The Messenger it-1

by Douglas Niles

  To Grimwar, everything tasted like ash.

  Baldruk Dinmaker rose again from his seat between the two mighty ogres. He cleared his throat, bringing the crowd to silence.

  “It has been my great honor to serve the Bane kings for two generations-three, if we count the crown prince who, some day, will prove himself worthy of this throne.…”

  The dwarf shot Grimwar a glance before continuing-again, that look half of disdain. The ogre heard none of the rest of the words. Instead, he flushed with a feeling of rage that started at his toes and spread upward through his entire body. Someday? He looked past the dwarf to the king, who was slurping noisily from his goblet, paying no attention to the speech, until he sensed that Baldruk was reaching his conclusion.

  “… has applied himself with diligence to the learning. May it please the gods of us all-let the Rites begin!” Once more the trumpets, played by the human slaves who stood on the high rampart, brayed through the Hall of Blue Ice.

  “The crown prince will now recite the Names of Dynasty!” proclaimed Hakkan. The lord of protocol, rigid and serene in a long green robe, stood before the royal table, his back to the king’s family as he bellowed his announcement through the Hall of Blue Ice.

  “Are you ready?” hissed Stariz, who had sat through the dinner without eating, since to do so would have meant removing her tusked mask and risking the displeasure of her god. She rose to follow her husband, bearing the Axe of Gonnas as was required by her role.

  Grimwar tried to concentrate on the names that were marching through his skull in dynastic progression. Baldruk leaned over and glared at him intensely. “You know what to do,” he said. Putting down the empty mug of warqat, which he had nursed through the long meal, the prince rose to the cheers of all the assembled ogres. Barely hearing the accolades, he was making his way past the king’s seat when Grimtruth seized his son’s hand and pulled him down closer.

  “Do not embarrass me again.”

  His father stank of warqat and sweat, both equally repugnant. Angrily, Grimwar pulled himself away and lumbered toward the massive window of blue ice.

  Lord Hakkan was standing by to escort him, but the prince marched past without halting. The great sheet of frost, the window to the glacier and the Ice Wall and the Storm Sea, rose before him. Now Grimwar halted in the prescribed position. The names of his ancestors were ready, about to trip off his tongue, when his mind veered backward, to the humiliation of four years earlier.

  “He’s a fool!” roared Grimtruth Bane, rising from his chair and lunging around the banquet table. The young prince stood paralyzed, speechless. For a long time he had been standing there, silent, unsuccessfully willing the names from his subconscious. He looked back, saw his mother, Queen Hannareit, looking at him with an expression of pleading … then Grimtruth Bane filled his vision, storming toward his son, face twisted by fury and warqat.

  The high priest, Karn Draco, tried to stop the king, but Grimtruth would not be deterred. “Give me that!” he demanded, snatching the Axe of Gonnas from the priest’s hands.

  “No-the window must melt before the Names!” protested Draco.

  With a single blow from the golden axe the king shattered the blue ice. Shards of glassy frost exploded, and instantly winter’s vortex had swept into the hall. The first gust sucked Karn Draco into the frosty wasteland. Tables were tossed about, humans and ogres swept away by the lethal force of wind.

  Grimtruth Bane seized a nearby slave, one of the hapless servers who had been working at the royal table, and, still carrying the Axe of Gonnas, marched out to the brink of the Ice Wall. Throwing the blubbering human down, he killed him with a single blow of the axe, so that his blood soaked into the dam as required by the ancient ritual.

  That sacrifice was made without the full ceremony, however, without the blessing of Gonnas. When the Sturm-sea erupted that year, it did so capriciously, tearing away a great part of the city and burying a valuable gold mine in the process.

  Everyone blamed Grimwar Bane. His father arranged the marriage to Stariz, whose tutelage, it was hoped, would see that the prince maintained a properly studious, devoted outlook on life. She came to Winterheim and replaced the fallen high priest and, for the past three years, it had been she who had recited the names.

  Now, again, had come the time for the prince to prove himself.

  “O Gonnas the Strong, Gonnas the Mighty, the Willful One …” Stariz intoned the names of the god. “Grant us your favor. Melt the Blue Ice, and let the king of Suderhold come forth to unleash your Sturmfrost upon the world!”

  The watchers, ogres and humans alike, held their breath as Grimwar Bane took a step forward and began to speak.

  “King Barkon, Barkon I, brought the clans to Winterheim, in the first year of Dynasty,” Grimwar began, “and reigned until year 63. It was then that his son, Barkon II, took the throne, until the year 91. Barkon III came next, in dynasty, to year 147. These were the Barkon kings, the founders of Suderhold.

  “The Icetusk dynasty commenced in 150, with Garren Icetusk, who ruled through 212.…”

  Surprisingly, the names seemed to burst forth with a will of their own. The Icetusks were easy-they had ruled for more than a thousand years, and it seemed that each date was inextricably attached to their name. When Grimwar said Icetusk VII, for instance, the years 503 and 571 loomed clearly in his memory. So, too, with the rest of that hallowed line.

  He did not dare to look behind him, to examine the blue ice. He knew that Baldruk Dinmaker was watching, together with Stariz, the king, Thraid and the rest. But it helped when he imagined that it was only for Thraid’s benefit that he spoke. Still the names rolled and tumbled off his tongue. He continued, through the kings of the Whaleslayers, the Goldcrowns, the Manreapers. He noted the short and tragic reign of King Dracomaster who, it turned out, had taken his name quite prematurely. He passed through the Glacierlords and, finally, he arrived at his own clan.

  “The Bane Dynasty was born, in 4370, with Grimword Bane ruling until 4426. His son, Grimstroke Bane took the throne, and was king until 4502 …”

  Now he was speaking of his own family, and each name came with a face, and the memory and words that much clearer.

  He reached his grandfather and spoke firmly. “Grimsea Bane ruled until the year 4875.”

  He paused, and he sensed everyone drawing a breath, waiting for a grand conclusion. He would now speak of the last king to sit upon the throne of Suderhold. But the words, the name, suddenly caught in his throat, refusing to emerge. His frustration, his fury built up until finally he spat the words, in tones that might be mistaken for contempt, ringing through the hall.

  “Grimtruth Bane, King of Suderhold from 4875 until now.”

  The blue ice surface was slick and wet, water pouring down the shimmering face, pooling and splattering on the floor. The great window sagged visibly until, abruptly, it trembled and fell away like shattered glass.

  “Gonnas hears and is pleased!” cried Stariz exultantly.

  The prince was assailed by frigid wind, stung by particles of icy snow. The gale swept into the chamber, and all the ogres reached for their furs as they watched, awestruck. The humans in the higher reaches huddled miserably together but they, too, appeared rapt. Grimwar Bane stepped forward into the gale, then turned to watch as the king, accompanied by two warriors and a human slave, hurried forward. Baldruk remained at the table, but the dwarf’s face was lit by an expression of exultation.

  “Do you mock me?” growled Grimtruth as he passed his son. “If so, your insult will not be forgotten.”

  Grimwar’s own temper flared as he and Stariz followed the procession. The slave to be sacrificed this winter was a strapping human male. Certainly the slave knew that he was doomed, all the more reason why he showed little spirit.

  The wind howled now as the small group made its way to the very brink of the Ice Wall, where the dam of frost met the solid stone of the mountainous balcony. This place, where the great dam merged wit
h the mountainside of Winterheim, was a precipitous shelf poised over the surging Snow Sea.

  Stariz held the golden axe, while the two guards stretched the human slave over the rim of the balcony. Grimtruth Bane stepped forward and took the hallowed artifact.

  “O Great Gonnas!” cried the priestess, the roar of her voice carrying into the wind, rising over the gale in power and force. “Grant us your blessing and share your might! Let this blood sanctify your pleasure, and open the Ice Wall! Let your Sturmfrost surge forth and scour your enemies from the world!”

  Now the human seemed finally to grasp the inevitability of his fate. He began to scream and struggle, to kick and thrash. The big ogres held him without even straining. Grimtruth Bane took the axe and stepped up to the man, holding the golden blade above the terrified human’s chest. The victim was stretched prone on the rim of the Ice Wall, a thousand feet above the face of the dam.

  The king twisted about to cast a scornful glance at his son. “This is the mark of power!” he roared. “This is the deed of a king! By Gonnas, you have shown that you will never be worthy!”

  The slave made one last, desperate attempt at escape. With a frantic effort he pulled one arm free and twisted outward. The king, his mind foggy with warqat, chopped, but the blade missed the slave entirely, cutting into the top of the Ice Wall and quivering in the grip of frost.

  Then the human was swinging free, dangling below the balcony, suspended only by one wrist held by the second ogre guard. The Snow Sea surged and raged below, black tendrils of gale reaching upward, hungrily, pulling at his feet, coiling about his legs.

  “Hold him!” roared the king.

  The guard’s grip slipped. With a hideous scream, the slave vanished into the tumult, twisting in the air for a moment before disappearing.

  “Fools! Wretches!” roared the king, spittle flying, eyes bulging. He wrenched the axe free and swung first at one, then the other of his guards. The first one fell after the doomed slave. The second screamed and clawed as he also plummeted into space down the long, barren cliff.

  Grimtruth whirled upon his son. “See what you made me do?” he roared, advancing with the axe upraised.

  “Wait!” screeched Stariz, though she made no move to step between the two ogres. “We will get another slave.”

  The prince was in no mood to give ground. The Barkon Sword was in his hands now, no longer merely a ceremonial weapon. Baldruk Dinmaker’s word-someday-echoed in Grimwar’s mind. He raised the great weapon tentatively. It felt good in his hands.

  “You dare to draw steel against your father, the king?” snarled Grimtruth, taking another step forward. “You worthless spawn, you are your mother’s milksop, a disgrace to my line!”

  Before anyone could say anything else, metal clashed, and sparks flew. The weapons met again and again, propelled by all the strength of two bull ogres. A haze settled around the prince, and he hacked and charged, parried and smashed. The king was a huge ogre, and his axe was formidable, but his son was fast, and he felt driven by years of pent-up rage.

  The great hall fell silent, the ogres gaping in awe and the humans in fear as the king and the prince battled. Thraid’s cheeks were flushed, her white-knuckled hands clenching the table. Baldruk Dinmaker licked his lips, stared, drew his breath in a great hiss.

  Axe met sword in another ringing clash, and both ogres strained. The king’s weight and his huge weapon bore down on the prince, who suddenly backed away. The Axe of Gonnas cut deeply into the stones of the mountain balcony. Grimwar stabbed, his sword grazing the king’s shoulder, and Grimtruth roared in fury as he pulled his weapon back and struck anew. The younger ogre barely dodged.

  Again and again they clashed and broke apart. First one held the advantage, then the other. Grimwar’s thigh bled from a deep gash, while both of the king’s wrists and arms were scored with cuts. Each wound seemed to drive his father into a wilder rage, while Grimwar, for his part, found himself growing calmer and more determined. Strangely he found himself thinking of the beautiful queen watching this fight, of the dwarf, and the masked high priestess. He knew what would happen, what he had to do.

  Cautiously Grimwar circled his opponent, pressed him back against the rim of the balcony at the very edge of the Ice Wall. There was a measure of fear in the king’s eyes now as he lost strength and flailed wildly, no longer pressing the attack, merely holding his son at bay. He parried desperately, and Grimwar stabbed at the monarch’s exposed hands, driving the blade deep, forcing the axe out of the royal grip. The king sprawled backward, shrieking, to lie fully across the wall.

  “The axe-you must draw blood with the axe!”

  Grimwar heard the words over the gale, knew that his wife was speaking to him, uttering the awful truth that he already recognized. The rite had been sanctified by Gonnas, but the axe was needed to fulfill the ritual. The prince dropped his sword and picked up the artifact, raising it high over his head. The king, his father, this monstrous drunken cur of an ogre, was blubbering pathetically, trying to scramble away.

  Grimwar Bane chopped down with all the strength of his powerful body, angling the blade toward his father’s bulging gut. The Axe of Gonnas sliced royal flesh, and Grimtruth gazed stupidly at the crimson liquid spurting from the great, gaping wound. The blood gushed across the ice, sinking into the white frost. The prince stood numb, watching, until Stariz grabbed him and pulled him back through the melted window, into the shelter of the Hall of Blue Ice.

  More of the fallen king’s blood soaked into the frozen dam, and the power of the Sturmfrost surged and exploded, while all Icereach quailed at the threat of killing cold.

  17

  Sturmfrost

  A massive crack spidered its way across the Ice Wall, beginning at the spot where Grimtruth Bane’s blood soaked into the dam of frost. The sounds of fissuring ice split the air like staccato bursts of thunder. The Snow Sea surged against the multiplying cracks.

  A huge slab of ice broke free from the crest of the wall to tumble down the sheer face. Other pieces were jarred free as the huge chunk crashed and shattered. More great sections tumbled. Finally the first real crevice appeared, and the Sturmfrost burst through with a shriek of gale force, an eruption of furious wind and snow.

  That initial finger of storm tore at the gap, widened it until other pieces of the Ice Wall spun away. The whole vast surface quivered and expanded, additional fissures opening everywhere, gouts of storm erupting. Sounds of crashing ice made a roar to shake the world, as a thousand geysers of blizzard simultaneously exploded and cascaded.

  At last the Ice Wall fell away along its entire length. The Sturmfrost hurled away mountainous pieces of the dam. Many crashed far away into the White Bear Sea, raising huge spumes of water. As the wind whipped past the water, they froze into fountains of ice, picked up again and hurled farther, rocketing through the sky with monstrous force. Winds screamed with hurricane power. The black waves billowed and surged with frigid violence.

  As the storm spilled out of the Snow Sea, it spread, fanlike, to the east and west as well as covering the north. In the blackness of the Icereach night an even blacker face churned on its path, shaped and driven by the cold and vicious wind. The front was a mile high and utterly lightless, full of destructive energy, large enough to swallow anything and everything in its path.

  “This is really boring.”

  Coraltop Netfisher slumped on the roof of the cabin, chin resting in his hands. “No wind, no waves, nothing. I hate to complain, but at least when I was rowing it was more fun.”

  Kerrick bit his tongue and didn’t break his rhythm of gentle oarstrokes. Back and forth he plied the single-bladed paddle, propelling Cutter slowly toward land. Listening to his shipmate’s complaints, he was tempted to invite the kender to take a swim. Coraltop’s attempt at rowing had involved turning a wide dizzying circle in the placid waters, and Kerrick was still trying to make up for the lost time.

  They were far out at sea, in the middle of a still, starry
night, and the weather was preternaturally calm. There was not even a whisper of wind. No ripple marred the mirror-still surface of the water.

  “How far do you think it is, back to that steam cave?” Coraltop Netfisher wondered.

  “I don’t know … maybe a mile, maybe less,” the elf replied. Because of the faint glow of starlight, he could make out the the strait, he thought, but he wasn’t sure how far away it was. He was startled to see, low in the west, a green star sparkling above the place where he remembered that cove to be.

  “Hey, there’s Zivilyn Greentree,” he said. “Once again, right over my bearing.”

  “Who’s Zivilyn Greentree?” asked Coraltop.

  The kender listened and nodded as the elf explained about the god of his family tree. “It can be a good thing to trust in your god,” Coraltop observed.

  A breeze stirred the air. Ripples marked the slick water, and the sail puffed and fluttered, filling slightly.

  “It’s a bit of north wind,” Kerrick noted, perplexed. “It ought to be coming from the south.”

  “Should we try for the ocean again?” Coraltop said, sauntering to the mast, ready to pay out the line. “Like my Grandmother Annatree used to say, ‘If you’re going to ride a horse, you should already be sitting in the saddle when it starts to run.’ ”

  Kerrick was torn. He had decided to head back for temporary shelter with Moreen and her people. This fresh wind was coming from the wrong direction. Should he head back or sail on? Curious, he glanced to the south. What he saw filled him with foreboding.

  A wall of darkness loomed, blocking out the stars along the horizon, rising higher as it approached. The monstrous seething thing extended across the whole southern horizon. Now he understood the light breeze from the north. He had encountered the same phenomenon with a few other ocean storms. Before the weather struck, it moved through a swath of low pressure, actually sucking air, water, and boats toward the front.