Douglas Niles: The Messenger

The ogres were close enough now that Kerrick and Strongwind could see the metal speartips in the long rank glowing with reflected daylight. The king and queen marched at the head of the column, and Kerrick felt the ogress’s eyes upon him, sensed her fury, her desperation to regain her sacred axe.

“Got to keep moving,” grunted Strongwind. “You follow.”

Again he started out but after a dozen steps collapsed facedown in the snow. Kerrick clawed up behind him, his own fatigue like a heavy burden. He knew they wouldn’t be able to push all the way to the pass.

Only then did he remember the talisman of his father. “My ring!” he croaked. “Do you still have it?”

“Yes.” The human pulled a necklace from beneath his tunic and the elf saw the artifact dangling there. He looked at the strapping, muscular man, compared with his own slender frame, and knew what he had to do.

“Put it on,” he said. “It will give you strength!”

“It’s too small. You take it.”

Kerrick waved him away. “It will grow. Put your finger through it, and you’ll see.”

Strongwind followed the elf’s instructions, eyes widening as the circlet of gold expanded to surround one of his fingers. Slowly, he slid the finger through the ring. He sat up straight, and looked at his hand with wonder.

“It is powerful magic. Give me the head of the axe. I’ll pull you along.”

Looking more like a bear than a man, the king of the Highlanders set himself against the slope with heavy footsteps. His hand gripped the knob at the rear of the axeblade, and Kerrick held on to the hilt, feeling himself lifted almost effortlessly.

Strongwind Whalebone kicked and stepped, kicked and stepped, with fierce energy and determination. Higher and higher they climbed, the elf following along, the man straining and pulling and steadily ascending. Strongwind skirted the base of a tall cliff, then scrambled up and over a belt of wet boulders. Finally, Strongwind drew near to the notch, curving under the great overhanging cliffs of snow. Kerrick followed closely behind, helping himself as much as possible, leaning on the man’s strength when his own muscles started to fail.

Finally the two reached crest of the ridge, where they were greeted by four Arktos spearwomen. More humans, a dozen of each band, were hurrying toward them from the lofty fortress. For the first time Strongwind and Kerrick got a good look at Brackenrock, taking in the sweep of the high walls, the formidable gatehouse, the towers and parapets lofting behind the outer barrier.

Closer, the elf recognized Moreen, Tildey, and Bruni. At the sight of Kerrick the Arktos halted in astonishment. Abruptly Moreen hurled herself forward and threw her arms around his neck.

“You’re alive!” she cried. “But how-”

“There’ll be time to explain later,” he interrupted.

She nodded, already scrutinizing the ogre column which had ascended most of the way up to the notch. “The fort is secured,” she declared. “We have everyone who can lift a rock working to block the gates. We’ll have to hold them here, for as long as possible.”

Even commanding the high ground, the odds of winning a long battle against the ogres were not good. They needed something else, some advantage to give them hope.

Kerrick lifted his eyes along the great drifts and cornices that flanked the pass overhead and loomed high above the outer slope.

“If we can start that snow falling,” he mused, “we could knock a lot of the ogres right down to the water.”

“How?” asked the chiefwoman. Then her eyes brightened, and she turned to the Highlander who had accompanied her. “Lars, your men have flasks of warqat, don’t they?”

The warrior, his head capped by a wolf-skull helmet, nodded. “Most do. We used a few to burn out the tuskers.”

“That’s what gave me the idea. Strongwind said you used warqat to knock down the wall of ice. If we planted the flasks on those snowbanks, could they do the same thing?”

Strongwind nodded. “Yes, if we could ignite them.”

“I know how to do that,” Kerrick said. He lifted the axe and twisted the handle, bringing the blue flames springing from the blade.

“We’ll climb, then!” the king said, as the Highlander warriors produced, between them, ten flasks of the oily brew. Strongwind slung the straps of the flasks over his shoulder and turned toward the nearest cliff. He took a step, then staggered, falling to one knee.

“My strength is gone!” he groaned.

“The ring-take it off,” Kerrick said urgently. “You’ll need to rest. Here, I’ll take the flasks.”

By now the nearest ogres were several hundred paces away. The king and queen pulled back, prudently allowing a few dozen stalwart warriors to take the lead, but Grimwar Bane followed close behind.

“Go!” Moreen urged. “We’ll hold them here!”

The elf scrambled up a jagged, steep slope of rock, quickly moving above the first of the great snowbanks. He dropped two flasks along the base of the thickest part of the drift, loosening the corks so that a bit of the flammable liquid could leak out and serve as a fuse. Then he climbed on.

A downward look showed him the first ogres lumbering into the pass. Bruni met one with a swing of her mighty hammer, knocking the brute in the head, sending him tumbling down the long, steep slope. Moreen stabbed another, the elven sword drawing blood. The Arktos and Highlanders in the narrow gap stood side by side, axes, swords, spears and hammers all thrusting outward, holding the lead ogres at bay. The rest of the column still advanced, passing directly under the elf’s lofty position.

Higher and higher Kerrick scrambled, dropping two flasks along the top of another drift, then planting three at intervals of ten paces in the base of a huge cornice. The crest masked his view of the ogre army, but he could still see the detachment fighting to block the humans from the pass. Moving quickly, he placed his last three flasks at the base of a large shelf of icicle-draped snow.

He heard a scream and looked down to see the ogre queen pointing at him. “The sacred axe! Kill the elf, and return the Axe of Gonnas to his priestess!” she cried.

Moreen lunged at the hulking ogress, her sword flashing. Kerrick gasped in horror as an ogre spearman slipped behind, his brutal weapon poised to strike the chiefwoman in the back. Then Tildey was there, knocking aside the blow, tumbling back as the ogre fist smashed her face. She lay on the snow for an instant, and before she could move the great spear plunged downward, piercing her belly and driving deep into the suddenly crimson snow.

“No!” screamed Moreen. She pulled back her sword, slashed it across the face of the ogre. Bruni added a hammer-blow, and that hulking attacker followed several others on the long tumble down the mountainside. Tildey lay still amid a growing circle of red.

Near the top of the promontory, Kerrick lifted the gold-bladed axe. He twisted the handle, and flames sprang into life. He touched those flames to the flask of warqat he had planted at the crest. Immediately the snow, saturated by the leaking brew, leaped into flames. He ignited the next two flasks, then quickly slipped downward, on the back side of the ridge.

The first explosion shook the valley with a muffled thump, followed almost immediately by two more booms. The icy drift trembled and began to slide. Kerrick was already lighting his lower charges. One after another flames surrounded the bottles, heating the warqat, licking eagerly toward eruption.

The elf climbed to his feet and looked outward, just in time to watch sheets of snow tip forward and roar down.

As the huge slab of snow and ice swept toward the marching ogres, Grimwar Bane knew in a sickening instant his army was doomed.