“Up the coast again today?” Bruni asked cheerfully, coming up to the pair. The big woman carried a pack twice as large as anyone else’s, with a bundle of harpoons and spears lashed crossways to the top that gave her the appearance of some great, antlered beast.
“Yes. A few more days, maybe a week, along here.”
Bruni narrowed her eyes shrewdly. “My grandfather told me once of an old ruin, a place built by the Arktos in generations past. What was it called, again?”
“Brackenrock?” Garta said in surprise. “You’re not taking us there, are you?”
Moreen sighed. “The thought had crossed my mind.”
“But-but even if it exists, it was taken over by monsters! Dragons!” Garta’s round face was a picture of astonishment, then she blinked and lowered her eyes. “I mean, I’m not trying to question your judgment, but what are you thinking?”
“First, I believe Brackenrock exists. Dinekki saw it in a vision, and we have to trust the guidance of Chislev Wilder. Dinekki could see it, up on the hills above the water. Steam was rising from several vents, so perhaps the legends are true, and Brackenrock stays warm all winter, even through the Sturmfrost.”
“What about the dragons? What about the Scattering? What about the risks of going there?”
“Dinekki also says that there are no dragons there. I trust her. Chislev protect us-we’ll find a way to make it.”
“Moreen! Come quick!” Little Mouse was running towards them along the hilltop above the beach.
“What is it now?” she snapped, more irritably than she intended.
“It’s that Highlander. He’s back again, with two dozen warriors. He wants to talk to you again.”
Lars Redbeard again wore the great wolfskin cloak, with the lupine head, jaws agape, resting like a crown on his scalp. He was waiting for Moreen on the next hill, with his band of fur-clad spearmen.
Little Mouse and Bruni accompanied the chiefwoman, who stopped twenty paces short of the sub-chief and crossed her arms over her chest.
“I bring you greetings from Strongwind Whalebone, king of Icereach.”
“Send the ‘king’ my greetings in return.” She couldn’t keep the irony out of her voice. Who was this Strongwind Whalebone, who thought he was a monarch of all Icereach?
“Hear me, Moreen Seal-Slayer.”
“She is Moreen Chiefwoman now,” Bruni chided. “Daughter of Redfist Bayguard, and heir to the Black Bearskin.”
Redbeard’s eyes widened, and he bowed stiffly from the waist. Moreen wasn’t sure if she was being mocked or not. “I bring you another invitation from Strongwind Whalebone-he desires that you come to Guildgerglow to meet with him.”
“My answer remains the same,” Moreen retorted. “My tribe is here, and they need me. If Strongwind Whalebone wants to meet with me, he should come to the coast. We will not walk too fast for him to catch us,” she added with a snort.
“We realize that we insulted you before, that we erred with clumsy words. Strongwind Whalebone admits his mistakes and tries to learn from them. To this end he has authorized a gift, something he alone can offer.”
Lars Redbeard gestured, and one of his men came forward with a small, but obviously very heavy, box. He set it down on a flat rock and lifted the top to reveal a stack of gleaming gold coins.
“This treasure is considerable, enough to justify a noble rank among our people. My king offers it to you as proof of his honor and his good intentions. Will you accept his gift and accompany me to his castle?”
“What need have I of the yellow metal?” snapped Moreen.
Lars Redbeard did not seem to take offense. “Why, everyone has a use for gold,” he replied earnestly. “You can use it for barter or for ornamentation!”
“It’s too heavy-it would make more sense for you to give us food,” replied the chiefwoman.
“Oh, I think we might accept the king’s gift,” Bruni said gently.
Moreen looked into the strongbox, impressed in spite of herself. The yellow metal had a beauty, a purity, a seductive gleam, she had to admit. She felt angry at her weakness, glared at Bruni, and once again shook her head firmly. “No-thank you.”
The emissary stiffened and cleared his throat. “It is important. You must come with me.”
“Why, you big wolf!” snapped Little Mouse, stepping between Bruni and Moreen to glare up at the Highlander. “You can’t talk to my chiefwoman that way!”
He took another step forward as Lars Redbeard narrowed his eyes menacingly. Despite the bulk of her heavy pack, Bruni leaned down and snatched the lad by his tunic, pulling him back.
Moreen was glad for the momentary distraction. She felt trapped, uncertain.
“I know you are concerned for your people,” Lars continued. “I give you my word-they will be safe. They will be under the protection of my warriors.” He gestured behind him, though his eyes never left the chiefwoman’s face. “Look, we have brought food and furs, enough to greatly improve the comfort of your tribe.”
For the first time Moreen noticed the large bundles that were sitting on the ground just beyond the party of Highlanders. She saw sheepskins and several large white bear pelts. There were a number of stout casks, as well as bags bulging with what she supposed must be grains or dried food. She had spoken too rashly. Surely these were well-intended gifts.
Her eyes also took in the strangers’ clubs and axes, the stout spears and several great longbows outfitting the band. Finally she made her decision.
“Let me see the bounty you have brought,” she declared imperiously, striding past Lars Redbeard to look at the food and furs scattered on the ground.
She knelt and touched a sheepskin. The wool was soft and clean, the leather expertly tanned-this one pelt alone might mean the difference between life and death for one of the Arktos children. She quickly saw that the sacks were full of edibles. She smelled barley, saw the pebbly outlines of dried berries. Two of the casks had the glossy sheen and briny stink of fish oil, another valuable commodity, while a third, with a distinct smell of its own, undoubtedly contained warqat, the pungent brew the Highlanders reportedly consumed by the barrelful to while away the boredom of winter.
If this was a trick, it was a very generous one.
“Very well,” she declared, standing up and looking frankly at Lars Redbeard. She was surprised, and secretly pleased, at the palpable relief flooding his features. “I will visit King Strongwind Whalebone of the Highlanders. You may tell him that Moreen Bayguard, chief of the Arktos, agrees to be his guest.”
As soon as they came through the pass on the inland ridge, Moreen knew that “village” was a clear misnomer for the Highlander stronghold. Indeed, she had never seen, nor even imagined, such a sprawling and solid-looking community. Most of Guilderglow was concealed by a lofty stone wall, but she could see towers, several smoking chimneys, and a great blockhouse of a building all rising beyond the rampart. The near slopes were scored with regular terraces, autumn brown now but showing the last hints of summer colors. The shallow valley before them sparkled with ponds and streams. She paused, not just because she was out of breath but to take in the view and wonder, once again, whether she was doing the right thing.
“Quite a place, don’t you think?” Lars Redbeard said.
“I know I’ve never seen the like,” Bruni admitted, saving Moreen the task of muttering her impressions.
The two women had been escorted here by four of the Highlanders, while the rest of Redbeard’s band had stayed with the Arktos. They agreed to keep moving northward while she took this detour inland, a trek that had required four days, most of the journey uphill.
“We’ll rest up here for a bit,” Strongwind’s emissary said. “That climb up to the pass takes a lot out of even a veteran Highlander. I admit, the two of you did very well.”
Moreen, who wanted nothing more than to collapse on the ground and gasp for breath, nodded gravely. “I can see why these are called the Highlands,” she said, then immediate
ly wished she hadn’t said anything so obvious and foolish.
Indeed, they were surrounded by an array of dazzling mountain peaks. Some of the summits rose like stony needles into the sky, with great slabs of bare cliff plummeting down every side. Lofty cornices of snow curled like graceful decorations upon their unattainable heights. Other mountains were domed and more gradual of slope, but every bit as high in their elevations, often laced with dazzling snowfields and great, crevassed swaths of glacier. The autumn sun was low, but even in the limited light the effect was nearly blinding. She could only imagine this vista under the brilliant glare of summer’s sun.
It seemed strangely incongruous to see such a wintry landscape and at the same time wide pastures and irrigated fields below the walls of Guilderglow.
“Those are the Scarred Rocks.”
Lars pointed to a tangle of dark stone on the valley floor. The route down from the pass led into the maze, where it twisted and curled this way and that before emerging to climb terraced slopes on the far side.
“Our first line of defense,” the Highlander said. “Any army coming to attack us must force its way through traps and ambushes and many other obstacles.”
“I will remember that, in case my meeting with your king does not go smoothly.” Moreen was immediately aware that her words were bluster. Seeing Guilderglow she could think of Strongwind Whalebone as a king, and her fears were reawakened.
It amazed her to observe white specks dotting the pastures-thousands of sheep, all within her field of view. Lower down, where the ground was marshy, she spotted herds of large brown cattle. How much firewood did it take to account for the black columns of smoke rising from so many chimneys?
“Are you rested, ready to go the rest of the way?” asked Lars Redbeard solicitously.
“Yes,” the chiefwoman replied, wishing desperately that she had her grandfather’s black bear cloak or some visible symbol of her leadership status. She felt very plain, ordinary, but there was nothing to do but continue onward. “Yes,” she repeated. “Let us go and meet the king of the Highlanders.”
Shaggy, fox-faced dogs ran everywhere, chasing children or being chased in return. The stink of manure and sweat and soot permeated the air, the walls and, apparently, the people. It cloyed so thickly in Moreen’s nostrils that she knew she would be smelling it for days after she left Guilderglow.
From a great, blocky building she heard hammering and shouting, and Lars told her this was a smelter, where men broke up coal for burning, and extracted gold from precious ore. The great city gates had opened wide for their approach. The chiefwoman was acutely conscious of the stares of bearded scowling men and suspicious scowling women who thronged both sides of the narrow street or looked down from the balconies that seemed to line the front of every house.
The road crested a little hill, then descended steeply to cross a shallow stream over a stone bridge. On one side of the bridge loomed a tall mill, waterwheel churning, while the other had a porch with many benches and tables. Here Highlanders, all of them men except for some serving wenches, sat hunched over mugs of warqat. They watched her pass with unreadable expressions.
Looking down, she noticed that the shallow water below the bridge was brown, spotted with refuse. Every space of land within the city walls seemed crammed with overuse: tiny, walled yards filled with linens hanging in the sun; houses that crowded together and loomed surprisingly high, with frail balconies leaning over the muddy street. From the gutters the stink of sewage was abominable.
They reached the next crest and she saw, lying ahead, the castle of King Strongwind. It occupied a low knoll in the midst of the city’s rolling terrain. Its wall was higher than the city wall, though it had several wide gaps revealing the courtyard and royal buildings. Judging by the scaffolding, the great stacks of stone already cut into blocks, Moreen deduced that the royal domicile was a work in progress.
The little party strolled through the uncompleted gate in the castle perimeter, and the chiefwoman was stunned as she caught sight of the huge doors leading into the keep.
“Are those solid gold?” she asked, in spite of her determination to keep her amazement to herself.
“Solid gold. Each weighs many tons,” Lars said proudly. “Strongwind Whalebone had them carved with his own crest.”
That crest, she saw, was a long-hafted battle axe crossed with a great spear, the combination crowned by the antlered head of a massive elk. However, the raised pattern on smooth metal was crudely rendered. Moreen had seen Dinekki, even after her hands had become gnarled with age, do finer work on an ivory carving.
The mighty doors rumbled outward on tracks that vibrated with enough force that Moreen could feel it underfoot. They parted to reveal a great hall, with a lofty, arched ceiling and a dozen or more stout wooden columns lining each wall. These pillars held several sconces, and bright oil lamps were suspended from each, combining to cast a brilliant glow through the middle of the great chamber. The far end remained shadowed.
Many people stood behind these columns, watching with the same surly expressions she had sensed from the folk in the city. The main difference here was that these people, in dyed woolen capes and gowns, feathered caps, oil-polished boots and sandals, were much better dressed than those she’d encountered amid the city streets.
The center of the hall was empty, except for a carpet of white bearskin extending like a line into the shadows at the far end. Her eyes were drawn to a lofty chair. More lights flared into existence-magical globes that floated in the air, ignited perfectly on cue, to reveal the great man himself, sitting high up in his thrown and looking down upon the small party advancing along the bearskin carpet. A great helm, with a rack of elk antlers crowning a metal cap, adorned his head, and his yellow beard was thick, with the ends braided into twin strands. He wore gold chains around his neck, gold bracelets on his wrists, and his boots were bright with gold buckles.
Everything about this place, she suddenly realized, was designed to flaunt his greatness, and she found herself wondering: How great can he really be that he needs this exaggeration to awe me?
She came to a stop below the lofty throne. She was only vaguely aware that Lars and Bruni had stopped somewhere behind her. Her mounting irritation, as it so often did, found its way to her tongue.
“Are you Strongwind Whalebone?” she demanded. “I can hardly see you way up there!”
She heard gasps and mutters from the surrounding galleries, and footsteps behind her indicated that Lars Redbeard was hastening forward. Those footsteps ceased when Strongwind held up a hand glittering with gold rings. Moreen was startled to see amusement sparkling in his eyes, which-now that she looked closely-were a rather appealing shade of light blue.
“I had better climb down, then” he said mildly, scrambling out of the big chair and down the several steps to the floor with surprising ease-surprising, considering the full weight of gold that was draped about his person, his wardrobe, including the massive, antlered, solid-gold-seeming helm. “I greet you, Moreen Bayguard, chief of the Arktos.”
There were some snickers at his words, but the king-she couldn’t help now but think of him as a king-glared sternly into the galleries, and the rebuked fell instantly silent.
“And I greet you, Strongwind Whalebone, King of the Highlanders.”
“Thank you for coming to see me,” he said, and he sounded genuinely grateful. “I know this has been a tragic year for your people, and I want you to know that you have my sympathy and my support.”
Moreen was suddenly glad she had come. To her, the Highlanders had always been strange and vaguely frightening beings whom the Arktos had encountered only rarely. Sometimes these meetings resulted in trade, sometimes in violence, but never had she stopped to consider that the Highlanders were humans like herself.
“Please, may I have the honor of showing you my castle?” inquired the king, with a tone of utmost respect. He gestured toward a door in the side of the great hall.
�
�I would be greatly interested,” Moreen replied sincerely. He extended his arm and, after a moment’s hesitation, she put her hand on his elbow. The courtiers in their path scurried out of the way as he led her away, and the door closed behind them. She felt stronger, somehow, emboldened by the fact that they were now beyond the hostile scrutiny of his citizens.
They went down a long, partially open hallway, meeting only a few servants who scuttled, eyes downcast, out of the way. To their left was a series of columns, beyond which lay a small courtyard. Moreen took in an array of laundry tubs and saw a large cage where dogs barked and yelped, scampering back and forth as they spotted the king.
“My pack,” the king said proudly. “They pull sleds over the snow in the winter and chase game during the warmer months.” He indicated the antlers that hung so ostentatiously from his helm. “It was my dogs that brought this stag to bay, though I myself took it with a spearcast.”
They went into a square, stone-walled building where he proudly showed her his mint, where molten gold was poured into molds, shaped into small bars with the emblem of the weapons and antlers embossed on each. This was a dark, sooty place, with a scent of smoke that stung Moreen’s nostrils, but she listened politely as he showed her the melting vats and the great, coal-fired furnaces that melted metal. The woman had not seen coal before, but she nodded and watched as the firetenders shoveled the stuff into the great roaring maw. Even from across the room she could feel the tremendous heat, knew that this was a blaze hotter than any fueled by wood or charcoal.
“We mine gold from the highland valleys above Guilderglow,” explained Strongwind. “We possess the richest ore-fields in all the Icereach.”
“This gold is why you call yourself king of Icereach?” Moreen asked bluntly.
The monarch scowled, momentarily irritated. “No! It has helped me to ensure that the other lords appreciate my status,” he admitted. “Here, let me show you something in my map room.”
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