Steel and Stone (22 page)

T
HE GIRL’S FACE, LIKE THAT OF HER OLDER BROTHER
, was dirty with soot and walrus grease, rubbed in by their mother early that day to ease the bite of the cold wind that swept across the Icereach.

“Haudo,” she whispered to her brother, her black eyes bright with the delight of her idea. “I am an ice bear.” She stretched her fur-mittened hands far above her head, warm in its sealskin hood with seabird-feather trim. She emitted an approximation of the polar bear’s roar. Then she giggled.

But Haudo frowned. “We must never mimic the ice bear, Terve,” he reminded her with the pedantic tone that was second nature to older brothers. “He is the
grandfather of this land, and we must honor him.”

Terve sulked. “You are a spoilsport, Haudo. I wish I’d stayed home.”

Haudo sighed. “You pestered me to come along until Father ordered me to take you. I told him you were too little. I told Father you’d get tired, that you’d be no help at all. But they wanted you out of the way so that they could braid sealskin into ropes in peace for once, so I—”

“That’s not true! I can too help find the frostreaver ice!”

“Then do it,” Haudo grumbled. “And for once in your eight winters, Little Sister, be silent while you do something.”

“You have only four winters more than me, Brother,” Terve complained, but she held her tongue for a short time after that. The boy and girl poked through the litter around Reaver’s Rock, an outcropping of densely frozen ice an hour’s ride from their camp by iceboat. Their boat lay on its side a short distance away, its large sail flat against the ice and its long, wooden runners shiny. The packed ice of the Icereach was slick enough here to permit the use of the Ice Folk’s traditional form of transport, although buckling of the snow and ice and occasional crevasses that had filled with drifting snow made the way treacherous. From here, the Icereach seemed to undulate in gentle hills; Haudo could barely see the smoke from the peat fires of his home village.

The Ice Folk boy probed at the base of the gigantic outcropping, looking for slivers of reaver ice dislodged by frost heaving. The steel-hard material could be fashioned into hide scrapers, small knives, even into sewing and knitting needles, although only the Revered Cleric could supervise the gathering of
the large chunks suitable to become The People’s traditional weapon, the battle-ax known as a frostreaver. Terve wrapped even the tiniest shards in tanned seabird skins and laid them reverently in the basket she’d woven from strips of walrus gut.

Inevitably Terve piped up again. “Why do The People call it Reaver’s Rock, Haudo? Who was Reaver? And this is ice, not rock.”

Haudo grinned at the shortness of his sister’s self-imposed silence, but he answered gently. Haudo was of the Storyteller Clan; it was his role in life to memorize the thousands of tales that made up the oral history of the Ice Folk. This telling of the Reaver’s tale would be good practice, even though little Terve had surely heard the story dozens of times. And a tale would help pass the time.

He puffed out his chest, took a deep breath, mimicked the storytelling stance of his father, and began, following the ritual of his clan. “The elders say The People can see the edges of the world from the top of Reaver’s Rock. And that all they can see is theirs, as it always has been and always will be, to be shared only with the ice bear. So say the elders.”

“Let’s go, then, Haudo!” Terve squealed. “Let’s climb to the top!”

Haudo glared at her. “It is unseemly for someone to interrupt the telling of a Tale of Origin,” he reminded her loftily. Terve grew silent. “Anyway,” he added in ill-humor, “no one’s been to the top of Reaver’s Rock. It’s too slippery.”

Terve opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again after a nasty look from her brother. Feigning nonchalance, she pulled a snack of fresh raw fish from a packet and munched it. Haudo resumed his tale.

“Many, many winters past, the great polar bear that
shaped the lands of The People placed here, at this very spot, a holy gift, a fruitful place.” Haudo repeated that last phrase. It sounded so grown-up. “A holy gift, a fruitful place. A place that would hold the polar bear’s gift of reaver ice, the dense ice from which The People would fashion, with much prayer and singing, the frostreaver. The frostreaver, weapon feared by the enemies of The People, is the gift of the polar bear.”

“You said that, Haudo.” Two frown lines broke the smoothness of the smudged skin between Terve’s eyes.

Haudo closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. When he finished exhaling, he was outwardly calm. “For centuries, The People have gone to the secret places along Icewall Glacier to harvest the ice, to bring to their tribes the material that only the tribes’ Revered Cleric can fashion into the frostreavers. Such is the intricacy of these weapons that each one takes a month to fashion.”

“I know that, Brother,” Terve muttered.

“The frostreaver is the gift of the polar bear,” he reiterated, just to annoy her. “The frostreaver is the only weapon that will stave off the bull men and thanoi, foes of The People.”

Terve looked around her and shivered. The mention of the walrus men and the minotaurs, who made periodic forays into the Icereach to steal slaves and sealskins, sent her edging a little closer to her big brother. Haudo pretended not to notice. He continued his tale of the ice bear, the reavers, and the debt that The People owed to the polar bears. No Ice Folk man or woman would slay a polar bear; the one who did, even accidentally, owed the bear’s spirit seven days of fasting and prayer and many gifts.

“Haudo.” Terve spoke quietly for once.

“Terve,” he complained, “I’m trying—”

“Haudo, The People don’t need great fires to make the skin ropes, do they?”

“What?” Without moving, Haudo absorbed the growing fear in his sister’s eyes. Then he turned around and faced the wind, to where the fires of his people had sent thin spires of smoke into the southern air only a short time before.

Now the air was black with smoke. Even this far away, Haudo could smell burning fur and skins. He could have sworn, too, that he heard screams, but of course that was impossible.

“Haudo?” Terve was suddenly standing, pressed against him. He placed an arm around his little sister’s shoulders. She’s too little to be motherless, he thought. “We must go to the iceboat, Terve.”

“What has happened?” Terve was on the verge of tears, but a child of The People does not cry easily. She still clutched her basket of reaver shards.

“We will see, Little Sister.” He righted the boat, helped Terve into it, and set the sail. Soon he was running alongside, guiding it onto the packed snow, then leaping into the iceboat when the sail caught the wind. They sped silently toward the smoking village.

Haudo pulled up the iceboat and hid it behind a ridge of mounded snow. The village was a short distance away, behind the ridge. “Stay here,” he ordered Terve.

The twelve-year-old boy crept along the back of the ridge, remembering everything his father had told him about tracking game: Heed your nose and heed your ears. They will tell you as much as your eyes. Even before he slipped his head above the ridge, he smelled the acrid stench of the minotaurs. He caught, also, the greasy fish smell of the thanoi, the walrus men, who contended, against the proof of thousands
of years of legend, that the Icereach was theirs, not The People’s. And Haudo smelled something else—a nasty odor of garbage and rancid meat. Then he peered at his village, barely keeping from coughing in the smoky haze, and his breath caught in his throat. “Two-headed beasts!” he whispered.

He wanted to jump back, to avoid seeing the image he knew would never vanish from his mind. His kinsmen, his friends, lay sprawled in death on the blood-soaked snow. Minotaurs, walrus men, and the two-headed monsters brought body after body forth from iceblock huts and skin tents. A few bodies twitched. An old man moaned, and one of the two-headed brutes hurried over, waving a spiked club over its head.

Overseeing it all was the robed figure of a man, silhouetted against the southern sky.

As quietly as he’d ever moved in hunting seal or walrus, Haudo raced through the shadow of the snow ridge to the iceboat and Terve. The little girl, for once, had followed orders. She sat huddled in the boat. Haudo said only, “We must leave, little sister.” She nodded mutely.

Soon the iceboat was speeding across the snow to their kinsmen’s village, several days’ journey to the northwest.

*   *   *   *   *

Kai-lid awakened with a start and sat up. The half-elf, keeping guard, looked over at her but said nothing. Caven and Kitiara and Wode lay wrapped in blankets around the fire. Xanthar perched above them, watchful. The eyes of the undead, as always, gazed at them from the darkness.

The mage sent her thoughts forth.
Xanthar?

I saw it, too, Kai-lid. The devastation of the Ice Folk village
.

It was no dream, then?

No more than the other. The village has been crushed by your father’s armies. The Valdane is testing his strength, Kai-lid
.

Xanthar, we have no time to linger. We have to lead these four to the sla-mori and get them to the Icereach
.

I have an idea
. As Kai-lid watched, the owl launched himself from the tree and soared off over Darken Wood. Within moments, he was lost to sight.

“What were you two discussing?” Tanis asked quietly from his post. “Kitiara told me of your telepathy.”

Kai-lid answered slowly. “I think Xanthar is going to search for the ettin.”

Tanis nodded, although his eyes seemed doubtful. “You believe we should still continue to try to capture it, then? Even though it seems to have been sent by this evil mage, Janusz?”

She hesitated. This half-elf appeared to be a decent sort; perhaps she could be more honest with him. Perhaps Tanis would volunteer to come to the aid of thousands of people who, she felt sure, would die at the hands of her father if the Valdane were not defeated. Kai-lid opened her mouth hesitantly.

But Caven Mackid broke in. “We should capture the damned ettin, go back to Haven immediately, and get our reward, Tanis. Let the lady fight her own battles.” He gestured rudely toward Kai-lid. “I don’t understand why Dreena’s maid is involved in this ettin business, anyway.” He clearly had not slept at all. His voice was snappish and his eyes shadowed.

“I agree with Caven,” Kitiara said, renewing the debate.
“Slay the ettin. That’s what we set out to do.”

“And then?” Kai-lid asked.

“Then?” Kitiara repeated.

“Then you can go home safely with your fifteen steel while the Valdane destroys everything in his path to power” Kai-lid said bitterly.

“So you say, mage. I’m not convinced.” The swordswoman stretched elaborately. “Anyway, it’s not my problem. I don’t work for the Valdane anymore.”

Caven nodded. “That’s two votes in favor of fifteen steel,” he said pointedly.

Kitiara nodded, but Tanis looked unconvinced. He gazed at Kai-lid. “I think you’re holding something back, mage,” he said softly. “I only wish I knew what it is. Why should we trust you, Lida Tenaka?”

Kai-lid started to say something, then turned away.

*   *   *   *   *

“Big chicken!” Res shouted. He rose first, hoisting Lacua’s side upright. “Food! Food!”

The ettin’s left head protested. “Not chicken, stupid. Too big. Maybe goose.”

“But supper?”

“Yes.”

Xanthar sighed from his perch high above the ettin. “I am a giant owl, you dunderpated chuckleheads.”

The two heads looked at each other. “Chicken talk?” They turned suspicious faces toward Xanthar. “Dunder—What say?

“It’s a great compliment,” Xanthar said, deadpan. “Trust me.”

“Ah,” Lacua said, nodding. “A compliment.”

“Supper use big words,” Res observed.

“I have information for you,” Xanthar said.

“Inform—” Lacua stumbled over the word.

Xanthar amended himself. “I have a fact for you.”

“Ah!”

“About Kitiara Uth Matar.”

“Who?” Res muttered.

Lacua poked him. “Lady soldier, stupid,” the left head said. Then, to Xanthar, “Say fact now.”

“She’s about to leave Darken Wood.”

Res protested. “Can’t. Must follow Res-Lacua to Fever Mountain. Master said—”

“Quiet!” Lacua slammed Res over the head with his club. Res rubbed his pate and sulked.

“They will not follow you any longer, ettin,” the owl said smoothly, twisting his head back to preen a wing feather with a doting beak. “They are going to leave.” He pulled his head upright, watching the worried-looking monster.

“Good. Res go home, too,” the right head caroled.

“No!” Lacua interrupted. “Must get lady soldier.”

“You could kidnap her now,” the owl suggested.

The ettin looked up again. “Kidnap?”

“Capture.”

“Capture! Res know capture!” The right head grinned. Lacua looked thoughtful, then repeated, “Capture now.”

“I brought you an important fact,” Xanthar said. “Don’t you think I deserve some sort of favor as a reward?”

Twin looks of suspicion fell over the ettin’s countenances. “Favor? What favor?”

“You must not injure anyone. Take Kitiara, the lady soldier, the two men, and the boy if you wish.” Xanthar stared at the ettin until Res-Lacua’s feet shuffled uneasily. “But not the other woman.”

A crafty smile came over Lacua’s face. “What if
Res-Lacua not give this favor to giant chicken?”

Xanthar narrowed his eyes at him. “Then I’ll take my fact back.”

“Wait! No! Need fact!”

“Well, then …”

“Not hurt nobody. Not, not, not. Capture lady soldier, men guys. Yes, yes. Keep fact now?” Lacua stopped for a deep breath.

“Yes,” Xanthar replied. “Keep fact.”

The giant owl flew away.

As soon as Xanthar was out of sight, Lacua exclaimed and clapped his hand to his chest. He drew out the Talking Stone. “Master talk?”

The voice came from the small, flat rock, filling the forest around the ettin. The eyes of the undead, which hovered around the monster as they did around the travelers, drew back as the leaves of the twisted trees quivered with the vibrations. The voice sounded weary. “Do as the owl says. Attack Kitiara and the others.”