Steel and Stone

by Ellen Porath

  The lady mage sat up, agitated, stroking the sealskin trim on the sleeves of her parka. Finally she nodded, forgetting that the owl couldn’t see her.

  Kai-lid?

  I will try, Xanthar.

  Then … The link faded, and Kai-lid sensed that the owl was struggling for words. Farewell, he finally said simply.

  For now, she amended.

  Of course, Xanthar said gruffly after another pause. For now, my dear.

  Then the link dissipated. Kai-lid waited for a time, wondering if the giant owl were truly gone. Then she raised her voice, addressing the walls. “Janusz? Are you there? I have decided.”

  Moments later, the mage was at the portal, gazing down at her, hope dancing in his eyes. She let herself sway as she stood looking up at him. “I can stand the hunger no longer, Janusz. I am ill. I will … I will do as you ask, but I need time to recover.”

  As the mage surveyed her, Kai-lid felt a shiver of fear. The mage had been watching her, Xanthar had said. Could Janusz tell that she had been mind-speaking? He’d given no hint that telepathy was one of his skills. She forced her expression to remain blank, but her hands trembled. She toyed with the pouches of spell-casting material at her belt to hide her terror.

  But Janusz’s next words were neutral. “Very well,” he said. He threw the rope down. “Climb up.”

  She tried, but the parka and her fear of touching the clinging ice hampered her. Finally Janusz spoke an incantation and drifted down beside her. He placed one hand on her shoulder and declaimed a second spell. They rose gracefully into the air, drew even with the portal, and drifted through. Once their feet touched the floor, Janusz helped her down the long hallways to his quarters. She forced herself to lean against him.

  * * * * *

  Xanthar almost missed the Ice Folk village. The native people covered their dwellings with white fur and snow, and the village blended in perfectly with the glacial setting. Xanthar was nearly blind by now, and the other night-seeing owls were experiencing difficulty in the glare. It was Tanis who spotted the spindle of smoke that trickled up from one of the dwellings. He shouted, and Xanthar angled down, followed by Tanis’s owl, whom the half-elf had dubbed Golden Wing, and Caven’s mount, whom Tanis had named Splotch, for the mark on his forehead.

  At the last moment, instead of landing within the village, Xanthar swung to the south and brought the group down in an open field nearby. The field was outside a wall of gigantic rib bones, taller than a man, that formed a border around the community. The rest of the owl phalanx landed silently. Once again Tanis marveled at the discipline the birds showed. They could fly without a sound, as they had just now, or with a slight change in the way they used their wings, they could soar with the insistent booming that had so unnerved him before.

  For a moment, nothing happened. Tanis untied Caven, who regained consciousness to complain about the cold and a splitting headache. Tanis glared him into silence. Neither man was dressed for the bitter wind, which blew right through their clothing.

  Then a lone figure, swathed in furs, emerged from a chink in the rib fence. The figure carried a spear and a shiny weapon that seemed to be an ax made of ice. Soon a dozen other figures, similarly dressed and armed, joined the first. At a spoken command, they moved as one toward the giant owls. Tanis slid from Golden Wing and stepped forward. Caven slipped off Splotch, clinging to the owl for a moment, then hurrying unsteadily after the half-elf. Xanthar, a head taller than the other owls and imposing despite his infirmities, shuffled forward, too. Tanis didn’t draw his sword, and when Caven moved to pull his weapon from his own scabbard, the half-elf waved for him to stop.

  The two groups, one armed, the other staying their weapons, surveyed each other silently. Then one of the Ice Folk, a man of medium height with a dark, hatchetlike face, handed his spear to a companion and used his free hand to pull back his hood. His hair was dark brown, his face smeared with grease—protection against the cold and wind, Tanis guessed. The owls seemed unbothered by the cold, but he and Caven were shivering.

  “You speak Common?” the man asked.

  “He and I do.” Tanis pointed to Caven Mackid and introduced the Kernan, then Xanthar, Golden Wing, Splotch, and himself. The eyes of the giant owls widened as the half-elf uttered their new human names, and Xanthar rubbed his beak with a claw, a movement that Tanis had long since realized signaled amusement. Golden Wing and Splotch merely looked at each other, blinking.

  “I am Brittain of the White Bear clan. This is my village. What do you want here?” the leader asked.

  Trained in the formalities of Qualinesti greeting rituals, Tanis matched the Ice Folk leader’s ceremonial tone. “We have come to the rescue of two friends, kidnapped by an evil man and brought to the Icereach. We fear for their lives—and the lives of the Ice Folk—if he is not stopped.”

  His men murmured, but the leader didn’t move. The wind ruffled the white fur at the edge of his hood. His glance flicked from half-elf to the Kernan, then to the owls. “I believe you are lying. I believe you are an emissary of this evil one of whom we have heard much. I believe that you and your followers seek to learn about yet another village of The People so that you can take this knowledge back to the evil one and his hordes of bull men, walrus men, and two-headed slaves.” Brittain scowled. “You are our prisoners.” He gestured, and a squad of armed Ice Folk strode forward, grabbing Tanis and Caven by the arms.

  “Don’t struggle,” Tanis whispered to Caven. “We must convince them that we mean no harm. We don’t have time to fight another battle.”

  Caven glared and set his feet in the snow. “I’m a man, half-elf. I will not be taken without a fight!”

  Tanis sighed. For a moment, he locked gazes with Brittain. He was surprised to note humor creep into the leader’s brown eyes. However, that hint of goodwill, unless he imagined it, was gone as quickly as it had come.

  At that instant, Xanthar, Golden Wing, and Splotch stepped forward. Xanthar lifted his head and trilled, and the giant owls in the field beyond turned and massed into lines. As one, they dipped their heads in unmistakable greeting. Xanthar, Golden Wing, and Splotch leaned forward and plucked the hands of the Ice Folk captors from the arms of the half-elf and Kernan.

  Brittain signaled to his followers. “These great birds are not of the Icereach …” he said tentatively.

  “They are from the north, as are we. They desire only good, as do we.”

  Brittain smiled at last. “We shall see.”

  “They come at the behest of Xanthar, who is their elder and leader, not at the call of the evil one.”

  Brittain’s smile broadened. “We shall see,” he repeated. “You are hardly dressed for the Icereach. Indeed, the evil one would have more sense.”

  Xanthar trilled again, and Tanis, turning toward the owl, felt a familiar sensation within his mind. Could the bird still speak telepathically? Had he the strength? Caven’s own expression was surprised. Brittain, too, seemed alert to some message.

  “Grandfather owl,” Brittain murmured respectfully. “The People revere the aged, and you appear to have much wisdom.”

  Xanthar’s eyes were closed. His claws gripped the snow so tightly that it melted beneath him. He was concentrating with all his dwindling power, Tanis could see. The telepathy flickered in the half-elf’s brain again.

  “The … the …”

  It faded and returned. Xanthar staggered with the effort as Golden Wing and Splotch hurried to his side.

  “The lovers … three, the … spell-cast maid …” Xanthar took a shuddering breath and leaned against the two owls.

  “Tanis!” Caven hissed. “The dream! What’s he doing?”

  “The winged one of loyal soul,” the owl continued. He opened rheumy eyes for an instant. That’s me, half-elf.

  Tanis, too, recited. “ ‘The foul undead of Darken Wood, The vision seen in scrying bowl. Evil loosed with diamond’s flight.’ ”

  Caven joined in on the second stanza. To Tanis’s
surprise, Brittain spoke in concert on the third.

  “The lovers three, the spell-cast maid,

  The tie of filial love abased.

  Foul legions turned, the blood flows free,

  Frozen deaths in snow-locked waste.

  Evil vanquished, gemstone’s might.”

  The last syllable faded, and the tickling in Tanis’s mind ended. Xanthar swayed against Golden Wing for a moment, then he sighed and slumped to the snow. By the time Tanis and Caven had reached him, the giant owl was dead.

  A cry of despair rose from Golden Wing, Splotch, and the other owls. Caven swore violently. Tanis was silent. Tears welled in his eyes as hundreds of owls trilled and keened behind him. He felt a hand on his arm and shook it off, thinking it was Caven’s, but the hand returned and Tanis looked up. It was Brittain.

  “I, too, had a dream,” the Ice Folk leader whispered, “many weeks ago, before the evil one destroyed the first village. The Revered Cleric said the dream, sent to warn us, came from the great polar bear. Since then the evil one has taken many of The People.” His brown eyes studied Tanis for a moment, the pressure of his hand increasing on Tanis’s arm. “You cry real tears for your friend. I am convinced.”

  Brittain barked orders, and his followers hurried forward to raise Xanthar’s body. Leaving the mourning owls on the icy plain, Tanis and Caven accompanied the Ice Folk into the village.

  Women and men scurried right and left to accommodate the newcomers. Brittain’s wife, Feledaal, gave orders to a crew of women and children who were concocting a vat of fish chowder.

  “Prepare for the funeral of a great warrior,” Brittain commanded a man in a robe decorated with beads of pebbles and bird bones. “Our Revered Cleric,” Brittain indicated respectfully after the man had bowed and hurried off, his beads clicking. “He interprets our dreams and fashions our frostreavers, among other things. Although I am master of our glacier-bound life and the Revered Cleric pretends to follow my dictates, he controls all things spiritual. Thus I sometimes suspect our Revered Cleric has more real power than I do.”

  Tanis and Caven were speedily equipped with clothing for a glacial climate—fur parkas, sealskin boots lined with fur and sealed with walrus oil, and thick mittens. The travelers also received a strip of leather with slits cut in the front, and Brittain showed Tanis how to position the slits before his eyes and tie the ends behind his head. “To guard against snow blindness during the brightest part of the days,” Brittain explained.

  Brittain told Tanis he would take him on a tour of the village. Caven, on the other hand, surprised them both by gathering some of the village’s warriors and heading back into the area south of the village. “I will show these Ansalon-bound rustics how trained soldiers can fly,” he explained stoutly, tying his leather strip around his head.

  Brittain pointed toward the largest construction in the village, a dwelling of packed snow and ice topped with white fur and snow. “We gather there for discussions that affect the future of The People,” Brittain said. He motioned to two children who leaned against the side of the building and watched the activity with solemn eyes. The rest of the Ice Folk children wore their hair long, but these youngsters’ brown locks had been shorn just below the ears. Their face bore smudges of gray and white ash. Neither child smiled. At Brittain’s gesture, they came swiftly over, their gazes never leaving the half-elf.

  “You must forgive their stares. We have heard of the pointed-eared people to the north, but we have not seen them in this village. Terve, Haudo,” he said, his voice gentle, “this is Tanis Half-Elven. He has come to help us fight the evil one.” The boy nodded; the girl said nothing. Brittain dismissed them, sending them to help with the food preparation.

  “They are in mourning, as you can tell,” he explained as soon as the children were out of earshot. “We received from them our first word of the evil one’s rapacity. Their parents were killed, and the rest of their village, too.”

  Tanis turned back toward the children, but they had vanished into a hut. “What do you know of the size and nature of the Valdane’s forces?” he asked. Then, at Brittain’s quizzical expression, he explained that the Valdane was the name by which he knew the “evil one.”

  Brittain stood back to make room for two women who struggled past with a seal carcass. “For the evening’s chowder,” Brittain said. Then he returned to Tanis’s question. “We hear reports and estimates from members of The People who have escaped when their villages were attacked, or who have fled the enemy camps and made their way back to us. Thanoi guards distract easily, apparently.” He sketched in the latest intelligence of the size and makeup of the Valdane’s troops, and where they had established their main camp. “There had been rumors, of course, that someone of great power had come to the glacier, but the destruction of Haudo and Terve’s village was the first proof we had that the power was of evil intent. Since then, reports of fresh atrocities have arrived nearly every day.” Brittain turned aside and seemed to be struggling with great emotion. When he turned back, his face was composed but pale. “You will forgive me. Terve and Haudo’s mother was my sister.”

  Brittain forced a dispassionate note into his delivery. “We have heard that the evil one lives under the ice and that the entrance to his dwelling is nearly impossible to spot. But our spies have located it, and they can pinpoint it on a map. Even better, they can lead us there. Look! One of them is practicing owl flight with your friend!”

  As he spoke, four owls whooshed overhead, barely missing the tops of the Ice Folk dwellings. Four parka-clad men clenched the birds by the necks, shouting in a strange tongue. Caven, on Splotch, yelled directions from the rear. The sight brought a faint grin to the Ice Folk leader’s face. “They cry out in the tongue of our fathers for the protection of the polar bear,” he explained. Then he grew solemn again.

  “We have heard sickening rumors of this evil one, and they grow worse with each day,” Brittain said, seating himself upon an ice bench next to a dwelling. He indicated the empty space next to him, and Tanis sat, too.

  “Rumors?” the half-elf prompted.

  Brittain nodded. “Of deadly ice that holds its victims until they die—or are released magically. Our Revered Cleric has an ointment that he believes will offset the ice, but he admits that he has not had the opportunity to test it.”

  Tanis stored the information away, urging the leader to continue.

  “We know that the evil … that this Valdane has a powerful mage who sometimes oversees the troops. We know the mage appears old and frail, and our Revered Cleric has posited that the mage’s strength wears thin from the oppression of this Valdane. That gives us cause for hope. But the latest rumors have been the most troubling.”

  “And they are?”

  “That the Valdane has found a new commander who has great practical skills and has led enemy troops, within the last days, into a deadly assault against a village of The People.”

  “What do you know of this new commander?” Tanis pressed.

  “Only that it is a woman.”

  Tanis felt his face grow pale, but he said nothing as Caven and his Ice Folk students returned boisterously from their practice flights. Brittain ushered them all into the large central dwelling for supper—and a planning session.

  Chapter 19

  The Attack

  TANIS KNELT IN THE ICE FOLK VILLAGE, WAITING FOR the Revered Cleric to begin Xanthar’s funeral. Behind the half-elf were arrayed several hundred owls.

  At this time of the year, the Icereach experienced its own version of spring, but the signs were sparse. The bitter temperatures of winter eased slightly. The windswept ranges saw increasing hours of daylight, and dusk lingered long into the night. Although the clatter of the Ice Folk had awakened Caven and Tanis in the middle of the night, it was still light enough to see without the aid of walrus-oil lamps.

  Turning a deaf ear to Caven’s grumbling, Tanis had slipped on his travel-worn leathers and covered them with a long parka of black
sealskin. The half-elf had split the lower seams of the garment with his dagger, like Caven and the Ice Folk warriors, to be able to wear the warm coats comfortably while perched on the backs of the giant owls. The villagers had spent hours fashioning sealskin into harnesses like the one that Tanis now tucked into his pack, but theirs had a certain modification—a loop that would carry the Ice Folk warriors’ frostreavers. Slipping the mask to prevent snow blindness into a pocket and putting on the lined boots that Brittain had lent him, Tanis headed for the doorway, bending over at the waist to step beneath the jamb. The Ice Folk kept their entrances as small as possible to conserve heat. Caven followed close on the half-elf’s heels.

  The sight of a mound of peat had greeted their eyes. The Ice Folk had erected a low bier of ice blocks, with a canvas sling across the top that held Xanthar’s shrouded body. Peat, a valuable commodity among the Ice Folk, was piled at the base.

  It had taken some negotiating, in the form of gestures and much acting out, to persuade the giant owls to allow the Ice Folk to cremate Xanthar’s body. Beyond the trilling and crying that had immediately attended Xanthar’s collapse the previous day, the giant owls practiced no formal rites after the death of a comrade. The concept of “funeral” seemed to confound Golden Wing and Splotch. Tanis had attempted to explain that consigning a body to smoke and fire was a great honor among the Ice Folk and that the ceremony, these villagers believed, would release Xanthar’s essence to continue to soar across the sky in death as the great bird had in life.

  Ultimately the owls seemed unpersuaded but resigned. Tanis was left suspecting that the giant owls believed these humans embraced the astounding view that poor Xanthar was merely frozen and thus would rise from the bier once he was warmed. Their acquiescence was more bemused than sorrowful.