The Messenger it-1 Page 7

  “You will have it, my son, a golden prize when you have reached your adulthood, and it may give you the strength to face the trials that will inevitably come your way. But always treat it with caution and respect, for it also has the power to weaken and destroy.”

  Before Kerrick could attain that mystical rank-“adulthood,” to an elf, came some time in the seventh or eighth decade of life-he entered the palace of House Royal to begin his studies in earnest. Setting aside the toy sword of his childhood, he said farewell to his mother. He could still remember her carefully restrained tears as he passed through the gates of the great capital to begin service as a page in the court of the great King Nethas. How eager he had been to go-he was too quick to break off those final embraces, too much in a rush to race across the drawbridge and enter a new world.

  For three years he had lived the courtly life, learning of Silvanesti’s heralded past, her station as the greatest nation in the history of Krynn. He thrilled to the tales of the great dragon wars in which ogres, even more than the great winged serpents, threatened the existence of his homeland. The most recent of these had been barely four centuries earlier, when the elven armies-with some aid, admittedly, from the human hero called Huma-had turned the tide of evil and preserved Krynn for the enlightened races. At that time, the eternal plague of the world, dragons, had been banished forever, and a new age, marked by human ascension, swept over the world. For the reclusive elves of Silvanesti, life returned to the pattern of yore. They neither traded with nor worried about the humans beyond their borders.

  In the royal palace the masters of House Protector also taught him and the other pages the vital art of swordsmanship. Kerrick excelled in weaponry and was eventually awarded the fine steel blade now hanging in his cabin. Upon his promotion from page to squire even the king took note of the pleasant young elf. Nethas remarked that Kerrick was proving to be a worthy inheritor of his father’s name. Following that ceremony, which Dimorian and his wife attended, his father had announced that he was embarking on a great quest, pursuing a mystery as ancient as Silvanesti.

  Was there a fabled land of gold somewhere over the sea? One of Dimorian’s mates had convinced him that the question was worth a vigorous quest. So he bade his son farewell and embarked, seeking gold in the name of his family and his king.

  There came a long year, and after that, a cold and sunless progression of winter after winter after winter. Kerrick had been reluctant to face the truth, though others whispered it and some, cruel and arrogant young men of Waykand Isleletter’s ilk, had spoken it boldly to his face until reality could no longer be denied.

  Dimorian Fallabrine would not be coming home.

  For twelve years there had been no word, nothing, though even then Kerrick refused to accept the worst. One day, however, he was told to meet someone in the garden below his apartment. He could still remember the dour figure of Tartaniad, master of the royal squires, waiting near the central fountain. The water splashed like raindrops as Kerrick halted, then approached the elf who had been a teacher, mentor, and friend to him, in the king’s court.

  Tartaniad held out a small circle of gold, though at first Kerrick didn’t understand.

  “This was something your father left. He wanted you to have it as you reached manhood.”

  “A ring?” Kerrick said, somehow forcing out the words.

  “Yes.”

  The elf reached out to take the circlet. He recognized the pattern-oak leaves-carved into the surface, felt the heavy weight of the heirloom as he cradled it in his palm.

  “From who? How did you come by it now?” he asked.

  “It was left in the temple of Zivilyn Greentree by your father before he departed on his last voyage. The high priest was instructed to hold it in trust for Dimorian, until the event of his return. Or until such time as his auguries indicated that your father would not ever be coming home.”

  He had looked at the ring, seen the intricate pattern of oak leaves, felt the warm enchantment that he would come to associate with the band of thick, yellow metal, and at last he had accepted that his father would never return.

  “Your father insisted that, should the ring be given to you, it must also be delivered with a warning,” Tartaniad noted.

  “What warning?”

  The courtier drew a breath and closed his eyes, remembering the exact words. “You must not wear the ring, unless your life is in imminent danger. It can give you the strength to survive great peril-but if you wear it too much, it can also sap your life.”

  “I understand … and thank you,” Kerrick had said, though in fact he wasn’t sure what his father meant. He took the warning seriously, resolving to cherish the ring but never to wear it unless, as his father had said, his life was in “imminent danger.”

  He was restless in his grief, and finally he sought and received the king’s permission to embark in Cutter, the small boat that had been his father’s first vessel. For a time he made his way back and forth on small coastal voyages, until finally he set himself on the solo voyage to Tarsis, a journey that took him more than a year to complete. When at last he returned to the palace, he was welcomed back to court and rewarded by the king’s proclamation.

  His eyes fell again upon the silken sheet in his hands, the ink smearing, the lettering even more obscured by drops of water. Whether this was spray coming over the side, or tears dropping from his own eyes, he could no longer be sure.

  How many times had he tried to imagine his mother and father in the depths of the Courrain Ocean? How much had they suffered? Had pirates slain them? Or had some ravenous sea-monster brought them to doom? Perhaps Silvanos Oak had merely gone down in a storm, though he found that unthinkable.

  He had wondered about all this countless times before. Whenever he was alone in the boat such questions seemed to bubble up from the depths. On his voyage to Tarsis-that “solitary voyage ranking high in the annals of elven seamanship” as the king himself had proclaimed-there had been times when he felt as if his father was at the tiller right beside him. He had often imagined his mother busy at the cookstove. Once he woke up to the smell of oats boiling and leaped up to throw open the hatch-only to be confronted by an empty galley, a cold stove, nobody.

  Perhaps the long months on that lonely journey had changed him. In any event, after he returned home and received the king’s honor, he found himself drifting into a new, irresponsible kind of life. He laughed off the slights of those who fancied themselves his betters and allowed himself to be drawn into the lively circle of Silvanost’s high society. His good looks, newly won and slightly notorious reputation, along with his demeanor of cool calm, attracted many women, and he enjoyed romances with a long string of willing lovers. His conquests included certain wives of other elves as well as many a virginal maiden-though few were as appealing as Gloryian Diradar. Their affair had lasted better than half a year, at a pitch of high passion until-he snorted in wry amusement as he remembered-it had been ended in passionate acts of a different kind.

  Did he hate Patrikan Diradar, and Darnari and Waykand? Not to mention Gloryian herself for her utter reversal of affection? He supposed that he could, but now it seemed like too much work to muster up any emotion.

  Indeed, every action was tiring. Even his head seemed like a leaden weight. He was exhausted, woozy. Once more pain suffused him. He forced himself to rise, enter the cabin, and collapse on the bunk. He saw the little strongbox and remembered the proclamation from the king-he had left it in the cockpit, beside the tiller.

  He remembered right where he had put it, but when he left the cabin he could see that it was already gone-probably snatched away by a gust of wind. Surprisingly enough, he didn’t care about that, either.

  6

  Warriors of Bayguard

  Tuskers! I saw a whole tribe of them on the beach!” Little Mouse came sprinting up, his voice breaking with excitement. He was panting and staggering by the time he halted before Moreen and Bruni.

  “Where
on the beach?” asked the chieftain’s daughter. “How far away?”

  “Two miles, maybe more,” gasped the youth. He pointed to the north, toward the rim of coastal hills that stood between the little band of Arktos and the blue waters of the White Bear Sea.

  “What were you doing over there?” Garta demanded, coming up behind the other two women. “You told me you were looking for berries in the marsh downstream!”

  “I didn’t find any,” the lad said defiantly. “And, well, I just kept walking and looking. I wanted to see where the stream went, and maybe I hoped I’d find some berries farther down. So I went to the shore.”

  “All the way to the beach?” Garta’s stern face was locked into a ferocious scowl. “If you remember, one of the reasons Moreen took us inland was so that we could scout these upcountry marshes for food! Why, if your father was here-”

  Little Mouse still had that defiant look, but suddenly he blinked and sniffled, looking down. “I’m sorry,” he said, to no one in particular. “I know it was careless-”

  “Also pretty brave,” Bruni said, clapping a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “In truth you did us a favor, finding those brutes before we wandered past them-or right into them. Your father”-she cast an accusing glance at Garta-“would be proud.”

  “Did they see you?” Moreen asked.

  “No-I don’t think … I’m sure they didn’t,” Mouse replied, his swagger returning. “I saw them from the cut where the stream flowed out of the hills, but I stayed up on top. I did try to get a little closer to count them and see what they were doing.”

  “What did you find out?” asked Bruni.

  “There are a dozen of them-big ones. They look like warriors-they have spears and axes. They were cutting up a whale that they had pulled up onto the beach. They just got started. Mostly it still has the skin on. I think it will take them a few days to finish.”

  “Good work,” replied the big woman, while Moreen nodded in confirmation.

  The chieftain’s daughter was trying to absorb the news, remembering Dinekki’s prophecy-which had warned of tuskers. She turned to look at her people, who were going about the business of preparing the evening meal. Several small fires, kindled from the brush in the nearby marshes, glowed in shallow pits, and the old women were stringing pieces of seal meat onto sticks for roasting. Augmented by a few fish, meat from a big turtle, and some berries, they were preparing the same meal that had sustained the Arktos every day for a month, since the day Moreen had sent the Highlander emissary retreating back to his “king.”

  She knew that she would have to kill dozens more seals before she could come close to the amount of meat they could strip from a single whale. Of course, under their own devices, lacking kayaks and many skilled hunters, they had no way of even looking for a whale, much less bringing one to shore. But now, perhaps, Chislev had seen that someone else had taken care of the first part of that job.

  “There were tuskers with the ogres that sacked Bayguard.” Bruni pointed out, although the thought that had already occurred to Moreen. “I would like the chance for revenge.”

  “I would too,” agreed Tildey, who had come forward to join the trio.

  “I can show you where they are!” Little Mouse offered enthusiastically. “We can sneak up really close on the hill, and charge down to take them by surprise!”

  “A dozen of them?” The chieftain’s daughter tried to be realistic. “We have barely that many spears among us and not many people who are strong enough to throw one and to fight.” Privately, she doubted the warrior abilities of any of the women, save perhaps Bruni and herself. A full-grown thanoi warrior was a formidable opponent. Surely the safest, the sanest, thing was to pack up their camp and move deeper inland, giving the walrus-men a wide berth.

  But Moreen was surprised to realize how badly she desired that whale and how much she hated the thought of barbaric thanoi on this, the Arktos’ shore.

  Dinekki, her wobbly legs aided by the support of a slender staff, came up to them. Moreen was acutely conscious of the rest of the tribe, the women and the elders and the children, all watching the group of leaders with interested, concerned eyes. She recounted what Little Mouse had seen when the shaman cut off further words with a sharp gesture.

  “Tuskers, eh?” she grunted, with a smack of her toothless gums. “I thought so-could smell that fishy stink from clear over here. So what’re you going to do about ’em?”

  She asked the question directly of Moreen, and in that instant the chieftain’s daughter understood: It really was her decision to make. The tribe, those who survived, looked to her. A glance at grim-faced Bruni and Tildey told her that they wanted to follow her into a fight. What would the others think? How would they fare?

  She thought of the winter that was drawing inevitably closer, the lightless, implacable Sturmfrost that would roar out of the south as the sun vanished for the season. Already it was autumn. The nights were as long as the days, the hours of darkness characterized by a penetrating chill. Her dream of Brackenrock had kept her going, driving her people on toward the north, but they remained woefully unprepared for winter. What would happen if they bypassed the tuskers, and the walrus-men, some time later, came upon the Arktos, surprised them as they had the option to do now.

  “We don’t have any choice,” she declared curtly. “We’ll attack them. Tonight.”

  She lay on the crest of the hill, staring with unblinking intensity at the beach below. Bruni, Tildey, and Little Mouse were beside her, while another score of tribeswomen, burdened with their unfamiliar spears and harpoons, waited farther down the slope in the shelter of a narrow ravine.

  Despite the busy presence of the menacing walrus-men, Moreen’s eyes were drawn irresistibly toward the carcass of the whale. It was a medium-sized gray, but it dwarfed the tusked warriors. Not even half skinned, the giant mammal presented a flank of gory blood and fresh, sumptuous meat. The tuskers had apparently spent the day cutting back the skin, and had not yet begun to carve away the actual flesh.

  “Bah-they don’t even know how to dry the hide,” Tildey whispered contemptuously. “We’ve got to get down there soon before it starts to rot.”

  “I think the tuskers themselves are a more immediate problem,” Moreen said wryly, trying to cover up her nervousness with an air of calm.

  She looked out to sea, toward the northwestern horizon. The sun was low, only a handspan above the world’s rim, but during these days of early autumn it would descend at a gradual angle, moving farther west as it finally set. Even after it disappeared from view, a bright twilight would linger for a long time, leaving another three hours before full darkness.

  Moreen tried to think. Counting three women from the Goosepond tribe and Little Mouse, there were twenty-four in her battle troop-twice as many humans as tuskers. However, as she watched a monstrous figure stroll around the whale’s head, she was reminded of the strength and fierceness of their foes.

  The brutes were each as tall as a huge human and walked upright with long, clawed toes on webbed feet. Their arms were muscular and dangled almost to the knees. The only clothing on their streamlined bodies were strips of whaleskin around the loins. Most hideous of all were their bestial faces. Even from her distant vantage Moreen shuddered as she noted their broad nostrils, sloped foreheads, and beady, shadowed eyes. She could see clearly their vicious tusks, twin prongs of ivory that curled down and forward from the beasts’ upper jaws.

  “There are their weapons,” Little Mouse whispered, pointing to a patch of beach ten paces inland from the whale’s body. They could see a bundle of sticks, tipped with stone heads, that were the tusker spears. Next to those were several axes, also headed with stone, mounted on stout handles.

  Moreen nodded. Already she had considered and rejected several plans, and now she had seen everything she needed to see. “All right,” she replied softly. “Let’s get back to the ravine.”

  “Are we going wait to attack them until it’s darker?” asked Til
dey.

  “No.” Moreen shook her head, noting the disappointment on her companion’s faces. She explained further. “No. We’re going to start this fight just as soon as we possibly can.”

  A half hour later, Dinekki finished dabbing ritual paint on the faces of the warrior women.

  “How many arrows do you have?” the chieftain’s daughter asked Tildey.

  “A full score,” she replied, “but it will take a lucky shot to kill one of those creatures, at least from the hilltop.”

  “You don’t have to kill them, at least not at first,” Moreen explained. “The important thing is that you get their attention.”

  “That, I can do,” agreed the archer.

  “Now, does everyone have a weapon-a spear or a club?” asked the chieftain’s daughter.

  “I don’t,” Little Mouse piped up, “but that’s okay-I’ll just grab a spear from the first dead tusker.”

  “You’ll do no such thing!” snapped Garta, who looked decidedly unmotherly with a great, knobbed club clutched in her plump hands. “You’ll do as we discussed and wait back here until we’re finished.”

  “How is that fair? I’m the one who found the tuskers!” Mouse protested.

  “Who said life had to be fair?” retorted Moreen, thinking that she suddenly sounded very much like her father. “Garta is right-you can’t be up close where you might get hurt.”

  “Well, at least let me come to the hilltop,” pleaded the youth, his black hair hanging almost in his dark eyes. “I can keep a lookout behind you-and I’d be just as safe there as hiding back in this stupid ravine.”

  Garta looked at Moreen, and again the cheiftain’s daughter made the decision. “All right, you can come that far with us. No closer, and don’t you dare get in the way.”

  “I promise!” agreed Mouse.