“It’s that elf and his sailboat!” he announced. “They were almost to shore when the Sturmfrost hit. Now I think they’re going to be smashed to death on the rocks!”
Cutter heaved and pitched, riding high on the waves crashing against shore, as Kerrick let out an involuntary sob of despair.
“Hey-look sharp there!” Coraltop Netfisher was on the deck near the bow waving the long oar. Feet braced against the safety line, he wielded the long shaft of wood so that, somehow, just as it seemed the boat would hurl itself against the rock and splinter to bits, the kender shoved it away.
Cutter bobbed back out to sea, carried by an eddy twisting into a curl. Again the storm roared and the waves surged, and Kerrick knew that the kender’s desperate maneuver wouldn’t save them twice.
Something crashed against the deck, and he saw a chunk of ice bigger than his head shoot past, shattering in the well of the cockpit. Another piece, as big as a house, plunged into the water next to the boar, drenching him with freezing spray. Fortunately, the berg had splashed down between the boat and the shore and raised a wave that tossed Cutter farther from the jagged rocks.
All the wetness froze instantly. Kerrick felt as if he were wearing plates of heavy armor. His hands, though he wore two layers of gloves, were numb. The sails trailed in tatters from the mast. Once more he wore the ring from his father-he had donned it once the storm hit-but even magical strength seemed a pale contrast to the fury of this storm. He could barely hold the lurching tiller.
Again, however, he spotted the rock and point of land he had dubbed the Signpost. The beach was a hundred yards away, although in this storm it might as well be a hundred miles.
The storm eddied again, and the boat whirled dizzyingly. More chunks of ice crashed down, hail the size of small boulders. The wind, trapped amid this bowl of cliff, moaned like a suffering thing.
“Hey! I’m going to try to rope the rock!” Coraltop Netfisher stood at the bow, a ridiculous grin on his face. He wore nothing over his favorite green shirt. He must be freezing, thought Kerrick. The kender, who had the anchor rope coiled about his shoulders, pointed gleefully at the signpost rock. “Watch this!”
“Zivilyn protect you!” Kerrick prayed, the words a rasping whisper vanishing instantly into the heart of the storm.
The bow rose on another wave, and Cutter leaped through spray and snow and icy water. Still holding the anchor rope, the kender sprang or was catapulted toward the rocks at the base of the pillar of stone. More waves rolled in, spray whipping in the wind, yanking the boat away, before Kerrick could yell or do anything. The kender was gone.
“Coraltop!” shouted the elf, scrambling forward, skidding on the icy deck. He saw the rope trailing from a deep pool of roiling water. There was no sign of his shipmate.
Hoping that the kender might still be holding on to the other end of the anchor line, Kerrick seized the rope and pulled. At the same time, another crest of water surged beneath the boat, lifting the deck, twisting him around, sending the elf over the rail headfirst into the surf.
The rope was still in his numbed hands as he kicked to the surface and gasped a lungful of cold air. Some part of his mind registered the odd fact that the water wasn’t cold. Something smashed his hip, and he knew the rocks were right beside him. As the wave lifted him higher he kicked and clawed, somehow forced himself into a safe area between the coastal boulders.
He still had the anchor rope, but Cutter had surged past the promontory now. She was heading toward the cove, pushed inexorably toward the beach. Kerrick almost sobbed in frustration as the rope slipped through his hands, bearing his treasure, his pride, his very life, toward certain doom. Even the ring, magic pulsing through his flesh, was not enough to help him brace against the storm’s relentless power.
He felt strong arms wrapping him in an embrace, and he was certain his mind had snapped. Someone … two hands … not his own, grasping the anchor rope, slowing the sailboat’s course toward doom. He grabbed the line again, feeling hope.
“Bruni!” He looked up into her round face, her lips compressed in a determined frown. Desperately his feet clawed at the slick rocks, as the big woman leaned into the rope with all her might. Still Cutter was pulling away away toward the rocks.
Somehow Bruni lodged the anchor in between two stones on the shore, and the line, stretched as taut as a bowstring, held. The wind roared with implacable force, trying to pull the boat away from the Signpost, trying unsuccessfully. For now, she would hold in deep water.
“Coraltop!” shouted the elf. “He’s out here somewhere-we’ve got to find him!”
Another wave crashed over the two of them, and Kerrick’s knees buckled. He lay, shivering helplessly on the ground until Bruni hoisted him over her shoulder.
“Your friend is lost,” she said bluntly. “You will be too, if we don’t get you inside.”
The Sturmfrost churned across the vast concourse of the White Bear Sea. The surface of the sea froze quickly, often in the shape of grotesque waves, storm-tossed swells, and hardened spires. Cyclones of lethal snow swept down the mountainsides, moving across the landscape with brute force. Many creatures, whales, birds, and seals, had long since departed for temperate climes. Any animals that remained here cowered in snug dens, secure against the wind and snow if not from the deadly cold
Those people who survived had also taken shelter in dens. So it was with the Highlanders in their cities and castles, the ogres in the great fortress of Winterheim, the thanoi in their Citadel of Whitefish, the place the humans called Brackenrock. So, too, with the surviving Arktos and a lone elf, who cowered from the storm in the depths of a large, seaside cave.
“We will survive!” Moreen declared with renewed pride. “We have enough food here to last for half the winter. By that time, the Sturmfrost will have waned, and seals will come onto the ice. We’ll be able to hunt again.”
“This cave, in truth, is better than any hut I’ve ever seen,” Dinekki observed optimistically. “Where else could we gather like this, all together even while the Sturmfrost rages?”
The chiefwoman nodded. She looked around at the tribe, all seventy of them gathered in this great vault. A low fire, mere coals really, shed enough light to brighten each hopeful face. Nearby loomed an immense woodpile, timber gathered by Little Mouse and the younger children from the nearby grove.
Using charcoal, the shaman had sketched the image of Chislev, the bird’s head and wings upon the fishtail body, along one wall of the cave. She had just led the tribe in the rite of thanks, traditional among the Arktos when they faced another Sturmfrost with shelter, food, and companionship.
In stark contrast to the dark hair, bronzed skin, and rounded faces of the Arktos, Kerrick Fallabrine’s visage stood out in the firelight. He had combed his golden hair over his damaged ear, and his narrow face and large, almond eyes seemed to glow an almost supernaturally. He had lain, unconscious, for two full days after Bruni had carried him into the cave. Now he had awakened, though his eyes were haunted, his cheeks gaunt and hollowed. Little Mouse had helped him to sit up against the cave wall, and he had watched the thanksgiving impassively. Moreen thought she understood why.
“Bruni tells me that your companion’s bravery might have saved your boat,” she said, going to his side, kneeling next to the pallet upon which he sat.
His expression was desperate, and he clutched her arm with fingers that tried to tighten, then fell limply away. “He saved me as well as the boat,” he said softly. “I don’t think he even understood the danger. It was madness! But, yes, because he got the anchor ashore, Cutter stayed in the water. I don’t know for how long, though. I’ve never seen a storm like that. If the cove freezes, the hull will be crushed.”