Douglas Niles: The Messenger

“My queen, let me help you guard that wretch,” suggested Baldruk Dinmaker, only dozen paces away. “These elves are ever treacherous, wickedly dangerous.”

“You don’t look dangerous,” mused the massive, square-faced ogress, turning to look at Kerrick pensively. The water was now at her back, and the snowbank sloped sharply downward behind her. “Thanks be to Gonnas, we have warning of your wicked nature.”

“I know I don’t look dangerous,” Kerrick said casually, wrapping the fingers of his right hand around the ice ball. “But I am.”

He pivoted, sprang into a crouch, and threw the missile with all of his strength. He started a prayer to Zivilyn, but before he could complete the first word he saw the solid chunk of ice strike the queen between her eyes. She cried out and clapped both hands to her face, momentarily leaving the axe standing on its long haft.

Kerrick was sprinting, barely hearing the dwarf shout a warning. The elf reached the reeling ogress and smashed his shoulder into her gut, sending her staggering backward. His hands darted out and snatched the axe. Staggering under the weight, he raised the blade, sent it slashing downward toward the queen’s neck.

She was already overbalanced. Hands flailing, massive feet sliding down the steep snowbank, she fell backward and plunged into the waters of the cove. Roaring, cursing inarticulately, she clawed at the edge.

Instantly Kerrick whirled around. He heard shouts of alarm, and saw that several ogres had observed his escape. The dwarf was rushing toward him now, shouting curses in a foul, guttural tongue as he drew a silver dagger from his belt.

Cutter floated close beside him, and Kerrick again raised the massive gold-bladed axe. With a single chop he cut the ropes that had bound his boat to this shore for the long winter.

The dwarf was almost upon him now but halted as Kerrick raised the axe high. A single downward blow would have split that hateful skull, ended that wicked life, but this was not his intention. Not yet.

“Drop your knife and get on the boat or die,” growled the elf. “You have two heartbeats to choose.”

Glaring hatefully, the dwarf let the weapon slip from his fingers. He took a step toward the sailboat, while a half dozen ogres scrambled closer.

Kerrick brandished the axe again. “Move now, or else!”

The dwarf leaped onto the deck, landing with the easy balance of an experienced sailor.

“Get to the bow.”

Reluctantly, the glowering dwarf moved forward. A wild leap carried the elf, still holding the axe, to the boat, where he almost stumbled over the side. Catching his balance, he turned and waved the axe to hold the dwarf in place, and saw lumbering ogres a few dozen paces away, closing fast. With a smooth flip he planted the head of the axe against the shore and pushed the boat into deeper water.

One of the ogres stopped to cast a spear, and the elf knocked the weapon away with a sideways swipe. His luck continued, and before the next ogre thought to launch a weapon, Cutter and her two passengers were bobbing in placid water, safely out of range.

“Now!” Moreen said. Bruni threw her weight against the brick wall. The chiefwoman also pushed against the flimsy barrier, as did Mad Randall, Lars Redbeard, and several other of the big Highlanders.

In a clatter of dust and debris the wall burst inward, and the attackers exploded through the opening. Moreen carried the iron-bladed sword, and thrust it into the chest of a surprised thanoi as the brute scrambled to sit up on dirty straw mat.

“For Nangrid!” she shouted, a piercing cry.

“For Carann! For Marin! For Anka!”

The Arktos shouted the names of their deceased comrades. Moreen whirled into the tuskers with a vengeance, instinct wielding her weapon with surprising accuracy. She flew at another thanoi, dropping it with a vicious slash across the throat. She stabbed a walrus-man trying to scramble out of her way, chopped at one to the side. Everywhere the creatures were lunging to their feet, barking and shouting, reaching for their weapons. Many fell before the sudden, merciless onslaught.

One Highlander whirled among the tuskers like a deadly cyclone. It was Mad Randall. His voice was an animal howl, a nightmarish sound. His axe slashed through a circle of tuskers, and the survivors fell back, bleeding from cuts. Before they hit the floor the berserker had leaped over a table and charged another pair, killing one swiftly and sending the other tumbling backward into the fireplace, where it shrieked and flailed, trying to bat away flames. Thrashing desperately, the monster crawled out of the the blaze, but its fat was already melting, crackling into greasy flames. It died in a cloud of grimy smoke.

Moreen felt as though she was watching herself, a stranger, as if someone else was enjoying this horrible violence. She killed with pleasure, with hatred, her movements quick, efficient, relentless. Even when her hands were doused with warm blood, when the fishy stink of thanoi guts choked her nostrils, she enjoyed the killing.

On the far side of the room, Bruni swung her mighty stone hammer, bashing one thanoi after another as the creatures struggled to collect themselves, to raise weapons or flee. Tildey stood near the fallen wall, shooting arrows at any tusker that offered a clean target. Already a half dozen lay dead or dying, pierced by the archer’s lethal missiles.

After several minutes of frenzied battle, two score or more of the monsters lay scattered around the big chamber. Others had fled, ignoring the wide double doors, which were still latched, instead leaping out windows to the ground.

“Take the whole fortress!” cried Moreen. “Spread out and find the tuskers wherever they’re hiding!”

The humans moved rapidly in pursuit. Mad Randall wasted no time in smashing the doors apart with a blow of his great axe. His strange, shrieking war cry rang in the courtyard now as he led the Highlanders through the doorway. The berserker’s eyes were wide, his lips flecked with foam. He wielded his great battle axe with lightning blows, leaving one thanoi after another battered and bleeding in his wake. When a great bull lowered his tusks and charged him, Randall’s blade effortlessly cleaved his enemy from crown to sternum. Without pause the Highlander vaulted over the fallen thanoi, landing on his feet and somehow bringing his axe up for a slashing cut at another scrambling walrus-man.

Moreen heard a familiar voice cry out, and turned in horror to see Little Mouse taking on a big thanoi. The youth had a thin knife extended before him, while the hulking brute was lowering its bestial head to bring its sharp tusks into line. With startling speed the walrus-man sprang forward, driving the heavy body with long, supple legs.

Little Mouse went down, but Moreen saw that he had fallen and rolled, so that his knife could stab upward, ripping out a long cut in the monster’s belly. The tusker fell with a groan and a kick, and the lad was on him in a flash, driving the keen blade deep. Then Little Mouse scrambled up, took a spear from a pile of thanoi weapons, and hurried to continue the fight.

“To the walls!” Moreen shouted, as the last of the tuskers outside the barracks was cut down and eliminated. “Follow me to the gatehouse!”

Daylight had brightened the sky, and she saw some thanoi were fleeing out the gate. Others paused to touch torches to a large pile of oily firewood, discharging a spume of black smoke.

Everywhere the attackers spread out, striking and killing. Moreen shouted, a furious cry of exultation, fury, and grief. Her bloody sword held high, she ran forward, her tribemates following.

“Chislev Wilder, in our sight, show thy signal, light the light!” chanted Dinneki.