Then he spotted motion up ahead. Something—several somethings—tiny and indistinct with distance, sped in his direction. Three of the dots were on the ground, and were likely sleds. But two others were flying.
The prudent response would be to change course. But it would delay his reaching the abandoned village, and he’d done nothing to provoke the creatures so rapidly approaching. That ought to mean they wouldn’t harm him, though in other circumstances, he certainly wouldn’t have counted on it.
He kept his team aimed straight at them, and as they grew nearer, saw something marvelous. They weren’t the creatures he’d imagined them to be, but rather as strange a company as he’d ever encountered. Not all strange, though. In the lead sled, a conveyance drawn, like the others, by huskies rather than kupuk, rode Joylin, and behind her, guiding the dogs, stood his long-lost younger brother Raryn.
They all brought their sleds to a halt. Joylin clambered out and hobbled on a bandaged ankle toward her father. He ran to meet her, and they flung their arms around each other.
“Are you all right?” Wurik asked.
“Yes. Except my foot hurts.” She hesitated. “Tirichiks killed Tug and the rest of the kupuk. I’m sorry, Papa.”
“Tirichiks!”
“Yes,” Raryn said, “but at least this young hunter avenged her team. That’s tirichik blood on the point of her lance. How are you, brother?”
“Well, now that I know this wayward child is safe, and crazy Raryn, whom I never thought to see again, stands before me.” Wurik hugged Joylin for another moment, then released her to embrace Raryn.
“‘Crazy?’” Raryn said. “Just because I wanted to see the world beyond the glacier? Would it change your mind to learn I’ve come home with enchanted weapons and a purse heavy with gold?”
“No,” Wurik said, “because in all your years of roaming, did you ever spend a night with a female of your own kind?”
A lanky human armed with a mace and dented buckler laughed. “I like your brother, Raryn. He knows what’s truly important.”
The remark reminded Wurik of the strangers’ presence and snapped him out of his euphoria at finding Joylin safe. This situation was far more complicated than that. Indeed, in most respects, it was little short of a nightmare.
The first thing to do was make sure his smile and hearty manner didn’t waver. “Introduce me to your friends, Raryn, and then we’ll go home and feast.”
A fellow both shorter and slighter than a dwarf, with curling black locks framing his face, grinned. “The Hearth-keeper’s blessing on you. We’re sick to death of our own cooking.”
“Do you eat bugs?” asked a silvery reptile with butterfly wings and a flicking tail. Wurik wondered if it could possibly be some sort of miniature dragon. Probably not, or it would be running mad or a servant like the rest of its kind.
In another minute, everyone was underway. Wurik periodically blew a signal on his bugle, an instrument carved from a rothé horn. Those who heard would know Joylin had been found, and relay the message to others.
What Wurik really wanted to do was talk to his daughter, but it wasn’t possible racing along on a sled. If they spoke loud enough to hear one another, Raryn and the strangers might overhear as well, and so it would have to wait.
At last they reached the village, at which point Wurik realized that too was a potential problem. Raryn was too observant not to notice there were fewer cook fires than formerly, and that some of the snow houses were vacant.
Sure enough, he took one look around and asked, “What’s happened to the tribe?”
“Dragon attack,” Wurik said. It was even true as far as it went, but it had only been the start of their troubles. “The wyrms surprised a big hunting party. We lost quite a few of our folk.”
Raryn sighed and nodded. “It’s happening everywhere.”
The villagers came creeping forth. From their hesitancy and guarded expressions, Wurik realized they were feeling the same awkward tangle of emotions he was. Relief, of course, that Joylin was all right. Amazement at the strange appearances of Taegan, Jivex, Dorn, and Will. But underlying those emotions, stifling the excitement they might otherwise have sparked, fear and uncertainty.
But they needed to manufacture some enthusiasm. “Look!” Wurik shouted. “Joylin’s all right, and my brother has returned, along with new friends. Come welcome them!”
To his relief, the other dwarves followed his lead and tramped forward, calling greetings and extending their hands. Perhaps some assumed from his demeanor that somehow, all really was well. The others realized they needed to pretend.
Wurik waited until a chattering cluster of old acquaintances surrounded Raryn. Then he said, “I’ll leave you to catch up with these others. My disobedient daughter and I need to talk.”
“Don’t be too hard on her,” his brother said. “It’s too bad about the kupuk—from the looks of this place, you can ill afford to lose them—but Joylin did nothing we didn’t do when we were small.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Wurik picked up the lame child in his arms and carried her to the snow house where they’d dwelled alone since a fever ushered his dear wife down into the ice decades before her time.
As he set her down on a sealskin rug, Joylin said, “I am sorry, Papa, truly. I loved Blue and Tug.”
He had, too, but he waved the memory of the poor slain animals away. “That doesn’t matter now. I need to know what you told Raryn and his companions.”
“What do you mean?”
He felt such a surge of impatience that, much as he adored her, for an instant he might almost have slapped her. “Did you say anything to them—anything at all—about the Ice Queen and those who serve her?”
Joylin blinked. “No, Papa. We only talked about my foot, and tirichiks, and how I look like you.”
Wurik felt a bit of the tension seep out of his muscles. Joylin was a child, and the changes that had overtaken the Inugaakalakurit didn’t loom as large in her awareness as they did in the minds of the adults. Thus, she hadn’t spoken of them. It was all right.
Well, no, it was a long way from that. Ahead lay dread and shame. But he’d salvage something, no matter what the risk.
“Go on out,” he said. “I’m not going to punish you. But you are not to talk to your uncle or the strangers about the queen or anything to do with her. Tell me you understand.”
She stared up at him. Her eyes were troubled, but she said, “Yes, Papa, I understand.”
Once she was gone, Wurik proceeded to the rearmost chamber of the house, untied and opened a leather trunk, rooted around in it, and from the bottom retrieved a small, intricately carved ivory box. Inside glittered a piece of ice faceted like some priceless diamond, and when he took it out, he winced.
Ordinarily, arctic dwarves were impervious to cold. They felt it to the extent of knowing if the temperature rose or fell, but it wasn’t harmful or unpleasant. Whenever Wurik grasped the crystal, though, he experienced the same burning, numbing chill that would have afflicted a human.
He touched the ice to the center of his forehead.
When the village celebrated, it needed to do it in the open. None of the simple snow-block houses was anywhere near large enough to hold all the natives, let alone visitors twice as tall. Still, it wasn’t so bad. Raryn’s folk, aware that humans and their ilk required warmth, had given the outlanders the places closest to the leaping, crackling central bonfire. Though he could have done without the smell—the dwarves fueled the blaze with dried animal droppings and oily fish skins—Dorn was fairly comfortable.
The food was good, also. He sampled caribou, walrus, seal, fish, and the windblown, tumbling plant called snowflower prepared in four different ways. The entertainment was likewise as lavish as the village could provide. He applauded songs, stories, dances performed to the intricate thumping of three diversely shaped drums, and even a juggler.
And yet …
Dorn turned to Kara. “Maybe it’s just me,” he whis
pered. “I’ve always had trouble enjoying occasions like this. But it feels like they’re trying too hard, without any real joy underneath.”
“I agree,” she said. “They’re showing us hospitality, and I’m sure they don’t begrudge it. But they’ve endured too much hardship for it to lift their own spirits.” She glanced over at Raryn, seated with Wurik on one side, Joylin on the other, and a platter balanced on his lap. “Poor Raryn. I’m sure he hoped for a happier homecoming.”
Dorn grunted. “Maybe you can do something to brighten things up.”
She smiled. “Perhaps I can.” When the juggler stopped flipping and catching his glistening icicles, and had acknowledged his applause, she rose, raised her hands for silence, and began to sing.
The song told of a young warrior wooing a haughty maiden who thought herself too good for him. She set him impossible tasks to perform, and by dint of boldness and cunning, he managed each in turn. As always, Kara made the story as compelling as the melody was sweet, her voice infused with the personality of each character as she spoke for him in turn.
Truly, it was a flawless performance. Until she went stiff, and a note caught in her throat.
She flashed a smile as if wryly amused by her slip, drew a deep breath, and took up the thread of the song. She managed three more lines, then stumbled once more.
“I’m sorry,” she said, pain in her voice. “My stomach … I … must have eaten too much of this fine food …” Her knees buckled, dumping her onto the icy ground.
Dorn scrambled to her side. She tried to raise a trembling hand, but lacked the strength. Her complexion was always fair, but now it had turned ashen, and her lips, blue.
“Pavel!” he bellowed. “Something’s wrong with her!” He looked around for the healer, and what he saw filled him with horror.
By the looks of it, all his friends had fallen ill, were all nearly paralyzed with cramps and weakness, while the villagers, for the most part, looked on stony-faced. Some babbled in dismay, or moved to help the afflicted, but their neighbors restrained them.
Everyone had taken his food from communal platters and the like. Still, by some legerdemain, the dwarves had plainly poisoned their guests.
Making a supreme effort, Pavel brandished his sun amulet and gritted out the opening words of a prayer presumably intended to counter the effects of the toxin. A dwarf bashed him over the head with a crank-handled, fire-blackened roasting spit, and he collapsed on his face. With a snarl, Will drew his hornblade and rounded on the attacker, but the weapon slipped from his fingers. The halfling fell retching beside his friend.
Pain stabbed through Dorn’s guts, banishing the faint hope that somehow he’d avoided eating the tainted food. He looked back down at Kara. “Change form!” he begged her. In her dragon shape, maybe she could shake off the effect of the poison.
She simply lay still, not even shivering, and he discerned that, though her amethyst eyes were still open, she was no longer aware of him or anything else.
Furious, he reached for the nearest dwarf with his iron talons. But though his metal arm was impervious to poison, the brain guiding it wasn’t, and he missed. The jabbing pain in his guts swelled into agony, and he couldn’t manage a second try. He toppled onto his side.
From that position, he could see Wurik, Raryn, and tiny Joylin, her eyes wide with shock, watching everything unfold. Raryn tried to articulate the words of a charm. Wurik hesitated, then cocked back his fist and punched his brother in the jaw, spoiling the cadence.
“I’m sorry,” said Wurik, “truly.”
His ruddy, white-bearded face twisting, Raryn struggled to rise, but couldn’t. He groped for Joylin and pulled her close. Dorn wondered if he hoped to use her for a hostage.
If so, it didn’t matter. Her father grabbed her by the shoulders and yanked her away.
A surge of agony lifted Dorn and swept him into darkness.
Wurik looked about, counting up the stricken travelers, making sure none had escaped. No, they all lay unconscious where they’d dropped. The poison, brewed from a tirichik’s vital organs, was potent stuff.
For the most part, his fellow villagers stood quiet, grim-faced, unable to look one another in the eye. Wurik felt the same shame they did. To betray guests was a despicable act.
“Are they dead?” Joylin asked.
“No,” Wurik said. He’d measured out a dose that would incapacitate, not kill.
“They aren’t just sick,” she said. “You … you did this to them.”
“We don’t have time to talk about it now.”
“Why?” Joylin wailed. “They saved me, and Uncle Raryn is our kin.”
“Yes. Raryn’s one of us, and we won’t give him up.” He bent down and lifted his brother in his arms. “The others, we must.”
“But they’re all my friends!”
“I said, we don’t have time to talk about it.” He turned to the other adults. “Tie up the prisoners. Half of them are so strange, we don’t know how long the drug will make them sleep. Gather their possessions. The Ice Queen’s servants will want those as well. I’ll hide Raryn.”
He turned and strode toward his snow house. Though it must have hurt her wounded ankle, Joylin scurried after him.
“Why do we have to do this?” she asked.
“Because Iyraclea ordered it, and she’ll kill the hostages—the folk she took away—if we defy her. The lives of our own people have to come first. You’ll understand when you’re older. Maybe … maybe the queen will just question the strangers, then set them free.”
“If you think that, why are you hiding Uncle Raryn?”
He glared at her. “Enough! No more arguing. Can’t you see, this is hard enough already?”
She lowered her eyes. “Yes, Papa.”
He hauled Raryn into the rear chamber of his dwelling, then hurried back to the bonfire. When they arrived, Iyraclea’s agents would expect to find him waiting with the captives. Joylin hobbled along behind him.
As it turned out, they made it back with only minutes to spare. Then the Ice Queen’s warriors strode out of the night.
At the head of the procession stalked one of the spirits of the netherworld called an “Icy Claw of Iyraclea.” Pale as ice and twice as tall as a human, it had a spiny-shelled, hunched, segmented body, and a long, heavy tail covered in blades. It carried a long white spear in one clawed hand.
Behind it tramped sneering frost giants, blue of skin with silvery or yellowish hair, even taller and more massive than their captain. Several human warriors, recruited or conscripted from elsewhere on the glacier, brought up the rear.
The dwarves cringed before the newcomers. Even then, after all that had happened to mar their pride, they weren’t afraid of humans or frost giants, their principal foes for as long as anyone could remember. But the Icy Claw inspired a terror that even its hideous form and manifest ability to wreak havoc couldn’t quite explain. Perhaps it somehow stank of boundless cruelty and malevolence. In any case, Wurik had never been able to look at one of the things without a spasm of dread trying to close his throat.
Still, as chief, it was his responsibility not just to look but to talk to it. He stepped forward. “The strangers are helpless and ready for you to take.”
The Icy Claw stared back at him. With its antennae; bulging, faceted eyes; and mandibles, its buglike mask was utterly unlike the face of a dwarf or man, and thus impossible to read. At length it wheeled and prowled to the place where the outlanders lay bound and insensible. The villagers scrambled to clear a path for it.
It picked up Taegan for a closer look, then tossed him back onto the ground. Dorn, Jivex, and Kara likewise each received an extra moment or two of study. Then the spirit gazed back at Wurik.
“An odd group,” it said, its voice a buzzing rasp. “Your orders were to detain them alive for questioning. I assume they’ll wake in time. Otherwise, you’ll be punished.”
“They’ll wake,” Wurik said. “We were careful. Is there anything els
e you require?”
The Icy Claw turned to its subordinates. “Collect the prisoners and their gear.”
Wurik’s shoulders slumped in relief. They were leaving. In a little while, it would be over.
Then the towering, pallid devil oriented on the heap of the travelers’ equipment. It bent down, peering, and plucked an ice-axe from the pile. Wurik realized it was Raryn’s. In their haste, the villagers had simply thrown his gear in with everyone else’s.
“The head of the axe is enchanted,” said the Icy Claw. “You slaves make nothing comparable. But the haft is bone, and looks like an ice dwarf carved it. Even though none of the prisoners is of your kind.”
Wurik did his best to project an air of nonchalance, as if he had no idea what the fuss was about. “The human with the iron limbs had the axe. An Inugaakalakurit must have traded it to him.”
“I think it more likely that he and these others had an ice-dwarf guide. How else did they survive the journey across the glacier?”
“They’re experienced travelers. They knew what they were doing.”
The Icy Claw stared at Wurik, and he felt something alien to his experience, a psychic pressure on the surface of his mind. The devil was trying to look inside his head.
He had no idea how to resist such an intrusion. In lieu of any more sophisticated defense, he simply thought, I’m telling the truth, over and over again.
Eventually the feeling of pressure abated. He held his breath, wondering if by some miracle he’d succeeded in fooling the devil.
The Icy Claw pivoted toward its minions. “The thralls are playing games. Search the village.”
The frost giants and human warriors obeyed. Since the snow houses were too low for them to enter easily, the former pounded and kicked the structures apart, and the latter sifted through the remains. The Inugaakalakurit watched in distress, or else looked to Wurik, silently imploring him to intervene.
“Wait!” he cried. “Please, stop! There … there was one more traveler, but he’s one of our own folk. As you guessed, the outlanders met him on the rim of the glacier and hired him to guide them. But he isn’t one of them. He doesn’t know anything about their business.”
The Ruin Page 8
