Douglas Niles: The Messenger

The king glowered as he set his boots to the side. “You are rapidly destroying any intention I had of being gentle with you.

Moreen’s eyes cast around the grotto, seeking something, anything, she could use as a weapon. She saw the king of the Highlanders shrug out of his tunic. His body was muscular and huge.

Now she saw her chance.

“You’re looking somewhat worse for wear,” Coraltop Netfisher said with a scowl, “but your skin is getting kind of pink instead of all white and pasty like when I fished you out of the water.”

Kerrick wrapped his hands around the cup of tea, soaking up the warmth. At least he wasn’t shivering as much as before. He could hold the deep mug without flinging the contents all over the cabin.

“H-how did you find me … and w-where have you been?” he asked. “You didn’t spend the whole winter sleeping on the boat, did you?”

The kender shrugged. “It never got too cold. I think there’s a nice hot spring under here.”

“There is,” Kerrick agreed. “I came floating right out of it. But you-how? When we crashed … I saw you fall in the water … I looked-I looked everywhere .…” He shook his head in disbelief, trying not to doubt his good fortune at finding his shipmate alive. “Don’t tell me about that sleeping potion, again. I don’t know where you got it, but you didn’t have it with you when I found you!”

“Well, all right, I won’t tell you about it!” sniffed the kender. “Maybe you’d rather get back in the water then waste your time with me?”

Kerrick groaned and shook his head, but when he probed for more details, Coraltop was adamant in his refusal to offer an explanation. Finally the elf desisted, lacking the energy to continue.

By the time Coraltop, with a few twists of a little piece of wire, had freed the manacles from his wrists and helped the elf aboard the sailboat, Kerrick had slowly pieced together how he had come up in the spring-heated cove. The stream that vanished through the floor of the cave obviously carried a significant flowage into the sea, including some of the warm water that had kept this little patch of cove from freezing through the bitter winter. His makeshift raft had been borne by the current, through the deep channel, until it emerged in the cove where it had bobbed gently to the surface.

“So, are we going to go sailing again very soon?” Coraltop asked. “I mean, after you’ve had a bite to eat and a nap.”

Kerrick sighed. “We might be floating in water, but the last time I looked, this cove was still pretty well frozen in.”

“Well, you mean the sea, yes. That’s all ice and snowdrifts. But the whole cove is melted, now. We can float right over to the other side, where the road winds up the cliff. And the sun came out-why, it must have been up there for three or four hours today. Of course, I suppose it would be kind of boring, just sailing back and forth around here. Like my Grandmother Annatree used to say, ‘It’s not really a trip unless you go somewhere. Or fall down.’ ”

Kerrick chuckled. “I think we’re a long way from getting out to the sea, or the ocean. I’m going up on deck to have a look.”

Emerging from the cabin, Kerrick saw the sky was brightening from the midnight darkness. He noticed something else-people, big people, moving on the shore. They shuffled through the snow, cloaked in white, barely visible in the growing light. He saw a whole column of them, an army of warriors, larger and uglier even than the Highlanders. Several were gathered around Cutter ’s anchor rope, and they pulled steadily on the line, hauling the sailboat toward shore.

“Stay right there!” growled a creature on shore that the shocked elf recognized as an ogre. He tried to think. The ogres were spread out along the shore, with several even now approaching the mouth of the cave where the Arktos and Highlanders were gathered.

“That’s it-don’t fight, and there’s no need to kill you. Not right away,” the ogre on shore said encouragingly.

The elf perceived that he had been mistaken about something-these were not all ogres. One squat figure pushed back his hood to reveal himself as a dwarf, a bristling-haired dark dwarf standing with the ogres who were drawing Cutter closer to shore. His breath steamed in the air as he snorted impatiently, and when the dwarf turned his face to look at the sailboat, the elf all but stumbled.

The last time he had seen that face, Baldruk Dinmaker had been looking over the transom of Silvanos Oak , as that mighty galley commenced her last departure from Silvanesti. His father Dimorian Fallabrine had been in command of the great ship, and this same bearded dwarf had served as second mate.

Sire! King Strongwind!”

The voice, from the other side of the bearskin, carried an unmistakable urgency.

“What is it?” demanded Strongwind Whalebone impatiently. He was just now glaring at Moreen, who held one of the oil lamps high over her head, ready to throw it at him. The other had just sailed past his head, and lay in shards on the floor of the cave, the oil still burning on one of the slick rocks. The king was out of breath, having spent several minutes chasing the woman around the small grotto.

“Ogres, Your Majesty! They’re attacking the cave!”

Strongwind blinked, scowled, shook his head, then squinted at the bearkskin-covered doorway. “What?” he demanded.

“Ogres, you numbskull!” Moreen shouted. “Does lust make you deaf?” She put down the lamp and started for the doorway. “Pull down this bearskin!” she demanded. “Let us out of here!”

She gave the king a contemptuous glance. “Or do you want to continue? Flattered as I am by your attentions, I think an attack by ogres is a little more important.”

Her mind was filled with horror. How many ogres were here? How were they pressing their attack? She needed to find out what was happening.

There was a pause, a hesitant cough. “Sire?”

“Do it!” roared the king, who was shrugging into his tunic. He lifted up a boot, which jangled loudly. Impatiently he dumped it over, spilling his gold chains and bracelets across the floor, before sliding his foot in. “I’m not through with you,” he growled to Moreen as he did the same with the second boot.

His henchmen pulled the bearskin away from the entrance to the grotto, and Moreen raced away. She muttered to herself, “Oh, yes you are.”

The ogres roughly pulled Kerrick from the deck and threw him into a snowbank. He avoided looking at Baldruk Dinmaker. Until he understood what was going on here, he didn’t want to dwarf to know his former shipmate’s son had recognized him.

Other ogres scrambled aboard the boat, one even squeezing into the cabin. That one emerged a moment later with a shrug. “No one else here!” he called.

“Look again!” the dwarf snapped. “I heard voices.”

The ogre disappeared, and for a moment the boat shook and thudded from the sounds of cupboards being opened, the bunk pulled apart, and other compartments investigated. Finally the ogre emerged, shaking his head. “Nope. Musta been talking to himself.”

Coraltop? Shaking snow from his face and twisting to sit up, the elf shook his head in disbelief. He was glad his small companion had avoided capture, but he was more certain than ever that some kind of magic was at work. In any event, he had more immediate problems to worry about.

Three big ogres stood over him. Each wore a cloak of white bearskin, stiff jerkins over their torsos and clad in heavy leather boots. Their heads were hooded with sheepskin. Two carried big spears, and one a long-bladed sword slung casually over his shoulder. Nearby, a whole column of the brutes made its way along the shore of the cove, while a band of at least a hundred had gathered just out of bow range of the main cavern entrance. Enough of the dawn light had paled the sky that the rim of the valley, high above, was visible at this hour. Just beyond that crest, he knew, the walls of Brackenrock rose imposingly from the top of the mountain.