Douglas Niles - The Messenger

“I helped the Arktos willingly,” he told the barbarian monarch. “I consider them my friends.”

Strongwind grinned in mocking pleasure. “It is as I suspected. With your skill with your boat, you could have escaped easily enough. You-go!”

Moreen slumped in defeat as two Highlanders dragged her away. Strongwind turned back to Kerrick.

“I have heard that elves are magical people. Search this one. Let us divide him from his treasures.”

They ungirded his scabbard and set it aside. Rough hands lifted his knife, his small pouch of tinder and flint. Blunt fingers slipped underneath his belt, around his side. The hidden pouch was plucked away.

“No!” he cried, lunging, snatching back the small fold of material. The drawstring was tight-he couldn’t get his hands on the ring-but he broke the hold of the burly warrior clutching his arm.

“Stop him!” cried the king.

Kerrick heard steel slip from a sheath behind him, and he twisted out of the way, barely avoiding a stab in the back. The other Highlander, the one who had been searching him, drew a dagger and thrust at him.

His training took over. Feinting left, Kerrick twisted to the right and seized the man’s knife arm by the wrist. Pivoting, using his attacker’s momentum against him, he pulled the man past, sent him tumbling into the other warrior waving his sword.

More hands seized Kerrick as a dozen of the king’s men closed in. The pouch was yanked from his fingers. The elf was watching the two men who had collided and collapsed to the ground. The swordsman scrambled to his feet, looking in revulsion at his bloody blade. A groan of pain came from the other man. His chest was covered with blood.

“I … I didn’t …” Kerrick stared in horror, conscious of being gripped so tightly he could hardly breathe.

“Nevertheless, you did,” sternly declared the king of the Highlanders. He glared at the elf. “For that, you will pay the penalty customary among our people for the crime of murder.”

He nodded to his men. “Put him temporarily in the cave with the Arktos. Let him try to stay warm in there, as we prepare a slab for the Ice Death.”

Tap another keg, and fill my mug once more. Then shall we have some entertainment!” Strongwind Whalebone proclaimed with a wild flourish, to the deep, ringing cheers of this men. He stood in the center of the cavern, illuminated by two great bonfires his warriors had built, surrounded by a throng of Highlander warriors.

The Arktos were gathered together at the side of the big chamber, except for Moreen, who stood in the center of the room with Lars Redbeard and another bearded man flanking her. Along the wall was piled the great cache of supplies that had been unloaded from the Highlanders’ dogsleds. Much of that pile consisted of the ubiquitous casks of warqat, which the men had been drinking steadily over the past few days.

The Arktos had been segregated in a smaller chamber, though they had often been able to hear the raucous laughter and crude jeers of their drunken captors. Kerrick suspected it was only a matter of time before the women began to suffer even baser abuses at the hands of the crude men. He had spent his own captivity in grim anticipation of the sentence pronounced by the Highlander king.

Even so, he felt no regret about declaring his allegiance to the tribe. Contrasting the dignified captivity of the Arktos with the brawling revelry of the Highlanders, the elf found every reason to despise his captors. He was well aware that his contempt, unfortunately, did nothing to render these men less dangerous.

“You asked me about dragons,” King Strongwind chortled to Moreen, “and thus I knew you were seeking Brackenrock. Though little did I expect to find you in such snug shelter. That was well done, that wall you built across the cave mouth. I have given the order that it be rebuilt. I intend no harm to your people, if things go well between us.

“You should know, however,” he added with a harsh laugh. “Brackenrock was the ancestral home of my people, not yours!”

“That’s a lie!” declared the chiefwoman. “It is said that the Arktos came forth from that place during the Scattering. From that time we have made our villages on the shores of the White Bear Sea!”

The king shook his head, pointing a finger right at her face. “You say this, but you have no histories, no books, nothing for proof. I have the stories of this period written by Highlander bards three centuries ago!”

“Because if you write it down, that makes it true,” Dinekki muttered to Kerrick sarcastically, her voice too low for any of the Highlanders to hear.

The elf nodded, reluctant to attract attention to himself by making any reply.

Since the Highlanders had invaded the cave three or four days ago, they had not seemed in any great hurry to decide what to do with their prisoners.

Until now. Within the last hour, all of the Arktos had been summoned, then roughly herded into the great chamber. The bonfires had been lit, filling the air with lingering smoke that, at least, covered the smells of sweat and stink of many hundreds of unwashed men. The great stream of meltwater rushed along its trough in the floor, until it reached the chute in the center of the cave where it plunged downward and out of sight in a churning torrent. Several stones had been arrayed against the cavern wall, and it was on this makeshift throne that Strongwind Whalebone sat. For ten minutes he had been arguing with Moreen Bayguard, who stood before him under the protective watch of Lars Redbeard.

“Now,” the king finally said, cutting off any further debate with a gesture, “it is time for you to learn why we have gathered you all. Bring forward the elf, the one who sails that boat.”

Kerrick was quickly seized by two burly warriors, who brought him to face the king. Moreen stood nearby, looking at him with despair. He winked at her, trying to be encouraging, but was rewarded by a cuff.

“Save your attention for King Strongwind,” growled one of his guards.

Kerrick saw that the monarch was looking downward, examining the thin gold ring he held between his coarse fingers. He raised his eyes as the elf was brought close.

“This seems a silly trinket to kill-and to die-for,” Strongwind said. “It is too small for my own finger, but I will keep it, as a reminder of the only elf ever to come to the Icereach.”

Kerrick uttered a strangled cry and tried to break free. Only the strong grip of the Highlanders holding him by the arms kept him from throwing himself at the king.

It gave him some satisfaction to know that the man was too much a fool to recognize the worth of his prize. If he tried hard enough to put it on, the magical band would expand to fit his finger. The ring was a mixed blessing, and a part of Kerrick hoped to see the king wearing it.

Strongwind scowled at the elf, narrowing his blue eyes. “I have sentenced you to an ancient punishment, one exceptionally fit for this splendid cave. Perhaps your Arktos companions will find it instructional. My men will find it entertaining.”

Kerrick’s anger faded, replaced by a feeling of dread.

“Bring forth the ice slab!” cried the king.

Four strong men dragged a large, flat object out of the shadows, bringing it toward the center of the cavern. Kerrick saw that it was a massive block of ice, and that two chains, each with a manacle attached, had been embedded in the solid chunk.

King Strongwind laughed. “I give you a new boat, elf, one made by my artisans, just for you. It has been shaped with tender care and frozen solid over the past few days. They tell me it is ready, now.”

Kerrick struggled wildly, but the Highlanders threw him onto the flat surface and in short order bracketed his hands. The water gushed past him, inches from his head, plunging into a hole that, even to his keen elven eyes, was lightless, airless, and cold.