He led her into a large chamber, with a mosaic of tiles and several small pieces of gold set into the floor. Much of the floor was blue granite, which met the more detailed tiles along a twisting and irregular line. Other tiles were green, white, or black.
“Here is Guilderglow,” Strongwind proclaimed, indicating the largest of the gold markers, one that had been stamped into the shape of a star. He stepped to the side, straddling the smooth sheet of blue stone. “This is the White Bear Sea, upon which shore your people have made their villages. Here is the place you called Bayguard.”
Moreen was startled to see how accurately her world was portrayed. She recognized the land enclosing the small bay and the rugged coastline to the north.
“This white stone is glacier and permanent icefield,” the king was explaining, now walking around the floor and indicating a portion of the map showing terrain to the east of his city. “These lands I do not think you know, as your people have stayed near the coast.”
“Where is the place called Ice End?” she asked.
Strongwind paused to take two small glasses from a servant who had entered, quietly, bearing a small tray. “Please, will you try our beverage? It is called warqat.”
“Uh, I have heard of warqat,” Moreen admitted, taking the glass and sniffing. She blinked in surprise-never before had she smelled anything so pungent. It burned, in an admittedly pleasant fashion, all the way down her throat.
“It is brewed from grain, steeped in the ice of a secret glacier.”
“All of your people drink it?”
The king shrugged. “For us, it is the Winterfire. It takes the place of the sun during the long, dark months.”
The Highlander drank his entire glass in a single gulp, but she took only one more sip and set her drink besides Strongwind’s empty glass on the servant’s tray. Yet it was warm in her belly and seemed to bring a pleasant lightness to her mood.
“Now, Ice End?” she repeated, finding a smile coming easily to her lips. Still, she remained alert. In the back of her mind she was wondering about Brackenrock. Though she looked along the northern reach of the map she could find nothing suggesting such a ruined citadel.
“Yes, of course. Here is the extent of Icereach,” Strongwind replied, pointing. She saw a narrow peninsula marking the terminus of the land. Somewhere just south of there, she suspected, the Arktos might find their ruin.
Moreen indicated another mass of land, across a narrow swath of blue. “What’s that?”
The king shrugged. “You would know better than I what lies on the far shore of the White Bear Sea. The narrows here I have heard called the Bluewater Strait, but as to the western coast, only a boat could visit there.”
“Indeed.” Moreen agreed, though she had never taken a kayak far enough to see the opposite coast of the gulf of Bayguard. At the strait, of course, it looked much narrower. She remembered her visit to Tall Cedar Bay-there she and her father had seen a rugged horizon across the sea. Now, looking at the map, she could see how that coastline extended south, making a long shore on the other side of the White Bear Sea.
One more question occurred to her. “What of monsters called dragons?” she asked. “Are they known to you?”
The king looked surprised, shaking his head. “Do you not know the legend of Huma and the banishing of dragons? That happened four centuries ago, so my teachers claim. I have no reason to dispute them.” His eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”
Moreen did not want the conversation to turn toward legendary Brackenrock, so she merely shrugged and pretended to study the gold inlays, each of which, the king quickly explained, symbolized one of the many clanholds of Highlanders.
“Come-I have much more to show you,” Strongwind said, again extending an arm. Once more she walked at his side.
Next they arrived at a large courtyard, where dozens of young men were launching arrows at targets across a wide space. “These are the new recruits of my archer regiment,” the king boasted. “Young men, all. By the time they are finished with their training they will be able to hit the target with ten out of ten shots.”
“Impressive,” Moreen murmured. That was no greater accuracy than Tildey could claim, but she was keenly aware that her tribe had but one Tildey, while the Highlanders were training numerous archers-and these would swell the ranks of a band that already counted only Chislev knew how many trained bowmen. How weak the Arktos were by comparison!
“What is that across the way-that image of a bear?” Moreen gestured to a statue, taller than life, of a great bear rearing onto its hind legs.
Strongwind’s eyes widened in surprise. “You do not know Kradok, the Wild One, god of all Icereach?”
Moreen’s jaw clenched stubbornly. “We give proper worship to Chislev Wilder, and she sees to our lives with good care!”
“Please, I did not mean to offend.” From somewhere the king had picked up another glass of warqat, and he casually tilted that into his mouth. “There are gods-and problems-enough for all people,” he said with a reassuring laugh.
She was offered a look into the royal armory, a vault with walls lined with spears, wooden shields, axes, and hammers. A few of the hammerheads were dark and exceptionally hard, made from the metal called iron which Moreen had seen only a few times in her life. There was one man on guard at the door of the armory, and on the way out the king paused to introduce him to Moreen.
“This is Randall Graywool,” Strongwind said. “I present Moreen Bayguard, chiefwoman of the Arktos.”
“The pleasure is all mine, my lady,” declared Randall. He was smaller than most of the Highlanders she had seen, and his beard was trimmed neatly short. He smiled bowed to kiss Moreen’s outstretched hand. “I hope we will all be seeing much more of you.”
“Perhaps,” she said noncommittally, unsettled by something about the man’s dark, flashing eyes.
As they continued on, the king leaned over as soon as they were out of earshot. “He’s called Mad Randall,” Strongwind said. “Believe it or not, he is the most fearsome berserker among all the clans.”
“Berserker?” she asked, again confused-and angry with herself for her lack of sophistication.
The king seemed only too glad to explain. “When he goes into battle he … well, he ‘loses himself in the fight’, as we say. He shows no fear and has the strength of ten men. I myself would not care to fight him-and you should know that Strongwind Whalebone fears neither man nor ogre!”
“I well believe you,” Moreen replied, casting a glance back. Randall was leaning against the armory door, his eyes on the drifting clouds, whistling.
Next they passed a great smoking shed from which the alluring odor of roasting beef reached her nostrils and provoked an unintended growl from her belly. If the king heard, he was polite enough to make no comment.
“That is my royal smokehouse,” he pointed out. “Many kinds of beef and mutton are brought here for preservation. Of course, the best cuts are fresh. I trust you will come to enjoy the taste of steak. I know that it is not a staple of the Arktos diet.”
“No, we are fishers and hunters of seals.” She wanted to add that her people gathered clams and crabs and lobsters and other delicacies along the beaches, but suddenly the memory of those long days of foraging seemed somehow embarrassing when contrasted against the industry and productivity so obvious around here.
“Sometimes we will take a whale,” she added tentatively, “harpooning from our kayaks.”
“That must be a cause for feasting,” Strongwind said politely, although his tone caused her to bristle.
She was thinking now, and as they climbed the steps to a tower parapet she stopped and disentangled her hand from the king’s arm. “What did you mean-I will ‘come to enjoy the taste of steak’? And why did Randall sound as if he expected to see a lot more of me?”
Strongwind Whalebone took a step away from her, so that he came to the battlement at the edge of the tower. He raised his eyes and looked into the dista
nce, toward the fertile valley, over the Scarred Rocks, onto the craggy mountains that formed a bowl around this citadel of Guilderglow. When he turned back to her his blue eyes were soft, and strangely penetrating.
“Guilderglow is the heart of my kingdom,” he began, “and my kingdom is destined to be the greatest realm in all Icereach. I know there is an ogre stronghold, far away from here, where the brute ruler fancies himself a king in his own right.”
“King Grimtruth Bane in Winterheim,” Moreen supplied, strangely anxious to display that she had some knowledge of this land that was her home. “It was his son who destroyed my village.”
“Yes. He raided the whole coast of the Ice Gulf, over the last few summers. Every one of the Arktos villages was struck, destroyed, the people slain or carried into slavery.”
“Every … one?” asked Moreen. She had never imagined the devastation was so extreme, and yet somehow she believed-she knew-that Strongwind was telling the truth.
“A few escaped, like yourselves,” the Highlander said. “Not many, and hardly a warrior among them. The Arktos survivors are women, for the most part. That is why I was so anxious to meet you again and to have you see, with your own eyes, the glories of my realm.”
“What do you mean, again?” Moreen’s voice was calm, but she felt violent emotions rising in her heart, her mind.
“I saw you once, when you were hunting, and I was doing the same!” Strongwind forged ahead in a torrent of words. “I tried to talk to you, but you jumped into your kayak and paddled away.”
“That was you?” Moreen remembered the incident. Now she recalled the blue eyes of the man, the intensity of his voice as he pleaded with her to stop, to return to shore.
“Of course, it was easy to find which village you came from-my scouts simply observed your boat from land. When they summoned me to Bayguard, I could see that you dwelled in the great hut in the center of the village. Obviously, you were daughter of the chief!”
“But, why? Why would you go to all this trouble?” Moreen wondered how often these shaggy men had observed her surreptitiously, spying from the surrounding hilltops.
“Because I could see right away that you are different, different from the wenches around here, from any woman I have ever seen. You are strong and proud … and so beautiful!”
Moreen shook her head, angry and a little afraid. “Why are you saying this?” she demanded.
“I mean to say, that you should come to Guilderglow-you must come here. I have need of a wife, and you are the leader of the Arktos. Arktos and Highlanders-we are all humans, the natural enemies of the ogres. You and your people will swell our numbers-you have many women of childbearing age, and that will increase our population. We will breed a great nation of warriors, you and I and our people, and within a generation we will be ready to strike at Grimtruth Bane, ready to attack Winterheim itself.”
Moreen stepped backward, felt the cold stone of the parapet meet her back. She gaped at the king, felt the flush of humiliation wash over her face. Apparently Strongwind Whalebone did not recognize the signs, for he advanced, hands outstretched.
“Think of it, Moreen Chieftain’s Daughter! You have seen the wealth of my realm-there will be homes here for all of your people. Many of my men will be eager to take a second wife! Within two years our children will be crowding under our feet!”
“And me?” Her tone was icy enough that the king stopped short. “Will I be a second wife? Or perhaps a concubine, given a luxurious apartment so that I can make babies for you?”
“Oh, no!” Strongwind looked relieved, apparently concluding that he could give her the answer she desired. “You will reign here as my sole queen, having the rights to all the bounties of my realm! I have no wife, but I want one. I want you!”
Moreen stood as tall as her slight frame would allow, turning the full force of her glare on the king. “Let it be known that I am not a commodity to be harvested or minted-not like your wool and your gold and your beef and your hounds. I am the chiefwoman of the Arktos, and I will not be summoned to become anyone’s wife. Not even for a king who wears stag’s antlers on his head. Incidentally, did anyone ever tell you how ridiculous they look?”
The king’s jaw dropped in an almost comical expression of shock. He reached up to touch the broad rack extending to either side of his scalp, and for a moment a strange emotion-a wounded sense of hurt-flashed in his eyes. That expression of vulnerability vanished, and those blue eyes darkened to a color like that of a boiling sea.
“Think about what you are saying,” he declared grimly. “Do you really think your people will survive the Sturmfrost, much less the coming years, without men to protect them? I am offering you that protection, and you would be wise to-”
“I would be wise to make my own decisions!” snapped Moreen, turning to start down the stairs. She spotted Bruni, waiting below in the courtyard, looking upward with a curious expression.
“Do not do this-do not shame me thus!” hissed the Highlander, his hand seizing her arm in a vicelike grip. His expression was so dark and furious that Moreen, for the first time, felt a twinge of real terror. But that could not overcome her stubbornness.
“Shame?” she spat back at him, fiercely twisting her arm away. “What greater shame could there be, than to sell myself, sell my whole tribe, for the chance to eat steak?”
“You will regret this mockery,” growled the monarch. He shook his head, astonishment obviously tempering his rage, giving him a moment’s pause. “I tell you again-do not do scorn me!”
“Know this, Strongwind Whalebone, king of the Highlanders,” she replied. “I am chiefwoman of the Arktos, and I shall do as I please. No man, be he slave or peasant or king, will order me otherwise!”
Her fury did not abate as she hurried away. Bruni joined her, hastening to keep up as she stalked out of the castle, down the city streets, and finally through the gate and away from the citadel called Guilderglow.
10
Courrain Currents
For a time, Kerrick knew nothing, and when awareness returned it was with the reality of head-splitting pain, agony that threatened to blanket his entire existence in miserable torment. He tried to open his eyes, but something seemed to be holding them shut. His swollen tongue filled his mouth, all but choking him, and he groaned and thrashed and tried to lift himself up.
He couldn’t move. From somewhere he felt cool water trickling between his lips, and he drank greedily. His pain remained, and his blindness, but with his thirst somewhat quenched merciful oblivion returned, and he slept.
The next time he returned to vague consciousness he became instantly aware of the pain trying to crawl its way out of his skull. It seemed almost a living thing, a serpentine enemy that coiled through his brain, rubbing up against every nerve, hissing through his body. One of his arms, too, seemed a seething furnace, the pain searing his flesh. For a moment he wondered if he was dead, then decided no-death couldn’t possibly hurt this much.
With that realization came the first return of memory. He wasn’t rocking in a cradle, he was aboard a boat, most probably Cutter. He was suffering the residue of terrible injury … an assault that should, by rights, have shattered him and his boat and ended his life. An image loomed in his mind: That great, spiked tail lifting from the sea, trailing great sheets of brine as it swept through the air and lashed into the mast and boom of his sailboat. He remembered the snap of breaking wood, something smashing into his skull with brute force, and then oblivion.
How long had he languished? The only thing he remembered was a wet rag somehow finding its way between his lips, again and again offering him a few drops of moisture, at least sufficient to keep his tongue from curling up, to allow his throat muscles to work through a few reflexive swallows.
He realized that only his arm was immobile. The rest of his body he could move and flex ever so slightly. So thick was the fog in his mind that it was a very long time before he realized that someone was tending him, offering him
the lifesaving moisture, over and over again. Oh yes, there was that kender who had leaped from the back of the dragon turtle into his boat … that was who it must be. Coral Fisher … something like that … some kind of nautical name … that much he remembered.
The elf awoke and shifted in his bunk, peering into the grayish light seeping through his eyelids. He turned his head toward the open cabin door. Searing pain shot through his head, but it was a welcome sensation for it was proof that he wasn’t permanently blind. He all but sobbed with relief, before turning his head away and collapsing back onto the bunk.
This was the cabin of Cutter, he realized. Somehow the little boat had survived the attack of the sea monster. He tried to speak, and though the sound that emerged was a mere croak, he took encouragement from the fact that he could make and hear the noise.
“Did you say something?”
The kender’s voice chirped from the entranceway, and then Kerrick felt the warmth of his companion’s presence seated on the edge of the bunk beside him. Coraltop Netfisher-that was his name! Once more the elf dared to open his eyes. He looked into a small face, old beyond its childlike shape, eyes dark with concern. The kender’s green shirt smelled damp and, vaguely, of seaweed.
“What happened?” Kerrick asked-the words sounded like “Wuh ha’n?”, and the kender’s face broke into a broad smile.
“What happened? Well, the dragon turtle swam away luckily, but unluckily its tail knocked into our boat. It broke that wooden thing off, and that wooden think conked you on the head. Just about broke your skull, too. I don’t think the turtle actually saw us, I mean, you and me. It doesn’t eat ships usually, you know, just sailors. When you got all tangled up in the sail, I fell down in the back. I think the big dumb dragon turtle looked around and decided there was no food here. The tail just kind of whacked us almost by accident when it swam away.”
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