The Messenger

3

Knock down the walls-break up the tools and the kayaks-slash the hulls and search the huts. Load anything of value onto the galley. The rest, we burn!”

Grimwar Bane’s voice roared through the village as the ogre prince strode among the low, round huts. Everywhere his brutal raiders hurried to obey, a hundred hulking warriors scattering through the community, while at Grimwar’s heels the dwarf Baldruk Dinmaker all but jogged to keep up with his master.

“Here, at least, the human scum showed some fight,” said the prince in satisfaction as he looked over the ragged bodies, many of them still bleeding, scattered haphazardly across the flat, gravel beach where they had died.

“It is indeed a great victory, Majesty. I would go so far as to say that the Arktos people have been destroyed for once and for all.”

The ogre drew a deep breath and snorted through his broad nostrils, knowing he should be satisfied but aware that there was still a vague sense of unease lurking in his mind. Impatiently he shook his head and flexed his long, muscular arms.

He reminded himself that he was a a mighty ogre leader, heir to a kingdom that had survived five thousand years. His lineage could be traced to a time when Krynn had been ruled by his proud race, when humans and elves were mere irritants on the carapace of a world belonging to Grimwar Bane’s ancestors.

The prince of Suderhold was a splendid example of that heritage. A strapping bull ogre, Grimwar was tall and broad bodied, with fists like hammerheads and legs as sturdy as tree trunks. His mouth was exceptionally wide, a trait of favor among ogre males, boasting a lower jaw jutting proudly forward to display two magnificent tusks. Each of these ivory cones was fully four inches long and inlaid with golden wire. Across his shoulders was a cloak of white bearskin, a long pelt covering his upper arms and extending all the way to the ground. His boots were black, made from thick whaleskin and rising higher than his knees.

He wore a golden plate across his chest, a metal disk so heavy that a strong human would have buckled under its weight. That breastplate was secured by four chains of thick golden links, extending over and under his shoulders to meet in the middle of his back. At his side, suspended by another heavy chain of gold, hung the Barkon Sword, sacred weapon of his ancestors. This keen blade, five feet long, had carved human and elven flesh since long before the First Dragon War.

“Here, my prince,” declared one ogre, coming out of a village hut, a domicile slightly larger than the others. He bore a huge, dark pelt in his arms. “It is the skin of a black bear.”

“A black bear?” Grimwar was fascinated. “Never have I seen the like.”

The raider held up the fur, which trailed onto the ground even from the height of his upraised arms. The pelt was lush, luxuriously shiny and thick, so much so that the burly ogre strained from the weight of the massive skin.

“It must have been a splendid animal,” the prince acknowledged. “That skin shall go in my cabin.”

“Perhaps a trophy for the king?” Baldruk suggested.

Grimwar snorted. “My father already has his trophy-a young wife!” He glowered at the thought.

The dwarf smoothly adopted a new tack. “The prisoners of the Arktos from the other villages have spoken about their chieftain … he who bears the Black Bear cloak,” Baldruk Dinmaker reminded him. “The walrus-man said that this was the village of the chief. No doubt this robe is their talisman. Your capture of it is symbolic of your utter triumph.”

“The tusker chief spoke truly,” said Grimwar. “The chieftain was slain here today, along with his warriors. We are told this is the last of their accursed villages, are we not?”

“Yes, by the tusker, Urgas Thanoi.”

“I believe he speaks the truth,” the prince said with a grim chuckle.

“He’d better. Holding the tusker’s wives as hostage was a stroke of genius on Your Excellency’s part,” chortled the dwarf.

“Indeed it was.” If the ogre prince had paused for reflection, he would have remembered that Baldruk Dinmaker had been the one to make that suggestion, but such introspection was not in Grimwar Bane’s, nor any ogre’s, nature. Instead, he cared only to bask in the glow of another successful raid. He turned and roared to two of his warriors standing at the foot of the galley’s ramp. “Bring me Urgas Thanoi!”

In moments the walrus-man was hustled onto the shore. Urgas plodded across the beach on his great, flat feet. His tiny dark eyes glowered from the deep folded skin of his face. Two great tusks jutted from his mouth, but he made no move that could be taken as a threat. Even from five paces away, Grimwar Bane smelled the fishy stink of the barbaric creature. How he would be glad to be rid of that smell!

“You have served me well,” acknowledged the prince. “I am glad that I spared your tusks. You know, I gave serious thought to having them sawn off.

The thanoi scowled, his leathery face creasing into deep wrinkles. “It would have been a sentence of death-my tribe would never let me return, thus shamed.”

“I have decided to release you back to your tribe and let you return to your stronghold as chieftain. Take care that you remember who is your liege.”

“How could I forget, Your Majesty?” If the tusker was being sarcastic, Grimwar couldn’t tell. “My wives … they will be released, too?”

Grimwar nodded. He had no desire for the company of the three fish-eating cows-they had spent the spring and summer in chains and were a bother to feed.

“I have your assurance that this is the last of their villages, here on the Icereach coast?” the ogre prince asked.

“Yes-you have seen that the shore of the White Bear Sea is but sparsely settled. For all my life, my people have explored in the wilds along here, watching, spying, waiting for a campaign such as you have waged to rid this coast of human scum.”

“You have helped us,” the prince acknowledged. “The Arktos are finished, and your people shall be rewarded with the right to stay for all time in the citadel set aside as your own.”

“Your Excellency is most gracious,” said Urgas, with a bow so deep that his tusks touched the ground.

“Yes.” Grimwar had several practical reasons for allowing the walrus-men to maintain possession of the ancient fortress across the strait. For one thing, they would harry the few surviving humans, and for another he would have a stronghold of allies on the point of land at the terminus of Icereach.

“With your permission, Sire, my wives and I shall depart at once. We will swim across the strait and bring word of your greatness to the rest of my tribe, which awaits me there. Naturally, we desire to get there well before the release of the Sturmfrost.”

“Very well.” The prince was secretly relieved. He would have feigned a celebration with the tusker chief and his wives in his mountain fortress, but he could only imagine how bad the place would smell, what with hundreds of oily walrus-men now dwelling there. This was an ally from whom he would be glad to keep his distance. “You may make your departure at once.”

The thanoi chieftain waddled away, padding on his flapping feet, while the ogre prince turned his attention to the hills rising above the coastal village.

“We found only men here, hunters and warriors. There must be survivors, their families, up there, somewhere,” said Baldruk Dinmaker. The dwarf stretched as he leaned back to look slyly up at the ogre prince. His hand, still holding the deadly weapon he so jauntily named “Snik,” gestured toward the rocky hills rising beyond the little coastal village.

“Bah,” Grimwar Bane snorted. “We killed enough men. Let the women try to survive through a winter if they wish. It’s not worth the trouble to pursue them. Besides …” He chuckled at a thought that made him feel rather clever. “If some of those wenches are taken in by the Highlanders, they will spread the tale of our raids. I would like for the rest of these humans to fear me.”

“Fear you they shall, Excellency,” agreed the dwarf. “I daresay the name of Grimwar Bane will bring terror into human hearts for generations to come.”

The prince scowled. It was his deepest desire that there be no more human generations, no humans at all-except for slaves of ogrekind-in this great expanse of land that was his ancestral kingdom. To this end he had embarked on the brutal campaign that had lasted these past four months, a series of lightning attacks and several particularly satisfying massacres, culminating in this bloody landing that had so thoroughly shattered the main camp of humans.

He knew, though, that, even though the coastal-dwelling Arktos had been decimated, more of the humans lived in the inland hills and mountains. These warlike Highlanders dwelt in fortified towns and were beyond the reach of his galley. He vowed to himself that they, too, would eventually be exterminated, but that would require long, grueling years of war.

Now his thoughts turned to home, and he pictured his own wife, the stern high priestess Staric ber Glacierheim ber Bane. What dire prophecies, what bleak warnings, would she have for him when he returned?

Another thought-the voluptuous new bride so recently taken by his father-brought a deeper frown to the prince’s face. When this kind of temper swept over him all of his underlings except Baldruk Dinmaker left him alone. The other ogres drifted away, and the prince of Suderhold stood alone with his dwarven adviser in the village center, watching with vague displeasure while his minions went about sacking and destroying.

“Search among the fallen! Find me one who still lives!” the ogre prince called impulsively. “I would question a prisoner.”

As if he had been waiting for just that suggestion, one of the ogres gave a shout as he stooped to enter a hut. Cursing, he backed away and plucked a harpoon out of his thigh. Fortunately, the weapon had been thrust weakly, barely puncturing his skin. With an indignant snort the ogre bent double and reached into the small abode. A moment later he rose with a squirming, pathetic figure held in his arms. The prisoner was an old man, and when the warrior brought him to Grimwar and set him down the fellow collapsed weakly to the ground.

“An old human, Majesty,” reported the raider proudly. “ ’Was hiding in that little hut-legs don’t work.”

The poor cripple tried to crawl away from Grimwar, but the younger ogre kicked him around so that the wretch could only stare upward piteously at the prince. Grimwar knew that he made an impressive, even awesome, sight to a human. He puffed out his massive chest, feeling the solid weight of the golden breastplate, allowing the dazzling metal to reflect pale sunlight into the human’s eyes.

“Have you seen any elves here?” demanded the prince.

For a moment the man looked blank, then scowled and shook his head. “Who ever heard of an elf in Icereach?” he demanded.

The ogre who had captured the man cuffed him across the head, a blow that knocked him prone. “Be silent when you answer the prince!” he roared.

Grimwar suppressed a sigh, but didn’t point out the illogic of his underling’s command. Instead, he waited for the man to push himself back to a sitting position. The prince couldn’t help being impressed by the fellow’s spirit-even after such a blow, the human glared with defiance. Though he was an old man, he still had a warrior’s glint in his eye.

“You know nothing of any elves?”

The man’s laugh was dry and humorless. “If you mean, ‘have I ever in my life seen an elf?’ I can tell you ‘no.’ Nor have I heard of any elf in this part of the world-they live far across the sea to the north, as any fool would know.”

The prince held up his hand before his raider could land another blow as punishment for the man’s insolence.

“Tell me about precious stones, then. Why are you people so poor? There have been but a few coins, buckles, and the like among all your wretched villages! Why, do you have so little care for things like gold?”

“Gold? Do I look like I have any need of gold?” The man contemptuously cast his hands over himself, and the prince took note of his ragged leather clothing, the lack of any ornamentation. He didn’t even have a belt buckle-his pants were supported by a belt of frayed rope, tied in a knot at his waist.

“No, for gold you must seek the Highlanders. Talk to their king-he will tell you of gold mines, and then, undoubtedly, he will kill you!”

Grimwar turned away. The first answer pleased him. The second did not. He nodded at Baldruk, who was already holding Snik at the ready. The prince stalked toward the beach, the prisoner already forgotten. Moments later the dwarf, huffing into a jog, caught up with him.

“Where did the damned clouds go?” snorted Baldruk, using his hand to shield his eyes from the sun he hated so much.

This was something the ogre prince had never learned to understand: How could someone hate the sun? He himself pined for a mere glimpse of it during the span of winter, three to four months of frigid night that always seemed to last longer than the whole rest of the year combined. When he was outside, under the open sky, Grimwar resented every shred of cloud that blocked the precious brightness. This dwarf, born in the distant underground realm he called Thorbardin, was forever griping and shading himself.

“Again we hear of this Highlander king,” mused the prince. “Perhaps it is true that the humans in the mountains know of more gold mines.”

“Indeed, Sire. They would be worth a campaign in a future year.”

“Yes. Perhaps we will commence that next spring. And for now, there is no sign of any elf. That is good news.”

“You are still worried about the prophecy made by the high priestess, your wife, aren’t you?” guessed Baldruk.

“Do not discount the wisdom and the warnings of Gonnas the Strong,” Grimwar warned. Especially as interpreted by the stern high priestess Stariz ber Bane, wife of the crown prince, he added to himself.

“I would never imply disrespect to the god of your ancestors,” the dwarf said hastily, “but perhaps the warning refers to a threat that has already been neutralized.”

“My wife did not think so,” Grimwar noted. With a little shiver of nervousness he pictured her in full ceremonial regalia. Stariz ber Bane was a forbidding woman physically, as large as the prince himself at fully four hundred pounds and seven feet of height, his equal in short-tempered stubbornness. When she wore her obsidian mask with its tusked, bestial visage, when she was surrounded by smoke and incense, her appearance was as frightening as anything Grimwar had ever seen. As high priestess of the ancient ogre god, Gonnas the Strong, who was also known as the Willful One, she was prone to casting stones and working auguries, announcing various predictions from a fierce and vengeful deity.

Furthermore, these divinations had a way of proving surprisingly accurate. It had been Stariz who predicted that Grimwar’s father, the king, would banish his first wife, the Elder Queen, to distant Dracoheim. And she had seen that he would then, quickly, take a beautiful young mate in her place. These events, as Grimwar knew only too well, had come to pass. He asked himself silently, why did that young wife have to be Thraid Dimmarkull?

However, it was a recent prophecy that had been on his mind this summer.

“ ‘Beware the Elven Messenger,’ my wife told me, ‘for he brings your doom to Icereach.’ I would mock her faith, and mine, if I took her warning lightly.”

“Of course,” the dwarf agreed unctuously. “But look, Sire, the tide has turned. Shall we put to sea?”

The king nodded, still struggling with a vague discontent. He looked at Goldwing, knowing that the great ship’s hold was crammed with slaves-hundreds of humans they would take back to Glacierheim, many of whom had been imprisoned below decks for months. Their numbers made this the most profitable campaign against humans in the memory of any ogre. Yet when he paused on the ramp leading to the galley’s deck, his eyes involuntarily shifted back to the land, and followed the rugged crest of mountainous horizon rising a dozen miles behind the beach.

In his mind he saw Highlanders and elves, gold and more humans, and war.