Dawn of the Ice Bear

by Jeff Mariotte

  “We’ll be at the river soon, Alanya,” Kral said. She had been standing on deck, gazing out toward the gap in the thickly wooded banks, with Kordava gleaming whitely on the far side. He had slipped up behind her, as silently as ever, and put a hand on her shoulder. She started, but knew it was him. “It will be dangerous, cutting up through Zingara. Dangerous for a Pict, and for anyone accompanying him.”

  The plan was to avoid Aquilonia, where Kral was likely still wanted for the supposed murder of her uncle Lupinius, the killing—albeit in self-defense—of an Aquilonian soldier, and the escape from jail that her family friend Cheveray had engineered. Instead they would take the Black River through the Pictish lands to the border of Cimmeria and travel on foot to the village of Taern, where Conor lived. “If I was worried about a little danger, would I have stayed with you this long?” she asked.

  Kral chuckled. He looked handsome in the golden late-afternoon sun. Just in the time she had known him, his face seemed to have changed, matured. When they’d met in the forest outside Koronaka, he had definitely been a Pictish boy. Now he was a man, captain of a ship, hardened by tragedy and struggle. His cheeks were narrower, cut by deep crags. Lines had appeared at the edges of his brown eyes. His body, always muscular, was lean, rangy, browned by the sun. “I suppose not,” he answered. “But this might be more dangerous yet. We cannot expect to find any friends or allies until we get beyond Zingara’s borders, into the Pictish lands.”

  “Have you talked to Donial about it?” she asked. If her brother chose not to stay with them, she would have been glad. Since their father had died she had felt ever more responsible for him, even though he seemed to believe he had grown up enough to take care of himself.

  “You know him,” Kral said with a grin. “He’s willing to go anywhere, do anything, if he thinks there might be some adventure in it.”

  Which was exactly what Alanya had been afraid of. “Sometimes I wish he was not so eager,” she said.

  “You could order him to stay behind,” Kral suggested. “He could join up with a trading caravan from Kordava back to Tarantia and wait for us there.”

  “I could,” she admitted. She ran fingers through her hair, which was a dark reddish color now, the ash having been rinsed out. “I could even pay the caravan leader myself and see Donial put aboard a wagon. But do you believe for a moment that he wouldn’t be right back with us the next morning?”

  Kral nodded. “That sounds like your brother.”

  “Best to just keep him with us, I guess,” Alanya said. “So we can at least keep an eye on him.”

  “Then keep an eye on him we shall,” Kral said. His voice was oddly low, husky. His Aquilonian had improved immeasurably since she had known him. “You know I can make no positive assurances of his safety, or yours. But I will do whatever is in my power—”

  “Kral!”

  Alanya spun around. It was Allatin, calling to him from the bow.

  “Aye?” Kral said.

  “We will hold here until dark,” Allatin said. “Any closer and we’ll be spotted for sure.”

  “And then at dark, we move in closer?” Kral asked.

  “Aye,” Allatin said. “We should be able to get a bit nearer, then you and your friends can take one of the boats the rest of the way.”

  Kral considered for a moment. “One of your men should accompany us,” he suggested. “The dinghy is not suited to the Black. I’ll find a canoe, or make one, for that journey. But you’ll want your boat back after the three of us have gone.”

  “I keep telling you, it’s four.” Tarawa stepped up onto the deck. Donial appeared behind her. Alanya had noticed that the two had been spending a lot of time together since they had set sail.

  Alanya was confused. “But . . . I thought you and your friends would make for Kush after this,” she said.

  “They will,” Tarawa corrected. Her strong jaw was set, her posture determined. “As for me, I told you before that I had signed on for the whole journey. Wherever it takes you.”

  “You have already helped us more than you can know,” Kral said. “You owe us nothing.”

  “You opened my eyes and offered me escape from what I had assumed was to be my lot for as long as I lived,” Tarawa countered. “I owe you all. And even if I did not, I would still choose to accompany you if you’d have me. If only to see what the end of this mad quest holds.”

  “It may hold dangers untold,” Kral warned her.

  “That matters not,” Tarawa said. “There is nothing left for me in Dugalla. And do you think I would have lived long and happily had I stayed in Kuthmet?”

  “Not likely,” Donial put in. Alanya was not surprised to hear him add, “We will be glad of your company, Tarawa. Eight hands are better than six.”

  “Then it is settled,” Tarawa said. “Until this is finished, one way or another, I travel with you.”

  Alanya was glad that Tarawa was so determined. She liked being with Kral and Donial, of course. But she could not deny that having another female with them would be a pleasant change.

  “We should make ready to go, then,” she said, thinking of her mother’s mirror and the Teeth, snug inside its canvas bag in their cabin. “We will not be coming back to this ship again once we leave it.”

  “I brought nothing with me,” Tarawa reminded her, “but the clothing I wore. When I leave, that’s what I will take away.”

  “We can get you some weapons from the ship’s stock,” Kral assured her. “You do not want to enter Zingara, or the Pictish wilderness, without them.”

  THE ROAD TO Tanasul was free of Picts, as they all seemed to be farther south, around Koronaka. As a result, Sharzen’s journey was unhindered once they had made it clear of the first attack. A distinct coolness in the air as they rode told Sharzen that autumn was passing quickly, giving way to an early winter.

  Having sent riders ahead, Sharzen was not surprised to find that his group was expected and that the settlement was on full alert, as ready as they could be for Pictish invasion. At his command, the main gate was opened and his riders allowed entrance. When he dismounted, soldiers were right there to take his horse to a stable to be groomed and fed. Scarcely had he felt solid ground under his boots when a gaunt figure hurried across the open square toward him. Sharzen recognized Pulliam, governor of Tanasul, a man with a dour outlook who found the worst in everything he encountered.

  “So you survived after all,” Pulliam said as he neared Sharzen. He reached out and clasped Sharzen’s arm firmly. “I am glad to see it.”

  “Did you have any doubts?” Sharzen asked. “I sent riders—”

  “Aye,” Pulliam said. “But between the time that they left your side and the time you arrived here, any number of disasters could have befallen you.”

  “True enough,” Sharzen said. “You should send riders,” he suggested, “to intercept the Aquilonian reinforcements headed for Koronaka, and tell them to come here instead.” He pulled his cloak tighter around himself and glanced at the slate-gray afternoon sky. “Cold here. We were attacked once, right after we left Koronaka,” he continued, finally answering Pulliam’s question. “But only that one time. No sign of the savages after that.”

  Pulliam tugged on his arm, “Come inside,” he said. “You’re right, it has become damnably cold here these last few days. But I’ve hot mulled wine inside. You could probably use some food, as well.”

  Sharzen had not given food much thought until Pulliam mentioned it. But knowing they were close to Tanasul, he and his guards had ridden through the time they would ordinarily have stopped for lunch. He let Pulliam lead him into a two-story log building. Inside a great room, a fire crackled in a stone fireplace, filling the space with the aroma of woodsmoke. Rustic tables with benches were arrayed in front of it. Pulliam clapped his hands, and a stout servingwoman wearing a gray apron over a rough brown dress came through a doorway. “Wine,” Pulliam commanded. “Hot and strong.”

  He bade Sharzen sit at one of the tables a
nd drew out the bench opposite for himself. With his elbows on the table and his long, narrow hands under his pointy chin, Pulliam looked like an odd collection of angles and corners. He wore his customary frown as he asked, “What happened there, at Koronaka? I’ve heard only the abbreviated version your riders told me.”

  “What happened is that our long-standing fear seems to be coming true,” Sharzen answered. “Instead of dealing with one clan at a time, the Picts have united, so we had to fight all of them at once. They overwhelmed our defenses, overran our walls. We could not hold them off. Finally, we decided that it would be best to leave the settlement before we were all killed. Those of us you saw come in were only the first group—another, on foot, will follow.”

  “On foot?” Pulliam echoed. “They’ll be slaughtered.”

  “Perhaps,” Sharzen said. “We had not enough mounts for everyone, so they were left to take their chances.”

  “I saw no women or children with your group,” Pulliam pointed out. “Only warriors.”

  “The men insisted on providing me an armed escort,” Sharzen said. “The rest of our soldiers stayed behind with the civilians to help protect them.”

  Pulliam nodded, his eyes locked with Sharzen. They both understood how things worked. Sharzen was not proud of leaving the civilians behind, possibly to die. But he was a realist, and he knew that not everyone could be saved. He knew, also, that it was most important to keep him alive, so that he could share with the other settlements the benefit of his experience in dealing with the Picts. Since the savages had united, he was convinced that the war would be long and bloody, and his wisdom could prove beneficial.

  Of course, as soon as possible, he hoped to be back in Aquilonia while others fought it.

  KANILLA REY TWISTED his thick lower lip between his fingers, worrying.

  He had been unable to make contact with Gorian for some time. And the man had not tried to reach him.

  Since he knew his agent had reached Stygia, this led to only one conclusion. Shehkmi al Nasir had defeated Gorian—captured him or killed him outright.

  Kanilla Rey had known there was a chance this would happen, of course. He had hoped the mercenaries would be strong enough to resist his Stygian counterpart. But if they weren’t—then it might mean that al Nasir had the stone that Kanilla Rey had given to Gorian. The stone that allowed them to communicate with each other.

  If al Nasir actually did have the stone, then he would likely be able to trace it back to Kanilla Rey. The connection between it and the much larger rock from which it had come was too strong to be hidden from a sorcerer of Shehkmi al Nasir’s abilities.

  And when al Nasir knew who had sent armed mercenaries into his home, he would be furious. Kanilla Rey could think of various things al Nasir might do to express his rage, none of them pleasant in the least.

  So he had a conundrum on his hands. Did he stay in his longtime home, his sanctum sanctorum, waiting for al Nasir to figure it out? To come for him, or send emissaries? Or did he run?

  For that matter, would running help?

  He paced the sanctum’s floor, gazing at the big rock from time to time as if it might offer some solution. He was doing so when its surface changed, becoming indistinct, then crystallizing into a glassy clarity.

  Gorian? Trying to reach him at last?

  Kanilla Rey hurried to the big stone, peered into its depths to see if his tool was finally reaching out to him.

  But instead of Gorian’s face, he saw the scowling visage of Shehkmi al Nasir.

  Kanilla Rey clutched for the knife he always wore at his belt, drew it. Its steel could do naught against whatever magical attack al Nasir might hurl at him. The Stygian’s penchant for quick revenge was well-known, and Kanilla Rey had no intention of becoming the newest example.

  That didn’t mean he had to wait here for it to happen. Clearly Gorian had failed. Now al Nasir knew who was behind the attempt.

  Kanilla Rey plunged the blade deep into his own belly, drew it across for several inches, then turned it up and kept carving.

  He was still alive when he slumped over, falling across the rock, his body obscuring the image of al Nasir’s face. Blood streamed down the sides of the rock.

  Just before the blackness of death overtook him, Kanilla Rey thought he heard Shehkmi al Nasir’s anguished scream, born of frustration that revenge had been denied him.

  Listening to it, Kanilla Rey died with a smile on his face.

  15

  KRAL PUT HIS powerful shoulders into the rowing, and before the eastern sky had lightened to gray they were heading up the mouth of the Black River. At sea, the current had been with them, steadily helping to push them toward the coast. But as soon as they reached the river’s channel, it became a struggle. The Black’s strong flow fought him every inch of the way, and even with Tarawa joining in, sweat ran from him in small rivers of its own.

  When the sun started to rise, Kral could still see the spires of Kordava over his right shoulder, and he remembered how much Mikelo had wanted to get back to his home city. Instead, the boy’s body remained in Stygia, and his spirit had gone to the Mountains of the Dead.

  He supposed the fact that he could see the city meant that people in its towers could see the boat. It was a very small craft in a very big river, however, and there were numerous larger ones around, so he wasn’t overly concerned about that. Still, he forced himself to row ever harder, just in case. The threat didn’t just come from the city, but also from the other boats on the river. Anyone who looked over and saw a Pict rowing into Zingara’s interior might cause trouble.

  Ahead, the river narrowed. Tall trees lined both banks, interrupted only where the massive gray stones that formed much of the river’s bed broke through the surface and jutted up onto the shore. Deeper into Pictish country, Kral knew, the river had carved through granite mountains, and its color against that gray stone earned it the name Black. Here the granite was less prevalent, but there was some.

  The water flowed even faster as the banks came together. Kral had been sticking close to the western bank, because it was farther from Kordava. As they made their way upriver, however, he realized they would ultimately have to work their way closer to the center, as occasional villages were perched on both banks. He kept his head down, rowing hard, praying that none of the people they passed paid much mind to the tiny rowboat.

  Finally, Kordava disappeared behind a bend in the river, and they pulled the boat to shore in an empty, wooded stretch. Here, Kral, Alanya, Donial, and Tarawa climbed from the dinghy and off-loaded their supplies, leaving only Mialat, one of the Restless Heart’s sailors, to row back alone. “The current will aid you,” Kral assured the man.

  “I know,” Mialat replied. Kral knew that, during the night, the Restless Heart had drifted closer to shore, so when Mialat reached the sea he would not have as far to row as they had in the darkness. The sailor still had a difficult chore ahead of him, nonetheless.

  As did those he left behind. Kral knew how to build a canoe, but it was a lot of work. It would pay off, he knew, once they were traveling upriver through some of the Black’s treacherous narrows. There would be rapids as well, which would have to be portaged, and the canoe would be much easier to haul through wild country than the dinghy would have been. He’d watched for one to steal but hadn’t seen any likely prospects.

  He set the others to making camp while he picked some good trees to skin for their bark. He liked working with pine bark, and there was plenty of it here. He chose strong but supple branches for the thwarts and ribs, and cut down a stouter tree from which to fashion a keel and paddles. A dugout might have been faster to make, but heavier and less maneuverable, so he decided to stick with what he knew best.

  While he shaved the bark and prepared it, he instructed the others on how to pick sturdy reeds to tie the branches and shape the downed tree into the parts he needed. That night, exhausted, they bedded down just out of sight of the river. The smells of water and fish and fo
rest filled his nostrils as he drifted off. Donial and Tarawa, he noticed, had spent most of the day working in close proximity, and that night they slept with their heads almost touching. In the morning, Kral snagged a pair of rabbits for breakfast and went back to work.

  By the third day, they had a serviceable pine-bark canoe. In other circumstances, Kral would have painted decorations on it, but there was no time for that. He had the crown, but until it was complete, he feared, the threat to his people remained. He was convinced that the missing teeth were in Cimmeria—and even if not, the only man who could tell them where he had sold them was.

  “Let’s put her in the water and move on,” he suggested once everyone had seen the finished boat.

  “It’s late,” Tarawa replied. “The sun will be gone before we know it. Should we not wait until morning?”

  “Perhaps we should,” Kral said. He knew Tarawa was being practical, not lazy—she had worked as hard as anyone during their trip. “But every day—every hour—might count. If we can get three hours of paddling in before we have to stop for the night, then we should do so.”

  “I would hate to be on the water when the sun goes down,” Donial said. “Without lights, who knows what we might encounter.”

  “We can put to shore at dusk,” Kral said. “That will still give us time to make camp before full dark. Then we can be on our way again with the sun.”

  The others agreed, and they loaded their things into the canoe, heaviest items in the center and working out from there. Kral knew that a flat-bottomed canoe would have been more stable than the one he had made. But it would not have been as maneuverable, so he counted on his own expertise to keep them upright and afloat. The last thing they needed was to capsize and lose the Teeth of the Ice Bear at the bottom of the Black. Kral was the last one in the canoe—he would be the stern paddler, the one most responsible for determining direction. The others would take turns in the bow. He pushed off the bank, then climbed in, hanging on to both gunwales for stability.