The Messenger it-1

by Douglas Niles

  Little Mouse went down, but Moreen saw that he had fallen and rolled, so that his knife could stab upward, ripping out a long cut in the monster’s belly. The tusker fell with a groan and a kick, and the lad was on him in a flash, driving the keen blade deep. Then Little Mouse scrambled up, took a spear from a pile of thanoi weapons, and hurried to continue the fight.

  “To the walls!” Moreen shouted, as the last of the tuskers outside the barracks was cut down and eliminated. “Follow me to the gatehouse!”

  Daylight had brightened the sky, and she saw some thanoi were fleeing out the gate. Others paused to touch torches to a large pile of oily firewood, discharging a spume of black smoke.

  Everywhere the attackers spread out, striking and killing. Moreen shouted, a furious cry of exultation, fury, and grief. Her bloody sword held high, she ran forward, her tribemates following.

  “Chislev Wilder, in our sight, show thy signal, light the light!” chanted Dinneki.

  Strongwind Whalebone, fighting beside his men, couldn’t hear her exact words, but he saw a flash of brightness, emanating from somewhere behind the dozen Highlanders fighting here. The rest of Strongwind’s warriors had already withdrawn beyond the stone spires where the shaman prepared her spell.

  “That’s the signal!” he cried, praying that the rest of Dinekki’s magic worked as well as this light spell that alerted the Highlanders to retreat and stunned the ogres into momentary awe.

  An attacker facing the king raised both hands to his tusked face, crying out as the magical light momentarily blinded him. Strongwind stabbed his enemy in his belly, which bulged beneath a metal breastplate. The ogre dropped with a gurgling moan.

  “Fall back!” shouted the king.

  His men turned and ran, for a moment opening up a gap between themselves and the attackers, who had been momentarily stunned by the brightness.

  Strongwind held back, making sure that all of his men had escaped. When the last had passed he started after. Something hard struck him, and he sprawled forward on the ground. As he lay on his face, a weapon ricocheted into the shadows, and he realized that he had been hit by an ogre spear.

  He tried to clear his mind, to leap to his feet and run, but could only rise to his hands and knees, groggy and stunned. Knowing he had to get away, he pushed himself up, then everything whirled. His men had reached the safety of the deep cave, and the ground shook to the pounding of ogre boots. Crawling behind a big rock, Strongwind sat up and tried to get his bearings.

  “Chislev Wilder, through the gloom-bring these ogres rocky doom!”

  The shaman’s command resonated thunderously through the cavern, her voice impossibly loud for such a frail speaker. The floor pitched and buckled. Rocks splintered, and Strongwind smelled acrid dust. Shards of stone whizzed over his head, and a cloud of murk descended. The floor heaved, and more stone broke from the ceiling, crashing downward, piling onto the floor, rising upward to form a great barricade. Some ogres shrieked as the cascade crushed them. Most of the brutes stumbled backward, avoiding the rockfall but thwarted in the pursuit of the fleeing humans.

  She had done it-that crotchety old woman had summoned up the godly power of the earth itself! For the time being, while the ogre army clawed through the rubble, the two tribes were safe.

  Except for Strongwind Whalebone, who, as his head cleared, realized that he was on the ogre side of that barrier. He stumbled to his feet, seeing a dozen ogres within a stone’s throw, but they were also off balance. Several of them stared dumbly at the pile of debris.

  “Move it!” roared an ogre voice from somewhere. “Dig it out of the way! After them!”

  Strongwind rolled to the side, staying low, realizing that there was still adequate light here from the bonfires his men had burned. An ogre shouted and pointed. He had been seen!

  At the edge of the cavern he saw a shadowy wall, pocked with niches, and he remembered something-Little Mouse and his spyhole!

  Wincing from the pain in his shoulder, the Highlander king drove himself on, finding the opening, crawling up to slip inside the tunnel, desperately pulling himself through a winding passage. Fresh, cold air bathed his face, smelling of melting snow, and he knew he was on the right path.

  Loud noises came from behind: shouts, grunts, and metallic scrapes, and he knew the ogres had seen him and were hot in pursuit.

  23

  Citadel of Humanking

  Kerrick held the golden axe upraised. The weapon was heavy but perfectly balanced. He twisted the hilt as he had seen the ogress do and was rewarded by the sight of blue flames dancing along the edge of the blade.

  The dwarf, backed into the very prow of the sailboat, glared at him. His pale, milky eyes narrowed.

  “I never heard of such a ship,” he said sullenly.

  “You are Baldruk Dinmaker. You served as Dimorian Fallabrine’s second mate for years, at least three voyages before the last. If you lie to me again I’ll … I’ll cut off your arm.”

  The dwarf chuckling ruefully. “Well, you’ve got a keen eye. I’ll tell you, though it’s not a happy story. The Oak came to these shores, and she was taken by ogres at her first landfall, captain and crew-including myself-all made prisoners. The ogre king had her renamed, outfitted her as his own ship. She’s called Goldwing, now. That’s what happened to the Silvanos Oak.”

  “And the crew? What of the elves and humans and kender who crewed her?” demanded Kerrick.

  The dwarf snorted. “Elves and humans went to the king as slaves. The kender he butchered-who could blame him? Kender are good for nothing, not even ballast, if you ask me. Tell me something: Why are you so concerned about that doomed voyage?”

  “Dimorian Fallabrine was my father.”

  Now those strange eyes came into tight focus, and the dwarf’s hand scratched thoughtfully at his beard.

  “You do look a bit like that old pirate, and I know Dimorian had a son. Never stopped talking about him, in fact. So that’s you? Strange coincidence!”

  Kerrick nodded numbly, but his mind was racing ahead. “The ones who became slaves-where are they today?”

  Baldruk frowned. “They don’t last long under slavery around here,” he said bluntly. “I don’t think one of them lived through the first two years, not the elves, at least. Who knows, some of the humans might still be there, working in the king’s mines, or tending his harbor. Elves are too soft to make good slaves. The humans last longer … sometimes.”

  Kerrick sagged. The dwarf was right. Any Silvanesti condemned to perform physical labor as the chattel of ogres would inevitably perish before long. The degradation was unthinkable, the physical toll lethal. He addressed the dwarf in cold anger.

  “But you-you’re no slave, not one who marches beside the ogre king and who comes to counsel the queen. You’re a traitor!”

  “Now, wait, lad. I had a chance at survival and I took it! I never betrayed my crewmates. We were captured by ogres! How can you blame me for seeing my chance at life, taking a job that got me out of the accursed mines?”

  “No, I remember the stories. It was one of my father’s mates who convinced him to sail after gold. You were the one who planted the idea in my father’s head. It was you who spoke of the Land of Gold, you who claimed you could lead him to riches!”

  Baldruk’s eyes were slits. His hand, unnoticed by the elf, slid to the back of his leg, touching the top of his leather boot.

  “Don’t jump to conclusions!” he urged.

  The silver dagger flashed, clutched in Baldruk’s fist. Kerrick couldn’t believe his own stupidity. The dwarf must have caught the blade and secreted it in his boot. Too late, he recalled Moreen’s tale of the weapon that had killed her father.

  Even as he remembered this, Baldruk lunged at him, and Kerrick brought the fiery axe down. The golden blade bit into Baldruk Dinmaker’s neck, sizzling as it cut flesh.

  With a gasp, the dwarf thrashed backward. His knife splashed into the water. Blood spread across the foredeck as his eyes, wild and
hateful, met Kerrick’s. “Fool!” croaked the dwarf. “You still don’t know the truth-and you never will!”

  He convulsed, thrashing on the blood-slick deck, rolling over the gunwale. He splashed into the water and disappeared into the inky depths.

  “No!” cried Kerrick. What did the dwarf mean? Was it possible that his father still alive? Why had the fool tried to attack him? Kerrick hadn’t wanted to kill him!

  “Who’s that up on the snowfield?” Coraltop Netfisher asked, standing on the cabin roof, pointing excitedly. “Is it one of the good guys? How did the boat get all bloody? Are you okay?”

  “What? How did … where?” Kerrick was trembling as he turned to confront his green-tunicked passenger. The massive axe was suddenly heavy, and after a twist extinguished the flames he dropped it onto the deck.

  The kender hopped down from the cabin and sauntered forward, then yelped as Kerrick lunged, seized him by both shoulders, and shook.

  “Tell me! Who are you? What are you?” demanded the elf. “How do you keep disappearing?”

  “What, because a simple-minded ogre didn’t find me? Have you seen those pig-eyes they have?” chuckled the kender. “It’s like my Grandmother Annatree used to say, ‘You can’t see anything, unless you look.’ ”

  “Not just the ogres!” spat Kerrick, with another, none-too-gentle, shake. “You couldn’t have survived the winter out here! You couldn’t sleep for five days on a crowded boat. I looked for you. You weren’t on board!”

  “Speaking of looking, who is that up there? I think he’s in some kind of trouble.”

  Snarling in exasperation, Kerrick squinted, following Coraltop’s pointing finger. A figure had emerged from a narrow slit in the snowbank and was poised on a steep slope, a hundred feet above the waters of the cove.

  “It’s a man,” Kerrick said, as the lone figure started to move sideways along the steep slope, kicking footholds into the wet snow.

  Up on the hillside, something else moved, a hulking shape. The drama focused the elf’s attention once more on the present. A fist flailed out from the hole in the snowbank, and a long spear probed outward, though the escaping man remained just out of reach.

  Kerrick felt a rush of sympathy for that desperate human. The fellow was undoubtedly a Highlander, but the appearance of the ogres had triggered a deep feeling of kinship with the humans-especially compared to the ogres and thanoi.

  “I don’t think the ogre can get out through that hole,” Kerrick said. He peered at the shore, where more ogres thronged the cave mouth. The lone man was some distance away from them, but it was only a matter of time before the brutes fanned out in pursuit.

  Kerrick dipped his oar in the water and pushed his sailboat across the placid, snow-bound cove. Cutter’s keen bow sliced through the surface, smoothly gliding closer. “Help paddle!” he barked. Coraltop willingly lifted the tiller, using it as an additional oar.

  “And stay here, dammit!” added the elf, glaring at the kender who grinned and stroked with enthusiastic vigor.

  “Down here!” Kerrick shouted, turning his attention to the hillside as they drew nearer to the snowy ground.

  The ogres outside the cave had finally noticed the fugitive. Some lumbered along the shore, toward the place where Cutter approached, while others started climbing toward the lone man.

  “Slide down to the water. We’ll pick you up!” called the elven sailor.

  The man looked down and cursed as ogres came closer, pushing through deep snow. One brute struggled to squeeze out through the narrow slot where the man had escaped from the cave.

  “Hurry!” cried the elf, eyeing the ogres as they made their way along the snowy shore.

  With another curse, the man careened down the steep slope, cutting a trough through the slushy snow, sending pebble-sized ice spraying around him. Kerrick pushed off with the oar, moving the boat a little way from the shore. The man tumbled in ungainly somersaults. He struck the water with a loud splash and vanished into the black depths.

  Probing with the oar, Kerrick touched a squirming form, holding the blade so that the man could grab on and be hauled to the surface. The Highlander sputtered and cursed. With loud grunts and more curses he heaved himself onto the deck.

  The elf recognized Strongwind Whalebone. “I should push you right back in the water!” he snapped. “Isn’t that what you did to me?”

  The Highlander king wrung out his braided beard, shook water from his hair and tunic. He did not look regal.

  “It would be a reasonable act on your part in revenge for a foolish act on my part,” said the man. “Strike me down if you must.”

  Kerrick glared. “How did you get out?” he asked after a moment.

  “There was a spyhole. The lad, Little Mouse, found it. I used it to escape, after that shaman, Dinekki, and my priest worked a spell to collapse the cave. The ogres are stopped, at least for now.”

  “What about the tribe and your men?”

  “Your Arktos friends might reach safety,” Strongwind said. “Little Mouse also found a way up to Brackenrock inside the mountain. He took the Arktos and a band of my warriors up there. They’re attacking the citadel, right now.”

  The elf glared at Strongwind for several moments before chuckling wryly. “Dinekki’s the only reason I’m alive. She gave me a spell of water breathing before you dropped me in that hole.”

  “Yes, good for her,” said the man glumly. “Good for you. It was a noble thing, to come back and rescue me thus.”

  “I didn’t know it was you,” Kerrick said bluntly. He was struck by another thought. “Coraltop,” he called, “come and meet a human king.”

  “Who do you address?” asked Strongwind, looking toward the stern.

  Kerrick craned his neck and looked for himself. The tiller where Coraltop Netfisher had been rowing hung slack. There was nobody there.

  “Sire!” It was Urgas Thanoi, speaking urgently. “Do you see that smoke rising from beyond the ridge. That is coming from Brackenrock!”

  The ogre king couldn’t see the lofty citadel from his position on the shore, but the plume of black smoke was clearly visible, rising across the pale blue sky.

  “What of it?” demanded Grimwar Bane, who was still furious about the cave-in that had so decisively blocked his army from a vengeful bloodbath. Furthermore, his wife, bleeding from a knock on the head, had just stomped over to report that the elf had overcome her when she wasn’t looking, kidnapped Baldruk and escaped.

  “That is the signal for trouble. They must be under attack!”

  “How? From where?”

  “Is it possible, oh wise lord, that the humans have discovered a passage from their cave to my citadel?”

  “What is that?” growled Grimwar Bane. “A passage to your citadel? This is a fine time to mention it!”

  “Begging Your Majesty’s pardon,” offered the thanoi, “but we’re swimmers, not cavers. We’ve never explored these caverns, but legend holds that they twist and curve, rising beneath the floors of our citadel.”

  “Where’s Baldruk Dinmaker when I finally need him?” The king frowned angrily. “He knows about tunnels and caverns and the like! The little runt spent fifty years living underground in Thorbardin!”

  “He’s dead, I think,” Stariz said dazedly, rubbing an ugly bump on her forehead. “The elf took him on the boat, and I saw them fighting. The dwarf keeled over and rolled into the water.”

  “What good is that to me?” huffed the king. He squinted at the boat, drifting on the placid water with two men visible on deck. “Well, that elven rascal won’t get far until the ice melts outside the cove. We can worry about him later.” He looked at his queen, suddenly realizing that he wanted, even needed, her advice. “What do you think? Are the humans on top of the mountain now?”

  “It’s a very good chance,” said Stariz slowly, regaining her composure. “That’s clearly a big cave, warmed by the same steam that heats the tusker citadel.” She nodded contemptuously to Urgas Thano
i “Even if the tuskers haven’t discovered such a route, it’s likely that one exists or could be forged.”

  “Well, then, we’d better get up there while we still have a chance to recoup our victory,” snapped the king, actually enthused by the prospect of more action. “Come on, you louts!” he roared to his warriors, who were waiting around the outside of the cavern. “We’ve got a hard climb to make!”

  He pointed to the road excavated into the side of the steep slope, beginning near the cave mouth. It curved along the mountainside, making its way higher and higher above the water in the cove until, on the far side of the valley, it vanished through a narrow notch, a pass flanked by a pair of brooding, cornice-draped cliffs. Beyond that notch rose the plume of smoke marking Brackenrock.

  “Up! Let’s go, my brutes! With luck, we’ll have plenty of killing on the top!”

  “More of the Highlanders are here,” Bruni said, pointing to a throng of warriors spilling into the courtyard of the fortress, emerging from the door to the barracks chamber and the once-secret cave. Moreen lowered her sword and at last drew a breath. “They must be coming up the chimney now as fast as they can.”

  “Only one at a time,” Moreen said, half to herself. She and Bruni were atop one of the two towers of the gatehouse. Five dead thanoi, bodies still warm, lay at their feet. The first rays of pale sun bathed them in light, but all Moreen could see was the slick, brilliant red of the blood that covered them and everything else.

  The big oil fire in the gateway had been kicked apart by Highlanders and Arktos, but the smoke still lingered. It had clearly been a signal fire, and soon enough the chiefwoman expected an attack from the ogres on the shoreline below.

  The fortress was mostly secured. The Highlander warriors, behind the berserker Mad Randall and the veteran Lars Redbeard, were here and there breaking into chambers within which the tuskers had barred themselves. One by one these strongholds were cleaned out. Against the most stubborn pockets of defense, the Highlanders tied burning rags to flasks of warqat and threw the flaming missiles with explosive effectiveness.