The Messenger it-1

by Douglas Niles

  More Arktos warriors had reached the fortress in the last few minutes, fighting side by side with the men or going after individual tuskers on their own.

  Tildey had led a group out the gates of the fortress, slaying the few tuskers who had tried to flee through the snow. The archer had gone all the way to the notch overlooking the cove before turning abruptly and heading back at a trot to Brackenrock, leaving four Arktos women standing guard at the pass.

  “I’m worried,” Moreen said. She and Bruni climbed down from the tower and met Tildey in the open gateway of the fortress. Lars Redbeard, his axe stained with tusker blood, also met them there.

  “The ogres,” Tildey announced, trying to catch her breath. “They’re starting up the path. The whole column is on the march, and they’ll be here within two hours.”

  Moreen nodded curtly. She looked at the slopes leading toward the gate, imagining what a charge of ogres could do. Her eyes fell on the narrow notch, where Tildey had posted her four sentries. Tall flanks of rock, each draped with cornices of snow in deep drifts, loomed to either side of the gap, narrowing the pass to a bottleneck.

  “Let’s get most everyone working on getting some kind of barricade across this gate,” the chiefwoman said. “Use whatever we can find.”

  “Good plan, but it’ll take the better part of a day,” Lars noted.

  “I said most of us should work on that. The rest of us will go there, to that narrow pass. It will be up to us to hold the ogres off long enough to seal the gate.”

  “Will you work with me against a common enemy?” asked Strongwind Whalebone

  “I don’t think we have much choice.” Kerrick pointed at the steep slope, where the outline of the ancient road was just barely visible through the snow. “Up there is Brackenrock. You know where the cave is. The Arktos and, I suppose, the rest of your army are holed up in there. You say they were going to climb up to the fortress from inside the mountain?”

  Strongwind explained about the narrow chimney, the hope that Moreen and a small force could rush the castle from within, and lead the rest of the beleaguered humans there to safety.

  “If the ogres get there first, Moreen won’t have a chance.” Kerrick spoke grimly, pointing to the ogres massing outside the cavern. Already they were forming up and filing along the snowy road that gradually ascended toward the fortress, curving up the side of the valley until it disappeared through that lofty notch.

  “That smoke must be some kind of signal.”

  “If we somehow delay the ogres, can the citadel be held against ogre attack?” Kerrick wondered.

  “Yes, as long as most of my men get behind the walls before the ogres do. Brackenrock was impenetrable for generations, before the dragons came. It was the center of a blossoming civilization, and the ogres sent many armies to destroy it but could never breach its high walls. If we can seal off the gate, we can hold the advantage as long as necessary. From the towers we can harass them with bows and spears. But how can we hope to delay so many ogres?”

  “There!” Kerrick said, pointing to a notch beneath the overhanging shelves of snow. “The ogres have to pass through there. If we get there first and get some help from your men, we might be able to hold them up.”

  “As good a plan as any,” Strongwind agreed. He touched the hilt of his sword, secured in the great scabbard strapped to his back. “I have my weapon. What about you?”

  Kerrick picked up the gold-bladed axe. “This will work,” he said grimly.

  Only when he and Strongwind made ready to jump to shore did Kerrick again remember Coraltop Netfisher.

  “Your passenger?” asked the king, seeing the elf look back to the stern and hesitate.

  Kerrick shook his head. “Forget him. He’s gone.” If he was even here in the first place, he added to himself.

  He had maneuvered Cutter to a place directly under the massive shelf of snow. Reluctantly, he abandoned the boat, consoling himself that she couldn’t drift far in the icebound cove. The ogres were on the other side of the bowl-shaped valley, slogging their way along the road that angled gradually upward, though they had yet to travel very far.

  “It’ll be a steep climb,” cautioned the Highlander. “Do you think we can get ahead of them?”

  Kerrick snorted. “I don’t think we have any choice,” he declared. “Anyway, we can go straight up to the notch, and they’ll have to circle around half the valley.” He left unsaid that the ogres would climb a smooth track on a gentle grade, while the human and elf would be going straight up a steep slope strewn with rocky outcroppings.

  Together they jumped onto the snowy shore, the momentum of their leap shooting Cutter slowly toward the middle of the cove. Sinking knee deep into the wet snow, dragging the heavy axe behind him, Kerrick started to climb. Strongwind Whalebone kept pace at his side.

  The snow was wet. At first the elf tried to drag the axe along, but he quickly realized the heavy weight of the weapon made it a liability. He used the long shaft as a climbing pole, jabbing it into the snow.

  “No sense in both of us doing all this work,” Strongwind suggested after a few minutes. “Why don’t you follow me for a while? Use the path I make?”

  The elf found it easier to follow in the human’s bootsteps. Strongwind clawed his way upward with admirable strength, steadily ascending until finally he collapsed, gasping for breath. Kerrick passed him, taking a long stint in the lead. Within a few minutes they had risen as high as the leading rank of the ogre army, still across the valley, like a long, dark snake on the snow-covered trail. No doubt the ogres had spotted the climbing duo, though they hadn’t visibly quickened their pace.

  Once more Strongwind took the lead, and soon they were climbing above the ogres, but the steep grade took its own toll. Before long both again collapsed, gasping for breath, straining to find strength in their leaden limbs.

  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 f
ail.

  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.

  “Forward! Carry the pass!” cried the king, seizing his wife’s arm and pulling her out of the way of the avalanche-which meant lunging almost onto the blades of the furiously resisting humans in the narrow pass. Two of his warriors flanked him, cutting down a Highlander in the king’s path, gaining for Grimwar as small space to stand.

  They made it by inches as the slab plummeted behind. He turned back just in time to see dozens of ogres vanish in the first strike. The avalanche spread, as more of the snow cover broke free and toppled toward them, until it seemed as though the whole mountain was falling. White fury engulfed the slope, a cascade of powder and ice, burying everything in its path.

  The wave of white swept the ogres away as though they were toys. Some of the warriors tried to flee ahead of the catastrophe, tripping and cartwheeling clumsily down the slope. They had little chance. The snow swept down crushingly. So powerful was the avalanche that it tore rocks from the mountainside, mixing these missiles into the mass of snow and ice.

  Grimwar watched in horror, until the ogre beside him fell with a dull groan. He turned back to the battle, the Barkon Sword in his hands, to face an infuriated human woman.

  “This is for my father, you bastard!” she cried, jabbing a sword with remarkable dexterity, a slashing blow that drew blood from the king’s leg. He chopped back, but his blow was unbalanced, hacking only the trampled snow in the pass.

  Another human woman, this one almost as big as an ogre, charged in with a huge hammer raised over her head. One of the king’s warrior’s intercepted her, buying Grimwar precious seconds before falling with a crushed skull. On his other side, Stariz screamed and tumbled against the king, her face gashed by a sword cut, blood spilling through her mouth and onto the snow.

  Everywhere the humans were closing in. A trio of Highlanders cut down the last of Grimwar’s ogre warriors, leaving only the king and queen remaining in the pass. The long slope of churned snow spilled downward behind them, and vengeful men and women closed in from the front.

  Fear propelled Grimwar Bane into the only choice he could make. Seizing his wife by the arm, he pulled her with him, falling back from the pass, slipping and tumbling down the steep mountainside. With Stariz clinging in terror to him, he skidded and plunged and rolled down from the pass toward the bottom of the mountain. After many minutes-it seemed like hours! — both of them splashed into the icy water. In wild panic Grimwar kicked and grasped, feeling the weight of his gold as a cursed anchor. Somehow his hands dug into the snowbank, an
d finally he was able to crawl out of the cove, shivering and soaked. Stariz gasped and cursed at his side. She was still bleeding grotesquely, and he saw that half of her nose had been hacked off.

  All around his warriors were gasping and thrashing in the cove, many of them slipping beneath the water. The avalanche had been relentless, sweeping away the road, smashing through the ogre ranks. Half of the army was gone, wiped out in the first instant of frosty assault.

  Above them now was only a clean, steep mountainside. Around the king were the remains of a proud army, ogres drowning in the water, or clawing their way onto shore. The cove was spotted with floating bodies.

  “We must attack, get revenge!” hissed the queen, leaning over Grimwar and staring into his face. Her eyes, staring from that mask of blood, were wild and terrifying. “They have the Axe of Gonnas! Lead your ogres up there again!”

  “No!” Grimwar roared, with a look so fierce that, for once, even Stariz shrank back. “We will go back to Winterheim and wait for this accursed snow to melt. I told you, this is no time for a campaign!”

  “The Willful One demands, requires vengeance!”

  “I promise you this: Summer will come, and the snow will melt. I will gather the rest of my army from Winterheim, bring reinforcements from Glacierheim and Dracoheim, and demand troops from all of my tribute lords.” Grimwar was making a grand plan already, a design for blood and victory. The humans had thwarted him, but they had not defeated-they would never defeat-him!

  And the elf-that elf-would taste his vengeance!

  “As Gonnas himself is my witness,” Grimwar told Stariz, “we will return and take our revenge.”

  Dimly Kerrick heard the cheers from the gatehouse of Brackenrock. Moreen embraced him, and he was touched to see tears in her eyes. She turned to the Highlander king, meeting his abashed look icily.

  “You’re don’t know how lucky you are. Killing him would have made me hate you forever. Our tribe owes our very survival to him.”