The Messenger

11

The King’s Hall of Winterheim was a great chamber at the very summit of the city’s lofty mountain. Huge panels of enchanted ice gleamed high upon the arching walls and ceiling. During the summer these admitted the light of the sun, while in wintertime they emanated a light of their own, a magical spell cast upon them many generations before, at a time when the ogres boasted powerful mages and sorcerers among their ranks. Grimwar Bane had frequently wondered how long that enchantment was likely to last, for if it faded he knew that they would never find similar power among the ogres of contemporary Winterheim.

He was wondering about that right now, in fact, as he and Princess Stariz joined the king and queen and several other nobles, for a late breakfast in the vast chamber hall. Of course, it was still dark as they came along the outer balcony leading toward the royal hall. The span of daylight was by now limited to a few hours around noon. Beneath them, Grimwar could sense the contained power of the Snow Sea, the great drifts and swells heaving restlessly. Through the enchanted panels the rim of the Ice Wall was barely visible, a band of blue-white extending until it vanished in the distance The smells of fish and bread surrounded them as they entered and took their seats at the long table. The king and queen and the other lords were already there, but the prince knew he and his wife’s tardiness would be excused. Everyone knew that Stariz went through an elaborate prayer ritual upon awakening, and none wanted to offer any offense to Gonnas the Strong.

“We are going to inspect the mines later today,” announced King Grimtruth, a buttery fillet of salmon dangling from his lower lip. He slurped loudly, and the strip of fish, a good eight inches long, vanished into the royal maw. The king fixed a stern eye upon his son. “You must conclude your studies in the morning.”

Grimtruth’s attention shifted to Baldruk Dinmaker, the only non-ogre at the table. The dwarf was seated on a tall stool, though he was still overshadowed by Princess Stariz, on one side, and the obese Lord Quendip on the other. “How fares the prince’s learning?” the king asked Baldruk. “Do you remember that he must recite the royal lineage at the Neuwinter Rites? I will not tolerate a disaster such as occurred four years ago!”

Grimwar wanted to declare that yes, the dwarf certainly remembered that fact, as he had been drumming names and dates relentlessly into the prince’s head since their homecoming several weeks earlier. Instead the younger ogre merely turned his attention to his own pile of fillets and let the royal adviser answer for himself.

“In truth, I believe he will be ready, Sire, but the task is not an easy one, for the prince’s mind has a way of wandering.” The dwarf, his beard bristling, glared at Grimwar.

“You know how important that recitation is!” joined in Stariz, in the tone that never failed to creep up the prince’s spine. “You must show honor to our ancestors, to the kingdom-to the Willful One himself!”

“Do not concern yourself, I will master the names!” Grimwar retorted, his growl rising nearly to the level of a roar. It was sufficiently forceful that most other ogres would have recoiled, but not his priestess-wife. She merely stared at him, as if evaluating the truth of his answer. Finally she snorted, returning to her breakfast.

“I’m sure you will do very well,” Queen Thraid said encouragingly.

The king harrumphed skeptically, but before the conversation could continue Lord Quendip ordered the slaves to bring another platter of fillets. “Perhaps you should bring some for the others, too,” he noted without irony, smacking his thick lips.

For a time they ate in silence. Grimwar brooded upon the tedious tasks of the coming day while the others, apparently, were lost in appreciation of the sweet fish harvested in such plenitude this season. Once Thraid flashed the prince a sweet look, and he brightened a little, but then he saw Baldruk Dinmaker, his pale, cold eyes narrowed suspiciously, and Grimwar quickly returned his attention to his plate.

“The days grow very short,” the king announced, finally pushing himself back from the great table. “But I see the dawn has broken. Come with me, and behold the majesty of the Snow Sea.”

The others stopped eating, though Quendip slid a few oily fillets into the pouch of his leather vest, as the party rose. With the king leading and the prince following closely, they headed for the golden doors, which were whisked open by slaves. Immediately the icy wind swept in, as the ogres and the dwarf marched outside.

From the lip of the massive precipice, standing in a parapet, they saw immediately that the Snow Sea had risen to a high, probably unprecedented level. Vapors rose and swirled from a surface of drifts, huge swells that shifted and tossed hypnotically. In the graying light the vast swath of snow roiled angrily. Here and there the mists spun into whirlwinds, and against the barrier of the Ice Wall, a quarter mile below, the snow smashed and crested like powerful, icy breakers against a rugged coast.

Grimwar felt awe at the spectacle, and imagined the day when his father would wield the Axe of Gonnas and part the Ice Wall at the Neuwinter Rites. The great basin of snow was many thousands of feet deep. Over the sunlit months the snows swept steadily from the polar distance, massing and heaving and swelling behind the dam of the Ice Wall, waiting for the release provided each year by the ogre king’s rite. Legend claimed that should the ritual go awry, the pressure would increase until Winterheim, Black Ice Bay, and everything around was swept away by epic explosion and avalanche. It was the duty of the Suderhold King, most recently those monarchs of the Bane Dynasty, to ensure that never happened.

This ritual was always followed by the sacrifice of a slave, the pouring of blood onto the glacial face. The Axe of Gonnas struck the wall and released the storm that drove the ogres back into their citadel, wrapping a blanket of ice and darkness over all Icereach.

“We will leave for the mines at noon, to use such daylight as we can,” King Grimtruth announced as he abruptly took his leave. These words were largely for his son. “Be sure you are ready on time.”

Before the prince could reply, two slaves had slammed the great golden doors behind the departing king.

“The standard of the Death Hawk flew over all Ansalon at the height of the Foundation Age,” Grimwar recited, stalking around the tutorial chamber as he tried to remember the elusive facts of his history lesson.

“What were the major capitals?” snapped the dwarf, who was seated in a soft chair, leaning back with his eyes closed. Snik was in his hand, and Baldruk absentmindedly cleaned his fingernails with the lethal magical dagger.

“There was Kern in the east … Narakid to the north.…” The prince paused, forcing his mind to work. “Far west was Dalitgar, with Parlathin in the northwest.”

“The south! You can’t forget the south!”

“I was just getting to that,” snorted Grimwar, who had, in fact, forgotten all about the south. “That was Bloden Khalkist, heart of the empire and birthplace of the Death Hawk line.”

“How came the ogres to Icereach?” pressed the dwarf.

“It was King Barkon who set sail after the Heresy of Igraine,” Grimwar continued, once more feeling on firm ground. “He acted upon a prophecy given to him by Gonnas himself, who saw Igraine’s folly.”

“What was that folly?”

“He showed kindness to humans, even releasing some of his slaves. Those humans would breed in freedom, and Barkon saw that their spawn would be the ruin of our race.”

“Go on.”

“King Barkon’s slaves built him a hundred galleys, and he loaded his wives, and his army, and many slaves and craftsmen, wizards and priests, and set sail from the southern shore of Ansalon. Following the guidance of the Willful One, he came to these shores, to the land called Icereach.”

“How long ago?”

“Fifty-five centuries,” the prince said with certainty. “King Barkon departed Ansalon twenty-eight centuries before the elves founded their ancient kingdom.”

“What is that elven kingdom called?”

Gonnas curse him-why did the dwarf always have to ask the questions that Grimwar wasn’t prepared to answer? He had been studying ogre history, not the lore of the accursed elves! “I can name my own ancestors,” he growled, “going back five thousand years!”

“That is not the question-name the realm of the elves!”

“Silver … silver … east … silver something,” he started lamely, then roared. “I don’t know that one!”

“Well, you should know it!” snapped the dwarf, sitting up and confronting the prince with those pale eyes opened wide, a pale and watery stare. “Your father, the king, wants you to know it! It’s ‘Silvanesti’!” he added contemptuously.

“I was going to say that,” growled the prince, who felt that he should get credit for at least being close. “Why in the name of all the gods should I be concerned with a place that lies across the sea, a place no ogre of my kingdom has seen for thousands of years?”

He knew he had made a mistake. This kind of challenge Baldruk Dinmaker couldn’t help but answer. Though Grimwar had heard it all before, he slumped into a chair, resigned to the lecture he knew was coming.

“You must always be vigilant against the elves,” began the dwarf, “because it is the elves who have been the bane of ogrekind throughout the rest of the world. Those great capitals you mentioned, most of them are gone now, sacked by elven armies and inhabited by human rabble and worse.”

“Yes. I remember your lessons. Neraka is a land of men, and the great ogre port of Parlathin has become the place humans call Palanthas. Daltigar, too, is now in human hands, while Bloten and Kern are small, backward kingdoms, mere shadows of the empire that had once united all the world. But those places that have fallen are now claimed by humans, not elves, so why do you insist that elves are still our greatest enemy?”

“Because humans are like cold clay: They can be shaped by artisans of many kinds. Here in Icereach we are shaping them to serve us. Can you imagine what Winterheim would be like, without your human slaves to do all the work?”

In truth, Grimwar couldn’t imagine that. Everything from farming to smithing to mining and building was done by the men and women enslaved within the ogre kingdom. If those humans were gone, the kingdom-or at least the life that Grimwar had been born to know-would cease to exist.

“That simply means that we have vanquished the humans here-we have been strong enough to prevail.”

“Because the humans of Icereach are few, and they are barbarians. They know nothing of the elven civilizations that have spread to other corners of the world. You must understand this: In the First Dragon War, the army that broke the ogre power on the central plains consisted of ninety-nine humans for every one elf. Yet it was an elven army, an elven king-Silvanos himself-who won that victory, in a battle that sealed the fate of the ogre realms on Ansalon.”

“But not here.” Grimwar was anxious to prove that he had been paying attention.

“No, because there are no elves here!”

“I know that!” Grimwar shuddered inwardly, remembering the prophecy of his wife, the message from Gonnas the Strong. “Did we not search every village, interrogate every prisoner, on the summer’s campaign? The humans know nothing of elves, and as you said yourself, men are fit only to be our slaves.”

“That is not what I said. You would do well to pay closer attention,” the dwarf said in disgust. He glanced at the window. The short period of full daylight had arrived, and Baldruk shrugged. “That is all we have time for, today-we don’t want to keep your father waiting.”

“These are fine bears,” Grimtruth Bane said proudly. “The best I have bred.”

The prince, riding beside his father in the large, open cart, could only agree. Four massive ice bears lumbered in harness, pulling the royal sled along the vast curve of Fenriz Glacier. The bears’ motley white pelts matched the dirty ice of the path, and the animals lumbered along at an easy trot. Golden muzzles caged each fierce maw, but their long claws were bare, necessary to hold the smooth, hard path.

Baldruk Dinmaker and Queen Thraid were seated facing the two bull ogres. Above their bench was the driver, a loyal ogre of advanced age known as Kod Bearmaster. The iron skids grated over the snow as the big bears loped along with comfortable speed.

The sun was a pale orb, low even at noon, and soon it would vanish behind the shoulder of the great mountain. All around loomed the huge peaks of the Icereach Range, the loftiest mountains in the world-at least, according to the teachings of Baldruk Dinmaker, who had traveled far and wide. Those summits ran along both sides of the glacier, jagged teeth extending toward the far frozen south.

The glacier was a river of ice that made a splendid highway leading from the fortress mountain toward the ridges where the kingdom’s richest gold deposits had long been mined. The broad surface extended northward for nearly a hundred miles, until it spilled into the gray waters of the Courrain Ocean. As they entered the shadow of Winterheim, Grimwar felt the chill penetrate his clothes and his flesh, seeping into his very bones, but he huddled even deeper under his bearskin and knew better than to make any complaint.

“We will now look at the mines in the valley,” the king said, addressing the driver.

Kod Bearmaster held sturdy reins and a whip but coaxed the bears along with a series of barking commands. Now he guided them onto a steep sheet of ice that spilled down the valley between two great summits to merge onto the main glacier. All four of the bruins strained in the harness, taloned paws gripping the smooth surface firmly as they hauled their royal cargo.

In a surprisingly short time they had reached the pass between those summits, the best vantage in all Icereach for seeing into the world beyond. In places they could glimpse the surface of the Snow Sea, saw the dark waves of blizzard heaving and tossing. Again Grimwar involuntarily shivered to glimpse that power, the unrestrained might, waiting for the release that could only be provided by the king of Suderhold.

“Where did you get such an unusual pelt?” asked Queen Thraid, who was riding with Baldruk Dinmaker on the front seat.

“Yes, who ever heard of a black bear?” wondered the king.

“I found it in a human’s hut, in the last village we sacked,” the prince explained. “All during the summer we had heard of this particular talisman. It was supposed to be the symbol of the high chief of the Arktos.” Grimwar chuckled grimly. “He’s dead now, and I have his sacred cloak.”

“It is good you killed him,” the king said. “I do not like to have these humans thinking of themselves as chieftains. Far better when they only have a mind for slavery.” The monarch beamed, baring his impressive tusks, as the bear cart glided around a bend in the glacier. “Look. See what they can accomplish as slaves.”

The prince saw the long, scarred face of mountainside, pocked by the holes of hundreds of tunnel mouths, great heaps of yellow-brown tailings strewn in fans at the foot of the vast cliff. The workers were using the few hours of daylight to make last, frantic progress before the Sturmfrost marked the end of the mining season.

The Highlund Valley was a great bowl in the mountains. Lofty, snowcapped peaks rose above the rim, but the heat of the miners’ activity had melted any trace of snow within the vale itself. A dozen low, sooty smelters were at work, black smoke belching from the chimneys, huge piles of coal rising like small mountains beside each of the buildings.

The mines were linked by a grid of ledges and catwalks, some of the scaffoldings rising hundreds of feet in the air to provide access to the higher tunnels. The stink of smoke and bitter fumes was thick and a dark haze obscured the view. Hammers and picks clattered in a regular cadence, and as the bears slowed their pace and the cart skidded to a stop Grimwar could hear men shouting, ogre overseers cursing, and mining carts rumbling along the numbers of tracks that linked mines, holding piles, and smelters.

The king’s driver steered them to a stop before a sturdy building of gray granite sculpted into a miniature fortress. Two ogres stood guard at the massive iron door, but they quickly pulled the great portal open as the king, queen, prince and dwarf climbed down from the cart.

“Welcome, Sire,” said one, making a low bow. “The goldmaster has set out the ingots for your inspection.”

“And transport is arranged?”

“Yes, Sire. They will be carted to the royal treasury in three days, when we close up the mines and retire to Winterheim for the season.”

“Very well,” declared Grimtruth, who beamed in fine humor as he swaggered through the entry and into the chilly depths of the great vault. With a clap of his hands-three quick slaps, a pause, and then a fourth-he brought the magical lights into being. Like those in the upper face of Winterheim’s King’s Hall, these panels now shone like windows filtering full sunlight.

Even Grimwar, who did not share his father’s lust for gold, was impressed by the array of the yellow metal reflected by this light. The ingots, each more than a hundred pounds, were bars of pure gold, arranged in a dozen stacks that nearly filled the large room, leaving only enough space for a strapping ogre to squeeze sideways between them.

“Ah, splendid!” crowed the king. “This will make a good season’s profit for my treasury, I declare.” Thraid, Grimwar, Baldruk and the guards watched from the doorway as Grimtruth walked up and down the aisles between the stacks of ingots. Here and there the king stopped to pick up one of the bars, cooing over it like a baby in his arms, then setting it gently back into place.

Grimwar grew quickly bored. Hearing a soft sigh beside him, he knew that Thraid, too, had tired of watching the king count and coddle his treasure. Baldruk Dinmaker, on the other hand, stood entranced, his eyes alight, his tongue licking his lips anxiously.

“Very good,” the monarch said finally, striding back through the doors and into the pale twilight of the valley. “Now let us go up to the mines.”

The little party, on foot now, made its way up the slope from the vault, between a pair of smelting houses, each with a stocky chimney spewing acrid smoke. Grimwar looked up at the massive frameworks of scaffolding leading toward the higher mines. Here and there human slaves climbed up the steep ramps or carefully maneuvered heavy wheelbarrows downward. A rattle and bang attracted their attention across the valley, and they saw a cloud of dust rising from a chute where a dozen slaves were pouring a gravelly mix of ore down toward the nearest smelting house.

Soon they came to a great stockade, the gate standing wide open as a few frail-looking humans swept out a large barracks hall and stirred several cauldrons steaming over low, smoky fires.

“Sire!” cried an officious ogre, hastening out of a little hut near the barracks gate. The prince recognized Brasstusk Whipcrack, the chief overseer.

“This is indeed an honor! My Lady Queen and Prince Grimwar! Welcome to you all.”

“Enough pleasantries. Tell me how the slaves are performing,” the king said impatiently. “Why do I see twelve men doing the work of two, there at the ore chute?”

“A shame, Your Majesty, a true shame, I agree,” declared Brasstusk sadly. “It is the new slaves, those who were brought here in the last month. They are low in spirit and so far have proven unwilling to learn even the simplest of tasks.”

Grimwar groaned inwardly. His father had never ceased complaining about the humans captured during the prince’s raid this past summer. The last thing he wanted to hear was yet another explanation of why his captives were inadequate and disappointing.

“Foolish wretches,” snapped the king. “Take one of them down right now, and kill him. Let the others witness the deed. That will let them know that we will accept no further shirking. Warn them that my son or I will return tomorrow to see whether they have begun to perform at an acceptable rate.”

“Of course, Sire,” replied Brasstusk. He turned to a pair of armed warriors standing outside the stockade gate. “Guards! Bring me one of those men, the scrawniest of the lot.” He pointed to the group at the top of the ore chute, who had ceased their labors to watch, intently, the royal party on the valley floor. “He shall be put to death by …” The overseer turned toward the king. “How should he be killed, Sire?”

“Snik will do the job,” volunteered Baldruk Dinmaker, stepping forward quickly, holding up his lethal dagger. “Bring the human before me.”

Again Grimwar felt a sense of disgusted boredom. How many times had he watched the dwarf dispose of a human captive with his poisoned magical blade? Certainly his father and Baldruk never seemed to tire of the sport, but the ogre prince failed to see the fascination. Hadn’t he risked life and treasure to bring back these slaves? Now his father had ordered yet another one killed, merely out of spite and pride.

By now the slaves had perceived the danger in the king’s attention and were busying themselves before the two guards arrived at the high scaffold. Nevertheless, the ogres wasted no time in seizing one wretch by the shoulders and dragging him down the long ramp toward the ground.

The prince noticed that his father’s young bride was looking a trifle stricken. Thraid mopped her brow with a handkerchief and glanced around restlessly, letting her eyes fall on anything except the sobbing, pleading, pitiful human captive.

“Would you like to return to the cart, my Queen?” asked Grimwar. He offered her an arm which she gratefully accepted. The king cast his son a glance of disgust, then turned away as the prince and queen started down the trail, past the smelting houses, and back toward the ice bears and the royal sled.

“By Gonnas, is it necessary to kill him?” Thraid asked in a low voice with exasperation. “You’d think he could be whipped or tortured instead!”

Grimwar snorted, looking at her from the side. “Sometimes we must do things … unpleasant things, but necessary,” he said pointedly.

“Necessary?” She met his gaze, her large brown eyes flashing. He could tell she was upset. “Necessary, like marrying the daughter of a baron?”

“Or marrying a king-one who is older than your father!” he retorted.

She pulled her hand off his arm and turned her eyes forward. They walked as quickly as decorum allowed, but still they were well within earshot when the human slave, now stricken by the dwarf’s slow-acting poison, began to scream.

“O Great Gonnas, show your humble priestess thy immortal will.”

Stariz ber Glacierheim ber Bane bowed her massive head, averting her eyes from the blazing visage on the temple dais. She was on her knees, befitting her status as petitioner and priestess. A mask of black obsidian, carved into the bestial face as the god’s own image, covered her face. The princess of Suderhold-and daughter of the baron of Glacierheim-held her pose for a long time. Grimwar knew that she was letting the awe and the wonder and the power well up within her.

The prince stood in a darkened alcove off the temple’s entryway, feeling some of that awe himself. His wife did not know he was here. At least, Grimwar corrected himself, she had not been informed of his arrival, though she had ways of finding things out he had never been able to understand. For now, he would respectfully wait for her to conclude her devotions.

The image of Gonnas the Strong, the Willful One, rose in all its glory, the obsidian image of a massive bull ogre, improbably long tusks jutting proudly from the lower jaw. The great black statue, outlined in sparkling points of fire, was three times the size of the greatest ogre. It filled the whole central atrium of the temple, which itself was one of the largest chambers in the great underground sprawl that was Winterheim. The massive golden blade, the Axe of Gonnas, rested at the feet of the statue.

The high priestess was alone, except for her husband and an unimportant human slave. Even the king and queen were respectfully waiting outside. Any lesser ogre would have faced a sentence of death for daring to intrude upon her worship.

“Gonnas, source of all wisdom,” Stariz intoned, tusked mask turned upward. “Gonnas, Lord of Strength … Gonnas the Mighty … Gonnas, protector of ogrekind, we seek only to do honor to your image and your name.” Her voice boomed like a powerful drum. The power of the dark god was clearly in her now, as she began to tremble through her elephantine torso, neck, and limbs.

“Gonnas, Lord of Strength … Gonnas the Mighty …” Again came the Reciting of Names, the energy infusing her, slowly raising the pitch of her voice. Grimwar took a step backward, fearful of the power, envious of the frenzied joy he witnessed in his wife.

Stariz rose to her feet, arms outspread, face upturned to the black image. The voice of the ogress was a desperate plea for a sign, for some indication of the god’s favor, or of his will.

Smoke and vapors thickened in the chamber, swirling around, obscuring the air so that Grimwar could see neither his wife nor the black statue symbolizing the object of her worship. Crashes and roars resonated from the murk, and the prince fought to hold his nerve, fighting the urge to flee. He stayed in place, hands clenched so tightly that his fingers hurt. The smoke stung his eyes, but he blinked away the tears and stared intently.

Abruptly Stariz screamed and stumbled out of the smoke cloud, staggering drunkenly, her hands clasped to either side of her face. The human slavewoman stepped forward only to be slapped roughly aside by an accidental blow of the ogress’s flailing hand. Finally the priestess slumped to her knees, holding herself as her huge body was convulsed with deep, racking sobs.

Grimwar froze, again feeling that almost insurmountable urge to flee. He shook his head sternly, reminding himself that he was a bull ogre, heir to a great kingdom. He would not, could not, allow himself to give in to fear.

He went to his wife, knelt at her side, helped her pull off the heavy mask. Supporting her in his strong arms, he assisted her to the clearer air behind the temple’s heart. The smoke was thick and choking but finally parted enough for him to breath easier. Nearby the human slave groaned and followed them groggily.

“What? What is it?” demanded Grimwar, as his wife’s eyelids fluttered open.

“I have seen the visions of the Willful One, and they are filled with messages of doom if we-if you-fail to act!”

“But what-”

“The elven messenger!” gasped the princess, cutting him off, her bloodshot eyes fixing Grimwar with a look of terror that he found utterly unsettling. “He has come to Icereach! He is here! I saw more, a deeper warning. There is a human woman, a survivor of your raids this summer. You should not have let her escape! For it is as I told you-she will be his agent of destiny!”

“How?” The prince couldn’t suppress his irritation. Why was she telling him this now, when it was too late to do anything about it. “What else did you learn? What other dangers do we face?” he demanded, as they came out of the temple gates to find Grimtruth and his queen watching them worriedly. Stariz staggered, leaning against the wall, slowly slumping to the floor.

Finally the high priestess, with a groan, struggled to a sitting position, legs splayed before her on the marble floor. The queen touched her arm and Stariz impatiently brushed the other ogress’s hand away.

“Other dangers. Is that not enough? No, I saw none beyond those two,” Grimwar’s wife said slowly. But he noticed, as she spoke, that her tiny eyes shifted, narrowing with a scowl that was directed straight at Queen Thraid Dimmarkull ber Bane.