Other women hurled rocks. Several good-sized boulders clattered down among the thanoi, knocking them backward or bouncing down the slope, forcing the other thanoi to dodge out of the way. The sudden onslaught caught the monsters by surprise, and those that weren’t struck down immediately hesitated in their ascent, piglike eyes flashing as they confronted this horde of screaming, wild-looking attackers. Moreen had encouraged the Arktos to make a lot of noise, and-whether because of her instructions, or the fierce, panicked energy that seized them at the moment of battle-the tribeswomen were whooping it up like a crazed band of berserk warriors.
One of the walrus-men, a huge beast with long, curling tusks and an ornately feathered spear, shouted something Moreen could not understand. It was obviously a command, and the surviving tuskers wasted no time in scrambling back down the hillside, slipping and stumbling in their haste.
“After them!” cried the chieftain’s daughter, snatching up her second harpoon. Tildey’s bowstring twanged again, as Moreen cast her weapon, and the twin missiles took the tusker leader through the belly and shoulder.
Garta was shouting something unintelligible as she lunged after a particularly slow thanoi, snapping off one of its tusks with a wild sweep of her club. The creature jabbed back with its spear and the Arktos woman cried out, falling backward, blood running from her stomach. The walrus-man lunged, jabbing a tusk toward her heart-but Garta, kicking frantically, managed to hold the monster at bay until Bruni kicked it away, then crushed its skull with a hard blow of her club.
Moreen hefted her last harpoon and started picking her way down the steep slope.
“Remember-none can escape!” she shouted, as the other tribeswomen, too, started in pursuit. Spears flew, most of the weapons clattering harmlessly across the rocks, though at least one other tusker fell, pierced through the leg. Nangrid stepped on the squirming thanoi and, with a quick flick of her skinning knife plunged deftly between the tusks, slicing its throat.
A trio of the tusked brutes had reached the beach, with a few more, badly wounded, limping along behind, or still working their way down the hillside. The thanoi wasted no time in starting for the surf, two dozen paces away, though one fell before it took two steps, punctured by another of Tildey’s lethal arrows. A few Arktos cast spears, and a second tusker tumbled and thrashed, pierced in the hamstring by a lucky throw.
Moreen was on the beach now, sprinting past bleeding, dying walrus-men as she raced in pursuit. One thanoi moved with surprising speed, flat feet slapping across the stones as it lunged toward the water and plunged into a breaking wave with a smooth dive. The chieftain’s daughter halted at the water’s edge. With a practiced movement she took the end of the cord from her wrist and slipped in through the eyehole in the weapon’s haft. Then she pulled it back, held the shaft beside her head, and squinted into the sun-brightened surf.
All around her she heard the groans and shrieks of wounded thanoi, the beasts grunting and snarling as the women raced among them, using their sharp bone knives to finish the work they had begun with spear, club, and stone.
There! The rounded head of the beast broke the surface, two dozen paces from shore.
“Just like killing a seal,” Moreen told herself, and let fly. She didn’t aim for the head, but sought to hit the muscular body.
The sleek harpoon shot into the water, and the thanoi bellowed in pain and instantly dove under. Planting her feet, Moreen grasped the cord and set her weight in anticipation of the creature’s power. Even so, the tug on the line pulled her off of her feet, and she was dragged across the rough stones of the beach. An icy wave washed over her as she was pulled into the sea.
Bruni was beside her, her strong arms wrapped around Moreen’s waist, pulling her-and the wounded tusker-back to land. The chieftain’s daughter climbed to her feet, and they both tugged, hand over hand, reeling in the monster. Soon it was in the shallows, rolling in the surf, then suddenly, surprisingly, it sprang upward, lunging toward the women, wet, slick tusks jabbing like spears.
Tildey was standing nearby, with one more arrow pulled back, and her aim was true. The walrus-man froze, an arrow suddenly protruding from the middle of its face. With a sputtering groan it wobbled, then flopped downward. Blood washed into the water lapping at Moreen’s feet.
“You did it, Moreen, Chieftain’s Daughter!” Little Mouse was at her side, jumping up and down in excitement. “You led us into battle, and we won!”
She looked around numbly. “Garta?” she asked, looking back at the rocky knoll.
“Dinekki’s helping her-she’s going to be all right,” the boy assured her.
“Mouse is right,” Bruni said, placing a big arm around Moreen’s shoulders, steadying her as her legs suddenly grew weak. “Except perhaps we shouldn’t call you ‘chieftain’s daughter’ any more.”
“No,” Tildey said, nudging the floating, bleeding tusker with her toe. “I think you are Moreen, Chiefwoman, now.”
7
The knocking on the cabin door slowly penetrated Grimwar Bane’s awareness. The ogre prince snorted, stirred, and tried to claw his way out of a dream. In that dream he had been wandering through a fog, seeking something, a person he could know, trust. Faces floated around in the murk. His mother was there, her face soft and round and warm. Now she was gone, replaced by his father, King Grimtruth. The prince saw Baldruk Dinmaker’s bearded face, followed by the image of his own wife, Stariz ber Glacierheim ber Bane.
Finally came an image of the king’s young bride, the voluptuous ogress Thraid Dimmarkull. That last image was a pleasant one, one that filled him with longing, with aching desire. She, too, disappeared, and again he was confronted by the forbidding visage of his father. Eyes bleary, breath reeking of warqat, Grimtruth raised his fist for a blow, and the son was powerless to fend him off.
He awoke. With a sense of relief he recognized his cabin, this ship, where he was the master. He grunted in acknowledgement, knowing that his crew wouldn’t awaken him for any trivial reason.
“Lookout reports that Ice Gates are in sight, Your Highness!”
Mumbling gruffly, the great ogre swung his feet out of the sea bunk, ducking his head as he reached for his boots and cloak. The captain’s cabin in Goldwing was the most spacious enclosure on the ship, but even so Grimwar felt cramped and confined. Part of it was the monotony of the long months at sea, he knew, and so the announcement that awakened him was good news.
Still, he was in a foul mood as he pushed open the door and emerged onto the deck of the massive galley. His eyes immediately fell upon the massive palisades that marked the approach to Winterheim.
The Ice Gates were twin mountains, massifs bracketing the mouth of a narrow fjord, rising so that their icy summits seemed to scrape the very heavens. Each was draped in cascading glaciers, blue-white sheets of ice spilling downward in a chaotic jumble of precipice, chasm, and snowy cornice. Here and there a rough shoulder of bedrock showed, black rock glistening in the sunlight, in stark contrast to the frozen surroundings.
Now, in early autumn, streams still cascaded downward among the glacial faces, plumes of water spilling into long streams of spray, sparkling like a million diamonds in the pale sunlight. At night these streams would freeze into elegant icicles, only to liquefy again under the heat of the next day’s sun.