More attackers went for his arms, pulling away the bow, pressing him against the ground. He saw leather moccasins, several sets of leggings, one foot pushed firmly down on his hand. Finally he was hauled to his knees, then pushed onto his back as the first attacker-a massive human woman with a round, curious face-sat on his belly.
With smooth movements, the other two, also human women, lashed his hands. Still without talking, they hoisted him to his feet and started pushing him through the woods.
They were heading directly for the shore, toward the little cove where Cutter stood at anchor.
“This is a good spot,” Moreen announced, after a mile of walking along the rim of the deep, steep-sided ravine. She gestured to a small, mossy grotto above the gully. “We can build a fire back there, and it won’t be seen unless someone’s right nearby. Those rocks will make it all that much harder for our prisoner to escape.”
“Sounds good to me,” Bruni agreed. “What about you, stranger?” She looked quizzically at their captive, who returned a blank stare, giving no sign that he understood their language.
Tildey stood three paces behind them, an arrow ready in case the man made some threatening move. Thus far, however, he had merely plodded along in listless, demoralized silence.
“Tie him to that tree, and keep his wrists bound. Oh, and search through his pack, and see if he has anything in his pockets.”
Bruni and Tildey went about securing the prisoner while Moreen gathered a pile of dried pine limbs. She kindled a fire, and quickly the warmth spread through the grotto area, driving back the damp chill of early nightfall. Huge, square boulders rose like walls to the right, left, and rear.
“What was he carrying?” she asked, as her two companions made themselves comfortable near the blaze. The prisoner was seated a short distance away, still illuminated by firelight.
“He had a bow and arrows, a knife-sharper than any blade I’ve ever seen-and this beaded waterskin,” Tildey said, laying out the stranger’s possessions. She held up the skin. “Nice craftsmanship.”
“Maybe he’s a rich Highlander,” Bruni said with a chuckle, and a quick glance at the still-impassive prisoner. He was leaning backward, his straggly blond hair hanging limply down on both sides of his head.
Moreen snorted. “He’s no Highlander. No beard, and his face is too skinny. Also there’s something about those big eyes that seems strange to me.”
“Yes, I know,” Tildey said, scrutinizing the stranger. “It’s as if he’s got a boy’s skin but much older eyes.”
The chiefwoman’s eyes, meanwhile, turned west, toward the coast hidden by the trees. “We could use that ship,” Moreen said softly. Bruni snorted and shook her head, while Tildey gazed at the fire.
The wind swirled, carrying the smoke toward the prisoner. Unable to move out of the way, he choked and coughed, finally twisting onto his side for relief. The Arktos took no note of his discomfort.
Finally, Bruni heaved a sigh. “Why do you want a ship so bad?” she asked.
“Because we could cross to Brackenrock, before the Sturmfrost! We could be into the old fortress, snug in the steam caves, by the time the first blizzard begins.”
“You can’t put the whole tribe on that little boat!” snorted the big woman.
“Not all at once, no,” Moreen acknowledged. “But you saw the far shore this morning-it’s not such a far crossing, and we could take the whole tribe in many trips.”
Bruni shook her head. “I’m not getting in that boat,” she said stubbornly.
“So you’d prefer the Sturmfrost, hunkered down here in the woods? Not just you, but Dinekki, Feathertail-every one of us? The elders? The children?” Moreen snapped impatiently. “Or perhaps we should go back to Guilderglow. You could be some Highlander’s concubine!”
“What?” demanded Bruni, her eyes blazing.
“That was the cost of shelter there,” the chiefwoman continued, feeling guilty about the outburst. “They offered us … me … a place to live, for a price.”
The large woman sighed, and looked in the direction of the sea. “I never cared much for those kayaks, but that’s a bigger boat out there. I’ll have to think about it.”
“What do we do with him?” asked Moreen, gesturing to the prisoner.
“Maybe we should kill him?” This was Tildey, more of a question than a suggestion. “He may not be an ogre or a tusker, but he’s not one of the tribe. I agree with Moreen. I don’t think he’s any Highlander, either.”
It took all of Kerrick’s self-discipline to feign ignorance of the language as he strained to listen. He grunted, shifted onto the rocks, half-turned his back to the women.
There was no feigning his search of a comfortable position as he twisted on the rocky ground. He couldn’t move far since his hands, lashed together at the wrists, were tethered to a pine tree with only a foot of loose line. Nor could he feel much of the warmth of the fire, which was several feet away.
At first, the elf pretended utter disinterest as he tried to eavesdrop on the women’s conversation. As they led him through the forest he had begun to understand some of their words: “camp,” “ogre” and “fire.” Their language was very similar to a coastal dialect common to humans from Tarsis to Balifor, and their accent was heavy. Still, many of the crewmen on his father’s galley had used the language, and he had learned it as a child.
The big one was called Bruni, and the other two were Moreen and Tildey. Moreen seemed to be in charge.
“So we kill him?” It was the one called Bruni who at last replied to Tildey’s suggestion. “What now? Are we ogres?” Kerrick was beginning to think fondly of this bovine human, who was in no hurry to steal his boat and now, apparently, saw no purpose in cold-blooded murder.
“No, we’re not,” Moreen agreed decisively. “I think we should keep him tied up and bring the tribe here, to the cedar grove. There are many mysteries here, including who he is, where he came from, and what is the nature and mission of his ship.”
“Do you know how to paddle that thing?” Bruni asked her.
“I think he can be convinced to show us. He understands our language-can’t you tell?”
Moreen had been watching Kerrick, slyly. For the first time she looked amused. He noticed the way her mouth bent into a wry smile before he glanced away, quickly.
“Why do you say that?” asked Tildey.
“He tensed up when you asked if we should kill him.” Moreen continued to stare at Kerrick. “You do know what we’re saying, don’t you, stranger?”
He saw no point in continuing the charade. “Yes,” he replied in that same rough tongue. “At least, I think I understood the important points. You might kill me.”
“Understand this: We will kill you if you prove a danger to our tribe, or if you prove to be uncooperative. Tomorrow we will go aboard your ship, and you will show us how it works. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” Kerrick replied. He shifted around so he could better inspect his three captors. He understood something else: When the women had searched him, they had failed to find the hidden belt pouch where he had placed his father’s ring. That secret, he hoped, would save him. Until the right moment, he had only to be patient, and to avoid antagonizing his captors.
“These look like ogre tools,” Tildey noted, holding up his steel-headed arrows and sleek, double-curved bow.
Kerrick almost revealed his surprise but remained impassive. What could she mean? The slender elven shafts and keen steel arrowheads bore no resemblance to the crude weapons of that monstrous race.
“He’s not an ogre,” Bruni argued. “A boy, not even shaving yet?”
“Did you notice his ear?” Moreen asked. “One is cut and scarred, but the other is long. I’ve never seen any like it.” Her tone was hard, and she gave him a cold, appraising look. Kerrick flushed, the shame of his scarring a withering memory.