Kelemvor avoided examining that fear too closely. He had faced death many times before, and had never felt as despondent as now. The fighter was afraid of something more than dying. He told himself that leaving the tablet to the zombies was what had upset him.
But he knew that was a lie. Though Kelemvor understood the importance of returning the tablet to Helm, losing it would not produce such anguish. The true reason for his distress was Adon’s death, and the uncertainty of Midnight’s fate. Though he had no way of knowing what had happened to her, the warrior felt certain she could not have avoided the whirlpool.
Stop thinking, he told himself. Stop thinking before it’s too late. Kelemvor suddenly wanted to go to sleep so he could wake up and discover that the zombies and underground stream had been bad dreams.
But the fighter did not dare to close his eyes. Even through his growing disorientation, Kelemvor knew that sleep could be deadly in freezing conditions.
The shivering went away and his muscles began to stiffen. Kelemvor knew he was slipping closer to death. He kicked his legs, then beat the black sheet beneath his chest.
The ice did not crack, did not pop, did not give at all. He was as good as dead, yet was still alive. That makes me undead, Kelemvor thought, like the caravan zombies. He chuckled grimly at this half-formed thought.
But undeath was better than what had happened to Adon and Midnight.
Forget it, he told himself. Thinking about the past will bring nothing but more sorrow. Survive first, then think.
Not thinking was easier said than done. If Kelemvor had not insisted upon rescuing the caravan, had not been so stubborn, his friends would be alive. But the fighter had been stubborn, as he always was. He thought that perhaps he deserved to die.
“Stop it!” He spoke the words aloud, hoping to snap himself into a more alert state of mind.
The crow squawked once, as if suggesting Kelemvor get on with his death.
“Fetch a dagger, then, or a sharp rock,” Kelemvor muttered to the bird. “I can’t kill myself with my bare hands.”
The bird cocked its head, then ruffled its feathers and stared at Kelemvor with a disapproving glare.
Kelemvor stretched forward and grabbed a thick piece of driftwood. The crow prepared to take flight, but Kelemvor had no interest in attacking the bird again. Hefting the branch like a club, the fighter turned to his right as far as he could, then smashed the branch down on the ice.
A loud crack pealed across the lake, echoing off the cliff on the far side. Kelemvor tried to move his leg and found it would not budge. He raised the log and struck again. Another loud crack rolled across the ice-covered lake. The wooden club snapped in two, and one end went skittering across the ice, leaving the fighter holding a two-foot long wooden stake.
The crow squawked several times, then hopped out of the tree. It landed on the shore, just out of Kelemvor’s reach, and squawked once more.
Kelemvor considered throwing his stick at the bird, then thought better of the idea. The broken branch was not much of a tool, but it was all he had. Instead of attacking the crow, he grasped the stick as he might a dagger, then hit the ice with its sharp end.
Something gave, so he struck again and again, his movements growing increasingly jerky and erratic. Finally, Kelemvor stopped to see what he had accomplished. The fighter had smashed the end of the branch into a rounded pulp. His hand throbbed with the force of his blows, but the exertion had warmed his body a little.
The black ice showed only the tiniest depression. It was much harder than the driftwood, and the fighter’s efforts had done nothing to break it. If he wanted to smash his way free, Kelemvor knew he would have to find something harder than the driftwood, harder than the ice.
Kelemvor thought of the flint and steel in the purse he kept around his neck, but quickly discarded the idea; they were just chips he used to start campfires. They might serve well enough as hard points if fastened onto the end of the stick, but he had no way to do that. Besides, they would certainly be lost if they flew off the end of the stick, and that was a risk the fighter could not take. When he freed himself, he would need the flint and steel to start a fire. If it came down to death, he would use the flint to scratch at the ice, but it would be futile effort and he knew it.
Kelemvor turned his attention back to the shoreline. With the dulled stick he still held, the warrior could reach other objects. Unfortunately, the only things on the shore were more sticks and the bird. A wave of despair passed over Kelemvor as he decided that he could do nothing to save himself, for the ice was too thick and too hard. He was going to die, like the others …
Don’t think about them, he told himself. Thinking about them will demoralize you, make you want to die.
And Kelemvor wanted to live. It surprised him, somehow, but he definitely wanted to live.
The crow hopped to within the fighter’s reach. The bird pretended to take no notice of Kelemvor, though it was difficult to tell exactly what its black eyes were focused upon. Perhaps the crow was testing the warrior, trying to decide how much longer it would take for him to die.
“I won’t hurry on your account,” Kelemvor grumbled.
The crow cocked its head, then opened its beak and hissed. Kelemvor thought of the beak pecking at his eyes, of the spiked claws digging at his ears and nose. He winced.
Then an idea occurred to him, though it was born not of wisdom, but of the irrationality that comes with freezing to death. He scratched at the ice with his fingernails and noticed that he had scraped away the slightest bit. Of course, even muddled as he was, Kelemvor knew he would be long dead before working free of the ice with his own nails.
But the crow’s claws were sharper than fingernails. And the fighter could see many possibilities for the beak.
As if sensing his thoughts, the crow watched Kelemvor warily.
“I think I’ll go to sleep,” Kelemvor said, concerned by how thick his speech had become. In his confusion, he feared the crow might not understand him if he slurred his words.
The bird, of course, showed no sign of understanding him at all.
Kelemvor laid his head in his arms, keeping one eye open just enough to watch the bird. It felt good to rest his head, and he noticed that he was finally warm. The warrior was extremely drowsy, and thought the effort of his long swim had finally caught up to him. He closed both his eyes.
Ten minutes later, the crow decided to investigate the immobile man. Taking to its wings, the bird approached twice and fluttered overhead without landing. Finally, it settled a foot from Kelemvor’s head and stared directly into the warrior’s face. The man’s eyes remained firmly closed, and his breath was so shallow it could not be detected.
The crow hopped forward, then pecked at the fighter’s nose. When Kelemvor did not stir, the crow pecked again, this time taking a pinch of flesh away in its beak.
Kelemvor woke with a start and saw the black form in front of his eyes. Even as addled as he was, the fighter realized the crow was causing his pain. He lunged and his right hand closed on oily feathers. His left hand caught the bird by the leg, and the warrior felt a bone snap.
The crow squawked and slashed with its free foot. Kelemvor closed his eyes. Sharp claws ripped into his brow. The fighter screamed and the bird pressed harder, trying to rip through the man’s eyelids and jerk an eyeball loose.
Kelemvor released the bird and covered his face. An instant later, the crow’s wings beat the air and the bird was airborne. The fighter wiped the blood from his brow and looked after the bird. The fight had charged Kelemvor’s body with adrenaline, and the warrior was thinking clearly enough to wonder why he had ever believed it possible to scratch through six inches of ice with a crow’s claw.