Winterheim

10

Karyl Drago ber Glacierheim was an immense ogre, even by the standards of that immense race. Indeed, it had been said by others of his kind that he was too big-as if such a thing was possible in an ogre warrior. It was not in his fighting ability that his size was viewed as a liability. On the contrary, Karyl’s prowess with his great, stone-headed club was legendary. He easily twirled around a weapon that a normal ogre would have trouble lifting from the ground. He had never been defeated in combat, not by human slaves, thanoi foes, or ogre opponents. Once he had broken the neck of an ice bear in an arena contest, just for the sport of it.

Unfortunately, the strength of his musculature and his grace with that mighty club were not matched by a sense of ease in the presence of other ogres, nor, most notably, did he possess even the rudimentary manners needed to master the confines and rituals of Noble Winterheim.

Karyl Drago had been born and raised in the remote outpost of Glacierheim, where by the time of adulthood his reputation as the barony’s pre-eminent warrior was well established. Even there, in that mannerless, practically barbaric community, his lack of social graces had marked him as an outcast.

At the drunken brawls that passed for the baron’s celebrations, no one wanted to sit next to Karyl Drago. Not only did he take up enough bench space for any two normal ogres, but he jealously and aggressively reached for every scrap of food, every tankard of beverage, that came within reach. Since his arms were as correspondingly huge as the rest of him, this inevitably resulted in a scouring of the banquet table that left very few tidbits for the other ogres in the immediate area.

Any attempt to redress this matter would inevitably provoke the great brute to violence, and no one-or two or even three-wanted to face up to Karyl Drago when he was enraged. Also futile was the effort undertaken by the baron himself to speak to the ogre after such incidents. Drago would willingly agree to behave himself next time, and he certainly meant those words, yet he would just as certainly forget his promises when once again subjected to the temptations of roast bear haunch or seasoned warqat.

When the baron’s daughter, Stariz ber Glacierheim, had been summoned to the royal capital by the former king, Grimtruth Bane, as a suitable match for his son, Grimwar, the baron had sent a score of warriors from his own garrison as an honor guard to accompany Stariz to Winterheim and to stay with her in the city. He took a great deal of pleasure in assigning Karyl Drago to this detachment.

Drago’s own reactions to this move were straightforward. He did as he was ordered, of course, and indeed he looked forward to life in Winterheim, which was widely known as the center of all ogre culture in Icereach. In fact, Drago had a secret fascination with all things gold and knew that Winterheim was the greatest magnet for gold in the world-at least, in all the world that was the Icereach. There he hoped to find some pretty toys that he could gather to himself and cherish.

As for the soon-to-be queen Stariz, with her mysterious rituals and undeniable influence with the Willful One, she frightened him, just as she frightened almost everyone else. In fact, there were rumors that her own father found her to be such an ominous presence that he had vigorously sought the match with the king and had agreed to a surprisingly miniscule dowry-a few silver mines and a hundred human slaves-in order to ensure that she would be shipped off to the capital.

Whereas Stariz had really found her element in Winterheim, quickly assuming mastery of the great temple there even as her husband ascended to the throne, Drago was even more out of place in the great city than he had been in the less cultured land of his birth. His first experience with a royal banquet had been nearly disastrous when he had elbowed the obese Lord Quendip out of the way in a lunge for a prime rib-all the ribs, actually-of beef. The lord’s six handlers had tried to intervene, and they had ended up with one broken arm and two dislocated shoulders. Lord Quendip had demanded exile for the offending lout, but the king-who knew a good fighting man when he saw him-declared instead that the hulking Karyl would be assigned to the garrisons of the outer palisades.

His first post had been at the South Gate, where the roads to the vast gold mines converged upon the city. Drago had been part of a hundred-ogre garrison charged with careful observation of all who entered or departed the city, as well as with the operation of the great stone gate itself. Karyl’s strength was a great asset in the gate-opening-he could turn the massive winch alone, though it had previously required the efforts of a half dozen stalwart ogres. Here too, however, his uncouth behavior led to suspicion and dislike from his barracks-mates. There never seemed to be enough food or drink for both Drago and the ninety-nine other ogres who shared his quarters.

It was at this posting, however, that Drago really began to develop the love that was to last the remainder of his life. It was not an emotion extended toward any other being, male or female, that welled up in his mighty heart. Instead, he began to truly nurture his fascination and fondness for the golden metal itself, the product of the rich mines that had always captured his fancy.

Not that he was greedy or inclined to thievery or the amassing of wealth-far from it. Drago’s worshipful affection for gold was a purely aesthetic expression. Quite simply, he liked it because it was pretty to look at. He loved to study the metal, caress golden objects in his huge hands, feel its good, solid weight against his chest. His favorite items of gold were not the solid ingots that were imported so steadily into the city. Rather they were the small ornaments, the rings, chains and medallions, even the children’s toys sculpted into the shape of seals or bears. To most ogres, these lacked the value of the solid gold bar, and Drago had no difficulty amassing quite a collection of such trinkets. When he was not working he would sit in his room in the barracks, surrounded by his toys, admiring them.

In the end, as it had been in the palace, it was an incident with a noble that rendered the assignment at the South Gate unworkable. A certain duke, Greckan Marst, was charged with administering nearly half of the royal gold mines. On one occasion, he decided to make journey of inspection and to do it incognito so that his charges would have no advance warning of his arrival. Leaving the city on foot with merely a dozen slaves to bear the provisions required by the duke on his three-day tour, Grackan Marst led his entourage through the gate that had been opened by Karyl Drago.

The last slave in Grackan Marst’s entourage captured the eye of the hulking gatekeeper, whose appetite had been enhanced by the exertions of wheeling aside six tons of solid granite. A carelessly wrapped leg of venison jutted from the hapless human’s backpack, and Drago reacted without thinking. He reached and tugged, freeing the deer meat but inadvertently breaking the slave’s neck in the process.

The duke’s mission had been thwarted by the subsequent delay though his wrath was soothed by a royal payment. Once again Drago was reassigned. This time he joined the overseers of the many hundreds of slaves at the Seagate, the massive portal allowing access to the city’s subterranean harbor. His work was good-he terrified the slaves into certain obedience, but since this was the route by which all the salmon fishers brought their goods into the city it was only a matter of time before trouble resulted there as well.

Finally the king decided upon the perfect assignment for Drago. There was a lonely gate into the Winterheim Warrens, far from the city and removed from nearly all ogre citizens of either noble or common birth. It was such a small and unimportant outpost that it required but a dozen ogres to guard it, so long as they were led by a warrior of stout courage and battle fitness. In other words, it was the perfect place for Karyl Drago.

He was assigned to the gate at the summit of Icewall Pass. He watched the narrow aperture throughout the sunlit months of the year, withdrawing into the city only during the fury of the Sturmfrost and the three months of frigid night that followed that epic, annual blizzard. Bears and seals were not uncommon around the Icewall, and Drago and his men were allowed to kill and eat as many of these as they desired. They had an ample supply of coal for cooking, and every few months a caravan of slaves would bring them a new keg of warqat from the city’s distilleries.

The ogres of his garrison were as uncouth and barbaric a lot as one could find in all the Icereach. They respected him as their master and allowed him first pick of all sustenance, be it in solid or liquid form. In return, he gave them freedom to drink, hunt and gamble unfettered by the restraints of civilized society.

He never bothered any other ogres because he never saw any other ogres, and the king gained the security of knowing that the Icewall garrison was commanded by as fit a warrior as any in his service.

Karyl brought his golden trinkets with him, of course, and on days when his henchmen watched the sea and the land, he spent much of the time in simple play, admiring the sleek coat of a little golden seal or imagining the growls of a rearing golden bear. He made jangling necklaces of his medallions and rings, and he found the music of that metallic tinkling to be the most pleasant sound in the world.

For ten years Drago had held this post. On many sunny mornings he took the guard duty himself and beheld the dazzling expanse of the White Bear Sea extending far to the north from the base of the Icewall. When the weather was cloudy or foggy he patrolled the steep, narrow pass relentlessly, assuring himself that no intruder ventured there. For ten years there had been no intruders, save for the hapless bears that occasionally and fatally mistook the entrance to the Icewall Gate for the mouth of a sheltering cave.

Despite the lack of any real threat, Karyl Drago’s vigilance never waned. His loutish appearance might have suggested a certain simplicity of intellect, but-except when it came to matters of self-control-he was in fact a rather intelligent example of his race. He knew every inch of his pass, each approach to the narrow entrance that did, indeed, resemble the mouth of a natural cave. Though wafts of natural steam warmed the shelter and the entire interior of the cavern, he never shirked the duties that drew him outside to study, inspect, and patrol. His men came to respect, even to love him, for he was fair and willing to work as hard as any of the guards under his command. Also, he could smash the skulls and break the bones of any two of them without breaking a sweat, and to an ogre warrior this was an attribute demanding high honor and complete obedience.

Thus it was on yet another sunlit morning, with the mountainside slicked by early autumn frost, that he decided to look upon his world. He called in Squint-Eye, who had had the duty through the pale dawn, and Drago emerged alone to look down the steep slope toward the always-empty tundra. He stretched, yawned, and scrutinized-then hesitated. Was that something down there? He stared and blinked, rubbed his eyes, and looked again, wondering if his vision was playing tricks.

His eyes were accurate. There was a file of people down there, either humans or thanoi, since they were too small to be ogres, and they seemed to be marching directly toward the base of Icewall Pass. As the disbelieving Drago watched, he studied the posture of the marchers, noted that they wore fur and wool clothes, and lacked the characteristic tusks of the walrus men. This could only confirm his first suspicions: There were humans coming toward his pass, his gate. The mighty ogre warrior crouched low in the crest of that pass and watched. He estimated that there were several hundred potential intruders.

To left and right the Icewall rose as a perfect precipice, a barrier to all land-bound creatures. Only here, where the great cliff was notched by the pass, was there a place for passage, so Drago knew at once that they would be coming up to the gate that it was his solemn duty to protect.

The big ogre lifted the club from his back, withdrew from the lip of the cliff, and settled down to wait. He thought about rousting his garrison but decided to wait. After all, there were only a few hundred humans, and they had a very long climb in front of them before they could really begin to make trouble.

“You have a care now, y’hear?” warned Dinekki, squinting in concern as she looked up at the steep, smooth face of Icewall Pass. “I’ve got an ache in my bones that tells me there’s danger here-real, nasty danger.”

“Thank you for the warning, Grandmother,” replied Moreen, seated on the narrow strand of gravel beach at the base of the steep incline. She was draining her boots, which had gotten soaked as the war party had been forced to wade through shallow water to skirt the foot of the Icewall. “It’s the gateway to an ogre fortress-I’d be more worried if your bones told you there was no danger here.”

The warriors, numbering around three hundred after casualties from battle with the tuskers and the remorhaz, were still filing through the placid water, following a gravel shelf where it was only a foot or two deep. They gathered in this shallow and calm cove at the very southern end of the White Bear Sea. A few gulls cawed and circled overhead. Aside from the birds and an occasional seal, the companions had seen no sign of life along this barren and desolate shore. The looming bulk of Winterheim rose twenty miles or more away, down the coast and along the Icewall. The summit rose high into the clear air, trailing wisps of clouds draped over the peak like royal pennants.

The old shaman clucked in irritation. “I don’t mean just general trouble. There’s something up there watching and waiting.”

“I take that very seriously,” Kerrick said. He stood beside Moreen, stringing his bow as he studied the impressive height. “Whatever is guarding up there has all the advantages. There’s no cover on that pass, and it looks slippery enough that we’ll have to really watch our step. A well-placed rockslide could bring this whole mission to an end before we even get started.”

“Bah,” snorted Barq One-Tooth contemptuously. He held his great axe in his hands and scowled at the slope as if it was a sentient foe. “This is nothing to deter a Highlander. You seashore types wait here, and I’ll take care of it meself. I’ll tell you when it’s safe to come up. You’d better be right about finding a cave up there!”

Kerrick ignored the blustering human, turning to look at the next member of the party, Bruni, as she waded ashore. Her large pack bulked high, rising even over her broad shoulders. Jutting from the top of that pack, with its golden blade still wrapped in dark sealskin, the Axe of Gonnas seemed to wave like an exotic headdress.

“You might want that somewhere you can get it out easier,” noted the Highlander thane, pointing to the big weapon.

Bruni hefted her walking stick, a stout piece of knobby cedar that was more than six feet long. “I have this. As to the talisman of the ogre god … let’s just say I’m saving it for a special occasion.”

Kerrick was glad of this. He knew that she had used it, reluctantly, against the remorhaz, but he agreed with her that it was best to keep it out of sight and quiet as much as possible.

“I think a few of us should go ahead and scout out the pass,” said the chiefwoman. “That slope is terribly exposed. I don’t like the thought of our whole war party getting caught there.”

“Good idea,” Barq said quickly. “I’ll lead the way. You pick who’s to come along behind.”

Moreen declared that she would come too, and Kerrick and Bruni quickly insisted upon joining the scouting force. The chiefwoman’s hand went to the hilt of her sword, the weapon dangling freely from her belt. She clenched, almost drew the blade, then relaxed her grip. “I think I might need both hands just to climb this thing.”

Still holding his bow, Kerrick was wondering the same thing. Though this notch in the Icewall had been termed a “pass,” it bore no resemblance to any kind of pass he knew about. True, the top of the massive precipice dipped significantly here. It was perhaps eight hundred or a thousand feet above them, as opposed to nearly twice that elevation for much of the barrier. However, there was no discernable path or road leading from this narrow beach to the gap atop the wall. Instead, the slope ascended steeply at an angle approaching forty-five degrees.

He corrected his first impression of a featureless slope, however, when he saw that the wall was in fact scored by a series of parallel gullies or ravines that ran like vertical stripes from the summit all the way down to the shore. While this barrier was termed the Icewall, he saw that the terrain was mostly rough bedrock. Long strips of ice and hard packed snow had accumulated in the beds of the gullies, adding to the appearance of stripes.

“I think we can stick to the rocks and get fairly decent footing,” he said.

Barq One-Tooth had not waited for this observation to commence his own approach. Swaggering across the beach, he went up to the same gully the elf had been eyeing as the most promising route. The Highlander stepped onto a rock, used his free hand to reach for another handhold, and quickly started to pull himself up. He didn’t look back.

Moreen scowled in exasperation, but Kerrick merely smiled and patted her on the shoulder. She glared at him then started after the Highlander.

“Give him a little room,” the elf suggested, sauntering behind the chiefwoman, with Bruni bringing up the rear. “If he knocks a rock loose, you’d like to have enough time to duck out of the way.”

Heeding his advice, Moreen waited another minute before starting onto the slope. Kerrick did the same before following. He was impressed to see that Barq was actually picking out a fairly decent route up the steep incline. It was more like climbing a stairway than walking along a path, but many of the stone “steps” had flat tops, and all of them seemed firmly anchored to the mountain. Working steadily, placing his feet with care and using his hands when necessary to aid his balance, he moved upward.

Kerrick was surprised when a half hour later he looked down to see that the warriors gathered along the beach had dwindled to the size of ants next to the placid water. They were drying off, resting, wiping salt off of their swords and spearheads, and watching the progress of the four scouts. Kerrick chuckled as he saw Slyce get slapped away from a Highlander’s pack. The gully dwarf was still bemoaning the loss of the warqat they had expended in attacking the remorhaz. He had displayed considerable ingenuity in trying to pilfer the loads of the fighters, who as a consequence had become vigilant in looking out for him.

Pausing to catch his breath, the elf enjoyed the sparkling expanse of the sea, with a few rocky islands barely visible on the northern horizon. He watched Bruni climbing steadily toward him and saw that the big woman advanced with measured strides. Despite her heavy load-she and Barq both carried huge packs-she didn’t seem to be tired. When she looked upward, he saw that her face was slicked with sweat, but that didn’t stop her from smiling broadly as she met his gaze.

“Nice stroll through the hills,” she remarked, drawing deep breaths as she slowly climbed closer to the elf.

“I agree-I wish all of it would be this pleasant,” he replied.

They resumed the climb after a brief rest, the four of them separated by intervals of fifty or sixty feet. At the foot of the pass, some of the warriors were starting to come up after them, but they were still giving the scouts lots of room. Looking up, Kerrick guessed that the Highlander must be drawing near to the summit, though the actual top of the slope couldn’t be discerned from his position on the side.

He heard an abrupt crash, stones striking stones, then he caught a glimpse of something-a huge brown bear? — on the mountain above Barq One-Tooth. The elf squinted, trying to see what was going on. The hulking shape, more manlike than a bear, dropped from the elf’s view, but not before Kerrick could see that a number of stones were tumbling down the steep slope. Barq shouted an alarm, then grunted and toppled backward as he was knocked from his perch on the steep slope.

“Hold on!” cried Kerrick. Above him, Moreen threw herself flat against the mountainside, her hands clawing for grip on the rocks as she braced her feet. Several rocks tumbled past, a few stones rolling right over her, but her position was secure.

Not so for the big Highlander. He had landed on his back and kept rolling, kicking and flailing as he plummeted past Moreen, and still building up speed, falling straight toward Kerrick. The elf braced his feet and one hand, and reached with the other, clasping a fringe of Barq’s bearskin cloak. The jerk almost tore Kerrick’s arm from his shoulder and produced a sputtering curse from the Highlander as the cape’s clasp first tightened around his throat, then snapped apart.

Kerrick was left holding the white bear pelt as Barq continued his fall, sliding headfirst down the gully. More noise clattered as rocks tumbled after, and the elf instinctively crouched against the mountainside, pulling the bearskin up as protection for his head. He felt the pummeling blows of fist- and skull-sized stones but was able to maintain his position in spite of the barrage. Moments later the last of the rocks had passed, the rattle of noise dropping away below.

A quick glance above showed that Moreen still clung to her own handholds. Turning his attention downward, the elf saw that Bruni had flung herself sideways and somehow wrapped a big hand around Barq One-Tooth’s ankle as the thane tumbled past. She was splayed across the slope, feet braced on big rocks, her uphill arm stiffened into a beam of support while she strained to keep the heavy man from falling farther down ravine. Rocks banged into her shoulders, bounced off her pack, and tumbled away, and still she held firm.

Cursing loudly but possessing enough sense not to thrash against his rescuer’s grip, Barq swung himself around to get his own feet under him. Satisfied that the Highlander was not going to fall farther, Kerrick looked toward Moreen again and beyond the chiefwoman as he saw that huge shape moving across the mountainside again.

It was definitely not a bear. It seemed too large to be an ogre, but whatever it was, it was now lifting a gargantuan club and slowly, carefully, descending the gully toward the Lady of Brackenrock.