The Golden Orb i-2

by Douglas Niles

  The elf ignored the questions, speaking slowly, concentrating. “‘We now have the means to our end, as you are no doubt aware. I cannot tell you exactly when we will act. My wife and I are in some disagreement on this point. However, I assure you that we will take action. When we do so, our objective will be accomplished. Brackenrock will be utterly and completely destroyed.’” Kerrick felt a chill. His hand was shaking as he finished. “It’s signed by Grimwar Bane, King of Suderhold.”

  “It doesn’t say where the treasure is?” Coraltop pressed. “Or even if there’s diamonds? I really really hoped there’d be diamonds….”

  Kerrick was barely listening. He scrutinized the words again, read the letter a third time to make sure he had made no mistake understanding the message. Then he slumped back against the transom and looked at his companion with a sense of frustration mingled with deep fear.

  “What is it?” Coraltop asked. “No diamonds?”

  The elf shook his head. “Worse. It means that Moreen and her people are in grave danger.” He looked at the sea, dazzling in the new morning, and at the coastline slipping past a few miles to port. He thought of home and thought of Brackenrock. There was no choice-his duty was clear.

  “It means,” he said bitterly, thoughts of Silvanesti vanishing, “that I have to go back there and warn her.”

  The wind held fair for three days, and Kerrick slept at the tiller each night. Coraltop Netfisher settled in as if he had never left, and the elf noted-even if Coraltop was imaginary-the little fellow seemed to eat plenty of fish and drink lots of fresh water. As well he frequently sampled the flask of warqat the elf had brought along, loudly smacking his lips and complaining about the stinging burn, the harsh taste, then helping himself to more.

  The elf studied the letter, taking it out to read and reread, wondering about what kind of weapon could level Brackenrock. How would it work? No doubt there was magic at work… foul magic worked by this mysterious “alchemist.”

  Despite the many questions in his mind, Kerrick had no doubt about one thing: The letter described a real threat. The elf would have bet his sailboat and all his gold upon that.

  On the last night of his return voyage he awakened with a start to the memory of a haunting dream, a dream of loss and tragedy and lives wasted. There were familiar images, a shipfitter’s shop with forge alight, a shining ring held out to Kerrick by a strong hand, and a shadowy presence that vanished before the young elf could speak. He knew, instinctively, this was a dream about his father.

  He stayed awake the rest of that brief night, allowing Coraltop to have the bunk in the cabin while he remained on deck and watched the arrival of the clear dawn. As the sun poked into view again, he spied the heights of Brackenrock off the starboard bow. When he went to awaken his shipmate, he half-expected what he found. The kender had vanished and could not be located anywhere on the boat.

  He was once again alone as he steered Cutter into the harbor, where he wasted no time tossing his lines to the wharf. A crowd of Arktos had gathered as soon as he sailed into sight, and willing hands made the boat fast, while cheerful boatmen greeted him. Kerrick bounded onto the wharf, shoving past the welcoming handclasps.

  “Stow the sails for me,” he told several eager lads, then looked up the steep road climbing away from the harbor. “I’ve got to see Moreen.”

  “Do you believe it?” Moreen fixed an eye on Kerrick, knowing that he couldn’t lie to her even if he’d wanted to. “Could it be some kind of trick?”

  “I believed it enough to turn around and come back here,” he said impatiently. “Long-Swim Greatfin was on a mission for the ogre king-or queen-that much I know. He was wounded badly, fatally as it turned out, and the wounds looked like shark bites. I’m certain that wasn’t any ruse. And he was wearing that ornament.”

  He gestured to the royal collar, shining gold on the table before the chiefwoman. Other Arktos-Bruni and Mouse among them-were in the great hall, standing in a loose ring a few paces away from the table where they talked. The elf pointed at the letter, which Moreen held in her hand. “This was inside an ivory tube, borne by the thanoi on his return toward the island he called ‘Dracoheim’.”

  “I had hoped for more time to prepare for the next attack on Brackenrock, though I knew it would come someday,” the chiefwoman said soberly. “Still, I allowed myself to believe that it would not happen for many, many years. Now it would appear that our time is short, and our need to prepare is immediate. Thank you for bringing this fortuitous warning. Did the thanoi give you any sense of when this attack would occur?”

  “Not really,” the elf admitted. “It’s in the works, I would guess. This year, probably.” He was impressed by her coolness, by the detachment and steadiness with which she appeared to shift from peace to war.

  She addressed all of them. “With our people scattered across the coast, I don’t know how we can stand against a full-strength attack-if they have some new terror to unleash. I’d like to know what that weapon is, how we can prepare for it!”

  “I have already cast the bones,” declared Dinekki, her voice carrying through the great hall even though she had just entered from the far door. The shaman was stooped, small, and rather far away, but her presence seemed larger than that of anyone else in the room. Kerrick immediately felt better now that she was here.

  The elder hobbled slowly across the floor, and the elf saw Moreen bite her lip with impatience, though she stood still and waited for the elder to cross the large room.

  “Welcome back,” the shaman said to Kerrick, and he was surprised to note the mischievous twinkle in her eye. “It is good to see you here, where you belong.”

  “What did you learn, Grandmother?” asked Moreen, the urgency of the question underlined by her clipped tone. Kerrick, meanwhile, was strangely moved by her words. His regret and frustration about turning back were gone-he felt that Dinekki was right. This was where he belonged, at least now, in this hour of need.

  “The danger is real but not imminent. That is, it does not lurk just beyond sunset, or tomorrow’s dawn,” replied the elder. “Chislev in her mercy revealed much to me, and I know that the ogres have not yet made necessary preparations to depart their stronghold.”

  “That gives us some time, another week at the very least and hopefully longer,” Moreen said quickly. She addressed the gathered Arktos. “Send runners to each village along the coast. Tell the people we need them here, in Brackenrock. They should bring their livestock and move here at once.”

  She turned and walked away from the table, then abruptly wheeled. Her face was grave, her eyes introspective. When she looked up she spoke, not to Kerrick, but to Dinekki.

  “I must send a message to Strongwind Whalebone and arrange an immediate meeting,” she said. “I fear we need the help of the Highlander leaders, and he is the only one who can rally the clans.” She turned back to the elf. “Kerrick, will you take me across the strait as soon as he can see me?”

  He hesitated. His last hope of going home was dashed by her request. And he had not come back to take Moreen to plead for the help of the man who so steadfastly sought an alliance with her by marriage. Her eyes widened, her expression strangely imploring, and he could not deny her.

  “Yes, of course,” the elf replied firmly, though, inside, he felt a kernel of the old resentment and a growing fear of coming events.

  8

  Midnight Sun

  The king of Suderhold could wander the halls of his great fortress city without escort if he so chose, and on this day he did so choose. He told his wife that he merely wanted some solitude before he performed the Ceremony of the Midnight Sun in the presence of thousands, but Grimwar Bane had another reason to seek some private time, as well.

  He emerged from his apartment and stretched his great arms, working out the kinks in his back, allowing a deep growl of contentment to rumble in his chest.

  He advanced to the edge of the balcony above the central atrium, looking all the way dow
n through the levels of Winterheim to the placid waters of the enclosed harbor. From the Royal Quarter, many hundreds of feet above sea level, he could view the heart of his great city. The enclosed waters were sunlit now, as the great doors of the anchorage stood open, and the sun, low in the north, spilled directly across the gently rippled surface.

  Very little of that illumination reached high into the cavernous city. Instead, the placid waters sparkled like a dazzling mirror, outlining the wharves and the two great galleys in sparkling light. The Royal Quarter, and other midlevels of the palace, had massive windows of translucent ice, magically protected against melt, exposed to the sky. During the months of summer these admitted enough illumination to diminish the darkness throughout the underground capital.

  Even on a bright day such as this, however, great swaths of the halls and chambers were cloaked in semi-darkness, and this suited Grimwar as he departed the balcony and began to walk along the great avenue encircling the atrium. He met many human slaves, all of whom bowed respectfully and halted as he passed, and several braces of Royal Watchmen clapped their halberds to their gold-studded breastplates. They stood at attention, faces blank and tusks gleaming, and the king acknowledged each with a regal nod.

  A massive ogre waddled out from a lordly manor, wiping crumbs from his chin, trailing a cloud of red silk as he waved at the king. “Your Majesty! Your Majesty!” He pulled his free arm through the red silk, which turned out to be a dressing gown, and tried to make himself presentable.

  “I have completed the viewing assignments for the Ceremony of the Midnight Sun. The baron of Glacierheim and his entourage will have the place of honor, just below the King’s Roost. Lord Darsoonian wanted to be there, but I told him that the baron was the queen’s uncle and that he had come all this way and I wasn’t about to make him stand on some silly lower outcrop. So, I told him, he, Darsoonian that is, would just have to-”

  “Yes, fine, Lord Quendip,” Grimwar said. “Was there anything else that you wanted?”

  “What, well, no… just to let you know that I had things under control. There were so many special requests, but I tried to honor them when I could. That is, to put the nobles where I thought you wanted them to be.”

  “That’s very thoughtful,” said the king, tilting his head to avoid the noxious waft of garlic tainting the obese ogre’s breath. “Now, if you don’t mind …” He indicated his intent to keep walking.

  “Oh, not at all,” said the lord, missing the hint entirely as he fell into step beside the king, jowls bouncing as he hurried to keep up. “But say,” Quendip added conspiratorially, “I spotted the Lady Thraid along the Promenade. I imagine she would be particularly delighted to see-ouch!”

  The pudgy ogre recoiled, hand to his ear, eyes wide as he ducked away in anticipation of a second blow. Instead, Grimwar leaned close and growled into his underling’s quivering jowls, “Do watch your tongue, Lord Quendip… and have a care with a lady’s good name. Do you take my meaning?”

  “Er… yes, Sire! Of course I do! I meant no insult… oh, and I have to go… er, my lunch! It awaits!”

  The king had already turned away as Quendip, blubbery knees quaking, lumbered back to his apartment. Grimwar continued his tour, walking slowly past a statue of an ogre five times life size. This was King Garren Icetusk, first king of the Tusk Dynasty. The statue was the most imposing of its kind in Winterheim, for King Garren was the monarch who had advanced Suderhold from the small colony established by the Barkon rulers, founders of the kingdom, to the mighty realm it remained today.

  Under Garren’s leadership the ogres who had journeyed to the Icereach from Ansalon nearly five thousand years ago had expanded beyond Winterheim, establishing strongholds in Glacierheim, Icewall, and Dracoheim, among other places. It was this expansion that for nearly five thousand years had ensured that ogres were the dominant race upon this southern continent. The Tusk founder was now remembered with this towering statue, the likeness of the ogre sheeted in pure gold, looking over his city with an expression of scowling concern.

  The king nodded in reflection, feeling vaguely inadequate as he looked up at his great ancestor. There were lessons to be drawn from King Garren Icetusk’s reign, though he wasn’t entirely certain what those lessons might be. He ought to remember them. His old tutor, Baldruk Dinmaker, had spent weeks, months, drumming this kind of trivial fact into his skull, and it irritated the king that he could no longer recall the details. Somehow, now that Baldruk was gone, it seemed more important that the king know these things. But who was there left to ask?

  More to the point, the large statue was good cover, and he had previously visited it for just that purpose. He could only hope that she would remember….

  A trace of color caught his eye and he stepped around the base of the monument to see Thraid Dimmarkull standing at the balcony, looking across the atrium from a position of deep shadow between the statue’s knees. Wisps of steamy fog had begun to rise from the harbor, and Grimwar had the sudden feeling that he and the ogress were outside, alone in some mountain fastness.

  “Hello,” he said, stepping to the edge, carefully placing his hands upon the rail of carved whaletusk. He wanted to reach out, to embrace her, but he knew that Stariz had spies even-especially-here, in Winterheim. With great restraint he kept his voice low. “You look beautiful….”

  She did. From here he looked out the corner of his eye and could see her in profile, the full lips and sensuous, rounded cheeks. She was pleasantly round elsewhere, he noted, as his eyes trailed down the tight-fitting bodice of her ice-blue gown to where her waist narrowed, so unusual in an ogress. Grimwar drew a ragged breath as the ache of desire seized him.

  Furtively he looked around. The mist was pale vapor rising and growing thick as the air cooled, obscuring the view from all but the nearest balconies. So far as he could see, those were empty. The huge statue concealed them from the avenue.

  In another instant it didn’t matter. He couldn’t stop himself. He stepped to her side and pulled her to his chest with brute force. She grunted in eager pleasure at the rough contact. He kissed her, fully, heatedly, and felt her melt against him. His growl rumbled unconsciously, and she squealed as he bit, tasted blood.

  “My lord-do I please you?” she gasped teasingly.

  He smothered her with another embrace, then released her and turned away.

  “When can we steal a moment, my king?” she asked, squeezing his arm as she pouted.

  “I will come to you-soon!” he promised, “but not until it is safe.”

  “I understand,” Thraid whispered.

  Footsteps echoed on the avenue, the booming laughter of young ogres. A party of slaves came past, one young man glancing over to see the king, then hastily averting his eyes. Straightening himself, wanting nothing so much as to stay here, with this woman, the king of Suderhold marched onto the avenue and marked his course toward the mountaintop, and the preparations for the Ceremony of the Midnight Sun.

  The advent of the first of the nightless days was a time of rare beauty and profound ceremony throughout the Icereach. In the mountain fortress of the ogre king, the rituals dated hack more than five thousand years, remnants of histories written in realms thousands of miles away from here. But in none of those lands, no other corner of the world, Grimwar felt certain, was there the start of a day when the sun would never set. The ritual would occur at midnight, and the sun flickering low on the southern horizon inevitably provided a perfect symbol of light and power when viewed from up here, atop the great, glacier-shrouded peak of Winterheim.

  The land fell away to all sides, shades of black rock and stark ice contrasting with the pale green of tundra and meadow. Distant peaks ringed them, and these were haloed in purple and pink as the low-lying sun cast rays across them all. To the north, the waters of Black Ice Bay were shrouded in the mountain’s shadow, while the distant White Bear Sea remained shiny in the lingering daylight.

  The route to the summit emerged from the
Royal Quarter, the upper level of the mountain’s hollow core. A massive gate, consisting of two granite slabs hewn from the bedrock of the peak, stood open to admit the summer breeze into the mountain’s heart. At the same time, it allowed passage from the cavernous interior onto a lofty shoulder of the massif.

  From the gate, a winding trail angled across the steep terrain. Now, in high summer, the ground was alive with wildflowers and copses of lush, low grass. Streams spilled between rocky outcrops, and waterfalls were common. These sparkled like diamonds in the bright sunlight, and Grimwar paused to relish the sight-and catch his breath-before he climbed the last dozen steps up to the mountain’s small summit platform.

  This was a square clearing no more than three paces on a side. Stones had been carefully fitted to make a smooth floor. Every spring, masons climbed to the top of the mountain to repair damage wrought by the winter snow and ice. These workers only crawled when they came onto the platform, for these stones were hallowed-they would bear no feet except those of the monarchs of Suderhold.

  The King’s Roost, it was called, and Grimwar treasured this place and this ceremony more perhaps than any other aspect of his kingship. He watched the shadows play across the plaza as the sun, still visible at midnight on the southern horizon, cast its rays horizontally across the platform, highlighting the numerous tiny irregularities. A pebble stretched a shadow as long as his finger. The rim of a tiny crack loomed like a bluff over a plain.

  He heard Stariz cry out, “The moment of zenith is now!”

  That was his cue. Knowing that the hour was exactly midnight-as accurately as that hour could be identified by his high priestess-the ogre king strode onto the small platform, planted his great fists on his hips, and turned his tusked face southward, squarely facing toward the sun. There was little warmth, for the sun was too low in the sky, but there was undeniable brightness there. He squinted, his eyes pained by the unaccustomed light.