Winterheim

21

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 the 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.”

“For all those years I thought you were losing your mind,” the chiefwoman said.

“Just because my imaginary friend is real doesn’t necessarily prove me sane,” Kerrick said with a wink.

They hadn’t taken more than a couple of steps when they spotted Tookie approaching with a sturdy, apple-cheeked, human woman in tow. The adult regarded the two intruders with intense interest.

“You were supposed to wait for me,” said the slave girl, with a worried glance around.

“I know,” Moreen replied, “but we looked around some and learned where Bruni and Strongwind are-now we’re going to see if we can find them.”

“Strongwind Whalebone, King of Guilderglow?” said the woman with Tookie. “Do you know him?”

“Yes-we came here to rescue him,” Moreen said pointedly, assuming that anyone Tookie brought to them must be trustworthy. “I take it that you have met him as well?”

“Yes. I’m Tildy Trew. I run the Posting House where all the new slaves are brought to be cleaned up. Before they get sent to their posts, that is.” She looked at Kerrick, so appraisingly that the elf felt as though he was one of the new slaves subjected to inspection by a prospective owner. Finally she nodded with the hint of a smile.

“Hey, you’re a handsome one,” she said warmly. “A little skinny-and with those big eyes! Not like any man I’ve seen before.”

Somehow he found himself trusting her. He tilted back his hood just enough to show his sole, distinctively pointed ear. “Have you ever seen an elf before?” he asked.

She shook her head, the smile growing broad. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Moreen spoke up. “How was Strongwind when he got here? Was he hurt?”

Tildy shrugged. Kerrick wondered if there was an edge to her voice when she replied, speaking directly to Moreen, “He was bruised and hungry. Gave himself up to capture in order to help a woman, he said … he thought she died on Dracoheim, and he was pretty broken up about it.”

Moreen’s face went pale. “She … she didn’t die,” she said dully.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” The slave woman nodded appraisingly. “Mistress of Brackenrock and all that. Why did you come here?”

“Because I couldn’t let Strongwind stay here, any more than he could let me go into Castle Dracoheim without his protection.”

“Well, you sure caused a ruckus. There are patrols all over the place, and I hear that the queen is fit to be roasted. She’ll just as soon skin a human as look at him when she gets into these kind of moods.”

“Do you know where Strongwind is now?” Moreen demanded, her face growing pale.

“Yes, I think I do.” Tildy Trew nodded decisively. “He was locked in the same cell with your friends-the dungeon, down on the harbor level.”

“Can you take us there?” asked Moreen urgently.

Tildy Trew nodded again and gestured for them to follow. The slave woman led them along the ramping passageway until they once again came out on one of the broad floors in the center of Winterheim. There were a hundred ogres walking about within a stone’s throw of their position, but Kerrick noticed that many humans were dressed in the same type of robe in which he and Moreen were disguised. He kept his head low and followed Tildy and Tookie to the edge of the vast central atrium.

In a few minutes they were crossing a wide street. The slave woman pointed downward as Kerrick and Moreen looked in amazement.

From here he could see down into the central harbor and up through the rings of ascending levels. Several of the connecting ramps were visible, and Tildy pointed to one of those. They saw a file of red-coated guards marching along. The company turned in unison to start climbing a wide stairway that led toward a landing with a single, closed metal gate.

“That’s a company of grenadiers, the king’s own regiment. Like I said, your arrival has been noticed and created a bit of a stir.”

Even as they watched, more guards emerged from through a gate that opened atop the wide stairway. Kerrick caught a glimpse of Bruni’s black hair amidst the golden helmets of the ogre guards. Moments later the gate slammed shut, with four burly guards facing down the stairs.

“Seems like she’s being taken up to the palace,” Tildy said, with a worried shake of her head. “Not much chance of us getting up there. They’re sure to search every slave going anywhere near the Royal Level.”

“What about Strongwind?” asked the chiefwoman.

“He might still be down there. Worth a look, anyway.”

“Then let’s get into the dungeon, if we can,” Moreen said.

“All right,” Tildy said with another sharp look at the chiefwoman. “I know where we can get some help. We might be able to get him out, and I guess he’ll be very glad to see you.”

Captain Verra ordered his grenadiers to form close ranks. At least his troops moved with alacrity. He had been ordered to send the two prisoners up to the royal level, and the captain had decided to send three dozen ogres as an escort. That left him dangerously thin down here.

He glanced about at the lumberyard, concerned to see all those slaves moving around and the relative paucity of guards. He tried to think: Where could he get some reinforcements? In agitation, his eyes roamed around the harbor and market levels … past the Seagate garrison, the various factories, the royal dungeon.…

There! He knew that some thirty or forty ogres remained in reserve on the dungeon detail. Most likely they were eating and gambling in the barracks room, deep within the bedrock of the mountainside.

The duty staff of at least a dozen turnkeys was more than enough to beat back any attempt by the prisoners to escape. Those other ogres were simply being wasted now when their value was acute.

Verra gave the orders, dispatching an eager sergeant to carry them out. He watched in satisfaction as the extra guards trooped out of the dungeon, some of them casting surly glances in his direction but all of them obeying his orders. They carried their weapons and their armor over to the lumberyard, and went to join the overseers on duty there.

Verra was still nervous. He couldn’t stand still, so he lumbered down the steps to the docks. He would go over to the Seagate slave warren and make sure that everything was secure there.

Tildy Trew rejoined Kerrick and Moreen on the plaza near the waterfront, where she had left them to wait for her a few minutes earlier. She was joined by six strapping men, each carrying a stout wooden pry bar-tools Kerrick saw that could quickly be converted to weapons.

“These are some friends of mine taking a little time off from work in the lumber yard. That’s the entry to the dungeons,” Tildy said, nodding at a dark cavern mouth leading away from the waterfront. “We caught a break. They just sent all the extra guards over to the lumber yard, to keep an eye on the slaves there. The bad news is that Strongwind Whalebone, as well as your friend, Bruni, have been taken out of the dungeon. Seems they’re on their way up to see the king. Your other companion, One-Tooth, is still in there, together with Black Mike and a few other rebels who didn’t have the sense to keep out of the queen’s clutches.”

The slave woman shook her head wonderingly and continued. “They’re accusing Strongwind of killing his mistress, a noble ogress.”

“Why would he do that?” Moreen asked.

Tildy shook her head. “He wouldn’t, I think. His mistress was hated by Queen Stariz, and I suspect that she simply found a way to eliminate her rival and blame it on someone else.”

“What about Tookie?” Kerrick asked.

“She wanted to come along, but I insisted that she stay safely behind in the shipyard,” Tildy said. “Things might get a little rough.” She looked at the faint outlines of the swords that the chiefwoman and elf wore under their robes. “Sure hope you know how to use those things.”

They were sauntering casually across the plaza as they talked. Kerrick’s hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, which was now concealed under his robe. He saw Moreen doing the same thing.

As they drew near to the two guards outside the dungeon entrance the pair of ogres stood straight and leaned with their halberds to form a giant X across the passage. “Go away,” one of them growled, “or come with an officer.”

“I have a pass,” Kerrick said, stepping forward. His sword was in his hand in that instant, and he stabbed, feeling cold and vicious as he pierced the heart of one of the guards. The other gaped, then toppled as two of Tildy’s slaves bashed him with their poles. Moreen’s blade put an end to him before he could utter a warning.

“No time to waste, now! Go!” cried Tildy, standing back as the elf led the rescuers into the tunnel.

They ran down a long, dark passageway and burst into a room, surprising a half dozen ogres at a table where they were gambling and drinking. The elf dropped two with rapid thrusts, vaguely aware that his companions were slaying the others.

Tildy snatched a ring of keys from a hook on the wall and quickly turned one in a heavy iron lock.

“Hey!” growled a startled ogre as the door flew open. “What’s the meaning of this?”

He got his answer in the form of cold elven steel. Twenty seconds later, the humans and elf were pulling open a large door, another barrier Tildy had unlocked. Kerrick and Moreen charged into the room and saw two dozen or more men looking up at them in mixtures of hope and alarm.

“Barq!” cried Moreen, racing across the dingy cell. Tildy came after, still carrying the ring of keys.

The pole-wielding slaves had spread out through the other passages of the dungeon, and Kerrick heard sounds of violence from several directions.

“Hurry!” he cried, as the woman freed one after another of the prisoners from thir manacles. They stood unsteadily, rubbing chafed wrists, then stumbling out the door of the cell to look for weapons. “Where do we go from here?” the elf called to Tildy Trew.

“Let’s head for the Seagate,” she said. “I think we’ve got a rebellion on our hands, and the capstan slaves will be more than happy to help us out.”

The escapees burst from the dungeon a few minutes later, abruptly encountering a party of half dozen ogres who had gathered in consternation around the bodies of the first two guards. They were trampled by twenty or thirty infuriated slaves, as horns of alarm sounded higher up in the atrium of Winterheim.

Tildy was right, Kerrick decided. Like it or not, the slave rebellion was under way.

Stariz left the throne room, wringing her hands in agitation. The elf! Gonnas curse him-where was he? That was just one of many questions for which she lacked the answer. She could only hope that Garnet’s accomplice, the treacherous slave woman, would find a chance to stick a knife in his back before he caused any irreversible disasters.

Something powerful and appealing grabbed her attention. The Axe of Gonnas was near! She felt it, looked up, and saw the immense ogre, Karyl Drago, striding out of the ramp from the lower city. He bore the prized talisman in his great hands, and his face was rapt as he stared at that gleaming, immaculate blade.

The queen stood, her hands on her hips, watching him approach. She remembered the great oaf, an uncouth fool from her own homeland, but she felt pride that it was he who had recovered this talisman for her.

As the immense ogre strode closer, however, it became apparent that he intended to step around her, to proceed into the palace on his own.

“Give that to me!” she demanded.

“I give this to the king,” the big warrior declared, shaking his head stubbornly.

“It is mine!” she declared, stepping in and reaching for the weapon.

To her surprise and consternation the ogre yanked the axe away and glared at her as though he might dare to strike her. Rage swept through Stariz, a wave of heat that left her trembling, and she raised both hands, fingers outstretched as if to envelop the massive Drago.

“Gonnas paralaxsis!” she cried, bringing forth the magic of her god in a wave of pulsing power.

Karyl Drago halted in surprise as she reached forward to touch his burly forearm. The spell was cast in that touch, and the brute slumped to the ground as if he had been felled by a blow to the head.

The high priestess smoothly grasped the Axe of Gonnas as the big ogre fell, making sure that the device did not come into contact with the floor. Satisfied, she spun about to return to the throne room, leaving Karyl Drago unconscious, breathing very slowly, on the floor.