Douglas Niles - The Messenger

“But …” Strongwind Whalebone’s eyes narrowed.

“But what?” she demanded.

“It’s risky,” Strongwind said in a low voice, changing his tone.

“Can you get a rope up that chimney,” Moreen asked Little Mouse. “so the rest of us can get some help on the climb?”

“Well, sure,” he said. He lowered his voice and leaned close. “It will be tough for some of the grandmothers, though.”

Dinekki’s hand flicked out and slapped the boy on the back of the head. “You let us worry about that.” She turned back to Strongwind Whalebone. “Surely you could assign of a few of these strapping fellows to help us elders get up.”

“Of course,” Strongwind said curtly.

One of the Highlanders was already rummaging through the supply cache. “Here’s a rope,” he said. Moreen recognized him as the man Strongwind had called Mad Randall, the berserker. Mad Randall smiled most pleasantly as he slung the coil over his shoulder and ambled forward to volunteer.

“Bruni, Tildey, all of you Arktos warriors, come with me,” Moreen declared, then turned back to the king. “We’ll need our weapons.”

Strongwind seemed at last to regain his decisiveness. “All right. Good luck to you. Your spears are over there. Arm yourselves.” The king himself reached into the cache of Highlander supplies and brought out a gray-bladed sword. Holding it, hilt first, toward the chief of the Arktos, he asked, “Do you want to take this? It’s one of my old reliables. The edge is keen, and it might be more effective than a spear when you’re fighting inside the fortress.”

“Thank you,” she said, surprised at the feeling in his words. She took the weapon, felt the sharp edge and the weight of the metal blade and was grateful Kerrick had had time during the long Sturmfrost to show her a little about wielding a sword.

Strongwind gestured to Lars Redbeard “Take Randall, and twenty of your best men skilled with shortsword and shield. Let the boy show you how to get to Brackenrock. And-” he looked at Moreen and drew a deep breath “-I bid you follow the commands of Moreen, chief of the Arktos.”

Grimwar led his ogres in a grand charge, his own roars mingling with the battlecries of his warriors as they hurled themselves at the cave mouth, and the crude wall of ice blocks erected by the humans. The monstrous attackers lumbered through the snow, the big ogre boots crushing powdery drifts and trampling the shoreline into flatness.

A stream of arrows arced from the narrow mouth of the cave, but the humans hadn’t allowed space for more than a handful of archers to hold the defense. Several ogres roared in pain, plucking the vexing missiles from their flesh, and one hapless brute went down, stone dead, shot in the eye. Yet for the most part the light barrage had no effect as the charge was repeated.

This was warfare! A great roar of noise, an enemy who would stand and fight-if for no other reason than that he had no retreat-his whole army surging into the attack.

“Charge, my brutes!” Grimwar cried excitedly. “Kill the humans! A fist of gold to the ogre who brings me the enemy captain’s head!”

Already several warriors had boldly hurled themselves at the narrow entrance, and steel rang as unseen human defenders thrust their weapons through holes. One ogre lunged with his spear, then stumbled back and dropped his weapon, bleeding from a gash on his wrist. A second attacker quickly took his place, stabbing with his sword, then jumping halfway through the aperture to hack at the humans within. A moment later, he too fell, and as other ogres pulled his bleeding body out of the way, still others, just behind him, pushed their huge spears at the defenders within the cave.

“Knock down the wall! Use your strength, my warriors!” cried the ogre king. His troops had already set to work, chopping with axes and swords, bashing with hammers, surging against the ice wall with the considerable weight of their hulking bodies. A frenzied melee centered on the narrow doorway.

Satisfied for the moment, Grimwar stepped back and looked around. Across the still water he saw the curious boat and, on the bank, his queen, looming over the elf, who remained seated in the snow. He wondered, vaguely, why Stariz-who had been warning him for a year about the menace of this elf in Icereach-had not wanted to execute the prisoner immediately. Grimwar Bane took some pleasure from the fact that he had informed her, curtly, that interrogation must wait until after the battle.

At a safe distance from the battle stood Urgas Thanoi, watching the action with intense interest. Closer to Grimwar was Baldruk Dinmaker, grinning fiercely through his bushy beard. “A great day, Sire, a great day, indeed!” exclaimed the dwarf.

“Yes. On this day, we shall end the Arktos once and for all. Truly, Gonnas has smiled upon us.”

He glanced again at his wife, standing guard over the elf, and added, “You know of elves from your years on the continent, no doubt.”

Baldruk, spat disdainfully but nodded and agreed that yes, he had some experience with elven scum.

“Go to the queen. Be alert for elven treachery. See if you can discover what brought that wretched fellow to our land. The sooner we have learned what he can tell us, the sooner we can be done with him for good.”

“As you command, Sire.”

As the dwarf started away Grimwar was distracted by a loud boom. He whirled around to see that a sizeable section of the block wall had tumbled inward. Ogres poured through the gap, clawing and slipping, stabbing with swords, hurling spears against the suddenly exposed defenders.

These were no mere women warriors, the king observed. Instead of the small group reported by Urgas Thanoi, this was a full rank of strapping, bearded humans, who fought with skill and determination. “Highlanders!” he cried exultantly. “We’ve trapped a war party of Highlanders!”

The humans fought savagely. In moments the shattered ice blocks were slick with blood, and wounded warriors, human and ogre alike, thrashed and groaned across their irregular surface. More and more of the attackers converged on the breach, and the sheer numbers carried them through the line, burying the Highlanders under a wave of ogres.

Moments later, another huge section of the icy barricade fell away and, for the first time this day, Grimwar drew the Barkon Sword and waded into the fray. A desperate human thrust a spear that the ogre king swept aside with the tip of his blade. With a deft gesture he whipped the weapon around and stabbed the man clean through. Stepping over the corpse, the monarch entered the cave.

Another human advanced on him with a longsword. The king’s tusks flashed in a fierce grin as he met steel with steel, blocking, parrying, pushing the human backward. The man fought with courage, even forcing Grimwar to retreat a few steps. Finally the Highlander overreached, exposed himself, and the king brought the Barkon Sword down in an overhand smash that shattered the human’s sword, skull, and breastbone in a bloody splash.

Dead Highlanders were everywhere, and the survivors gathered into small knots, harried by ogres. A few of the men fell back toward a dark archway leading deeper into the cave, and with a triumphant bellow Grimwar pointed after them.

“They flee the steel of Suderhold!” he cried. “After them, my brutes! Pursue, and carry the day!”

“I’ve got the rope tied off,” Little Mouse called in a hoarse whisper from the overhead darkness.

“Thanks be to Chislev,” Moreen murmured, her knees almost buckling in relief. For the past half hour she had been dreading the sight of her young tribemate plummeting from the heights of the cavern’s natural chimney. The sides were sheer, hand- and footholds barely visible in the dim light of the oil lamp they had brought along. Yet the youth had scrambled up the shaft without hesitation.