Part 19: Between a Blizzard and a Cold Place
Malak slumped limply back to his knees and Karak bellowed into the storm once more, hoping to see Kairem's shape appear in the snow. But all he saw was the sheet of white he had been squinting into since they left what now seemed to be the peaceful shelter of the monastery.
"I cinna go on, me chalak," Malak determined, as difficult as it was for him to admit.
"Aye, ye can!" Karak assured him. "Remember tha tales o' Clanggedin! There be nae room for surrender!"
The cleric shook his head miserably.
"Me feet are gone, me legs are gone, me 'ead be full o' confusion," he said, looking at his brother with eyes full of cold-induced apathy. "It be tellin' me what a grand idea it be ta lie down ta sleep right 'ere, right now. But I know better."
The warrior hooked his hands beneath his brother's arms and tried hauling him to his feet once more. But Malak's groan made him stop.
"Ye' have ta go on," the Battleguard said. "Ye' must try ta catch up with that hairy, pointy-toothed, dwarf killer an' put an end ta 'im. I'll huddle up 'ere and wait for ye ta find shelter. Shaharizod will surely take care o' me until ye come back."
To Karak's ears, it seemed like just another excuse for his brother to lie down and die. And much as he would like to bury his war axe in Kairem's skull, Karak knew better than to leave his brother there alone. He would never do it.
"Well, it seems what either way tha cold'll be tha death o' us. But I for one've nae give up hope yet," Karak told the cleric. "Any dwarf worth 'is gold knows how ta make a snow cave."
The Battleguard harrumphed and made a weak gesture with his hand.
"I can nae build anythin'," he admitted. "Me arms be too heavy ta e'en hold up."
The only chance they had was to make a crude shelter and hope it would protect them. He'd heard tales o' dwarven outriders protectin' themselves in such fashion, but had secretly hoped that his brother would know more about the details of such a project than he, himself, did. He thought for a moment and shrugged out of his pack, not sure exactly what he was to do, but knowing it was the only hope they had.
"Well, Malak, I suggest ye start a prayin' whilst I get ta work," Karak said. He was surprised to hear himself add, "May Shaharizod be with us."
As his brother began packing the snow into a pile, Malak closed his eyes and began to speak to the Silver Queen.
"'Tis I once again, Malak tha humble servant o' Shaharizod," he prayed. "Havin' given so much o' me life ta yer duty me Queen, I ask yer now for all tha help ye can bestow. A break in tha storm so's we can make shelter, for surely without such, I'll nae be able ta work yer word 'ere any longer. Me feels th' end approachin', and begs yer help, O' Queen."
Malak felt the touch of the divine, and feeling began to seep back into his numbed body.
Karak labored furiously to pile and pack the snow into a wall, but the material was most unlike working in stone, and it seemed to collapse almost as quickly as he could build it. He wouldn't give up, however, and each collapse pushed him to work harder and faster. He redoubled his efforts despite the fact that the wind-driven snow seemed more intent on burying him than it did on forming one wall of a shelter.
Malak opened his eyes and watched Karak scramble about in the snow, futiley trying to shore up his snow wall. The cleric's few moments alone with Shaharizod had cleared his head as well as return sensation to his extremities, and he had an idea.
"Karak!!" he shouted into the storm. "Come close, I've an idea!"
The warrior cleared the snow around his waist and knees and dropped to where Malak sat, now nearly chest deep in the heavy, frozen powder.
"What say ye, chalak?" Karak asked. "Was tha Queen o' some help ta ye?"
The Battleguard nodded and held out his hand to his brother.
"I need ye' ta right me. 'Elp me get ta me feet," Malak said, hoping that his brief rest would help him find his ground again.
Karak helped him to his feet, and marveled at the improvement in his brother's physical condition.
"Ye can stand," he said and Malak smiled back at him.
"More than that, me chalak," he said. "I may have found us a way outen this."
The Battleguard knew without thinking about it that both of Shaharizod's mirrors were at the half. Great Celune was on the wane, while Meruna, the Handmaiden, was waxing toward full. Even now, he knew the Handmaiden was above the horizon, but it would be hours before Celune made her appearance. He looked to the sky and tried to divine where Orin's Shield lay. If he could find it, he might be able to determine where Celune would rise into the heavens and from that, navigate them to shelter. He would have to rely heavily on Karak to help him move through the snow, but at least
Shaharizod had heard his plea and graced him with a respite from his descent into numbness.
Malak's spirits were buoyed by his plan and he hoped that it would have the same effect on his brother.
"What be yer plan, me chalak?" Karak asked. "I be willin' ta try anythin' ta get out o' this infernal blizzard, but if'n we're ta do somethin', it best be soon. Elsewise let me get back ta buildin' me snow cave."
The Battleguard didn't answer immediately, but tried desperately to see any sort of lightening in the dismal gray cloudcover that pressed down above them. At first, it didn't seem likely that he'd be able to discern the sun's location; the clouds were so thick and heavy. But at last he shouted, "There! Methinks Orin's Shield shou' be that-a-way"
He pointed into the whiteness Over Karak's left shoulder. The dwarf looked in that direction and shrugged.
"What o' it?" he asked.
"If'n that be tha Shield an' Meruna be there," the cleric pointed excitedly in the opposite direction, "then Greatmoon will rise just ta tha west o' her Handmaiden an' tha monastery be that-a-way!"
Karak hadn't progressed nearly far enough in his training to predict the phases and positions of Shaharizod's Mirrors, but he knew well enough that it was a skill Battlegaurds honed keenly. He trusted his brother to be able to tell him what either moon's phase was at any given time of day, but wasn't so sure about the other stuff. Still, at least Malak had come out of his near fugue state.
Karak hauled himself to his feet and grabbed his pack.
"It seems what I'm havin' a wee bit o' trouble with me snow cave anyway," the warrior said grimly. "So let's be tryin' yer plan."
He placed his arm about his brother's shoulders, and hoped for the best.
They pressed on into the storm, with Malak leading a pace or two ahead. Karak's movement was still slowed by his armor, but Malak was now weakened so by the cold that he could move little faster even given his less encumbering protection. The Battleguard stopped often - every couple dozen paces - to make certain that they were still on the correct approach to find the monastery that had gone from potential tomb to their only hope of survival in half-a-day.
As they walked, Karak began to sink into the same funk that had nearly overtaken his brother earlier.
"I dunno, me chalak," he grumbled. "I'm a gettin' pissed on by tha Gods again, I figure."
"What are ye talkin' 'bout, Karak?" the cleric asked.
His brother looked at him and began counting things off on his fingers.
"First I gets our guide killed, then we ends up in a haunted monastery," he explained. "I about get frozed ta death by some ghost, and then, ta top it off, I decide: 'Hey, chalak, I got an idea, let's us go for a nice walk in tha middle o' a blizzard'. Let's face it; I was meant ta be a forge singer, I guess, an' that's it."
He dropped down onto his butt in the snow, his pack overbalanced him and he went sprawling on his back.
Malak turned to his brother and shook his head.
"Ye're a great fool, ye know that?" he grumbled. "Ye've left out tha part o' tha story where ye fought off skeletons, an' zombies, an' golems, went toe-ta-toe with an ice ghost, an' saved me life."
The Battleguard bent over and grabbed Karak by the wrist.
"On yer feet, now," he commanded. "Remember tha words o' our ancestors: 'victors stride ever forward'!"
Karak harrumphed but struggled to regain his footing.
"When did ye start quotin' clan lore?" the warrior asked once he was standing.
Malak shrugged and said simply, "Sometimes tha old words be tha best words."
Karak shook his head and smiled, recognizing his own words come back to haunt him.
"I still think I was meant ta be a forge singer," he said as they fell back into line and began trudging toward the monastery.
As if to prove the truth of his words, the warrior proceeded to bellow out a deep-throated, resonating chant detailing Clanggedin's first victory over Grolantor, god of the Hill Giants. He'd almost finished the recitation, reaching the point in the tale where the Lord of Battles imparts his knowledge of giant fighting to the First Dwarves, when he collided with Malak.
"Oy!" he sputtered and nearly fell over.
"There it be!" his brother said, pointing ahead at a dark fissure that was dimly visible through the sheets of driving snow. He turned excitedly toward Karak and said, "There it-"
Behind the warrior, Malak saw a hunched, furry shape moving swiftly and silently toward them through the snow. A glimpse of the obsidian and bone axe in the man's hand, told the cleric everything he needed to know about Kairem's intent.
"Karak! Behind ye!" Malak warned and his brother turned to look over his shoulder. Karak saw Kairem closing on them rapidly and shrugged out of his backpack.
"Prepare yerself, chalak," the warrior said. "This ends now."
The Battleguard knew from Karak's tone of voice that there was no room for argument and he wriggled free of his own pack.
Karak hefted his war axe and rolled his shoulders to work the fatigue out of them. As their former guide drew to within two axe lengths, the dwarf felt the last of the tension drain down his body and into the earth beneath his feet.
"As Shaharizod is me witness, I vow this: with Her Strength, I will hold an' me blade will swing true," Karak cried in Dwarfish.
Malak was surprised by his brother's proclamation; it was rare to hear the Silver Queen's name pass Karak's lips as part of anything other than a curse. Apparently, Shaharizod chose not to bear witness to the warrior's oath, however. Kairem's weapon came in low, just beneath the great curved blade of Karak's war axe and struck the dwarf on the left elbow with enough force to drive him to the ground.
Karak's blood - which looked very red indeed against the stark white that surrounded them - began to stain the snow.
Malak swung his claymore at Kairem, but he was distracted by his brother's condition, and the blow was clumsy. The shaggy man was able to easily avoid it.
"Pushed you into the chasm like th' other, I should've!" the guide ranted. "Long climb to fetch you after, though!"
Malak gritted his teeth and slashed outward with his blade and this time, it swung true. The point of the claymore cut across Kairem's chest, rending the leather armor and the flesh beneath. The guide cried out and tried to fend off the cleric with a wild swing of his hatchet.
Karak felt sure that he was dying, but he wasn't ready to accept that fact easily. He struggled to clear his mind of the weakness that seemed intent on keeping him sprawled in the snow. He saw the haft of his war axe rising out of a drift nearby and reached for it with a hand stained red with his own blood.
The Battleguard pressed his attack, savagely swinging his blade. The cold and the snow continued to work against him, and the claymore couldn't find its way through Kairem's defenses. The shaggy man, who seemed indifferent to the weather, was having little trouble landing blows on Malak, however; the hatchet struck Malak a glancing blow to the abdomen.
Karak grabbed his war axe and hauled himself unsteadily to his feet an instant before a hatchet blow struck the snow where he'd been lying. Another hairy shadow loomed suddenly out of the snow, and the warrior swung his axe at it without success.
Malak and Kairem traded blows, with neither hitting. It was obvious that, while the man had the advantage of terrain, the dwarf was better versed in combat.
Karak and the newcomer to the battle attacked as one, but only the dwarf's weapon struck true; the obsidian hatchet dinged harmlessly off Karak's helmet. The war axe bit hungrily into the man's left thigh, opening a wound all the way to the bone.
The man cried out and pressed his hand against the horrid gash. He started to turn and Karak's backswing caught him on the right knee, dropping him unceremoniously into the snow.
Malak and Kairem continued to seek an opening in each other's defenses, but neither was willing to yield. Time and again, Malak's blows clanged against the man's buckler. At last, as Kairem brought his hatchet down toward the cleric's head, Malak's claymore rose to parry, but met the man's forearm rather than his weapon. Hot blood spattered down on Malak's face and Kairem squealed in pain, nearly dropping his axe.
The Battleguard had found his weakness, and he pressed the advantage, striking the man's weapon arm again. This time Kairem did drop his axe and staggered backward into the snow. He raised the shining buckler to ward off Malak's advancing claymore, but he saw nothing of Karak's war axe.
The great weapon struck him in the back, cleaving through his spine and killing him instantly.
The two brothers stood facing each other over Kairem's corpse, their teeth bared in a grimace of fury, their breath pumping out of their lungs in great clouds of steam.
Malak wiped blood off his lips and looked at his brother. Karak's left arm, from the elbow down was glistening red. Blood dripped slowly into the snow at his side.
"Chalak, ye need aid," the cleric said.
"Aye," Karak agreed. "But nae here. Let's be gettin' outen tha snow, 'fore I freeze well an' good."
Malak nodded and went to retrieve his pack.
Karak reached down and wrestled the buckler free of Kairem's dead limb and looked at it. It was, indeed, a fine artifact of such high quality that even if dwarven runes hadn't encircled it round about, its manufacture by dwarves would still have been clear. On the outer face of the small shield the runes read:
"Good runes give aid in the river of axes."
And on the inside rim were etched the words:
"This shield was forged by Thurgood for his thane, the noble Arngrim Barzak of Taerdal."
