Douglas Niles - Winterheim

Every day the chiefwoman regarded them proudly-and guiltily. For all of her life, and the lives of her parents and all of her other ancestors, the humans of Icereach had lived in fear of the ogres, running and hiding, and when possible, trying to defend against their raids and attacks. To reverse that lifelong relationship was like trying to change the very reality of the world in which they lived.

Moreen told herself they were doing something that needed to be done. So what if she had led her small tribe to Brackenrock and held that citadel against two attacks in the last eight years? What did that mean if in the next eight years the ogres were able to attack them two, three-perhaps eight-more times? All she would have done in the end is bought her people some time along a path that would lead to the same inevitable fate. Now, if they entered the ogre capital and brought out Strongwind Whalebone and who knew how many slaves, they might change relations between ogres and humans for the rest of history.

At last the rolling swath of the Whitemoor came to an end. The high tundra was pinched between the rocky shore of the White Bear Sea, and the lofty crest of the Fenriz range, the impassible mountains that formed the east boundary of the long glacier bearing the same name. The warriors gathered on the last height of the moors, looking across a flat valley about two miles across. A shallow river flowed from the mountains through the center of the valley to spill into the sea. Some distance past the valley a rugged ridge, partially visible in the shifting haze, rose across their path.

“This is the Breakstone River,” Mouse explained to Moreen, Kerrick, and Barq One-Tooth. “That ridge beyond is the face of the Tusker Escarpment-maybe ten or twenty miles past the valley. Pretty much everything on the far side of the river is thanoi territory.”

“Do you think the thanoi know we’re coming?” asked the chiefwoman. She was not afraid of the dull-witted though fierce walrus-men, but she was annoyed at the prospect that they stood between her and her goal.

“Hard to say for sure, though I don’t expect so,” said the Arktos warrior. “We haven’t seen any tracks on the moors. Still, I suspect that they’re keeping an eye on this valley-you can see there’s not a lick of cover in the place, so they’re bound to observe us as we head across the river.”

Kerrick squinted at the sky. “It’s almost dusk. Do you want to camp here and go across at first full light?”

“I think we should keep moving,” Moreen said. “The night will provide us with a little concealment-not as much as I’d like-but if we go on now, then they’ll have less time to prepare a reception for us.”

“That’s the right idea,” Barq said, surprising Moreen with a nod of approval. “Go forward right away, and damn the flanks and any poor tuskers who try to stop us!”

The warriors continued onward, following the crest of a gentle ridge as it descended to the flat ground of the valley, then moving forward at a fast pace. Throughout the long column, humans fingered their weapons, nervously eyeing the rise on the far side of the river, wondering if tusked enemies were crouching there, waiting in potential ambush. The twilight deepened, and by the time they drew near to the Breakstone the murky gray of the late summer night had closed around them, masking the heights on both sides.

Moreen soon realized that the bottomland that had looked so flat from the height of the moors was in fact crossed by numerous gullies and washes. These were typically no more than six or eight feet deep, but they were steep sided and muddy in the troughs, forcing Mouse to pick a circuitous route as they drew closer to the actual riverbed. It was midnight by the time they stood at the gravel bank and looked at the channel itself.

The murk had deepened to the point where they could see only about a quarter of a mile ahead, and this seemed to be about the width of the river. For once the sky was clear, and a few stars twinkled in the purple north, away from the direction of the sun lurking just below the southern horizon. Moreen would have been pleased to have some of the dense cloud cover, even the drizzling rain, but as it was they would have to settle for the late summer twilight of the midnight sun.

Much of the riverbed consisted of flat bars of sand and gravel, with strands of gray water rippling between these dry islands in channels of various depth. Some of these courses looked deep and dark, while others trilled over stony shallows.

“I’ve never been across here before,” Mouse admitted. “I don’t know of a good ford, but if we pick our way carefully we should be able to do it without having to swim.”

“Lead on,” Moreen said, confident in the man’s eyes, and judgment.

They found a place where the bank sloped gently down to the shallows and started to wade across. Mouse and Barq One-Tooth went first, with Moreen, Kerrick, and Bruni coming next. Using a long spear, Mouse probed the depth of the water with the butt end of the weapon while the big thane held his great battle axe ready in both hands. The chiefwoman and the elf had their swords drawn, while Bruni held a cudgel at the ready. The head of the Axe of Gonnas, the golden blade shrouded in a leather sack, jutted upward from her backpack, ready in case of emergency.

Cold water spilled over the top of her boots as Moreen followed the two men across the channel. Their guide had chosen well, and for fifty yards they slogged through a flat-bottomed stretch of river that seemed to be free of jagged stones and other obstacles. Shortly they emerged onto one of the sand bars, where Mouse turned upstream and led them along dry ground, following the bend of the dry land to carry them farther across the broad riverbed.

Next they crossed a deeper channel, where the water came up to Moreen’s waist. Here the humans and the elf linked arms, and thus supported by the presence of many comrades, fought through a current that would have swept a lone walker off her feet. Dinekki somehow held her own here, though Slyce was nearly carried away by the water that rose above his head. A big Highlander picked up the gully dwarf by the scruff of his neck and dragged him through the channel. They climbed out onto a wide shelf of gravel, and this they were able to follow past the halfway point of the riverbed to another stretch of shallow water that looked like the last obstacle before the low bank on the far side of the river channel.

“I’d like to spot a good way out of the riverbed before we do the last part of the ford,” Mouse admitted, eyeing the bank with a scowl. “That’s about six or eight feet high, I’m thinking, the perfect place for them to meet us with an ambush.”

“Have the archers string their bows,” Moreen suggested. “That way they can give us some cover if we have to fight our way out of the stream.”

“Good idea,” her guide replied.

About a hundred of the fighters, Arktos and Highlanders both, were armed with the short, double-curved bows of the Icereach hunters. Under the captaincy of Thedric Drake, who looked very martial in a silvery metal helm, they readied their weapons and arrayed themselves on the gravel bar. The rest of the party-Mouse and Barq still in the lead-started across the last stretch of the channel.

Moreen kept her eyes on the flat bank, trying to see through the low tangle of willow bushes lining the crest. Nothing seemed to move there, and as they drew closer she began to hope that the speed of their advance had surprised the tuskers. At the foot of that embankment Mouse held his spear ready while Barq reached over his head, grabbed a handful of willow branches, and started to pull himself up the steep, sandy surface.

Something rustled through the bushes, and Kerrick was the first to shout, “Look out!”