“Yes, as if a part of the far shore is obscured,” Bruni noted. “It goes away when the wind blows, then comes right back.”
They were far enough north, now, that the opposite side of the gulf had come into view across the passage that Strongwind Whalebone had called the Bluewater Strait. They could see the shore when the fog and drizzle lifted enough, during the few hours of daylight. No more than ten miles away, they observed a rugged landscape of coastal bluff and steep mountains looming on the far side of the water.
“There-now the sun’s hitting it. What does it look like to you?”
“It’s a kind of wall!” Tildey said quickly, “and a tower, there on that hilltop over the sea. It’s some kind of citadel!”
“She’s right,” Bruni confirmed after a moment’s scrutiny. “A big one too, to show up so well at this distance.”
“I think that must be Brackenrock,” Moreen said, a knot in her stomach.
“The steam is coming from caverns below the city?” mused Bruni. “It makes sense to me. You were right!”
“No, I couldn’t have been more wrong!” She was thinking of Strongwind’s map, the fact that this ancient ruin had not been displayed there, and now she thought she understood why.
“It’s way across the water, isn’t it?” Tildey said quietly.
Moreen slumped down onto a rock and nodded bleakly. The truth was in plain sight: The citadel, the mythical place where the chiefwoman had hoped to find safety for her tribe, was miles away, way beyond any map, on the far side of this impassable bay.
“If we still had the kayaks …”
Bruni’s voice trailed off and Moreen bit back her sharp retort. Not only had the ogres broken up all the tribe’s little boats, but they had slashed all the sealskin shells when they abandoned Bayguard. It took a skilled builder the better part of a year to make a kayak, and one kayak could only carry one person, perhaps with one small passenger. That was no solution for the entire tribe.
“What about an ice crossing?” Tildey ventured, tentatively.
“After the Sturmfrost?” Moreen couldn’t keep the scorn out of her voice. She wondered to herself: How many of us will even be alive, after the assault of that first, lethal blizzard?
“Well, there’s no point in going back to Bayguard,” Bruni said. “Let’s keep going north somewhere. We might find that woods that you remembered. We have to be getting close. Being in a forest is better shelter than camping out here on the tundra.”
Moreen nodded stoically and let her friends hoist her to her feet. Her mind drifted. She pictured Gulderglow, with its high walls, heat-producing coal, stockpiles of food. The Arktos could survive the winter there, although Strongwind had made the price of that shelter very clear. Still, paying that price was better than starving, wasn’t it? Or leaving infants and elders outside where the Sturmfrost would certainly doom them? Suddenly the mantle of “chief” felt very heavy on her shoulders.
The three continued to make their way along the crest of a ridge toward a low hill. When they finally came over the hill, they stared in awe. Before them stretched a whole valley green with trees, lush evergreens spilling like a dark carpet across the miles of level ground between them and more rugged elevation. Down below was a small expanse of water, a sheltered cove. The surface was gray, streaked with gentle waves.
“This must be Tall Cedar Bay!” Moreen announced with relief. “I’m sure of it.” The memory of her long trek by kayak with her father, the only other time she had seen this protected inlet, came flooding back. This was more wood than she’d ever imagined, a treasure of fuel and building material. So their journey hadn’t been in vain, after all.
“What’s that?” Bruni asked ominously, pointing toward an object bobbing near the shore. “Another ogre ship?”
Instinctively they dropped to the ground, staring at what was clearly some kind of modest-sized watercraft. Unlike a kayak or galley, it was distinguished by a long pole rising straight up from the center of the deck.
“I don’t think ogres have boats like that,” Moreen said. Her heart pounded with sudden excitement, and her mind whirled. Perhaps Brackenrock wasn’t unreachable after all! “Let’s get down there and look.”
The chiefwoman pointed to a nearby ravine, a shallow-sided cut in the ridge that would allow them to descend with good cover. One by one, the three Arktos she-warriors moved in that direction and started down, working their way toward the suddenly ominous-looking beach fringed by woods.
Almost immediately Kerrick had found a game trail, a narrow track of dirt amid the pine needles and brush covering the ground. No tracks were discernible on the hard, dry surface, but he took the path with confidence. His feet made no sound as he advanced into the wind, eyes scanning his surroundings. He relished the sweet, powerful scent of pine, after his months at sea.
Sunlight filtered through the thick branches at a steep angle, but though the trees were stunted by Silvanesti standards, the forest floor was shaded and dark. Ferns and juniper clustered between large, square-edged boulders. Kerrick wondered if he might be the first person in the history of Krynn to traverse this ground.
The trail followed parallel to the beach for a while, and several times he peered out to see his boat still at anchor, bobbing in the swells that were growing high even within the deep cove. Still, no sign of that damned kender, however.
Before long the path curved inland and the trees closed in to surround him on all sides. He found some pebbly droppings, and his heart raced. Whether it was a deer, elk, or large sheep that had left the spoor, the elven hunter felt keen anticipation. Jogging as fast as he could without making too much noise, he held his bow ready, arrow crossed at his chest.
Nor did he grow discouraged after a full hour passed with no sign of game. Several more times he spied the neat prints of small, cloven hooves. Fairly certain he was after a deer now, Kerrick’s mind entertained a dozen tempting imagined recipes for venison. He wondered if he might find wild chive or onions growing near one of the small boggy wetlands he passed. The trail had taken him across the valley, toward the base of the southern ridge, and now he skirted the edge of a small pond. Cedars reflected in the still water, and the reedy shoreline showed muddy tracks, slowly filling with water. Apparently his quarry had stopped to drink here, not minutes ago.
Again the trail entered the woods, and the elf slowed his pace. He was still out of shape after all his injuries and time at sea. He came to a steep-walled ravine that swung down to cut a low rocky swath through the forest.
Across the ravine, he saw the deer. It was a doe, large and brown and rigid with alertness, staring at him with long ears upraised. In a flash it whirled and bounded away, gone before he could even raise his bow. Returning the arrow to his quiver, he slung the bow over his shoulder and found a place where he could descend the rocky wall into the ravine. Stepping on stones, he passed the narrow stream at the bottom without getting too wet, then jogged along until he found a tall pine trunk, with branches jutting like the rungs of a ladder, leaning against the opposite wall. Quickly he climbed up and plunged in the direction taken by the doe.
Every sense alert, he continued on and froze as he heard a rustle in the brush ahead. The arrow was drawn now, bowstring tight as he drew a bead on a leafy thicket. He tried to anticipate. If the deer broke from cover it could go in any direction, and he would have a split second to aim and shoot.
Instead, the rustle was repeated, but he saw no sign of movement. His whole body vibrated with tension as he advanced, one step after the next, taking care to keep his footing.
He was utterly unprepared for the attack from behind. When something solid smashed into him he toppled forward, releasing the arrow into the ground and sprawling on his face. The force of the tackle knocked the wind from his lungs, and he gasped under the weight of a heavy body.