Douglas Niles - Winterheim

The big Highlander thane cursed and staggered backward as Mouse stabbed into the bushes with his long, steel-tipped spear. Barq, his shoulder slick with blood, where something sharp had chopped through the thane’s heavy cloak, cursed and stumbled, before regaining his balance.

A snarling creature lunged into view, twin tusks jutting from its jowls thrusting like speartips toward the two men. Mouse stabbed again, and the thanoi writhed on the blade of the weapon that pierced its guts. The creature slid down the embankment toward the riverbed, dropping a bloody stone knife. Wielding his battle axe in one hand, Barq chopped down hard, and the walrus-man lay still.

At least a dozen other brutes rose from the brush, hurling spears at the column of humans. One of these missiles flew past Moreen, grazing her ear-and inflaming her temper. She rushed forward, scrambling up the bank with the aid of one hand, while with the other she stabbed her sword into the rustling bushes atop the steep crest.

She shouted a profane curse as something grabbed at her, but she didn’t have enough of a grip to hold her balance. She toppled backward into the water, falling on top of Kerrick. Only then did she realize that the elf had seized her and pulled her away from the enemy.

“What are you doing?” she spat, sitting up in the shallow water, shaking her head to clear the drops of her eyes.

“Get down!” he snarled, his voice harsh.

She opened her mouth to argue, and he reached out with both hands to push her roughly under the water.

This time when she came up she didn’t even try to speak. Instead, she clenched her fist and smashed a blow into the elf’s shoulder. The thanoi were forgotten as she lunged at him, infuriated beyond words-until she realized that he was laughing at her.

“What’s so funny?’ she demanded, surprised enough that her rage dissolved.

“You would have gotten shot by your own archers if you’d made it up that bank,” he said, rubbing his shoulder. He wasn’t laughing any more. “That hurt!”

Startled, she remembered the enemy and whirled around to glare into the brush. Several thanoi were partially visible, slumping forward, arrows jutting from the motionless bodies. There was no sign of the rest of them. Even more telling, the sandy bank, right where she had charged, bristled with feathered shafts. Obviously, the archers had delivered a lethal volley.

“I don’t think we got them all,” Mouse said grimly, “but the ones that weren’t killed ran as soon as the arrows came down. I expect they’ll carry the word to their fellows-I don’t think we’ve seen the last of these tusked bastards, not by a long shot.”

Moreen reached down and groped through the water until she came up with her sword. “Sorry,” she muttered to Kerrick, “and, um, thanks.”

“Any time,” he said breezily. “Thank you, too.”

“For what?”

“For dropping your sword before you swung at me.”

“Oh,” she said. She didn’t feel like explaining to him that at the time she hadn’t realized she’d lost her weapon.

Kerrick walked along the perimeter of the camp, his eyes straining to penetrate the fog that had rolled in before sunrise. Some of the humans were sleeping, shaggy cloaks drawn over them to hold back the damp and penetrating chill. They weren’t going to rest for long, but after nearly twenty-four hours of straight marching fatigue had forced this halt.

The elf, however, wasn’t particularly tired. He had offered to join the first shift of picket duty, some fifty or sixty warriors who remained awake and-like him-patrolled around the outside of the dry hilltop where the war party had made its bivouac. The ground was rougher here than on the moors and climbed steadily toward the Tusker Escarpment, which was still eight or ten miles away. The fog had thickened quickly so that he couldn’t see more than fifty feet in any direction, and he fought a sense of aloneness brought on by the mist.

He tried to focus on his surroundings, but his thoughts naturally turned inward, reflective. How odd it seemed that he, a sailor of civilized Silvanesti, should find himself here, near the very end of the world. An elf among men-that had become his life, and for the most part he had come to accept, even enjoy, that existence. Certainly he had no regrets about coming along on this expedition. There was no place on Krynn that he would rather be than with these brave companions in the service of the chiefwoman of Brackenrock.

The elf kept his eyes open, warily looking across the shrouded landscape. The expedition was camped at the crest of a rounded hill five or six miles south of the Breakstone River. The ground, like everywhere else in this part of the Icereach, was treeless, the last groves straggling out north of the river. The terrain was grassy and green, broken by patches of white, square-edged boulders. Kerrick paid special attention to those rocks, reasoning that if they were being spied upon, the outcrops would offer the perfect concealment to enemy scouts.

Unfortunately, elf eyes were no more sensitive than human when it came to seeing through this kind of murk. The shifting fog seemed to have a life of its own, growing thicker or thinner in the blink of an eye.

Was that something moving? He imagined a leathery, tusked figure crouching down beyond a nearby boulder. Most likely it was a tendril of fog, but he drew his sword and took a few steps down the hill. With a sudden spring, he dashed forward and found only a patch of green moss.

Now he could see even farther down the slope. A shape flitted across the limits of his vision and staring intently he saw more, dull figures hunched over to advance in stealth. Ten, twenty-no, a whole mob of them, more than he could count-were creeping stealthily up the hill.

Quickly the elf retreated, backpedaling toward the crest until once again he saw the comforting shapes of his fellow warriors. He shouted an alarm, bringing the Arktos and Highlanders to their feet-and at the same time provoking roars of attack from the encircling mists below. The human fighters shook off their slumber in an instant, forming a defensive ring around the crest of the hill. Still holding his sword, the elf took his place in the line, standing shoulder to shoulder with Moreen and Bruni, once more prepared to do battle with the enemies of his friends.

The attackers came out of the mist in a wave, at first roaring and barking in the distance like unseen, angry ghosts. As they drew closer, the vague shapes resolved into an army of snarling, bestial thanoi armed with spears, knives, and stone-headed clubs.

The humans met them in time-honored fashion, a resolute line of warriors standing side by side, with nearly half of the force waiting in reserve in the center of the ring. Moreen kept her eyes on a large bull that bore a stout spear and charged directly at her. The creature’s bloodshot eyes glowed with hatred, the grotesque face twisted by an expression of almost maniacal rage. Twin tusks of ivory jutted forward from the brute’s upper jaw, and when it raised its head to utter a loud roar those two prongs drove directly at the chiefwoman’s face.

She held her sword at her waist, her arm bent back like a coiled spring. The thanoi rushed forward with its fellows, sweeping up the hill with surprising speed and grace. As it drew close it sprang, using the spear like a third, lower tusk. Moreen ducked under all three prongs, for once grateful of her short stature. She thrust with the sword and drove forward on her wiry legs, puncturing the beast’s belly and grimacing as a rush of gore warmed her weapon-hand.

The monster howled and twisted, trying to wriggle off the blade, finally collapsing back into the ranks of its fellows. Moreen followed up her success with a slashing blow to the side, slicing the razor edge of steel into the flank of another tusker. By the time that one fell away, the whole line was locked in a howling, thrashing melee. Many on both sides fell in the first crush, but the Highlanders and Arktos held firm. From somewhere she heard Dinekki chanting a prayer praising Chislev Wilder and seeking the blessing of the goddess against their enemies. The chiefwoman took heart from that blessing and felt renewed power as she lifted up her weapon for the next parry and attack.