Winterheim it-3

by Douglas Niles

  “You were stranded on the dragon turtle!” Kerrick declared indignantly. “I rescued you, remember?”

  “Not much of a mind for details, you know,” Coraltop said with another wink. “Still, he’s kind of likeable, just the same, though as I was saying, trouble seems to follow him around.”

  Moreen shook her head grimly. “I think I’m the one who usually gets him into trouble. Take now, for example. Our two companions have been captured, the ogres have got the Axe of Gonnas back, and we’re hiding out here, depending on a little girl to help us.”

  “Tookie? She’s really something, that one,” said the kender enthusiastically. “You’re lucky you met her.” He looked at Kerrick and nodded sternly. “See what I mean-you keep coming across these good friends, and they all do their best to get you out of trouble.”

  “You’re right about that,” Kerrick said, with an audible sigh.

  “Well, I really am delighted to meet you,” Moreen said, smiling in spite of her anxious mood, “and you’re right about Kerrick making friends wherever he goes.”

  “Kind of unusual for an elf that way,” the kender said, leaning close and whispering very loudly. “Most of them are anti-social, but not our Kerrick Fallabrine!”

  Kerrick glared at the kender, clearly vexed. “Is there anything else you want to say?” he demanded.

  “Well, I wonder why the ogre queen wants to see your friend Bruni,” Coraltop said with an elaborate shrug. “She seemed pretty interested in talking to her. The king too, I guess. They’re quite a pair, you know.”

  “Who?” demanded the elf, mystified by that segue.

  “Why, the king and queen of the ogres. Both kind of fierce, but personally I think that she’s the really scary one. Anyway, the guards will be taking her upstairs any time now.”

  “What do you mean? Bruni is going upstairs? To the high part of the city?” Kerrick asked.

  “Well, yes, of course.” Coraltop looked at the elven sailor as he might scrutinize a slow-learning child. “Would you expect to go upstairs to the lower part of the city? Anyway, do you want me to show you the way?”

  Kerrick snorted in exasperation, leaving Moreen to answer. “Yes, please take us there-right away!”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” said Coraltop Netfisher, turning toward the door, then addressing the elf. “You’d better pull your hood up, though. I don’t think they see too many elf ears in Winterheim.”

  Strongwind shuffled along, the chains restricting his steps. He was determined not to fall, so he kept up with the guards and with Bruni, who trundled along right behind him.

  “I still can’t believe you all came here for me,” he declared, shaking his head in misery. “There has to be a better purpose to all this! So many will get killed because of me. I can’t bear it!”

  “Well, we were going to try to rescue as many slaves as we could,” she replied softly. Apparently the ogres didn’t object to their conversation. At least, none of the guards said anything to intervene.

  “There were some who were ready to rebel,” the Highlander continued in despair. “They’ve all been captured now-they’re doomed, too! Doomed, probably because they had the misfortune to encounter me! Why couldn’t you all have just stayed away!”

  How many of his friends and allies, his comrades and subjects, would die because of this mad quest? He meant it sincerely: He wished he could have perished on Dracoheim and spared them all this insane undertaking.

  Now they would die, and he had only himself to blame.

  Dinekki’s shoulders were sore, and she found herself wishing she had thought to rub some of her walrus-blubber ointment on her joints before she had taken off. She loved to fly, yet as with so many other things, getting old complicated the whole procedure.

  How many years had it been since she had worked the shape-change spell, taking on the form of a creature with wings? More than she could remember in truth. Still, the enchantment had come easily, the familiar blessing of her wild goddess warming her with the power. Normally she would have shape-shifted into the body of a bird, but the bat seemed to be more appropriate in this vast cavern. She found that the technique of flying remained pretty much as she remembered, though instead of the easy glide of a feathered form she had to flap her wings constantly to remain in the air.

  Still, the fur lining her limbs looked sleek and soft and felt wonderful, and the skills needed to fly came back to her the instant that she had thrown herself from the ledge in the body of the tiny bat. At first exhilaration had filled her heart as she soared upward, chasing the flight of her fellows, winging past the fungus forests and those glowing, lichen-encrusted walls, fluttering over cold, clear streams.

  She still had a long way to go when she first felt the cramps starting in her shoulders then extending through her back and her wings. The other bats had flown on or scattered, moving too quickly for her to keep up, but that didn’t matter. She didn’t need their company. She just needed to find the strength to make it farther into the vast, underground city.

  Fatigue had started to drag her down, but now at least she was in the wide tunnel. She had gained some altitude in the early part of her flight, and now she swooped down near the floor, trying to ease the strain on her muscles. Lower and lower she dropped until she was nearly skimming the stone surface. She had to work constantly, however, for she had no more room to descend.

  Finally the vast gateway loomed high overhead. The elderly shaman used her last strength to fly up through the high arch. She saw a ship docked in the middle of the harbor, a tall mast rising from the deck. With a few more wingstrokes she lifted herself up, slowed, and came to rest upon the crosspiece high on the mast.

  Here she panted, trying to catch her breath, and started to look around to see what was happening and where she should go from here.

  “We can’t stay here and wait any longer!” Mouse declared.

  He studied the ogre patrols that were sweeping back and forth through the Moongarden. At least four of them were making circuits around the huge cavern. Each detachment numbered a couple of dozen enemy warriors, but the Arktos warrior reasoned that if the humans attacked fast they might be able to overcome at least one or two detachments. If all hundred or so ogres banded together, he knew his little force would have a very tough time of it.

  “We have to do something,” he stated to Lars and Feathertail, who stood on either side of him. “It’s only a matter of time.”

  “Better to be on the move and attack them on our own terms,” agreed the Highlander thane.

  “What should we do?” Feathertail wondered.

  “I think we should hit ’em hard and just keep moving,” counseled Thane Larsgall. “Make for the city and see what kind of damage we do before …” His voice trailed off.

  Feathertail looked at him then turned her large, dark eyes to Mouse. “Before we die, he means, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, but we have to try something, don’t you see? It’s better than waiting here like rats in a trap, waiting for them to find us and rub us out!” He looked into those gentle eyes, and his heart nearly broke.

  To his surprise, this Arktos maiden whom he had teased as a girl, and watched grow into the most beautiful woman in the tribe, nodded in agreement and understanding.

  “Yes,” she said. “We have to try at least.”

  Mouse reached out and took her hand. He wanted to tell her so many things, but he found that he could not speak.

  “Let’s hurry then,” suggested Thane Larsgall.

  A few minutes later they had gathered the war party. Every man and woman clutched a weapon, swords and spears in the front, those armed with bows consigned to the rear. Grateful for the protection of the waterfall’s noise, Mouse nevertheless spoke softly as he outlined the plan.

  “Our plan is to head directly to Winterheim,” he said. “Right now, most of the ogre patrols are down in the far end of the Moongarden, where the passage to the Icewall Gate leads out. We’re not going to worry
about them. There’s one group, twenty or thirty of the brutes, that’s up in the near end of the cavern. They’re down there in a fungus forest now, looking around. They’ll see us and get in our way. We’re going to attack, kill or cripple every one of the bastards and keep moving. Does everyone understand?”

  There were no questions. He was glad that no one asked what they’d do after they got to the city, because he was afraid he would blurt out his honest opinion: Truthfully, he never expected them to get that far.

  21

  Return of the Messenger

  Grimwar Bane paced restlessly in his throne room. Stariz, fearing his explosive mood, had departed to dispatch her spies. He hoped they would prove useful. For now, he was glad to have her out of his sight.

  He was startled when the doors opened and a file of grenadiers marched in. They brought the slave king, the man’s hands shackled before him, a ring of iron around his collar. Two burly ogres held chains connected to the collar. Behind the first prisoner came a tall human woman with a round moon of a face and a long mane of black hair. Immediately he recognized her.

  “You are the one who wielded the Axe of Gonnas at Brackenrock, are you not?” he asked in surprise. “You stopped my army when we were on the verge of victory.”

  “I only regret that I couldn’t have buried that blade in your black heart!” she snapped at him.

  One of the guards raised a fist to cuff her, but the king lifted his own hand and stayed the blow.

  “You are a unique creature,” he said, “one of the greatest fighters I have ever seen, and a woman to boot. I have never seen an ogress fight like you.”

  “I will take that as a compliment,” she said, looking at him with her eyes burning. She drew a breath and shook her head with great deliberation. “You are not quite the uncouth ogre I expected.”

  “Nor are you the intruder I anticipated,” the monarch replied.

  Indeed, he found that his mood of a few minutes earlier-a mingling of rage, grief, and distrust-had mellowed swiftly. He was exceedingly curious about this woman. Now that she was captured, he didn’t fear her, nor did he hate her. Instead, she fascinated him. There was much more to her than simply her outward appearance, no matter how impressive he found that. Indeed, she was similar to Thraid in shape and features.

  As if cued by his untoward thoughts, Stariz chose that moment to stride through the throne room doors and remind him of her existence. “Has Karyl Drago returned with the Axe of Gonnas?” she demanded.

  “Not yet,” said the king, irked by her manner.

  He wanted more time with the prisoner, to talk with her, to gaze at her. He wondered, vaguely, what she thought about him, whether she found him handsome. Unconsciously, he sucked in his gut as he turned to glare at his wife.

  “This is the blaspheming wench who dared to wield the sacred talisman of the Willful One?” the queen asked. Turning to her husband she bowed her head in a gesture of respect. He watched her warily.

  “When the axe is brought here, you must allow me to use it to separate her head from her shoulders,” she continued. “Only thus can the honor of our god be redeemed.” The queen gestured to a square block of stone on the throne room floor. “That will be her fate!” she pronounced.

  “No!” Grimwar Bane roared, his voice a blast of sound that brought all activity in the great hall to a stop.

  “My king-” Stariz began.

  “Silence!” shouted the monarch, with enough force even to mute his wife. “There has been enough bloodletting for the moment! We must wait and talk to this prisoner. When we decide what to do, it will be a thoughtful choice, not an orgy of revenge! She came into the city through the Icewall Gate-she knows about a whole war party, an invasion that has the potential to incite all our slaves to revolt. If you have any role in this investigation, my queen, it will be to learn what this prisoner knows, that we may use that knowledge for the defense of our kingdom! Do I make myself clear?”

  “Aye, Majesty, perfectly,” said the queen demurely. Again she bowed, but Grimwar could see her look sideways at the human woman. Stariz’s eyes narrowed to slits of burning hatred.

  As for himself, he was startled by the depths of his own feeling. When Stariz had suggested slaying this woman, this enemy prisoner, Grimwar’s reaction had been one of stark, heart-stopping fear. He meant what he said. How much killing must there be before the queen would be satisfied? In the privacy of his mind, he knew that there was not enough blood in the world to fully slake her thirst for violence and vengeance.

  “You came here with the Elven Messenger, did you not?” spat the queen, turning again to confront the female prisoner.

  The big woman’s eyes widened slightly, and though the prisoner shook her head contemptuously, the king knew that his wife had struck at the truth.

  “How is it that he was not killed on Dracoheim?” asked Grimwar Bane, genuinely curious.

  The woman looked at him and drew a slow breath. He thought that she would remain silent and saw his wife tense with anger. The king was surprised when the prisoner answered him with quiet force.

  “He escaped because he is a favorite of the gods-not just his own god of the Green Tree but Chislev Wilder as well. I believe that the gods have sent him to watch over the Lady … and he’s doing a damned good job of it.”

  Mouse came around the corner of the winding path at a dead run, leading the file of warriors through the mushroom forest. They all trotted silently, weapons ready.

  The captain of the ogre patrol was right in front of the Arktos warrior, just where Mouse had expected him to be. Mouse stabbed with his spear, piercing the ogre’s throat and dropping the surprised brute to his knees. With a gurgled cry of alarm, the ogre toppled forward, the weight of his body driving the spearhead right through the back of his neck.

  The next ogre in line gaped in shock, and the Arktos warrior slashed him across the face as he drew his sword. Mouse hacked with all of his strength. Thane Larsgall sprinted past the second ogre, crushing the skull of another brute with a mighty downward blow of his steel-headed hammer. The humans attack came in eerie silence, and they flew past the enemy formation, stabbing and chopping with ruthless efficiency.

  In seconds the dozen or so ogres of the patrol had been slaughtered to the last one. Mouse was surprised to see Feathertail, who was running with the second wave of attackers, pause to drive her light spear through the throat of a writhing, wounded ogre. The brute kicked reflexively, grasping at the pronged weapon with two flailing fists for several seconds before he grew rigid and died.

  The young woman jogged up to him. “I saw you stab that other one in the neck. That was smart.”

  “Can’t you stay in the back?” Mouse pleaded, but Feathertail ignored him, pushing past to continue her part in the attack.

  The war party raced through the fungus forest of the Moongarden. The other ogre patrols had already passed them, and the humans-as well as the gasping, panting Slyce, who was forced to keep up-headed pell-mell toward the far end of the great cavern and Winterheim.

  The trail ascended through groves of giant mushrooms and carried them across wide, mossy meadows beside a roiling, whitewater stream. They came upon a few ogres in one of these clearings, and the surprised brutes howled and chucked spears at the humans. The big missiles fell short, but the twenty or thirty arrows launched by the human archers found their marks. These ogres, too, fell dead, looking like a misshapen, bloody pincushions.

  Breathing a little harder now, the war party approached the wide ramp leading up and out of the vast food warren. They saw slaves milling around in a great pen at the base of the ramp, with several ogres gesturing in agitation from platforms overlooking the route. One raised a brass horn, but before the instrument touched his lips he was pierced by a dozen arrows. The bugle fell from his nerveless fingers, and the ogre sagged forward, balancing for a moment on the railing before toppling over to plop heavily onto the ground twenty feet below.

  Mouse looked up at th
e ramparts and windows. He judged this to be a large garrison house, but only a few ogres materialized, buckling on armor, hastening down to form a thin line across the ramp.

  “Others are behind us,” Larsgall said, pointing to the ogres forming a line of defense. “They’re all spread out for now.”

  “Let’s not give them time to regroup,” the Arktos warrior said.

  “Wait!” It was Feathertail. She pointed at the great fenced corrals, with hundreds of slaves pressed to the palisade, looking through the gaps between the stakes. Only three ogres were visible there, nervously standing guard at the closed gate. “Free the slaves!” urged the woman.

  That idea was inspired. Mouse looked at the defense, no more than a dozen and a half ogres standing across the ramp leading to the city. If they could swell their ranks with a thousand rebellious slaves free in the Moongarden, the ogre king’s problems would multiply considerably.

  “All right,” he said, pointing to the three guards at the gate of the slave pen. “Let’s chase those ugly buggers off and let these people go.”

  Kerrick led Moreen out of the storage room, both of them concealed in the Moongarden slave robes. The elf turned to hold the door for Coraltop Netfisher but was not surprised-not very surprised, in any event-when there was no sign of the kender coming after them.

  “Where did he go?” Moreen asked, her eyes wide.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” the elf replied with a thin smile. “I expect he’ll be around somewhere. He has a way of showing up when he’s needed.”