The Messenger

“That’s the signal!” he cried, praying that the rest of Dinekki’s magic worked as well as this light spell that alerted the Highlanders to retreat and stunned the ogres into momentary awe.

An attacker facing the king raised both hands to his tusked face, crying out as the magical light momentarily blinded him. Strongwind stabbed his enemy in his belly, which bulged beneath a metal breastplate. The ogre dropped with a gurgling moan.

“Fall back!” shouted the king.

His men turned and ran, for a moment opening up a gap between themselves and the attackers, who had been momentarily stunned by the brightness.

Strongwind held back, making sure that all of his men had escaped. When the last had passed he started after. Something hard struck him, and he sprawled forward on the ground. As he lay on his face, a weapon ricocheted into the shadows, and he realized that he had been hit by an ogre spear.

He tried to clear his mind, to leap to his feet and run, but could only rise to his hands and knees, groggy and stunned. Knowing he had to get away, he pushed himself up, then everything whirled. His men had reached the safety of the deep cave, and the ground shook to the pounding of ogre boots. Crawling behind a big rock, Strongwind sat up and tried to get his bearings.

“Chislev Wilder, through the gloom-bring these ogres rocky doom!”

The shaman’s command resonated thunderously through the cavern, her voice impossibly loud for such a frail speaker. The floor pitched and buckled. Rocks splintered, and Strongwind smelled acrid dust. Shards of stone whizzed over his head, and a cloud of murk descended. The floor heaved, and more stone broke from the ceiling, crashing downward, piling onto the floor, rising upward to form a great barricade. Some ogres shrieked as the cascade crushed them. Most of the brutes stumbled backward, avoiding the rockfall but thwarted in the pursuit of the fleeing humans.

She had done it-that crotchety old woman had summoned up the godly power of the earth itself! For the time being, while the ogre army clawed through the rubble, the two tribes were safe.

Except for Strongwind Whalebone, who, as his head cleared, realized that he was on the ogre side of that barrier. He stumbled to his feet, seeing a dozen ogres within a stone’s throw, but they were also off balance. Several of them stared dumbly at the pile of debris.

“Move it!” roared an ogre voice from somewhere. “Dig it out of the way! After them!”

Strongwind rolled to the side, staying low, realizing that there was still adequate light here from the bonfires his men had burned. An ogre shouted and pointed. He had been seen!

At the edge of the cavern he saw a shadowy wall, pocked with niches, and he remembered something-Little Mouse and his spyhole!

Wincing from the pain in his shoulder, the Highlander king drove himself on, finding the opening, crawling up to slip inside the tunnel, desperately pulling himself through a winding passage. Fresh, cold air bathed his face, smelling of melting snow, and he knew he was on the right path.

Loud noises came from behind: shouts, grunts, and metallic scrapes, and he knew the ogres had seen him and were hot in pursuit.

23

Citadel of Humanking

Kerrick held the golden axe upraised. The weapon was heavy but perfectly balanced. He twisted the hilt as he had seen the ogress do and was rewarded by the sight of blue flames dancing along the edge of the blade.

The dwarf, backed into the very prow of the sailboat, glared at him. His pale, milky eyes narrowed.

“I never heard of such a ship,” he said sullenly.

“You are Baldruk Dinmaker. You served as Dimorian Fallabrine’s second mate for years, at least three voyages before the last. If you lie to me again I’ll … I’ll cut off your arm.”

The dwarf chuckling ruefully. “Well, you’ve got a keen eye. I’ll tell you, though it’s not a happy story. The Oak came to these shores, and she was taken by ogres at her first landfall, captain and crew-including myself-all made prisoners. The ogre king had her renamed, outfitted her as his own ship. She’s called Goldwing, now. That’s what happened to the Silvanos Oak.”

“And the crew? What of the elves and humans and kender who crewed her?” demanded Kerrick.

The dwarf snorted. “Elves and humans went to the king as slaves. The kender he butchered-who could blame him? Kender are good for nothing, not even ballast, if you ask me. Tell me something: Why are you so concerned about that doomed voyage?”

“Dimorian Fallabrine was my father.”

Now those strange eyes came into tight focus, and the dwarf’s hand scratched thoughtfully at his beard.

“You do look a bit like that old pirate, and I know Dimorian had a son. Never stopped talking about him, in fact. So that’s you? Strange coincidence!”

Kerrick nodded numbly, but his mind was racing ahead. “The ones who became slaves-where are they today?”

Baldruk frowned. “They don’t last long under slavery around here,” he said bluntly. “I don’t think one of them lived through the first two years, not the elves, at least. Who knows, some of the humans might still be there, working in the king’s mines, or tending his harbor. Elves are too soft to make good slaves. The humans last longer … sometimes.”

Kerrick sagged. The dwarf was right. Any Silvanesti condemned to perform physical labor as the chattel of ogres would inevitably perish before long. The degradation was unthinkable, the physical toll lethal. He addressed the dwarf in cold anger.

“But you-you’re no slave, not one who marches beside the ogre king and who comes to counsel the queen. You’re a traitor!”

“Now, wait, lad. I had a chance at survival and I took it! I never betrayed my crewmates. We were captured by ogres! How can you blame me for seeing my chance at life, taking a job that got me out of the accursed mines?”

“No, I remember the stories. It was one of my father’s mates who convinced him to sail after gold. You were the one who planted the idea in my father’s head. It was you who spoke of the Land of Gold, you who claimed you could lead him to riches!”

Baldruk’s eyes were slits. His hand, unnoticed by the elf, slid to the back of his leg, touching the top of his leather boot.

“Don’t jump to conclusions!” he urged.

The silver dagger flashed, clutched in Baldruk’s fist. Kerrick couldn’t believe his own stupidity. The dwarf must have caught the blade and secreted it in his boot. Too late, he recalled Moreen’s tale of the weapon that had killed her father.

Even as he remembered this, Baldruk lunged at him, and Kerrick brought the fiery axe down. The golden blade bit into Baldruk Dinmaker’s neck, sizzling as it cut flesh.

With a gasp, the dwarf thrashed backward. His knife splashed into the water. Blood spread across the foredeck as his eyes, wild and hateful, met Kerrick’s. “Fool!” croaked the dwarf. “You still don’t know the truth-and you never will!”

He convulsed, thrashing on the blood-slick deck, rolling over the gunwale. He splashed into the water and disappeared into the inky depths.

“No!” cried Kerrick. What did the dwarf mean? Was it possible that his father still alive? Why had the fool tried to attack him? Kerrick hadn’t wanted to kill him!

“Who’s that up on the snowfield?” Coraltop Netfisher asked, standing on the cabin roof, pointing excitedly. “Is it one of the good guys? How did the boat get all bloody? Are you okay?”

“What? How did … where?” Kerrick was trembling as he turned to confront his green-tunicked passenger. The massive axe was suddenly heavy, and after a twist extinguished the flames he dropped it onto the deck.