The Messenger it-1

by Douglas Niles

  Even Grimwar, who did not share his father’s lust for gold, was impressed by the array of the yellow metal reflected by this light. The ingots, each more than a hundred pounds, were bars of pure gold, arranged in a dozen stacks that nearly filled the large room, leaving only enough space for a strapping ogre to squeeze sideways between them.

  “Ah, splendid!” crowed the king. “This will make a good season’s profit for my treasury, I declare.” Thraid, Grimwar, Baldruk and the guards watched from the doorway as Grimtruth walked up and down the aisles between the stacks of ingots. Here and there the king stopped to pick up one of the bars, cooing over it like a baby in his arms, then setting it gently back into place.

  Grimwar grew quickly bored. Hearing a soft sigh beside him, he knew that Thraid, too, had tired of watching the king count and coddle his treasure. Baldruk Dinmaker, on the other hand, stood entranced, his eyes alight, his tongue licking his lips anxiously.

  “Very good,” the monarch said finally, striding back through the doors and into the pale twilight of the valley. “Now let us go up to the mines.”

  The little party, on foot now, made its way up the slope from the vault, between a pair of smelting houses, each with a stocky chimney spewing acrid smoke. Grimwar looked up at the massive frameworks of scaffolding leading toward the higher mines. Here and there human slaves climbed up the steep ramps or carefully maneuvered heavy wheelbarrows downward. A rattle and bang attracted their attention across the valley, and they saw a cloud of dust rising from a chute where a dozen slaves were pouring a gravelly mix of ore down toward the nearest smelting house.

  Soon they came to a great stockade, the gate standing wide open as a few frail-looking humans swept out a large barracks hall and stirred several cauldrons steaming over low, smoky fires.

  “Sire!” cried an officious ogre, hastening out of a little hut near the barracks gate. The prince recognized Brasstusk Whipcrack, the chief overseer.

  “This is indeed an honor! My Lady Queen and Prince Grimwar! Welcome to you all.”

  “Enough pleasantries. Tell me how the slaves are performing,” the king said impatiently. “Why do I see twelve men doing the work of two, there at the ore chute?”

  “A shame, Your Majesty, a true shame, I agree,” declared Brasstusk sadly. “It is the new slaves, those who were brought here in the last month. They are low in spirit and so far have proven unwilling to learn even the simplest of tasks.”

  Grimwar groaned inwardly. His father had never ceased complaining about the humans captured during the prince’s raid this past summer. The last thing he wanted to hear was yet another explanation of why his captives were inadequate and disappointing.

  “Foolish wretches,” snapped the king. “Take one of them down right now, and kill him. Let the others witness the deed. That will let them know that we will accept no further shirking. Warn them that my son or I will return tomorrow to see whether they have begun to perform at an acceptable rate.”

  “Of course, Sire,” replied Brasstusk. He turned to a pair of armed warriors standing outside the stockade gate. “Guards! Bring me one of those men, the scrawniest of the lot.” He pointed to the group at the top of the ore chute, who had ceased their labors to watch, intently, the royal party on the valley floor. “He shall be put to death by …” The overseer turned toward the king. “How should he be killed, Sire?”

  “Snik will do the job,” volunteered Baldruk Dinmaker, stepping forward quickly, holding up his lethal dagger. “Bring the human before me.”

  Again Grimwar felt a sense of disgusted boredom. How many times had he watched the dwarf dispose of a human captive with his poisoned magical blade? Certainly his father and Baldruk never seemed to tire of the sport, but the ogre prince failed to see the fascination. Hadn’t he risked life and treasure to bring back these slaves? Now his father had ordered yet another one killed, merely out of spite and pride.

  By now the slaves had perceived the danger in the king’s attention and were busying themselves before the two guards arrived at the high scaffold. Nevertheless, the ogres wasted no time in seizing one wretch by the shoulders and dragging him down the long ramp toward the ground.

  The prince noticed that his father’s young bride was looking a trifle stricken. Thraid mopped her brow with a handkerchief and glanced around restlessly, letting her eyes fall on anything except the sobbing, pleading, pitiful human captive.

  “Would you like to return to the cart, my Queen?” asked Grimwar. He offered her an arm which she gratefully accepted. The king cast his son a glance of disgust, then turned away as the prince and queen started down the trail, past the smelting houses, and back toward the ice bears and the royal sled.

  “By Gonnas, is it necessary to kill him?” Thraid asked in a low voice with exasperation. “You’d think he could be whipped or tortured instead!”

  Grimwar snorted, looking at her from the side. “Sometimes we must do things … unpleasant things, but necessary,” he said pointedly.

  “Necessary?” She met his gaze, her large brown eyes flashing. He could tell she was upset. “Necessary, like marrying the daughter of a baron?”

  “Or marrying a king-one who is older than your father!” he retorted.

  She pulled her hand off his arm and turned her eyes forward. They walked as quickly as decorum allowed, but still they were well within earshot when the human slave, now stricken by the dwarf’s slow-acting poison, began to scream.

  “O Great Gonnas, show your humble priestess thy immortal will.”

  Stariz ber Glacierheim ber Bane bowed her massive head, averting her eyes from the blazing visage on the temple dais. She was on her knees, befitting her status as petitioner and priestess. A mask of black obsidian, carved into the bestial face as the god’s own image, covered her face. The princess of Suderhold-and daughter of the baron of Glacierheim-held her pose for a long time. Grimwar knew that she was letting the awe and the wonder and the power well up within her.

  The prince stood in a darkened alcove off the temple’s entryway, feeling some of that awe himself. His wife did not know he was here. At least, Grimwar corrected himself, she had not been informed of his arrival, though she had ways of finding things out he had never been able to understand. For now, he would respectfully wait for her to conclude her devotions.

  The image of Gonnas the Strong, the Willful One, rose in all its glory, the obsidian image of a massive bull ogre, improbably long tusks jutting proudly from the lower jaw. The great black statue, outlined in sparkling points of fire, was three times the size of the greatest ogre. It filled the whole central atrium of the temple, which itself was one of the largest chambers in the great underground sprawl that was Winterheim. The massive golden blade, the Axe of Gonnas, rested at the feet of the statue.

  The high priestess was alone, except for her husband and an unimportant human slave. Even the king and queen were respectfully waiting outside. Any lesser ogre would have faced a sentence of death for daring to intrude upon her worship.

  “Gonnas, source of all wisdom,” Stariz intoned, tusked mask turned upward. “Gonnas, Lord of Strength … Gonnas the Mighty … Gonnas, protector of ogrekind, we seek only to do honor to your image and your name.” Her voice boomed like a powerful drum. The power of the dark god was clearly in her now, as she began to tremble through her elephantine torso, neck, and limbs.

  “Gonnas, Lord of Strength … Gonnas the Mighty …” Again came the Reciting of Names, the energy infusing her, slowly raising the pitch of her voice. Grimwar took a step backward, fearful of the power, envious of the frenzied joy he witnessed in his wife.

  Stariz rose to her feet, arms outspread, face upturned to the black image. The voice of the ogress was a desperate plea for a sign, for some indication of the god’s favor, or of his will.

  Smoke and vapors thickened in the chamber, swirling around, obscuring the air so that Grimwar could see neither his wife nor the black statue symbolizing the object of her worship. Crashes and roars resonated fr
om the murk, and the prince fought to hold his nerve, fighting the urge to flee. He stayed in place, hands clenched so tightly that his fingers hurt. The smoke stung his eyes, but he blinked away the tears and stared intently.

  Abruptly Stariz screamed and stumbled out of the smoke cloud, staggering drunkenly, her hands clasped to either side of her face. The human slavewoman stepped forward only to be slapped roughly aside by an accidental blow of the ogress’s flailing hand. Finally the priestess slumped to her knees, holding herself as her huge body was convulsed with deep, racking sobs.

  Grimwar froze, again feeling that almost insurmountable urge to flee. He shook his head sternly, reminding himself that he was a bull ogre, heir to a great kingdom. He would not, could not, allow himself to give in to fear.

  He went to his wife, knelt at her side, helped her pull off the heavy mask. Supporting her in his strong arms, he assisted her to the clearer air behind the temple’s heart. The smoke was thick and choking but finally parted enough for him to breath easier. Nearby the human slave groaned and followed them groggily.

  “What? What is it?” demanded Grimwar, as his wife’s eyelids fluttered open.

  “I have seen the visions of the Willful One, and they are filled with messages of doom if we-if you-fail to act!”

  “But what-”

  “The elven messenger!” gasped the princess, cutting him off, her bloodshot eyes fixing Grimwar with a look of terror that he found utterly unsettling. “He has come to Icereach! He is here! I saw more, a deeper warning. There is a human woman, a survivor of your raids this summer. You should not have let her escape! For it is as I told you-she will be his agent of destiny!”

  “How?” The prince couldn’t suppress his irritation. Why was she telling him this now, when it was too late to do anything about it. “What else did you learn? What other dangers do we face?” he demanded, as they came out of the temple gates to find Grimtruth and his queen watching them worriedly. Stariz staggered, leaning against the wall, slowly slumping to the floor.

  Finally the high priestess, with a groan, struggled to a sitting position, legs splayed before her on the marble floor. The queen touched her arm and Stariz impatiently brushed the other ogress’s hand away.

  “Other dangers. Is that not enough? No, I saw none beyond those two,” Grimwar’s wife said slowly. But he noticed, as she spoke, that her tiny eyes shifted, narrowing with a scowl that was directed straight at Queen Thraid Dimmarkull ber Bane.

  12

  Tall Cedar Bay

  That smoke will be visible for miles,” Moreen said with concern. She, Bruni and Tildey stood atop a rocky hill, watching the camp where the Arktos were beginning to stir on this cold, misty morning. During these short days, the tribe rose before dawn and continued marching long into the hours of darkness. “Do you think there are any thanoi around here?”

  “It seems like those whale-killers are everywhere these days,” Bruni said with a grim shake of her head.

  “Best to keep a constant lookout,” Tildey remarked. She looked at her half-empty quiver. “I wish I had more arrows.” After the fight with the thanoi, she had recovered about ten of her lethal missiles, but that was all she had.

  “The way is probably clear to the south and east,” the chiefwoman continued, thinking aloud. “I’d like to head north for another day’s march, though, to scout in that direction. We must be getting close to the place my father called Tall Cedar Bay. I’d like to find Tall Cedar Bay and maybe take shelter there until we can find Brackenrock.”

  “Good idea,” Bruni said, as Tildey nodded too. “We’ll come with you.”

  Moreen’s eyes rose from the campsite, her gaze sweeping past the strip of beach onto the gray water of the gulf. Many days it rained now, and just yesterday an icy wind off the gulf had turned the rain into stinging sleet, forcing the Arktos into an early camp. To take advantage of the halt, they had erected racks, and continued the process of curing whale meat above slow-burning fires.

  “Is it just the thanoi that worries you?” Bruni asked, her round face frowning thoughtfully.

  “No. In truth, I’d feel better if the Highlanders didn’t know how to find us by looking for our smoke.” Unconsciously she glanced over her shoulder, across the landscape of rolling, hilly tundra. There was no sign of any of Strongwind Whalebone’s men, but the chiefwoman had no doubt that some remained in the vicinity, keeping track of the slow-moving and poorly armed band.

  “The cedars might give us some cover,” Bruni agreed cheerfully. “Not to mention we’d be able to build some nice fires.”

  As if in response to her assertion, the wind picked up a notch, chilling Moreen’s face, tugging at the strands of hair that broke free from her braids. “Let’s go, then,” she said.

  Dinekki, who was overseeing the drying racks, smacked her toothless gums in appreciation of Moreen’s plan. “Good. Watch out for tuskers,” she said. “I’ll keep an eye on things around here.”

  “Thank you, Grandmother. We’ll be back in two or three days.”

  “I’m coming with you!” Little Mouse, who had been squatting near a drying fire a dozen paces away, jumped up and ran towards them.

  “The ears on that boy,” Bruni said with a laugh. “He could hear a flower bud, I swear he could.”

  “Not that there’ll be much of that in the next half year,” Dinekki clucked. “You, Mouse-you’re needed to stick close around here. Every camp of the Arktos needs a scout, and with these three off sightseeing who else do you think I’m going to count on?”

  “But-!” The youth’s objection died in his throat. “A scout? You mean, to kind of look around the area, keep an eye out for trouble and the like?”

  “As I said, if not you, who?” the shaman demanded. “Would you send a little toddler out to do some scouting? How about your mother? Or maybe you think old Dinekki has nothing better to do than march up and down these hills on her old bones?”

  “No, I’ll do it!” Mouse declared. He raced to the tribe’s small cache of weapons and picked up the spear he had claimed after the battle with the tuskers. “Nothing’s going to sneak up on the tribe while I’m the scout!” he declared proudly.

  “I’m glad we can count on you,” Moreen said, feeling emotion tighten her throat. He looked so sincere, so brave, so young. The chiefwoman, Bruni, and Tildey had been all through the area in the past day, and she felt reasonably confident there was no threat in the immediate vicinity.

  “All right-stay alert, and come and tell Dinekki if you see anything unusual.”

  “I will!” he promised. He slung the spear over his shoulder and started up a hill, as the trio of women armed themselves and took a few provisions and a waterskin from the tribe’s supplies. The last thing the chiefwoman saw, before they started up the beach, was the black-haired youth bracing himself against the wind, long spear in his hands, earnestly peering out over the land.

  “I admit I wasn’t sure where we were, or that there was any hospitable land around here,” Kerrick said as he and Coraltop gazed across placid water at an enclosed valley, dark green with a dense grove of evergreens. Two ridges faced by steep, rocky precipices extended inland. It seemed that trees-the first such timber they had seen on this rugged coast-thrived between the elevations.

  “Oh, I knew we would find some place to land sooner or later,” the kender said breezily. “It was just a matter of staying patient. As for me, I’m always patient. As my grandmother used to say, ‘Coraltop, you are the very soul of patience.’ ”

  Kerrick was standing at the front of the cabin and looking down into the empty fish locker. “Well,” the elf said, “we timed it right anyway. We’ve run out of food.”

  For five days after spotting the mountainous horizon rising to the south they had steered along a rocky coast of exceptionally barren and apparently uninhabited terrain. The rugged skyline rose steeply only a few miles inland from the shore, and the edge of the land was in most places a high cliff of jagged, weatherworn stone. Kerrick
had taken Cutter into a few narrow inlets, but even there the shore had been rocky and treacherous. Since the regular rainstorms had resulted in the water barrel remaining comfortably full, the elf had elected to keep sailing while searching for a more promising landfall.

  At last they had come upon a strait of deep water extending between two rugged shores less than ten miles apart. Here they had veered south, hoping to find anchorage.

  Now their search was rewarded, in the discovery of this bay on the eastern shore just inside the bottleneck. Kerrick studied the forest, confident they would find game-deer, pheasant, or rabbit-somewhere in the woods. His belly rumbled, and his mouth watered at the remembered taste of grilled meat. He checked his bowstring and arrows. Unwilling to leave the powerful talisman behind, the elf tucked his magical ring into a small pouch inside of his belt. Ready at last, he stood in the stern and looked for the most promising spot to begin the hunt.

  The trees were barely half as tall as the pines that grew so commonly in Silvanesti, but their color was lush, and the ground showed mossy meadow and fern-bedded dale. A stone’s throw away was a stretch of sand beach, backed by trees that looked especially inviting.

  “How are you getting to shore?” Caroltop asked, frowning.

  “ ‘We’re going to swim,” Kerrick replied.

  “Good idea,” the kender replied cheerfully. “Except, who will watch the boat?”

  “Don’t you know how to swim?”

  “What kind of question is that? Netfisher practically means ‘swimming,’ in kenderspeak! But I think I could do some pretty good fishing right here, just in case your luck as a hunter is the same as your luck as a sailor.”

  Kerrick opened his mouth to reply when he realized that he wouldn’t mind spending a few hours by himself. The kender, surprisingly enough, had proved a companionable shipmate, and of course, he had saved the elf’s life. However, Coraltop talked a lot, even when he didn’t seem to have anything noteworthy to say.