The Messenger it-1

by Douglas Niles

  “I’ll keep an eye on the boy,” Dinekki said curtly. “Now, aren’t you forgetting something?”

  “Yes, Grandmother,” Moreen said gratefully. “Will you ask for the blessing of Chislev Wilder upon our endeavor?”

  “That is the purpose of the paint,” explained the shaman, who by now had daubed each of the women with a band of red coloring under each eye and across the forehead. “Now, take each other’s hand in a circle, all of you-and let me in, too!” she snapped.

  “Chislev Wilder we beseech you … give us strength, to see our need through.” Dinekki chanted the words, creating a strange, choppy rhythm Moreen found entrancing and exhilarating. “Grant your skill, give weapons might … honor courage, in the fight.”

  Moreen felt a buzzing in her arms, a lightness in her feet, an energizing power. Chislev was all around them, their goddess was smiling up at them from the green grass, could be heard in the buzz of the hive-bound bees, the splashing of the fish in the nearby stream. For Chislev Wilder was a deity of nature, and her power and beauty lay in all of nature’s aspects, including blood and death.

  “The goddess will steady your aim and lend strength to your blows. Now, go and do battle in her name.”

  With Moreen and Tildey in the lead, the Arktos she-warriors filed up the steep chute and, staying low, emerged onto the crest of the coastal hill. The blessing of Chislev felt like a warm blanket around them. With the sun still visible, low in the northwest, the women, in their brown leather vests and tan leggings crouched and did a reasonable job of blending into the brush-covered ground. As they came over the hilltop, Moreen motioned to them to get down, and as a band they dropped to their hands and knees and began creeping forward.

  “See that rocky outcrop?” the chieftain’s daughter whispered, pointing. The promontory jutted above the beach, looming over the tuskers and the carcass of the whale. “We’ve got to crawl out there without being seen.”

  The others nodded grimly. Moreen saw the fire of determination in Tildey’s expression as the archer bent and strung her bow, the scowl of anger that burned across Bruni’s brow, the tremulous fear blinking in Garta’s eyes, and the faces of Nangrid and Hilgrid and Darna and so many others. They all looked to her with hope and at least a show of confidence, and she was determined not to let them down.

  She had gone over the plan in detail, and there was no need for further discussion. Pointing to Little Mouse, she held up her hand in silent command for him to stay, then started along the narrow ridge of land. Crawling, staying low, she was able to remain out of the line of sight. Soon she had reached the shelter of the rocks and looked to see that the women of the band were following, one after another, along the elevation. Little Mouse was a small blur against the hilltop a long stone’s throw away.

  Moreen herself carried three harpoons. Her sinewy cord was looped around her wrist, ready if she needed it, but for now she would not tie it to any of the weapons. She laid two of the harpoons behind a rock and hefted the third, as Tildey leaned forward and nocked an arrow into the string of her bow. On the other side of the archer Bruni crouched expectantly, the heavy, stone-headed club balanced in her hands. The rest of the warriors crowded around them, all of them keeping low and out of sight of the thanoi.

  Moreen saw that the tuskers seemed to be finishing up their labors with the whale carcass, at least for the night. A few of them had flopped onto the ground to rest, while others were seated up the beach, busily gnawing on great, crimson strips of raw meat.

  Tildey looked at Moreen, who nodded and pulled back until she could barely see their enemies through a crack between two boulders. The others remained still and hidden.

  Standing up, drawing the butt of an arrow back to her cheek, Tildey took careful aim. She released the string with a soft twang, and the feathered missile hurtled toward the beach.

  The nearest thanoi, a great brute sitting with its back toward the humans, lurched forward with a grunt, dropped the piece of meat it had been holding, and sprawled onto the ground. The shaft of Tildey’s arrow jutted squarely from its broad back, right at the base of the neck.

  “Nice shot,” whispered Moreen, impressed. Her hand closed tightly around the haft of her harpoon as she watched the nearby thanoi leap to their feet with a chorus of barking and growling.

  The archer was already preparing a second arrow, drawing a careful bead and shooting in one smooth motion. This missile punctured the thigh of a standing tusker, spinning the creature fully around before it dropped to the ground with a howl of outrage.

  Now Tildey had been seen, and the thanoi rushed toward the base of the rocky knob where she was positioned, snatching up stout spears, heavy clubs, and wicked bone knives lying on the beach.

  Moreen saw Garta and Nangrid look at her, wide-eyed and tense, but she shook her head vehemently, pleading for them to remain hidden. Obviously nervous, they nevertheless stayed low, fingers clenched around their unfamiliar weapons. With another glance through the crack in the rocks, the chieftain’s daughter saw that the tuskers had started up the hill, though-as she had planned-they found the going tough on the steep and boulder-strewn slope.

  A third walrus-man grunted in pain as Tildey shot again. This tusker was caught full in the chest and rolled backward to lie still at the bottom of the hill.

  “Here they are,” Tildey said coolly as she set another arrow against her string. Moreen saw a brutal face looming just on the other side of her rock, dull eyes glaring balefully, wicked tusks swaying back and forth.

  “Now!” she cried, leaping to her feet, the harpoon steady in her hand as she drew back for a throw.

  The barbed head of the harpoon pierced the thanoi right in the throat and its wide jaws gaped soundlessly as the brute dropped its spear to claw desperately at the weapon. With a frantic, lashing twist the tusker spun around and tumbled away, knocking down one of its still-climbing fellows from the force of its fall.

  Moreen heard whoops and screams as the other women also rose and launched their attack, bashing and poking and shouting in the face of the stunned tuskers. Bruni smashed her stone hammer hard into the broad snout of a walrus-man, and the beast fell, clasping both hands to its bleeding maw. The big woman smashed downward again, killing the creature. Nangrid also pierced one, driving the metal point of her spear clear through its sinewy torso, then shaking her weapon free. The tusker, groaning and bleeding, flopped helplessly on the ground at her feet.

  Other women hurled rocks. Several good-sized boulders clattered down among the thanoi, knocking them backward or bouncing down the slope, forcing the other thanoi to dodge out of the way. The sudden onslaught caught the monsters by surprise, and those that weren’t struck down immediately hesitated in their ascent, piglike eyes flashing as they confronted this horde of screaming, wild-looking attackers. Moreen had encouraged the Arktos to make a lot of noise, and-whether because of her instructions, or the fierce, panicked energy that seized them at the moment of battle-the tribeswomen were whooping it up like a crazed band of berserk warriors.

  One of the walrus-men, a huge beast with long, curling tusks and an ornately feathered spear, shouted something Moreen could not understand. It was obviously a command, and the surviving tuskers wasted no time in scrambling back down the hillside, slipping and stumbling in their haste.

  “After them!” cried the chieftain’s daughter, snatching up her second harpoon. Tildey’s bowstring twanged again, as Moreen cast her weapon, and the twin missiles took the tusker leader through the belly and shoulder.

  Garta was shouting something unintelligible as she lunged after a particularly slow thanoi, snapping off one of its tusks with a wild sweep of her club. The creature jabbed back with its spear and the Arktos woman cried out, falling backward, blood running from her stomach. The walrus-man lunged, jabbing a tusk toward her heart-but Garta, kicking frantically, managed to hold the monster at bay until Bruni kicked it away, then crushed its skull with a hard blow of her club.

  Moreen hefted he
r last harpoon and started picking her way down the steep slope.

  “Remember-none can escape!” she shouted, as the other tribeswomen, too, started in pursuit. Spears flew, most of the weapons clattering harmlessly across the rocks, though at least one other tusker fell, pierced through the leg. Nangrid stepped on the squirming thanoi and, with a quick flick of her skinning knife plunged deftly between the tusks, slicing its throat.

  A trio of the tusked brutes had reached the beach, with a few more, badly wounded, limping along behind, or still working their way down the hillside. The thanoi wasted no time in starting for the surf, two dozen paces away, though one fell before it took two steps, punctured by another of Tildey’s lethal arrows. A few Arktos cast spears, and a second tusker tumbled and thrashed, pierced in the hamstring by a lucky throw.

  Moreen was on the beach now, sprinting past bleeding, dying walrus-men as she raced in pursuit. One thanoi moved with surprising speed, flat feet slapping across the stones as it lunged toward the water and plunged into a breaking wave with a smooth dive. The chieftain’s daughter halted at the water’s edge. With a practiced movement she took the end of the cord from her wrist and slipped in through the eyehole in the weapon’s haft. Then she pulled it back, held the shaft beside her head, and squinted into the sun-brightened surf.

  All around her she heard the groans and shrieks of wounded thanoi, the beasts grunting and snarling as the women raced among them, using their sharp bone knives to finish the work they had begun with spear, club, and stone.

  There! The rounded head of the beast broke the surface, two dozen paces from shore.

  “Just like killing a seal,” Moreen told herself, and let fly. She didn’t aim for the head, but sought to hit the muscular body.

  The sleek harpoon shot into the water, and the thanoi bellowed in pain and instantly dove under. Planting her feet, Moreen grasped the cord and set her weight in anticipation of the creature’s power. Even so, the tug on the line pulled her off of her feet, and she was dragged across the rough stones of the beach. An icy wave washed over her as she was pulled into the sea.

  Bruni was beside her, her strong arms wrapped around Moreen’s waist, pulling her-and the wounded tusker-back to land. The chieftain’s daughter climbed to her feet, and they both tugged, hand over hand, reeling in the monster. Soon it was in the shallows, rolling in the surf, then suddenly, surprisingly, it sprang upward, lunging toward the women, wet, slick tusks jabbing like spears.

  Tildey was standing nearby, with one more arrow pulled back, and her aim was true. The walrus-man froze, an arrow suddenly protruding from the middle of its face. With a sputtering groan it wobbled, then flopped downward. Blood washed into the water lapping at Moreen’s feet.

  “You did it, Moreen, Chieftain’s Daughter!” Little Mouse was at her side, jumping up and down in excitement. “You led us into battle, and we won!”

  She looked around numbly. “Garta?” she asked, looking back at the rocky knoll.

  “Dinekki’s helping her-she’s going to be all right,” the boy assured her.

  “Mouse is right,” Bruni said, placing a big arm around Moreen’s shoulders, steadying her as her legs suddenly grew weak. “Except perhaps we shouldn’t call you ‘chieftain’s daughter’ any more.”

  “No,” Tildey said, nudging the floating, bleeding tusker with her toe. “I think you are Moreen, Chiefwoman, now.”

  7

  Winterheim

  The knocking on the cabin door slowly penetrated Grimwar Bane’s awareness. The ogre prince snorted, stirred, and tried to claw his way out of a dream. In that dream he had been wandering through a fog, seeking something, a person he could know, trust. Faces floated around in the murk. His mother was there, her face soft and round and warm. Now she was gone, replaced by his father, King Grimtruth. The prince saw Baldruk Dinmaker’s bearded face, followed by the image of his own wife, Stariz ber Glacierheim ber Bane.

  Finally came an image of the king’s young bride, the voluptuous ogress Thraid Dimmarkull. That last image was a pleasant one, one that filled him with longing, with aching desire. She, too, disappeared, and again he was confronted by the forbidding visage of his father. Eyes bleary, breath reeking of warqat, Grimtruth raised his fist for a blow, and the son was powerless to fend him off.

  He awoke. With a sense of relief he recognized his cabin, this ship, where he was the master. He grunted in acknowledgement, knowing that his crew wouldn’t awaken him for any trivial reason.

  “Lookout reports that Ice Gates are in sight, Your Highness!”

  Mumbling gruffly, the great ogre swung his feet out of the sea bunk, ducking his head as he reached for his boots and cloak. The captain’s cabin in Goldwing was the most spacious enclosure on the ship, but even so Grimwar felt cramped and confined. Part of it was the monotony of the long months at sea, he knew, and so the announcement that awakened him was good news.

  Still, he was in a foul mood as he pushed open the door and emerged onto the deck of the massive galley. His eyes immediately fell upon the massive palisades that marked the approach to Winterheim.

  The Ice Gates were twin mountains, massifs bracketing the mouth of a narrow fjord, rising so that their icy summits seemed to scrape the very heavens. Each was draped in cascading glaciers, blue-white sheets of ice spilling downward in a chaotic jumble of precipice, chasm, and snowy cornice. Here and there a rough shoulder of bedrock showed, black rock glistening in the sunlight, in stark contrast to the frozen surroundings.

  Now, in early autumn, streams still cascaded downward among the glacial faces, plumes of water spilling into long streams of spray, sparkling like a million diamonds in the pale sunlight. At night these streams would freeze into elegant icicles, only to liquefy again under the heat of the next day’s sun.

  It was impossible to tell which of the two peaks was greater. From sea level each loomed impossibly high, spires of rock that seemed to challenge the laws of gravity. The mountains were so close together that the entry to the fjord was all but invisible to enemy vessels. The ogre helmsman, Barelip Seacaster, guided the galley with skill, however, and Grimwar stood and watched, knowing what was about to unfold.

  The ship approached the shoreline and veered to port. Gradually, as they drew close, the shoreline became visible in clear relief. Finally the shade from the low sun cut a swath across the mountainside, and the ogre prince could see the opening of the narrow channel.

  Barelip Seacaster hauled on the great tiller as the drumbeats slowed and the rowers settled their pace. The ship followed a smooth curve, moving with stately grace, easing toward the entrance. When they passed behind the looming shoulder of mountain the shadows embraced them chillingly, a sense of frost that penetrated through Grimwar’s heavy sea cape and brought visible mist to each royal exhalation.

  They moved through utterly still water, oars dipping, pushing, rising to drip across the calm surface, before once more gently immersing for another stroke. Each side of the fjord was close enough that the prince could have struck it with a well-thrown stone. The wall emerging from the deep water sloped steeply upward, slick with ice and glowering dark stone. Every time he passed through here the hulking ogre felt small and vulnerable.

  “By Gonnas, it’s good to be going home,” Grimwar noted as Baldruk Dinmaker joined him in the prow.

  “Aye-and ’tis a fair pleasure to bid goodbye to that cursed sun, Your Highness,” agreed the dwarf heartily. “Will we see the city before nightfall?”

  “I hope.” The prince had been through this channel on many occasions, but he didn’t dare make a prediction. Sunset occurred earlier with each passing day, the season waning so fast that he wasn’t sure. Still, he hoped they would get a glimpse of Winterheim while there was still light, for there was no finer view that he had ever seen in his life.

  There, an hour later, it was. The galley slipped from between the close walls of the fjord and emerged into a watery bowl called Black Ice Bay, an enclosure that was completely sheltered from the
sea except for this dangerous approach. The shadows were long, the water inky dark and still, but Grimwar’s eyes were drawn to the alabaster facade sprawling across the full stretch of the southern horizon. The clear sky, rich with the deep indigo of twilight, brought the snowfields, cornices, and glaciers into splendid, purple relief.

  Winterheim was a city, but it was also a mountain. If the Ice Gates were towering pillars, Winterheim itself was a monument of sublime wonder that dwarfed every surrounding elevation.

  Fading sunlight glimmered with phosphorescent brilliance along the crest of the great mountain, a corona of white light sparkling along an arcing ridge of pristine snow. Fresh powder blanketed the upper palisades. Even in summer, such precipitation was an almost nightly occurrence, and now already the darkening days of autumn crept closer.

  The King’s Wall circled the summit perhaps two-thirds of the way up the lofty slope. This palisade of sheer stone was more than a hundred feet tall and looked like a belt of gray around the mountain’s lumpy midriff. A multitude of towers jutted from the slopes, many of these strung along the upper ramparts above the King’s Wall and across the highest shoulders of the edifice. Other spires dotted the lower slopes, and from these-as well as in great windows and doorways in the mountainside-a multitude of fires hove into view, sparks of light brightening the massif as the shadows of sunset inexorably thickened.

  To the right a ridge extended into a great, flat surface with ornate columns, these pillars rising up to merge with the base of the King’s Wall. On this field the king’s troops drilled, and his people gathered for such celebrations as occurred outside the city walls. Grimwar recalled with a thrill standing up there and watching King Grimtruth drive the pillars into the ice during the Icebreaker Festival, which took place at the end of the long, sunless winter.

  To the left of the mountain appeared a great, frozen cliff of solid ice. This was the Icewall, the dam holding back the Snow Sea. In a few months that wall would be shattered by the king himself, in a ritual as old as Winterheim. When the sun finally vanished for the winter, a strong male slave would be offered in sacrifice, and his blood, together with the enchantment of the high priestess, would provide the power to break the Icewall, and release the Sturmfrost to dwindle across Icereach.