Douglas Niles - The Messenger

“No!” Moreen twisted hard, breaking free from Lars Redbeard. “You’re no better than the ogre!” she shouted, throwing herself at Strongwind Whalebone.

She reached out with every intention of clawing his eyes out, but the Highlander king leaned back in his makeshift throne and effortlessly struck her away. Lars and another warrior grabbed her again, and Strongwind laughed aloud.

“Hold her over here,” said the king, rising, sauntering past her. “I would have her watch this business-probably it will be the last chance she ever has to look at one of the elven race.” He wagged a mocking finger toward her. “After all, when I’ve got you settled in Guilderglow, I don’t think you should plan on getting out much … darling.”

The chiefwoman stared miserably at Kerrick, who was pale with fear. His arms were spreadeagled. Flat on his back, he lay shackled to the slab of ice. She had brought him to this end, she knew, just as surely as she had led Nangrid and Marin, young Banrik, and the others to their deaths. Her leadership had brought cruel death to many.

“Well, here, lad. It might be a cold ride,” Dinekki said, hobbling through the ring of Highlander guards and approaching Kerrick. “May the blessing of Chislev Wilder see you through the darkness.”

“Stop, hag!” cried one of the Highlanders, raising his hand to block her path.

“You stop, yourself!” snapped the shaman, poking a bony finger in the man’s face. “Perhaps you dare the wrath of Chislev Wilder?”

“Kradok protect me,” murmured the Highlander, recoiling and lifting both hands in prayer.

Moreen watched numbly as the old woman bent down to touch Kerrick’s face. She said something quietly, then Dinekki stood upright, gave the nearest Highlander a look of undisguised contempt, and hobbled back into the assemblage of Arktos.

Strongwind Whalebone looked impatient and once again raised his voice. “Send the elf into the depths!” he roared. Numbly, the chiefwoman watched the burly warriors muscle the slab into an upright position. The elven sailor hung there, looking at her briefly before they tipped him, face first, into the churning waters of the subterranean stream.

Kerrick barely had time to draw a deep breath before the current snatched him. He felt the weight of the ice slab as a crushing burden on his back. Liquid filled his nostrils, and he fought against panic, knowing that would be the fastest way to death … and realizing that nothing he could do was likely to delay the end of his life by more than a minute or two.

Above him, for an instant, he spied the hole in the floor and the firelit ceiling of the cavern, then darkness swallowed him. The slab tumbled and spun, and he landed face down in water that seemed frigid. He felt pain, a bizarre burning sensation, as if he had been poked by a multitude of red hot irons.

Water filled his mouth when he gasped involuntarily. Complete darkness enclosed him. Head first, he continued to plummet, twisting violently around in the current. Water tugged at him, and the manacles chafed his wrists, wrenched his arms. His feet and legs twisted outward, and he used all of his strength to pull himself against the ice slab.

The tunnel bore him along with remarkable velocity. The elf was tossed about and scraped against the side of the shaft. He expected at any second to be smashed to bits, but apparently the water had worn a smooth channel through this abyss. He careened onwards with a series of jolts, still surrounded by water.

Only then did he wonder that he wasn’t drowning.

He drew a deep breath without choking, though he was fully immersed. Again the slab pitched forward, tumbling down another chute, banging from side to side, then spinning lazily through a powerful current in a larger channel. Once more he took a breath, conscious of invigorating air flowing into his lungs-from the water!

The explanation came in a flash: Dinekki had cast a spell upon him. Somehow she had slyly given him the benefit of her magic, conveying Chislev’s enchantment upon him, giving him the power to breathe water. In the midst of the nightmare, he felt a sense of profound confidence and peace.

A sense of weightlessness overwhelmed him as he fell through a waterfall. Again the ice slab plunged into a churning maelstrom, whirling him upside down. A hot spring made the temperature almost tolerable. Then he was rising, floating toward the surface, lying on top of the ice slab, feeling the raft push, gently buoyant, against him. He was drained of energy, unable even to clench his aching fingers. He lacked even the strength to lift his head.

He felt air-bitterly cold air. When he blinked the wetness out of his eyes he saw a green star and a white star, side by side in the heavens. He was still lying flat on his back, arms splayed to the side, still manacled. Now he shivered, for his soaked body was exposed to the wind. The drops on his eyebrows turned to frost. He saw that he was outside on a cold, clear night, and he knew that he would freeze to death soon, but he also felt strangely glad that he had such a nice view of those two stars.

Something else loomed against the sky, a familiar post rising from a wooden hull. He almost chuckled, inanely amused to realize that the undersea spring had spewed him into the pool of water where Cutter floated. How fitting for him to die here, under the shadow of his own boat.

Something else moved across his vision, a concerned face, with a shadowy topknot draped over one shoulder. Now he knew he was delusional, for Kerrick was certain he heard Coraltop Netfisher’s voice.

“ There you are!” the kender said, sounding rather vexed. “What in all Krynn kept you for so long?”

“This place will do nicely,” Strongwind Whalebone declared in satisfaction, examining the grotto in the light of the oil lamps two of his men had put in place. Another pair of his warriors held Moreen, who had exhausted herself by resisting them during the long walk through the cave. The king gestured to his men. “Leave us here. Stretch a bearskin across the door and wait without. Don’t worry if you hear a bit of a commotion-she’s a feisty wench!”

The men gave Moreen a hard shove away from the narrow entrance, before they retreated. Quickly a great white pelt was raised across the aperture. The two were shut off in a small chamber crowded with ornate rock formations studded all over with tiny crystals that sparked and twinkled in the light of the lamps. Shadows leaped and danced on the wall.

When the chiefwoman looked around, she noticed that the Highlander monarch was taking off the gold chains that dangled around his neck, and slipping out of his tall, metalbuckled boots. He slid the chains into the boots and stretched, looking at Moreen with an expression of amused contempt.

“You’d might as well make yourself comfortable,” he said. “We’re going to be here a while. The more you cooperate, the easier it will go for you.”

“I would die before I submit to you!” she spat.

“Did you consider that perhaps you don’t have a choice? I am stronger than you, and much bigger. My men are in control of your stronghold. For once, Moreen Chieftain’s Daughter, you would be wise to acknowledge the inevitable.”

It was her turn to laugh. “Do you know that, when you were showing me your citadel. I actually allowed myself to think that, perhaps, you were a great man, a great leader. How foolish I was. Now I see you are a mere beast. The ogres at least had the courage to fight our warriors. You Highlanders, it seems, would rather wait till the enemy’s warriors are gone, then come to force yourselves on the women. Perhaps you should call your two men back in here. If they held me down, you wouldn’t have to work so hard.”