Even as these thoughts assailed her, she realized that the magical image was not taking her so far north as that terminus. “I see a sparkle of yellow, golden light on the coast … a glimpse of a smoking mountain. Farther down, I see sparks of red, flaring here and there. And more … steam?” She blinked, trying to clear her vision, but it wasn’t steam she was seeing. “No, it’s a picture of steam, of warmth rising up from the ground!”
Dinekki nodded. With her harrumph the vapors, the steam of the shaman’s casting, faded into the air, wafting from the shelter on a tiny breath of breeze, leaving Moreen feeling strangely hot and breathless. She looked at the older woman quizzically.
“What does the vision mean?”
“It means,” the shaman said with no trace of hesitation, “that you must lead us northward along the coast. Our hopes for survival will be found where you saw the golden light.”
“Steam coming out of the ground? What is that supposed to mean?” Moreen had never heard of such a thing.
“Remember the old legends,” Dinekki chided. “The tales you learned as a little girl.”
“I remember the tale of Ice End, the stormy point at the end of the world. Another story says Ice End is not the real end of the world but the beginning of something else. Is that what you mean?” Somewhere to the far north, according to the legends of her girlhood, there was vast land, a place where ogres and humans lived among dwarves, elves, and giants, all squabbling for control. “How can Ice End save us?”
“Yes, how?” echoed the shaman.
Another childhood story came back to her, a vague legend dismissed by some elders. “I remember hearing about a place, a citadel where the Arktos once dwelled, protected from ogres by a gate, by hall walls … a place that was warm even through the long winter, snug and safe against the Sturmfrost. That was the place the people once lived, long before the Scattering.”
“Brackenrock,” Dinekki confirmed with a pleased nod. “The place that was heated by steam, steam that burst forth from frozen ground.”
“Surely that place isn’t real?”
“Better to ask, where is this place?’ ” the shaman retorted sharply.
“Are you saying that it really exists-a place where we could be warm, even in the depths of the Sturmfrost?”
“Aren’t you listening?”
She tried to think. “I remember the old song. It was something about serpents breathing fire. Yes-crimson monsters flying from the sky. They came and claimed Brackenrock for themselves, and the tribe fled, spreading across all of Icereach.”
Finally Dinekki’s lips crinkled into a hint of a smile. “Yes. I sang that song to you and some of the others when you were but babies. I had hopes that you, of them all, might remember my song.”
“How did the song go? Was there really a place called Brackenrock, where monsters drove our ancestors away?”
Dinekki nodded. “They were called dragons, dragons of red scales. They came from the north, and claimed the fortress Brackenrock for their own, as comfort against the Sturmfrost. They breathed fire and killed many of our people. The rest, ancestors to you and me, they drove from the ancient citadel, scattering them across Icereach. This is a true song.”
“No one alive has ever seen these red dragons!”
“Nor white dragons or dragons of any other color, either. Yet it is believed that at the time of the Scattering there were other dragons here, as well … dragons of white. Such serpents relished the cold and were the masters of Icereach until the red dragons, which were even mightier in power, came.”
“If these red dragons mastered the whites and drove our ancestors from Brackenrock, what makes you think it would be safe or wise to go back there?”
“Because,” Dinekki said with a wink, and a sly smile, “I think there are no more dragons. I think they are gone from the world. All this was long, long ago.”
Moreen snorted skeptically, but she was intrigued. “Why do you think this?”
“Well, there are many beasts of legend recounted among our people. There are stories of ogres, that we know to be true. The Ice Worm, called Remorhaz-my own father saw one-it killed his brother and two companions. Also we know of great bears-even have a proof of the black bear, slain by your own great-grandfather. But dragons? Even old Chantarik, who was an ancient shaman when I was a girl, had never heard of anyone who had glimpsed them. Oh, to be sure they existed, once. They must have, from all the stories and songs, but by my reckoning they vanished from Krynn many lifetimes ago.”
“Are you sure enough to lead us to this legendary place?”
“Oh, you will do the leading. Brackenrock is a real place, and closer to here than Ice End. There might be danger there, and we might never reach the place, but it is a worthy goal, worth the chance.”
“And the dragons?”
“In my spell I sought dragons, and found only ancient bone and scattered remains of scales. Chislev revealed to me that there are no dragons in Brackenrock. I do not know about the rest of the world.”
“But …” Even as she spoke, Moreen knew that she had already accepted Dinneki’s challenge. “What about the thanoi?” she asked.
Dinekki shrugged. “There will be danger. We will know more about the danger when we encounter it. Now, the question is this: Are you prepared to lead the Arktos on such a march to Brackenrock?”
“Yes,” Moreen declared with sudden, honest hope. “Yes, I am.”
For the time being she did not speak of their ultimate destination but instead encouraged the tribe to simply keep heading north. Everyone knew there were groves of trees in the north, and with the goal of Tall Cedar Bay as shelter-and as a source of limitless firewood-the Arktos continued their journey with all the speed and enthusiasm Moreen could desire.
The little tribe made its way roughly parallel to the coast, sometimes marching inland to follow hillcrests around the boggy salt marshes that were so common along the Icereach shore. At other times they came down from the heights to march along the smooth beach. The months of the midnight sun were waning. Though daylight lingered for many hours each day, the sun remained close to the northern horizon, the light often filtering through a haze of clouds and mist.
A few of the women-usually Moreen, Bruni, and Tildey, though a score of others took turns in this job as well-proceeded the tribe by a half mile, roaming with care, searching the route for signs of danger. Seven days after departing their temporary cave, they had encountered nothing more belligerent than an aggressive bull seal that didn’t care to allow trespassers on its beach. That brief combat yielded a dinner of rich, fresh meat and a large, handsome pelt to add to the tribe’s growing bundle of furs.
Spirits were high. The day after they battled the big seal, they came upon a small group of Arktos, survivors from the Goosepond Clan. These told a tale much similar to the Bayguards-the ogres in their great rowing ship had set upon them from the sea, killing many, carrying others away as prisoners. The fifteen Goosepond women and children were nearly starved and gratefully accepted the comfort and company of Moreen’s clan. After partaking of a fine feast, they joined in the northward trek.
“We’re lucky, in a way, that the ogres left us so little,” Dinekki said with a wry chuckle as she joined Moreen on a rocky headland and gazed ahead at the approaching stretch of shoreline. “Otherwise, how would we carry it all?”
Though she hobbled awkwardly, her posture bent, her weight supported by her staff, the old shaman never showed signs of slowness or age. The coast was rugged and precipitous, and again and again they had to curve inland to avoid the steep-walled ravines that regularly plunged to the sea.
Moreen looked back at the file of her people, carrying their waterskins and few weapons. They carried dried meat suspended on sticks, while some of the stronger females carried bulky bundles of furs, in addition to the few spears and harpoons they had saved.