Satisfied for the moment, Grimwar stepped back and looked around. Across the still water he saw the curious boat and, on the bank, his queen, looming over the elf, who remained seated in the snow. He wondered, vaguely, why Stariz-who had been warning him for a year about the menace of this elf in Icereach-had not wanted to execute the prisoner immediately. Grimwar Bane took some pleasure from the fact that he had informed her, curtly, that interrogation must wait until after the battle.
At a safe distance from the battle stood Urgas Thanoi, watching the action with intense interest. Closer to Grimwar was Baldruk Dinmaker, grinning fiercely through his bushy beard. “A great day, Sire, a great day, indeed!” exclaimed the dwarf.
“Yes. On this day, we shall end the Arktos once and for all. Truly, Gonnas has smiled upon us.”
He glanced again at his wife, standing guard over the elf, and added, “You know of elves from your years on the continent, no doubt.”
Baldruk, spat disdainfully but nodded and agreed that yes, he had some experience with elven scum.
“Go to the queen. Be alert for elven treachery. See if you can discover what brought that wretched fellow to our land. The sooner we have learned what he can tell us, the sooner we can be done with him for good.”
“As you command, Sire.”
As the dwarf started away Grimwar was distracted by a loud boom. He whirled around to see that a sizeable section of the block wall had tumbled inward. Ogres poured through the gap, clawing and slipping, stabbing with swords, hurling spears against the suddenly exposed defenders.
These were no mere women warriors, the king observed. Instead of the small group reported by Urgas Thanoi, this was a full rank of strapping, bearded humans, who fought with skill and determination. “Highlanders!” he cried exultantly. “We’ve trapped a war party of Highlanders!”
The humans fought savagely. In moments the shattered ice blocks were slick with blood, and wounded warriors, human and ogre alike, thrashed and groaned across their irregular surface. More and more of the attackers converged on the breach, and the sheer numbers carried them through the line, burying the Highlanders under a wave of ogres.
Moments later, another huge section of the icy barricade fell away and, for the first time this day, Grimwar drew the Barkon Sword and waded into the fray. A desperate human thrust a spear that the ogre king swept aside with the tip of his blade. With a deft gesture he whipped the weapon around and stabbed the man clean through. Stepping over the corpse, the monarch entered the cave.
Another human advanced on him with a longsword. The king’s tusks flashed in a fierce grin as he met steel with steel, blocking, parrying, pushing the human backward. The man fought with courage, even forcing Grimwar to retreat a few steps. Finally the Highlander overreached, exposed himself, and the king brought the Barkon Sword down in an overhand smash that shattered the human’s sword, skull, and breastbone in a bloody splash.
Dead Highlanders were everywhere, and the survivors gathered into small knots, harried by ogres. A few of the men fell back toward a dark archway leading deeper into the cave, and with a triumphant bellow Grimwar pointed after them.
“They flee the steel of Suderhold!” he cried. “After them, my brutes! Pursue, and carry the day!”
“I’ve got the rope tied off,” Little Mouse called in a hoarse whisper from the overhead darkness.
“Thanks be to Chislev,” Moreen murmured, her knees almost buckling in relief. For the past half hour she had been dreading the sight of her young tribemate plummeting from the heights of the cavern’s natural chimney. The sides were sheer, hand- and footholds barely visible in the dim light of the oil lamp they had brought along. Yet the youth had scrambled up the shaft without hesitation.
Now it was time to move. “I’ll go first,” Moreen said, as Randall held the rope for her.
“Of course, lady chief,” he replied. “Just be careful.”
She started up, climbing hand over hand, bracing herself against the rocky walls. Within moments she had passed beyond the illumination of the oil lamp and was fighting claustrophobic terror. Soon she could see a glow above from the small candle Mouse had climbed with. Shortly afterward she found herself sprawled beside him on a narrow, mercifully flat section of cavern floor.
“Next!” whispered the boy as she caught her breath. Soon Randall, then Tildey, had joined her, while the rest of their battle party-twenty Arktos she-warriors, and twenty of the Highlanders-made their way up, one by one. The newcomers gathered on the landing, crowding the rest back from the edge.
“Let’s go have a look at Brackenrock,” Moreen suggested.
“I’ll show you the way,” Mouse offered, and she was surprised at the relief she felt that he was here to provide guidance.
The youth led Randall and the chiefwoman up a steep corridor and around several bends. Abruptly Moreen caught a whiff of raw fish, and in another moment the smell was overpowering. She remembered that stink from her earlier battle with the tuskers and felt a flush of primal hatred. Unconsciously she tightened her grip around the hilt of her iron-bladed sword.
Soon they reached the walled-up place Mouse had described. From within the shadowy chamber they could see orange light spilling through chinks in the stones. When she pressed her eye to the gap Moreen saw a huge room, lit by several blazing hearthfires, and containing dozens of the big thanoi warriors. Some were sitting around listlessly or sleeping, though a knot of them were gathered around a big table, arguing over some kind of game.
It made no difference what they did, Moreen vowed silently, with a prayer to Chislev Wilder. They were doomed.
22
Rock and snow
Strongwind saw immediately that his warriors would not be able to hold their defenses for long. His bravest swordsmen stood shoulder to shoulder across the bottleneck gap, but the ogres were too big, too strong, too numerous. All they could do was sell their lives for precious minutes of survival.
Already the Arktos elders and children had retreated deeper into the cave, toward the base of the shaft discovered by Little Mouse. Many of Strongwind’s warriors had followed, though others remained at his side, ready to fight to the death in the big cavern. It was a fight that could have but one outcome. Already dozens of bleeding, wounded men were retreating past him, visible in the smoky light of the twin bonfires. Maybe a hundred of his men were already dead, an equal number grievously wounded.
Strongwind Whalebone was not an introspective man, but he found himself cursing the foolishness that had brought his army forth from Guilderglow. The Arktos woman had enraged him when she so rudely spurned him at their first meeting, then she had humiliated him by escaping from him. Most of all she had fascinated him in a way that no other person ever had. By Kradok, what madness had she worked, to bring him and his army to such a dolorous end?
The madness had come from within himself. His passion for her was a self-destructive delusion. Now, oddly, he found himself hoping that she might make it to Brackenrock, that she would be able to lead at least some of her people to safety.
“Here, you-King Strongwhistle!” He was startled by an elderly woman snapping at him.
“Strongwind!” he corrected the woman angrily, recognizing the cantankerous shaman of the Arktos tribe. “What do you want?”
“Are you going to stand here like one of those rock pillars, or do you want to do something that might give the ogres a little pause?”
“Tell me what you mean!” he declared, ready to seize on any possibility.
“Well, you have a god of your people, don’t you? You call him Kradok the Wild One, we call her Chislev Wilder. But it’s the same god-just like we’re the same people, ’cept some of us are thick skulled.”
“Do you have anything to say besides blasphemy?” demanded the king. For the first time he noticed, in the shadows behind the shaman, his own high priest, now garbed in his ceremonial robes. “Did you hear that foolishness?” he asked.
“Er, actually, sire,” said
the man, an elder cleric who had guided the faith of the kingdom since Strongwind’s childhood, “there is an element of truth to her words.”
“This wild goddess? You tell me Kradok is a woman?” The king couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Such matters … really do not apply,” said the priest, his bear skull helm bobbing apologetically. “That is, they are not important now. I suggest that you hear what the shaman of the Arktos has to say.”
“Very well. What are you trying to tell me?” Strongwind said testily, glaring at the skinny old crone.
“Let’s start simple, so you can understand. You see, our goddess deserves respect, and she has a kind eye for her humans, undeserving though we may be. She doesn’t want to see us all butchered like fish in a barrel. So I think she will help us.”
“How?”
The woman-she was called Dinekki, he remembered suddenly-pointed to a great row of stalactites jutting from the ceiling in the middle of the cavern. “Well, she might be willing to knock those down for us. That would hold up the ogres a bit, don’t you think?”
“That could bottle up the whole cavern. It would take them a week to dig through!” He looked at his high priest. “What is your advice?”
“If the woman can form the framework of the spell, I will try to add my power to the earthquake. We may be able to cause quite a collapse-that is, I believe we can.”
“It would halt their attack.” Strongwind immediately saw the possibilities: A barrier would protect them from ogre pursuit long enough that possibly all of the humans could climb, or be lifted, up the chimney to Brackenrock.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” clucked the elderly priestess. “It will take a little spellcasting from us, and a little distraction from you. We’ve got to hold the ogres at that entrance for a bit longer, til we can get ourselves set.”
“How long do you need?” asked the king of the Highlanders.
“Ten minutes should do. Now, let’s get all those people-all them that aren’t fighting ogres, at least-deeper into the cave.”
Kerrick’s fingers probed at the icy snow behind him. The wet snow, where the Axe of Gonnas had touched it, was slushy and wet. For several minutes, he had been forming a fist-sized ball, compacting it into a chunk of ice as hard as a rock.
The huge ogress queen stood a dozen feet away, her back to the elf, looking across the cove at the battle raging around the mouth of the cavern. From here it was obvious that the humans were faring badly. The wall had collapsed in several places, and ogres were pouring into the cave mouth.
Kerrick saw a figure plodding away from the fight, coming towards them, and he recognized Baldruk Dinmaker. Several other ogres formed an escort for the queen, but they were a respectful distance away along the snowy shore. Cutter, still triple-roped to the stone pillar, rested in the placid water a short distance beyond the queen.
The ogress turned and clumped toward Kerrick, silhouetted against the purple sky paling toward brief daylight. He dropped the iceball, let it sit in the darkness next to his hip. The queen had that great axe in her hands, though the fire had faded from the edge of the blade. She turned her attention to the approaching dwarf. “What word do you bring?” she asked crossly.
“My queen, let me help you guard that wretch,” suggested Baldruk Dinmaker, only dozen paces away. “These elves are ever treacherous, wickedly dangerous.”
“You don’t look dangerous,” mused the massive, square-faced ogress, turning to look at Kerrick pensively. The water was now at her back, and the snowbank sloped sharply downward behind her. “Thanks be to Gonnas, we have warning of your wicked nature.”
“I know I don’t look dangerous,” Kerrick said casually, wrapping the fingers of his right hand around the ice ball. “But I am.”
He pivoted, sprang into a crouch, and threw the missile with all of his strength. He started a prayer to Zivilyn, but before he could complete the first word he saw the solid chunk of ice strike the queen between her eyes. She cried out and clapped both hands to her face, momentarily leaving the axe standing on its long haft.
Kerrick was sprinting, barely hearing the dwarf shout a warning. The elf reached the reeling ogress and smashed his shoulder into her gut, sending her staggering backward. His hands darted out and snatched the axe. Staggering under the weight, he raised the blade, sent it slashing downward toward the queen’s neck.
She was already overbalanced. Hands flailing, massive feet sliding down the steep snowbank, she fell backward and plunged into the waters of the cove. Roaring, cursing inarticulately, she clawed at the edge.
Instantly Kerrick whirled around. He heard shouts of alarm, and saw that several ogres had observed his escape. The dwarf was rushing toward him now, shouting curses in a foul, guttural tongue as he drew a silver dagger from his belt.
Cutter floated close beside him, and Kerrick again raised the massive gold-bladed axe. With a single chop he cut the ropes that had bound his boat to this shore for the long winter.
The dwarf was almost upon him now but halted as Kerrick raised the axe high. A single downward blow would have split that hateful skull, ended that wicked life, but this was not his intention. Not yet.
“Drop your knife and get on the boat or die,” growled the elf. “You have two heartbeats to choose.”
Glaring hatefully, the dwarf let the weapon slip from his fingers. He took a step toward the sailboat, while a half dozen ogres scrambled closer.
Kerrick brandished the axe again. “Move now, or else!”
The dwarf leaped onto the deck, landing with the easy balance of an experienced sailor.
“Get to the bow.”
Reluctantly, the glowering dwarf moved forward. A wild leap carried the elf, still holding the axe, to the boat, where he almost stumbled over the side. Catching his balance, he turned and waved the axe to hold the dwarf in place, and saw lumbering ogres a few dozen paces away, closing fast. With a smooth flip he planted the head of the axe against the shore and pushed the boat into deeper water.
One of the ogres stopped to cast a spear, and the elf knocked the weapon away with a sideways swipe. His luck continued, and before the next ogre thought to launch a weapon, Cutter and her two passengers were bobbing in placid water, safely out of range.
“Now!” Moreen said. Bruni threw her weight against the brick wall. The chiefwoman also pushed against the flimsy barrier, as did Mad Randall, Lars Redbeard, and several other of the big Highlanders.
In a clatter of dust and debris the wall burst inward, and the attackers exploded through the opening. Moreen carried the iron-bladed sword, and thrust it into the chest of a surprised thanoi as the brute scrambled to sit up on dirty straw mat.
“For Nangrid!” she shouted, a piercing cry.
“For Carann! For Marin! For Anka!”
The Arktos shouted the names of their deceased comrades. Moreen whirled into the tuskers with a vengeance, instinct wielding her weapon with surprising accuracy. She flew at another thanoi, dropping it with a vicious slash across the throat. She stabbed a walrus-man trying to scramble out of her way, chopped at one to the side. Everywhere the creatures were lunging to their feet, barking and shouting, reaching for their weapons. Many fell before the sudden, merciless onslaught.
One Highlander whirled among the tuskers like a deadly cyclone. It was Mad Randall. His voice was an animal howl, a nightmarish sound. His axe slashed through a circle of tuskers, and the survivors fell back, bleeding from cuts. Before they hit the floor the berserker had leaped over a table and charged another pair, killing one swiftly and sending the other tumbling backward into the fireplace, where it shrieked and flailed, trying to bat away flames. Thrashing desperately, the monster crawled out of the the blaze, but its fat was already melting, crackling into greasy flames. It died in a cloud of grimy smoke.
Moreen felt as though she was watching herself, a stranger, as if someone else was enjoying this horrible violence. She killed with pleasure, with hatred, her m
ovements quick, efficient, relentless. Even when her hands were doused with warm blood, when the fishy stink of thanoi guts choked her nostrils, she enjoyed the killing.
On the far side of the room, Bruni swung her mighty stone hammer, bashing one thanoi after another as the creatures struggled to collect themselves, to raise weapons or flee. Tildey stood near the fallen wall, shooting arrows at any tusker that offered a clean target. Already a half dozen lay dead or dying, pierced by the archer’s lethal missiles.
After several minutes of frenzied battle, two score or more of the monsters lay scattered around the big chamber. Others had fled, ignoring the wide double doors, which were still latched, instead leaping out windows to the ground.
“Take the whole fortress!” cried Moreen. “Spread out and find the tuskers wherever they’re hiding!”
The humans moved rapidly in pursuit. Mad Randall wasted no time in smashing the doors apart with a blow of his great axe. His strange, shrieking war cry rang in the courtyard now as he led the Highlanders through the doorway. The berserker’s eyes were wide, his lips flecked with foam. He wielded his great battle axe with lightning blows, leaving one thanoi after another battered and bleeding in his wake. When a great bull lowered his tusks and charged him, Randall’s blade effortlessly cleaved his enemy from crown to sternum. Without pause the Highlander vaulted over the fallen thanoi, landing on his feet and somehow bringing his axe up for a slashing cut at another scrambling walrus-man.
Moreen heard a familiar voice cry out, and turned in horror to see Little Mouse taking on a big thanoi. The youth had a thin knife extended before him, while the hulking brute was lowering its bestial head to bring its sharp tusks into line. With startling speed the walrus-man sprang forward, driving the heavy body with long, supple legs.
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