He arrived at the cave mouth and slipped through the narrow door. Warmth assailed Kerrick, and he shrugged out of his cloak with relief. He and Little Mouse were in the large entryway to the cave. One Arktos, often Little Mouse, remained on watch here at all times, peering from the narrow crack into the polar night.
Now the youth was laughing, wiping the snow from his face, pulling it out of his collar. “For someone who never threw a snowball before this winter, you’ve gotten real good at it,” he said.
“Considering how many times you’ve ambushed me,” the elf replied, “I can’t believe I still get taken by surprise.”
Little Mouse grew serious, looked out the door. “Your shipmate?”
“No sign of him,” the elf said, “but the boat is doing fine. Thanks again for your assistance getting those extra lines lashed down.”
“I’m glad to help,” Mouse replied. “I think sailing on your boat, coming over here, was one of the most fun things I’ve done.”
“It can get into your blood, the sea can,” allowed Kerrick, somewhat wistfully. “I admit that I can’t wait to return to open water.”
He leaned against the small doorway, staring into the black, impenetrable storm. He wondered if the relentless roaring of the wind would ever stop.
“Tell me how you found him, again, at sea,” Mouse said.
Kerrick settled beside the lad. “Well, I was sleeping, running with short sail and tiller lashed. I woke up when Cutter crashed into something big and hard.…”
He told the story in full detail, lingering over description of the monstrous dragon turtle, as the youth listened intently to every word.
Others of the tribe, Moreen in particular, had seemed skeptical of his tale, some even going so far as to suggest that the kender might not have existed except in his imagination. It helped, Kerrick thought, to be able to talk about his passenger with someone who did believe. He could reassure himself that, yes, his heroic companion had really been there, had sailed with him to the end of Krynn.
The Sturmfrost surged and seethed. In time that relentless pressure spilled north, roaring through the Bluewater Strait to expand across the Southern Courrain Ocean, where-finally-it was diffused by distance and sunlight into a mere tempest. As the power of the storm waned, slowly, gradually, the Sturmfrost began to relinquish its grip upon the world.
Urgas Thanoi was the mighty-tusked chieftain of the Citadel of Whitefish. He had three fine wives, each of who maintained a delectable layer of fat even through the late winter months. His wives saw to his comfort, and two had already given him fine babes. As the chief bull in this fine place, his life was splendid indeed.
This fortress had been ceded to Urgas, personally, by a mighty ogre prince. Those same ogres had spent the past year exterminating the hated humans, the tribespeople who had made the White Bear Sea a dangerous place for the last four centuries. While routing a human attack, his tusker warriors killed four of the enemy. Those bodies had served as food for the Sturmfrost rites, before the tribe of walrus-men had settled, snug and comfortable, to wait out the worst of the winter storm.
For Urgas Thanoi, life was good, his position secure, his tribe stronger than ever before. Still, he was worried. He padded through the snowdrifts now, on the wall-top parapet surrounding his mighty citadel. Here and there sentries greeted him with tusk-bobbing bows. It pleased him to know that his warriors, alone among the peoples of the Icereach, could actually survive in the face of the Sturmfrost. Of course, he allowed his guards to spell each other every day or two, but no walrus-man would think of complaining merely because the wind was blowing icily or a snowdrift was mounting around his feet. The tuskers were blessed with thick, leathery skin, and, so long as they were well-fed, their underlying layer of blubber insured their survival even in the most bitter of conditions.
Urgas Thanoi finally came to the great gatehouse, which-since it lacked an actual gate-was the weakest link in his citadel’s defenses. He plodded down the stairs inside the tower, kicking through the snow that even here had drifted to a height of a few feet. On the ground he peered through the open arch of the great entryway. Once, he knew, a great slab of iron-strapped wood had secured this portal against assault. Of course, that wooden barrier had rotted away centuries ago. Perhaps, the tusker chieftain thought, he should capture some human slaves, as the ogres had done, slaves who could build him a new gate.
A round-shouldered shape moved in the darkness, and Urgas tensed, before recognizing one of his trusted lieutenants.
“Splitlip-you have returned from the shore. What did you learn?”
The second thanoi, nearly as tall as mighty Urgas, paused in the gatehouse, out of the wind. A long icicle draped each of his tusks.
“It is as you feared, my chief. The humans are still down there. They took shelter in the great cave, and they watch the entrance. They have built a wall of ice and seem prepared for any attack.”
Urgas released a bleating, nostril-flapping explosion of disgust. They were his special curse, humans! Now they had followed him across the sea and seemed destined to camp on his very doorstep.
The thanoi chieftain peered into the storm, sensed that the wind was waning, that the peak of winter’s onslaught had passed. He thought of what he must do, and he was unhappy, but he could see no alternative.
“Tell my wives I will return to them before spring,” Urgas Thanoi said to Splitlip. “I am going to take this news to Grimwar Bane.”
“The wind is dying. I think the worst is past!”
Strongwind Whalebone shouted the words over the howling of the blizzard. He and Lars Redbeard stood atop the loftiest tower of Guilderglow Castle, staring into the eternal darkness of the Sturmfrost night. A comfortable amount of warqat burned in the king’s belly.
“Yes, Sire, I believe it is!” shouted back his wolf-capped lieutenant.
Both men were bundled in many layers of woolens and furs, hoods cinched tightly. The king’s beard was frozen, and his breath came in icy rasps. His hand were encased in two layers of mittens, sheepskin and lambswool, but his fingers felt frostbitten. He was anxious to move, to take action, to do something. After five weeks of sitting in his castle, drinking warqat, feasting, listening to the Sturmfrost roar outside his walls, he found he was unbearably restless.
He looked at Redbeard, was unable entirely to contain his scorn. “You have a wife, Lars. Home life has softened you, I see. You would be content to stay inside past the long winter, to grow weak.
“Sire, I can only say that I live to serve your command. Should you have a task for me, I would offer my very life-”
“Yes, enough, enough.” The king moved to the edge of the parapet, as Lars followed. The blizzard howled around them, but perhaps the strength of the gale was fading slightly. No longer did they see rocks whirling past, icy boulders falling from the sky. No longer did black moaning cyclones tear at the land.
“She asked me if I knew about dragons,” Strongwind said suddenly, turning and speaking directly to Lars Redbeard.
“Sire?”
“I mean, she was thinking about dragons. She must have been thinking about Brackenrock!”
“Moreen of the Arktos?”
“Yes, of course! Those barbarians must know the legend of the Scattering, the reason humans were driven from Brackenrock. She has figured out that with the dragons gone she might take her people there. That’s where she was going, why she needed that accursed boat. She didn’t want me to know it, didn’t mention the place, but I’m sure of it now. She took her people to Brackenrock.”
“A possibility,” Lars admitted, turning his back to the wind and sheltering behind the wall. “Without a boat of our own we were not be able to pursue her. Once the weather allows us, however, we can embark.”