Winterheim it-3

by Douglas Niles

  He kept his eyes on the human slave, Wandcourt, who was two dozen paces ahead of him. He knew that Stariz would have spies lurking, so Thraid Dimmarkull’s slave and the ogre king were making it appear that they were not together. It was important that Grimwar observe the route that Wandcourt took, because that was the path to his goal.

  The man turned into an alley, one of the many passages that gave access between the great stone edifices of Winterheim’s royal level. This one followed directly below the outer wall of the palace. The turn was not unexpected, but the king ambled past that alley with apparent indifference-they had agreed that it would be too obvious if both of them turned into the same, little-used passageway.

  Instead, Grimwar passed the next block of buildings, elegant shops where gold items and rare spices were purveyed, and turned at the alley beyond. He hastened along the shadowy passageway until he reached the even darker connecting route-generally used only by slaves-behind the sprawling edifices lining the Promenade. This passage was shadowy and littered with refuse, but the king took no note of these distractions. Instead, he sought and found the black space to his left, just where Wandcourt had said it would be. In another second Grimwar darted through, then heard a soft rumble as the secret door was closed behind him. Only then did the slave unmask his lamp, the pale beams of light revealing nothing more than a small landing and a steep stairway leading down through the bedrock of the mountain.

  “Do you think we were seen?” whispered the king.

  “I do not think so, sire,” replied the human. “There was a shadow, as of one entering the alley behind you, but by that time you were already at the rear of the building. If it was someone following you, he will not know where you have gone from there.”

  “Good. Lead on,” ordered the monarch, impatience adding an edge to his voice.

  Immediately, the slave started downward, holding the light to illuminate the steps for the king, even though in the darkness ogre eyes were much more keen than a human’s. Still, Wandcourt apparently knew this route well, for he proceeded with good haste and no stumbling.

  They went down the stairs for a long time. The terrace level, after all, was near the middle of Winterheim’s ascending layers, while the royal palace was at the very top. All the while the king could hear his heart pounding in his ears, and it wasn’t from the exertion of the descent. His thoughts were churning, anticipation bringing sweat to his palms, rendering his very breathing feverish with desire.

  Finally they came to another door, one that Wandcourt knocked on discreetly before pushing it open. Grimwar all but pushed past the man, who had enough experience with these trysts to step out of the way. The king took little note of his surroundings, rushing through a small anteroom as a door opened beyond.

  She was waiting for him, as he had known she would be, and she was even more beautiful than he remembered. Her gown, that silken shimmer of crimson that was so unlike anything else in the city of Winterheim, did little to conceal the voluptuous curves of her body. Her lips were rouged in the same color, and her eyes sparkled with joy as the king stepped forward and swept her into his brawny arms.

  “My Grimwar!” she whispered, pulling him close. Somewhere behind he heard a door close and knew that the slave had withdrawn. “How I missed you!”

  Still clinched, the two lovers moved sideways into another room, the boudoir. Hastily the king kicked the door shut. He kissed her with crushing force, almost angrily, and she met his embrace with passion of her own. His hands cupped her flesh, and she moaned, still kissing him. His knees were shaking, and he needed to draw a breath, but he wouldn’t release her. Instead, they remained together, moving slowly across the sumptuously appointed room. The king only cast a sideways glance for a second, just to make sure that he could find the bed.

  The Temple of Gonnas was a sacred chamber, huge and dark, located in the highest quarter of Winterheim’s Nobles Level, just below the royal palace. This was Stariz’s favorite place in the world, the great room where she truly felt her own power and at the same time knew the might of one who was so much greater than her mere mortal self.

  The image of Gonnas the Strong looked down at her, an immense statue of slick black stone standing three times or more the height of a large ogre. The Willful One was represented as a strapping bull of her kind, an image that bore an uncanny resemblance to the glowering visage of her husband, the king, but where Grimwar Bane was lazy and vacillating, subject to the temptations of the flesh and the distractions of an idle mind, Gonnas was implacable and stern.

  These were two traits that Stariz admired very much and tried to emulate to the best of her very considerable abilities.

  “O Gonnas my Lord, my Immortal Master, please forgive my failures.… I return to you now not with the victory that you so verily deserve but with a plea for guidance and wisdom, for knowledge of the truths you may help me to see and of the actions that I should take in your ever-awful name.”

  The high priestess pressed her masked face to the floor, to the smooth black obsidian that was as shiny and dark as the statue itself. Her great face-mask, the grotesque and exaggerated image of the god, seemed to meld to the flat surface, and she felt her robes spread out like oil across warm water. Even her flesh seemed to flatten and to merge, as if she was no more than a rug, worthy only to cushion the footsteps of her all-powerful master.

  She felt the presence of Gonnas as that crushing weight came to bear upon her. A lesser priestess would have cried out in agony-indeed, many an acolyte had perished upon the first sensation of this blessing-but to Stariz ber Bane the pressure of her lord was a blessing, even an ecstacy. She gasped in pleasure as she felt the weight increase, and she knew that her god was pleased-with her, if not with all of his flock. The high priestess couldn’t breathe, but that was no matter, for it was now the power of Gonnas that brought oxygen to her flesh and vitality to her mind.

  She would remain thus as long as it pleased the Willful One, and every second would give her naught but pleasure. Her mind was vibrant and active, full of thoughts of glory, of the punishment of her people’s enemies, and of the aggrandizement of her god and her land.

  Slowly, with excruciating and tantalizing glimpses, the will of Gonnas became known to her. She saw the human slave, the king they had captured on Dracoheim, sliced open so that his blood might fall into the god’s ever-hungry maw. The image grew within her mind until she saw that Grimwar Bane was watching, all the ogres of Winterheim, and all of the slaves as well were watching the sacrifice. Stariz knew that her first instinct was right, and she knew a flush of pleasure at that thought.

  “It shall be as you will, my master … the human king will be sacrificed at Autumnblight … and all of Winterheim shall behold his suffering, his fate, and your unending glory.…”

  There was another squeeze of power from her lord, and she cried out in sheer joy under the merciless pressure of his own pleasure. It made her heart swell with love to know that she had pleased the will of the powerful god.

  Stariz almost lost consciousness, so consuming was the grip, the crushing might, of Gonnas. With an effort of will she kept her wits, murmuring words of praise and exultation, promising over and over again that the slave king would die on the altar of the great, summer-end feast known as Autumnblight. This was what she had wanted, and it gave her great pleasure to know that her own wishes were so in tune with those of her true god.

  Only then, as the last tendrils of awareness finally escaped her, did the Willful One remind her of her husband, Grimwar Bane, whispering that he could become a great king of Suderhold, perhaps the greatest in a thousand years. She was the key to that greatness, for she was strong where he was weak, and only through her diligence and care could that majesty be achieved.

  Though it tore at her heart to hear the command from her god, she understood the last inkling of his will, and vowed to obey.

  For the ogre king must be watched, very carefully indeed.

  4

 
The Pledge

  Broadnose did not know how long he had been held in this cell, though it was many days now, more than all of his fingers and toes added together. The big ogre, once commander of an elite company of royal Grenadiers, had resigned himself to spending the rest of his life as a captive of the humans. He wondered why they were doing this, holding him here, locked up. They had made no move to hurt or kill him, which surprised him. Neither did they make him work, so he had to conclude that he was not a slave. They fed him and even cared for his wounds in order to keep him alive. Funny creatures, these humans.

  Probably they would kill him when they got around to it, Broadnose figured. After all, he had killed many of them in his turn and had been intent upon further bloodshed when he had been captured in the Mouse-warrior’s ambush. His raiding party had plundered villages, massacred farmers, destroyed homesteads, all as his king and queen had commanded. He had been captured by his enemies, after all of his own troops had been killed in the battle.

  A door of steel-banded wood prevented him from making any move to escape, with only the narrow slit at the bottom sliding open once a day to produce a wooden plate of food and a small gourd of water. Aside from a few perfunctory nudges, he hadn’t investigated the strength of that door-and besides, what would he do if he got out of this cell? His king was far away, and there was no one to give him orders. He contented himself with sitting here, looking forward to his next meal.

  He reached up to his face, lifted the dried leather patch, and touched the rough scab that had formed over his missing eye. The wound no longer pained him, and he imagined that it would make him look fierce if he ever got out of this dark hole. There didn’t seem much chance of that.

  Every once in awhile a human woman came to visit him. She was large, almost the size of an ogress, and possessed of a strange kindness. She was called Bruni by her kind, and Broadnose thought of her as Bruni-warrior. Well did he remember her ferocity when she had wielded the captured Axe of Gonnas in defense of her fortress. He had great respect for her strength and her courage.

  It was she who had led him to this cell after he had been brought here to Brackenrock, the only survivor of his ill-fated raiding party. Periodically after that she came to personally bring him his food, and she would talk to him for a little while. She seemed curious about Winterheim and willingly shared much about Brackenrock. Oddly enough, she seemed like a better companion than most of the ogresses he had known. Her round moon of a face, with those large, dark eyes, Broadnose found pleasant, even beautiful.

  Those visits were rare, and the rest of his life passed in a daze of gloom and boredom. He wondered when they would kill him and how they would do it, but so far they hadn’t even kicked or punched him. The skinny old shaman had even worked magic over his damaged eye to make sure that it wouldn’t … what had she said? Become “affected” or something? His vision remained limited to his one good eye, but the wounded socket had ceased the burning and blistering that had started to become a real distraction.

  His cell was far down in the fortress dungeon, and at the end of a long corridor. There was no one else anywhere near him, so when he heard footsteps approaching this day, he knew they were coming to his cell. He expected his usual feeding-indeed, his stomach growled audibly as the footsteps drew near-but was surprised when instead of the food slot moving to the side he heard a key turn in the lock.

  The door opened to reveal the Bruni-warrior, and Broadnose brightened. She was accompanied this time by a small woman with dark hair. He remembered her. She, like himself, was missing an eye, though she wore a clean sealskin patch over the socket. She was the chief of this place, Broadnose recalled. Pushing himself to his feet, though he had to stoop in the low-ceilinged chamber, he grunted a noise of welcome.

  “Hello, Broadnose,” said Bruni. “This is Moreen, the Lady of Brackenrock. She would like to speak with you.”

  “I will talk to the lady,” he agreed.

  “Bruni tells me that you know much of Winterheim,” Moreen began. “It sounds like a truly wondrous place.”

  “Big. And old,” he noted, pleased at her flattering words. “The great Seagate is a marvel to see-opened by an army of slaves! The channel is deep enough for any ship, and wide enough that the galley oars can be extended.”

  “Surely there must be other gates,” she suggested, “for when one or two ogres want to leave, they don’t go out on the galley?”

  “Oh, no,” he said. “Many gates are on the mountainside. Lofty and stone, they look over the Black Ice Bay or the Icewall. Many ogres live at these gates. I was garrison captain of the Bearded Glacier Gate for many years.”

  “All over the mountain?” Moreen squinted pensively. “Is there one that is far away … that is not on the mountain?”

  “Not to the city,” Broadnose said. “Nope, the only way there is Icewall Pass. That goes into the Moongarden-still a long way from Winterheim!”

  “The Moongarden. Sounds magical.”

  “Old magic. Stones glow in big cave, make sunlight for lots of stuff to grow. Slaves work there, keep the food coming even in winter.”

  “Where is this place? I would like to see it,” Moreen said.

  “It’s under the ground,” Broadnose said, shaking his head, trying to graciously conceal his opinion that this woman was clearly not very bright. “You can’t see it, not unless you climb the Icewall and go in!”

  “Climbing the Icewall … that sounds very difficult,” she allowed. “There must be a way into this Icewall Pass?”

  Broadnose grunted and nodded. “There is, but it starts from escarpment, where the tuskers live. Don’t think they’d let you go there.”

  “No,” said the small woman, her eyes narrowing as she thought about something the ogre captive didn’t understand. “No, the tuskers wouldn’t like that, not at all.…”

  Kerrick stood upon the familiar rampart of Brackenrock and looked over the vista surrounding this proud, ancient fortress. He had climbed to the highest portion of the keep until finally he emerged onto a wall-top palisade flanked by two crennalated battlements. To his left was the courtyard, where people-Highlanders and Arktos together-went about their tasks in busy good humor. A small market buzzed to the sounds of barter, as produce, goats, tools, and leather goods were traded. There were tanning racks where Arktos were hanging pelts to dry and a long roasting trough where a dozen Highlanders, men who had spent the past few years living in the fortress, were making charcoal. Beyond the walls were more people, gathering and pitching tents and huts on the tundra as humans came from all across the Icereach, drawn by the summons of Moreen Bayguard’s bold quest.

  The elf looked to the right, where the vista was open and empty. He saw the green hills rolling away toward the south, leading toward the fertile lands known as the Whitemoor. The rugged horizon of the escarpment and the white outline of the Glacier Peaks rose beyond, just at the limit of his view, and he knew that still farther away the massif of Winterheim rose toward the sky. He had seen that mountain from the sea and had been awed by its majesty, its sheer size. His many journeys along the coasts of Ansalon had never brought him within sight of a comparable peak.

  His leg was barely sore, so effective had been old Dinekki’s healing spell. He had climbed this long stairway with ease, relishing the freedom to get about after the weeks of confinement in the tiny submersible. He loved the sight of clouds, of the broad vista of tundra and ocean offered by this lofty vantage. His thoughts were as light, as free as those clouds, and for a time they roamed the heavens, wandering across the landscape of his life. He thought of glorious, crystalline Silvanesti, of soft lute music and delicate elf ladies.

  Naturally, his musings grew more focused, turning back to this place, to her. She was a remarkable woman, Moreen Bayguard. The elf chuckled at the realization that he was glad of her new quest, glad that he had a cause.

  Of course, on the surface it seemed as though she was mad-completely insane! She was down in the Brackenrock dunge
on right now talking to the ogre prisoner Mouse had captured earlier that summer, seeking some idea as to how to enter the stronghold of Winterheim. Meanwhile, Highlander and Arktos warriors were gathering here, camping on the tundra around the fortress, awaiting the commands of their chiefwoman or the thanes. All came willingly and showed great courage in joining this desperate errand-though it was certainly hard for any of them to believe they even had a chance of success.

  “I can’t see how we’ll ever get into the place, much less bring Strongwind Whalebone out alive!” the elf said aloud, staring into the southern distance as if expecting the landscape to respond to his statement.

  “How do you know?”

  The answer came from right behind him, so calmly and quickly that Kerrick almost jumped over the wall in surprise. Instead he spun about, recognizing the voice, certain that he was going mad.

  There he was, leaning casually against the parapet, smiling nonchalantly as if he’d been walking beside Kerrick the whole way.

  “Cor-Coraltop Netfisher?” the elf stammered, gaping dumbly. “But … but … how are you even here?”

  “I asked first,” said the kender, lifting his diminutive frame up to look between two of the stone ramparts, kicking his feet against the wall like an impatient child. “How do you know we’ll never get into Winterheim?”

  “Do you know what she’s planning?” asked the elf after a moment, almost stunned into silence by the mysterious appearance of his old sailing companion, the kender whom Kerrick alone had ever seen-and then only aboard Cutter, when he had presumed himself to be alone, far from shore in the lonely ocean of the south. “How did you get here? I was afraid I’d never see you again when my boat sank!” Only then did he consider the kender’s exact words. “Wait. Do you mean to say that you’re coming along with us? To Winterheim?”