Winterheim it-3

by Douglas Niles

  “That elf-he can be a clever one,” Dinekki remarked, breaking into Moreen’s reverie.

  The shaman had come up behind her unnoticed, and now she reached up to take the chiefwoman’s chin in her thin, but startlingly strong, fingers. Her eyes, of ice blue, stared into the younger woman’s, and the elderly priestess clucked worriedly.

  “Don’t take all of this to heart, lass,” she said kindly. “We lost good friends today, brave and true folks, but they were doing what they chose … the burden of their lives does not lie on your shoulders.”

  “Not on mine alone, perhaps,” Moreen said, “but I can’t help remembering that they came here because I elected to come.”

  “So did they-choose to come, I mean. If you carry on with those thoughts, you’ll give yourself a burden too heavy for one person, man, woman or even elf, to carry along.”

  At the mention of Kerrick, she turned to look at him. He was supervising the gathering of the warqat, giving directions as the canteens were arrayed on the ground.

  “Do you think his idea might work?” Moreen asked.

  She was distressed when Dinekki shrugged her shoulders noncommittally. “Who knows? At least he was thinking, and came up with a plan. Almost like he had the notion whispered into his ear.”

  “Yes …” The chiefwoman wasn’t sure what to think.

  “He has a god of his clan, you know, just as you do, lass,” the shaman suggested. “Zivilyn Greentree and Chislev Wilder are in many ways cut from the same cloth, both true gods and wise. They will help those who have faith and who are willing to work to help themselves.”

  “It looks like they have all the warqat collected. Let us hope, Grandmother, that our faith is true and that our gods are with us.”

  It was Barq One-Tooth who came up with the idea of the Warqat Man. This was a structure made from a framework of spear shafts, designed in the approximate shape of a human, at least insofar as it had two arms, two legs, a torso, and a place for a head. It was not an image that would have fooled anyone who cared to look closely, but Kerrick had hopes that the polar worm lacked that kind of discretionary ability. In any event, it seemed like the best idea they had.

  To this framework the humans attached as many of their warqat containers as they could, draping them several layers thick over the chest and limbs, bundling three of them to make a crude approximation of the head. When the first effort collapsed from an excess of weight, they made a second, using double lengths of spear shafts for support, as well as a third, anchoring a leg that would extend off the back of the thing and form a tripod mount that would hold it erect. All this time they kept the Warqat Man out of sight of the polar worm.

  To distract the monster, other warriors ventured closer to the remorhaz. Some of them shot arrows at the creature, which didn’t even seem to notice the missiles, while others simply pitched rocks. One bold Highlander started to climbed the cliff flanking the pass, intending to drop boulders down onto the monster. Unfortunately, the creature-after apparently ignoring the climber’s efforts as he scaled fifty or sixty feet up the nearly sheer cliff-abruptly shot up to its full height, lunging upward with those deadly pincers snapping together. The mandibles closed around the desperately kicking climber’s foot and plucked the man from the wall. The remorhaz released its bite, and the hapless fellow plunged down, tumbling over the jagged rocks to come to a rest near the monster’s serpentine body. He lay there, groaning piteously for several minutes, until the beast placed one of its segmented legs on his chest and pressed down slowly with life-crushing force.

  It was a grim group of warriors who at last prepared the Warqat Man for his sacrificial task. Kerrick, Barq, Mouse, and Bruni formed a tight screen in front of the figure, while another half dozen Highlanders took the limbs and hoisted it just off the ground. A score or more of warriors spread out to each side so the group could advance in numbers that might make the decoy easier to conceal.

  Moreen insisted upon coming along, though Barq was just as adamant that she remain behind. “Who’ll take over this motley lot if we fail?” he growled. “You are the one they follow, the one who must survive! You can watch from back here!”

  “My place is with the rest of you who are risking your lives!” she retorted. “I will not accept orders to the contrary!”

  Recognizing the stubborn clench of her jaw, Kerrick leaned in and spoke to her quietly. “No one is giving you orders,” he said reasonably, with a stern glance at the glowering Barq, “but it only makes sense that you stay back, at least for this attempt. After all, if we fail, someone is going to have to lead the next try, and that will have to be you.”

  She glared at him, her dark eyes ice cold with fury, her mouth opening as she prepared her retort. The elf was surprised when, with visible effort, she clenched her jaws together and didn’t argue.

  “Very well,” she said finally. “Good luck-and may all the gods watch over you.”

  “Thank you-I think that they are watching,” was Kerrick’s reply. He saw that she was terribly afraid for them and felt a surprising-and very un-elf-like-lump in his throat. “Say a prayer,” he whispered, leaning forward to give her a kiss on the cheek.

  The warriors then turned to the worm, which had taken no visible interest in their preparations. Fanning out across a wide front, with the Warqat Man being carried along in the middle of the group, they started forward. When they came to the swath of ground that had melted under Dinekki’s spell, Kerrick was surprised to see that it had hardened again into stone-though it retained the smooth surface into which the mud had flowed.

  Moving across this, each warrior held a weapon ready and stepped carefully, ready to fight or flee as the situation demanded. Closer and closer they crept, and still the monster didn’t react. Kerrick vividly remembered the creature’s lightning quickness, however, and feared that, at any moment, it would spring to the attack.

  Finally they halted, no more than one hundred feet away from the remorhaz. The elf heard activity behind him, knew that the Highlanders were setting up the Warqat Man. “Ready!” one of them whispered, finally.

  Kerrick raised his sword and took a step forward. The others did the same, waving their weapons, shouting insults and curses at the monster. Several of them reached down to pick up stones, and these they hurled in an irregular barrage. At last the monster seemed to stir, lifting its ghastly head, glaring with those pale eyes. The elf watched and saw the many legs curl underneath the segmented body, perceived the growing tension in the rigid limbs. The wave of heat was palpable, as the internal fires of the remorhaz raged into life.

  The jaws parted slightly, and he knew it was time.

  “Now!” he cried, turning away from the monster, glancing around to see that the rest of the advance party wasted no time in heeding his cue. All of them, Arktos and Highlanders, sprinted away, every one running back toward the mass of the war party.

  All of them, that is, except for the Warqat Man. The decoy figure remained standing where the warriors had left it, a lone challenge to the suddenly enraged monster.

  The polar worm reared upward, hissing in fury. Kerrick glanced back, saw those widespread jaws looming as wide as a cave mouth, the serpentine body uncoiling like a spear shot from a bow. With one chomping bite the creature bit down on the figure of sticks and water skins, again rearing back and raising its head as it swallowed the bait.

  For an interminable time-at least two heartbeats-nothing seemed to happen, then the elf felt the impact of a powerful, albeit muffled, explosion. The monstrous mouth gaped open, emitting a huge rush of blue flame, and the polar worm swelled, suddenly growing much fatter. The remorhaz thrashed violently, the lashing tail breaking loose chunks of the enclosing cliffs, and a howl of unspeakable fury and pain emerged from that great form. More blue flame jetted from between the chinks in its chitonous plates, and a billowing cloud of filthy smoke roiled in the pass.

  In the next instant, the monster lay still, motionless except for the acrid smoke that cont
inued to belch from both ends of the body as well as from several huge gashes along its segmented flanks.

  The remorhaz was dead.

  9

  Priestess and Queen

  It gleamed in her mind like the sun, shining and golden, limned in fire. It was more glorious, more precious even than the life-giving orb in the sky, for it was the talisman of her master, the image of his power and the symbol of his omnipotent will. She could discern every detail, each carved symbol and immaculate, perfect facet. Once it had been hers, to hold and cherish, but she had failed her master, her god.

  The Axe of Gonnas remained just out of reach, but Stariz tried-she tried desperately-to seize that magical haft once again. Her blunt fingers strained, but they were too short for the task. Her arm was inadequate, her great weight held her down like an anchor, and the glowing object seemed to be getting farther and farther away with each panting breath. Her feet were mired in clutching mud, and a strong brute-her husband, Grimwar Bane himself-held the ogress by her shoulders, bearing her down, holding her back from that which she so desperately desired.

  She was soaked in a cold sweat when she awoke to gasp aloud in anguish, for she knew that the cherished trophy remained beyond her grasp. It was gone, lost-she acknowledged in the depths of her soul-by her own failure to kill the Elven Messenger when she’d had the chance. Though he was now dead, the axe remained unattainable, locked away in the fortress of humans.

  Or was it? As her pulse ceased racing, she reflected more carefully upon her dream. The intense emotion, the brilliant colors … these were signs of more than just a mundane, sleep-induced fantasy. There had been a magical quality, a vivid presence that she could feel in the pit of her stomach. Truly, this dream had been sent by Gonnas himself.

  For what purpose? What was he trying to tell her? What did he want her to do?

  “Please, O Willful One, forgive my ignorance,” she whispered. “Grant me the wisdom to understand.”

  The great sleeping chamber, her private sanctuary, remained lightless and silent, except for the measured sound of her breathing. The walls were cold, the lamps dark. Whatever the purpose of her god’s dream, it remained for her alone to decipher.

  The axe remained on her mind as she rose and went about her toilette, disdaining the services even of her handmaidens, since she desired solitude for reflection. Could it be that one of the humans had dared to use the axe for some new purpose? Had it been moved from the hall of Brackenrock? She would pray and meditate on this matter and hope for enlightenment.

  One of the house slaves informed her that the king had already departed, intending to inspect his treasury. She believed this, for it was too early in the day for one of his assignations, and Grimwar Bane would know better than to try and deceive her with a lie she could so easily confirm or disprove.

  Satisfied that she had some time to herself, the queen lit three candles around her table and focused her mental energies on the flickers of flame. The tiny lights amplified her thoughts, and the power of her brooding god allowed her to send a silent message through the ether of magical space. She was pleased-albeit unsurprised-when Garnet Dane arrived at the secret door to her apartments only a few minutes later.

  “Enter quickly,” she said. “The king is gone for the next hour, but I have much to do in these precious minutes of freedom.”

  The spy nodded humbly and nervously scuttled through the door, standing in the shadowy alcove near the back of her dressing chamber. He looked up at her with wide, fearful eyes, and she was pleased to see that her recent discipline had apparently made a lasting impression. Long ago she had learned that fear was an important tool, a key means to instill obedience in her subjects, even in her husband.

  “There is a slave in the city, the man whom we brought back from Dracoheim, captured on that island,” she declared curtly. “He is a savage fighter, a very dangerous man, and I think that my husband does not understand the menace he poses. Ten days ago the slave was placed somewhere in Winterheim upon the king’s orders.”

  “Indeed, Your Majesty. I observed him debark from the ship and understand he came to blows with one of the overseers during his initial march to the barracks.” The spy looked up at her slyly. “Do you wish to have him killed?”

  Stariz snorted contemptuously. “What I wish is my own concern. I do not wish for you to kill him, however. I command you to locate him!”

  “Of course, Majesty. Please forgive my impertinence. Am I to assume that he remains somewhere in the city?”

  “Yes, certainly. My husband has posted him somewhere and will not reveal the location to me. I think it is safe to assume that he has not been sent off to the southern mines-we have plans for him, after all, at the ceremony of Autumnblight. Rather, I had the impression that Grimwar Bane had a place of relative safety in mind for this particular slave. I would not be surprised to find him in the upper city, in some private household. I don’t expect him to be at the Seagate or in the fish market or the lumber yards.”

  “As you know, I have many contacts in the Middle Terraces. There is one woman in particular who is very well placed to provide information on matters such as this. I will go to work at once,” pledged the spy.

  “As I knew you would,” the queen replied smugly. “Make your report to me as soon as possible-but for now, I do not want this man know that he is the subject of royal inquiry.”

  “Naturally, Your Highness. As ever, I maintain discretion.”

  “It is your best quality,” the queen replied, her eyes narrowing to bore in upon the suddenly perspiring spy. “You might say that it is all that has kept you alive … so far.”

  The secret door closed behind Garnet Dane a moment later. The queen turned to other more mundane matters, certain that the man would do everything in his power to see that she was not disappointed.

  “Whalebone-I am taking you to the Nobles’ Market-you will carry back the salmon for this evening, two of them.” Thraid Dimmarkull made the announcement with an air of excitement, the first enthusiasm she had displayed in the week or so of the slave king’s service. She reclined on the fur-lined divan where she had spent the past few hours, now pushing herself to a sitting position.

  “Yes, my lady,” replied Strongwind Whalebone. He masked his own reaction, but he was glad to have an opportunity to get out of these stultifying rooms in which he had been confined.

  “Brinda, fetch my walking cloak,” commanded the ogress.

  “Yes, lady.”

  Brinda was making bread in the kitchen. She stopped her mixing only long enough to wipe a strand of gray hair back from her forehead. Strongwind thought she looked tired, and he wasn’t surprised. Every morning the slave woman was already working when he got up from his slave’s pallet. She remained busy throughout the day and was still cleaning up when he and Wandcourt retired for the night. Now she went without complaint to get a white bearskin cape, trimmed in red fur. Her husband took it and reached to drape it over their mistress’s shoulders.

  Strongwind was anxious to get out and see more of this city. Thus far, his work had been confined to the apartments, where he had been ordered to build some storage shelves and perform mundane cleaning tasks. He had been hoping for a chance to perhaps meet and talk to other slaves, particularly in the area of the Nobles’ Market. Wandcourt and Brinda had proved to be taciturn. They had bluntly discouraged any of Strongwind’s questions about their voluptuous mistress. After a few perfunctory attempts at conversation, the king had learned to keep his thoughts and words to himself.

  Thraid produced a supple length of chain and a metal collar, and Strongwind guessed that he would not have a great deal of freedom on this excursion. However, the new slave was willing to endure the humiliation of having the collar shackled around his neck if it would get him out of the apartments for a few hours. Still, he glowered at Wandcourt, and the elder slave shrugged in mute apology as he fastened the device. Thraid tugged roughly on the chain, yanking Strongwind to the side as she concl
uded that it was attached satisfactorily.

  “I will walk along willingly, my lady,” he said through clenched teeth. “You will not find it necessary to jerk me along.”

  “Oh, but I like to!” she said with a giggle, pulling hard enough that he fell to his knees. She smiled in delight, and as he stood again the man reflected with some surprise that it was not a cruel expression but more like the innocent happiness of a child with a new toy.

  “Now come, Whalebone,” she said.

  They departed the front door, crossed through the courtyard, and went down the narrow side street that seemed to lead only to Thraid’s house. Strongwind followed behind the voluptuous ogress, taking care to stay close. Even so, she tugged hard on the chain when they reached the corner.

  “This way!” she exclaimed, pointing ostentatiously, drawing the attention of others within earshot.

  They joined the stream of other slaves and ogres moving along the terrace promenade. Here, as on the other levels of Winterheim he had seen, the promenade was a great, circular avenue that passed completely around the ring of the city’s central atrium. The humans tended to remain away from the balcony, walking close to the building fronts that lined one side of the wide avenue. The other, with its sweeping view down to the waterfront and harbor, was best left to the ogres who strolled with much less urgency than the humans.

  Strongwind, tethered as he was, found himself walking among the ogres. He noticed sneering, contemptuous glances and imagined that the brutes delighted in his chained confinement. He ignored the looks and did his best to stay close to the Lady Thraid. Only gradually did he realize that some of the looks-especially the contempt of other ogresses-seemed to be directed at his mistress, not himself. He was surprised at that, since he had guessed that the king’s personal interest in his assignment had meant that the lady was a favorite of the king himself.