will be the last chance she ever has to look at one of the elven race.” He wagged a mocking finger toward her. “After all, when I’ve got you settled in Guilderglow, I don’t think you should plan on getting out much … darling.”
The chiefwoman stared miserably at Kerrick, who was pale with fear. His arms were spreadeagled. Flat on his back, he lay shackled to the slab of ice. She had brought him to this end, she knew, just as surely as she had led Nangrid and Marin, young Banrik, and the others to their deaths. Her leadership had brought cruel death to many.
“Well, here, lad. It might be a cold ride,” Dinekki said, hobbling through the ring of Highlander guards and approaching Kerrick. “May the blessing of Chislev Wilder see you through the darkness.”
“Stop, hag!” cried one of the Highlanders, raising his hand to block her path.
“You stop, yourself!” snapped the shaman, poking a bony finger in the man’s face. “Perhaps you dare the wrath of Chislev Wilder?”
“Kradok protect me,” murmured the Highlander, recoiling and lifting both hands in prayer.
Moreen watched numbly as the old woman bent down to touch Kerrick’s face. She said something quietly, then Dinekki stood upright, gave the nearest Highlander a look of undisguised contempt, and hobbled back into the assemblage of Arktos.
Strongwind Whalebone looked impatient and once again raised his voice. “Send the elf into the depths!” he roared. Numbly, the chiefwoman watched the burly warriors muscle the slab into an upright position. The elven sailor hung there, looking at her briefly before they tipped him, face first, into the churning waters of the subterranean stream.
Kerrick barely had time to draw a deep breath before the current snatched him. He felt the weight of the ice slab as a crushing burden on his back. Liquid filled his nostrils, and he fought against panic, knowing that would be the fastest way to death … and realizing that nothing he could do was likely to delay the end of his life by more than a minute or two.
Above him, for an instant, he spied the hole in the floor and the firelit ceiling of the cavern, then darkness swallowed him. The slab tumbled and spun, and he landed face down in water that seemed frigid. He felt pain, a bizarre burning sensation, as if he had been poked by a multitude of red hot irons.
Water filled his mouth when he gasped involuntarily. Complete darkness enclosed him. Head first, he continued to plummet, twisting violently around in the current. Water tugged at him, and the manacles chafed his wrists, wrenched his arms. His feet and legs twisted outward, and he used all of his strength to pull himself against the ice slab.
The tunnel bore him along with remarkable velocity. The elf was tossed about and scraped against the side of the shaft. He expected at any second to be smashed to bits, but apparently the water had worn a smooth channel through this abyss. He careened onwards with a series of jolts, still surrounded by water.
Only then did he wonder that he wasn’t drowning.
He drew a deep breath without choking, though he was fully immersed. Again the slab pitched forward, tumbling down another chute, banging from side to side, then spinning lazily through a powerful current in a larger channel. Once more he took a breath, conscious of invigorating air flowing into his lungs-from the water!
The explanation came in a flash: Dinekki had cast a spell upon him. Somehow she had slyly given him the benefit of her magic, conveying Chislev’s enchantment upon him, giving him the power to breathe water. In the midst of the nightmare, he felt a sense of profound confidence and peace.
A sense of weightlessness overwhelmed him as he fell through a waterfall. Again the ice slab plunged into a churning maelstrom, whirling him upside down. A hot spring made the temperature almost tolerable. Then he was rising, floating toward the surface, lying on top of the ice slab, feeling the raft push, gently buoyant, against him. He was drained of energy, unable even to clench his aching fingers. He lacked even the strength to lift his head.
He felt air-bitterly cold air. When he blinked the wetness out of his eyes he saw a green star and a white star, side by side in the heavens. He was still lying flat on his back, arms splayed to the side, still manacled. Now he shivered, for his soaked body was exposed to the wind. The drops on his eyebrows turned to frost. He saw that he was outside on a cold, clear night, and he knew that he would freeze to death soon, but he also felt strangely glad that he had such a nice view of those two stars.
Something else loomed against the sky, a familiar post rising from a wooden hull. He almost chuckled, inanely amused to realize that the undersea spring had spewed him into the pool of water where
Something else moved across his vision, a concerned face, with a shadowy topknot draped over one shoulder. Now he knew he was delusional, for Kerrick was certain he heard Coraltop Netfisher’s voice.
