Winterheim

4

Broadnose did not know how long he had been held in this cell, though it was many days now, more than all of his fingers and toes added together. The big ogre, once commander of an elite company of royal Grenadiers, had resigned himself to spending the rest of his life as a captive of the humans. He wondered why they were doing this, holding him here, locked up. They had made no move to hurt or kill him, which surprised him. Neither did they make him work, so he had to conclude that he was not a slave. They fed him and even cared for his wounds in order to keep him alive. Funny creatures, these humans.

Probably they would kill him when they got around to it, Broadnose figured. After all, he had killed many of them in his turn and had been intent upon further bloodshed when he had been captured in the Mouse-warrior’s ambush. His raiding party had plundered villages, massacred farmers, destroyed homesteads, all as his king and queen had commanded. He had been captured by his enemies, after all of his own troops had been killed in the battle.

A door of steel-banded wood prevented him from making any move to escape, with only the narrow slit at the bottom sliding open once a day to produce a wooden plate of food and a small gourd of water. Aside from a few perfunctory nudges, he hadn’t investigated the strength of that door-and besides, what would he do if he got out of this cell? His king was far away, and there was no one to give him orders. He contented himself with sitting here, looking forward to his next meal.

He reached up to his face, lifted the dried leather patch, and touched the rough scab that had formed over his missing eye. The wound no longer pained him, and he imagined that it would make him look fierce if he ever got out of this dark hole. There didn’t seem much chance of that.

Every once in awhile a human woman came to visit him. She was large, almost the size of an ogress, and possessed of a strange kindness. She was called Bruni by her kind, and Broadnose thought of her as Bruni-warrior. Well did he remember her ferocity when she had wielded the captured Axe of Gonnas in defense of her fortress. He had great respect for her strength and her courage.

It was she who had led him to this cell after he had been brought here to Brackenrock, the only survivor of his ill-fated raiding party. Periodically after that she came to personally bring him his food, and she would talk to him for a little while. She seemed curious about Winterheim and willingly shared much about Brackenrock. Oddly enough, she seemed like a better companion than most of the ogresses he had known. Her round moon of a face, with those large, dark eyes, Broadnose found pleasant, even beautiful.

Those visits were rare, and the rest of his life passed in a daze of gloom and boredom. He wondered when they would kill him and how they would do it, but so far they hadn’t even kicked or punched him. The skinny old shaman had even worked magic over his damaged eye to make sure that it wouldn’t … what had she said? Become “affected” or something? His vision remained limited to his one good eye, but the wounded socket had ceased the burning and blistering that had started to become a real distraction.

His cell was far down in the fortress dungeon, and at the end of a long corridor. There was no one else anywhere near him, so when he heard footsteps approaching this day, he knew they were coming to his cell. He expected his usual feeding-indeed, his stomach growled audibly as the footsteps drew near-but was surprised when instead of the food slot moving to the side he heard a key turn in the lock.

The door opened to reveal the Bruni-warrior, and Broadnose brightened. She was accompanied this time by a small woman with dark hair. He remembered her. She, like himself, was missing an eye, though she wore a clean sealskin patch over the socket. She was the chief of this place, Broadnose recalled. Pushing himself to his feet, though he had to stoop in the low-ceilinged chamber, he grunted a noise of welcome.

“Hello, Broadnose,” said Bruni. “This is Moreen, the Lady of Brackenrock. She would like to speak with you.”

“I will talk to the lady,” he agreed.

“Bruni tells me that you know much of Winterheim,” Moreen began. “It sounds like a truly wondrous place.”

“Big. And old,” he noted, pleased at her flattering words. “The great Seagate is a marvel to see-opened by an army of slaves! The channel is deep enough for any ship, and wide enough that the galley oars can be extended.”

“Surely there must be other gates,” she suggested, “for when one or two ogres want to leave, they don’t go out on the galley?”

“Oh, no,” he said. “Many gates are on the mountainside. Lofty and stone, they look over the Black Ice Bay or the Icewall. Many ogres live at these gates. I was garrison captain of the Bearded Glacier Gate for many years.”

“All over the mountain?” Moreen squinted pensively. “Is there one that is far away … that is not on the mountain?”

“Not to the city,” Broadnose said. “Nope, the only way there is Icewall Pass. That goes into the Moongarden-still a long way from Winterheim!”

“The Moongarden. Sounds magical.”

“Old magic. Stones glow in big cave, make sunlight for lots of stuff to grow. Slaves work there, keep the food coming even in winter.”

“Where is this place? I would like to see it,” Moreen said.

“It’s under the ground,” Broadnose said, shaking his head, trying to graciously conceal his opinion that this woman was clearly not very bright. “You can’t see it, not unless you climb the Icewall and go in!”

“Climbing the Icewall … that sounds very difficult,” she allowed. “There must be a way into this Icewall Pass?”

Broadnose grunted and nodded. “There is, but it starts from escarpment, where the tuskers live. Don’t think they’d let you go there.”

“No,” said the small woman, her eyes narrowing as she thought about something the ogre captive didn’t understand. “No, the tuskers wouldn’t like that, not at all.…”

Kerrick stood upon the familiar rampart of Brackenrock and looked over the vista surrounding this proud, ancient fortress. He had climbed to the highest portion of the keep until finally he emerged onto a wall-top palisade flanked by two crennalated battlements. To his left was the courtyard, where people-Highlanders and Arktos together-went about their tasks in busy good humor. A small market buzzed to the sounds of barter, as produce, goats, tools, and leather goods were traded. There were tanning racks where Arktos were hanging pelts to dry and a long roasting trough where a dozen Highlanders, men who had spent the past few years living in the fortress, were making charcoal. Beyond the walls were more people, gathering and pitching tents and huts on the tundra as humans came from all across the Icereach, drawn by the summons of Moreen Bayguard’s bold quest.

The elf looked to the right, where the vista was open and empty. He saw the green hills rolling away toward the south, leading toward the fertile lands known as the Whitemoor. The rugged horizon of the escarpment and the white outline of the Glacier Peaks rose beyond, just at the limit of his view, and he knew that still farther away the massif of Winterheim rose toward the sky. He had seen that mountain from the sea and had been awed by its majesty, its sheer size. His many journeys along the coasts of Ansalon had never brought him within sight of a comparable peak.

His leg was barely sore, so effective had been old Dinekki’s healing spell. He had climbed this long stairway with ease, relishing the freedom to get about after the weeks of confinement in the tiny submersible. He loved the sight of clouds, of the broad vista of tundra and ocean offered by this lofty vantage. His thoughts were as light, as free as those clouds, and for a time they roamed the heavens, wandering across the landscape of his life. He thought of glorious, crystalline Silvanesti, of soft lute music and delicate elf ladies.

Naturally, his musings grew more focused, turning back to this place, to her. She was a remarkable woman, Moreen Bayguard. The elf chuckled at the realization that he was glad of her new quest, glad that he had a cause.

Of course, on the surface it seemed as though she was mad-completely insane! She was down in the Brackenrock dungeon right now talking to the ogre prisoner Mouse had captured earlier that summer, seeking some idea as to how to enter the stronghold of Winterheim. Meanwhile, Highlander and Arktos warriors were gathering here, camping on the tundra around the fortress, awaiting the commands of their chiefwoman or the thanes. All came willingly and showed great courage in joining this desperate errand-though it was certainly hard for any of them to believe they even had a chance of success.

“I can’t see how we’ll ever get into the place, much less bring Strongwind Whalebone out alive!” the elf said aloud, staring into the southern distance as if expecting the landscape to respond to his statement.

“How do you know?”

The answer came from right behind him, so calmly and quickly that Kerrick almost jumped over the wall in surprise. Instead he spun about, recognizing the voice, certain that he was going mad.

There he was, leaning casually against the parapet, smiling nonchalantly as if he’d been walking beside Kerrick the whole way.

“Cor-Coraltop Netfisher?” the elf stammered, gaping dumbly. “But … but … how are you even here?”

“I asked first,” said the kender, lifting his diminutive frame up to look between two of the stone ramparts, kicking his feet against the wall like an impatient child. “How do you know we’ll never get into Winterheim?”

“Do you know what she’s planning?” asked the elf after a moment, almost stunned into silence by the mysterious appearance of his old sailing companion, the kender whom Kerrick alone had ever seen-and then only aboard Cutter, when he had presumed himself to be alone, far from shore in the lonely ocean of the south. “How did you get here? I was afraid I’d never see you again when my boat sank!” Only then did he consider the kender’s exact words. “Wait. Do you mean to say that you’re coming along with us? To Winterheim?”

“Too many questions! To the first, yes I know what she plans-she’s going to rescue Strongwind, to bring him home. I think that’s pretty brave,” Coraltop acknowledged. “As to the last, well, of course, thanks for the invite-I mean, a chance to see Winterheim! Who wouldn’t want to go? A whole city inside a mountain, they say. Well, that’s not the kind of thing you find just anywhere-not unless you hang around with dwarves, I mean, and who’d want to do that?”

“Not me,” Kerrick chuckled. “I’m just as happy to have landed among humans. There are times I even prefer them to elves!”

“Well, of course. Humans are lots of fun. More lively, too. Elves can be so … well, serious. They don’t laugh much, have you ever noticed? Present company excepted, of course.”

Kerrick did laugh then, softly, so as not to break the mood of the moment. He relished this time with Coraltop and was certain that if someone else was to stir, the kender would perform his usual vanishing act. He felt a rush of affection for the little fellow.

“The Tusker Escarpment, too-of course you’ll have to get a look at that. Though I’d be careful about that part-you might want to take some strong drink along.”

“Strong drink? Why?” Kerrick asked.

The kender continued as though he hadn’t heard. “Too bad I can’t come with you for the whole way. You know I’m really pretty busy, have lots of things to do-”

“Of course,” Kerrick replied, growing exasperated, remembering the art of conversation the way it was practiced with the kender-as if they were always talking about two different things. “Maybe I should ask where you’ve been. You disappear for years, then pop back up just now? No one else sees you, and they think I’m mad if I even talk about you! You’re off doing those important things, no doubt?”

“Do you even have to ask? I have a life too, you know.”

The elf shook his head again, turning to look over the rim of the parapet. “Yes, we all have our lives,” he said quietly, “and she’s counting on us to sacrifice ours, if necessary, to help her, and by Zivilyn, I mean to do just that!”

He heard footsteps and laughter, as several people made their way up the stairs, approaching the rampart. Kerrick turned around, looking for Coraltop Netfisher, but of course the kender was nowhere to be seen.

Barq One-Tooth actually had several ivory stubs jutting from his gums-at least five or six, Moreen estimated quickly-but it was surely the one incisor of solid gold that gave the rough-hewn Highlander his name. That tooth was in clear evidence as the hulking thane glowered at her from across one of the banquet tables that had been set up in Brackenrock’s great hall. The chiefwoman watched that gleaming chip of metal as the burly, bearded man-clad in fur from his boots to leggings and his tunic and even his huge cloak-tore off a piece of bread and chomped down on it as if it were an enemy warrior’s head.

Repulsed, she turned to the other thane who had emerged as a spokesman from the band of a dozen or more Highlander lords. He, too, was seated at the chiefwoman’s table for this hastily arranged banquet. Thedric Drake came from Seascape, one of the coastal realms. The Highlanders who lived near the sea, Moreen had learned, tended to have at least a civilized veneer, unlike the mountain-dwelling clans such as Barq’s stronghold at Southhelm.

Many of both groups were here, as well as more than a hundred of her own Arktos people, men and women from her tribe and others. All of them had sworn to assist in her great cause and had gathered in the hall for this night of planning and farewells. Even the gully dwarf, Slyce, had insisted on joining the war party-in fact, he had volunteered as soon as he learned there would be beer and warqat at the departure feast.

The midnight sun was pale, almost touching the horizon now as summer drew to a close, and the soft light spilled through the hall’s high windows, joining the fire smoke to shroud the room in a cloudy haze. Bruni and Dinekki were also here, and Mouse of course, and Kerrick. Moreen once again felt the warmth in her heart that came from the presence of these good, trusted friends.

“To Strongwind Whalebone-King of the Highlanders!” cried Thedric Drake, raising his mug of warqat and offering a toast. “May he breathe free air e’en before the next Sturmfrost!”

“King Strongwind!” The name was echoed around the great hall as more than four hundred folk, Arktos and Highlanders alike, joined in the accolade. Moreen was careful to take only a sip of the pungent beverage, though she noted that most of those in the hall were unwilling to practice such restraint. Already, though the evening was young, the level of noise and boisterousness was rising considerably.

Why not? She knew that all of these men and women were willing to gamble their lives embarking on a quest that offered little hope of success or even of survival. Let them drink on this night!

“To the bravest of the brave, Mad Randall!” Kerrick Fallabrine offered, more somberly. He was seated to Moreen’s left and swayed slightly as he raised his mug. Abruptly the elf pushed back his chair, which fell over, and stood unsteadily. “The true warrior who fell to the ogres but took a dozen of the bastards with him when he died!” He turned and cast his glass into the fireplace, where the remnants of warqat whooshed into a burst of blue flame. The elf blinked in surprise, then laughed aloud.

“Mad Randall!” The toast became a cheer, with many Highlanders thumping on their tables. Even Moreen was swept up in the moment, her eyes tearing as she remembered the brave man and loyal friend. She took a long draught from her mug and gritted her teeth as the fiery liquid seared down her throat.

“We carry on the fight!” Barq One-Tooth roared, standing up and raising his mug so that warqat splashed across the table. “The ogres will learn to fear us-and they will die! Mad Randall will be avenged for all the Highlands!”

“Mad Randall will be avenged for all of mankind!” Bruni shouted, her voice roaring even over the cheers that greeted the thane’s pronouncement. “He was a brave man and a true friend.”

“For Aghar, too!” Slyce proclaimed, climbing up to stand on a chair next to the elf. He leaned over and whispered to Kerrick loudly. “Who Mad Randall?”

“For all of the Icereach!” This was Kerrick’s addition, and Moreen almost laughed at the toast-he was an elf after all but had thrown his lot in with the humans of this land. Her heart warmed at the thought, and when he happened to glance down at her, she smiled, and his face colored in a very un-elven blush.

“To the return of Strongwind Whalebone-may he once again sit upon his throne,” declared Moreen, more quietly now, as she considered the words herself. “All of us, Arktos, Highlanders and elf, have lost a great friend-a strong leader and a loyal friend.” Murmurs of agreement rumbled through the hall, as each person took the measure of his or her own determination.

“I should think that you, my lady, might have an especial cause to grieve his capture.” Thedric Drake leaned in to whisper to her. The elder thane’s tone was gentle, but his gaze was as sharp as ever.

“Why do you say that?” Moreen asked, though after an instant of reflection she knew.

“There were many among both our peoples, who thought that the wedding of our king and the Lady of the Arktos was the perfect compact, the seal on an alliance that has been too many centuries in the making. Surely you knew that he loved you?” Now the thane’s tone was gently chiding.

“I know that he and I discussed such a marriage on several occasions,” the chiefwoman replied uncomfortably. “The words that we exchanged are personal words, between the king and myself.”

“You did not marry him, yet he still accompanied you, gave up his freedom in the service of the Arktos tribe.”

“Yes. He came not as my future husband but as a loyal friend,” she replied, “and now I vow to rescue him!”

“Or die trying!” This was Barq One-Tooth again, staggering up from his chair, waving his mug in another sloppy toast. He threw his glass into the fire-and had left a good slug of warqat in the vessel, judging by the sheet of flame that erupted.

“Die trying!” The thought was echoed across the hall, and Moreen shivered slightly at the grim toast, but once again she raised her glass and joined in.

Thedric Drake stood, mug in hand, and the room fell expectantly silent, awaiting another toast. Instead, he looked at Moreen, smiled in an avuncular manner, and gestured for her to rise. When she did, he spoke gently.

“Now that we have joined you in this quest … can you tell us your plan?”

Suddenly Moreen felt a little drunk. She knew her idea was crazy, yet it seemed to her sensible enough. These were such good people, surely they would understand!

“I propose to journey to Winterheim, to enter the ogre city, and to find and free Strongwind Whalebone,” she announced without preamble. “To bring him and the rest of us out alive. If we can free more of the slaves, even all of them, we will do that, too.”

Barq One-Tooth uttered a low whistle of surprise then toppled forward, his face falling into the gravy on his plate.

“I admire your courage and your will, but the important question is, how do you propose to do this?” Thedric asked quietly. “Have you even seen Winterheim, much less found a way inside?”

“I have learned of a way into the ogre city through a cavern called the Moongarden. We can march there overland, though it means we must scale the Tusker Escarpment then the Icewall. I believe this route offers at least a reasonable chance of success.”

“How did you learn of this entry?” asked Thedric warily.

“We have an ogre prisoner, the only survivor of a raiding party taken on the Whitemoor. Bruni has gotten to know him in the past few weeks, and he has proved to be quite talkative. It is upon his words that I have made my plan.”

“A prisoner? Surely you must suspect treachery?” the thane argued. “He has perhaps directed you right into the arms of a permanent garrison.”

Moreen looked at Bruni, who shook her head. “I have to tell you that I trust him,” the big woman said. “For one thing, I am pretty certain that he isn’t bright enough to practice any such deception. He talked to us willingly and seemed to be quite content simply to engage in conversation. I believe I have been able to win over his trust. Furthermore, he clearly doesn’t believe that we present any credible threat to his king’s fortress-he believes no harm can come from whatever he has told us.”

“But the Tusker Escarpment,” suggested a Highlander thane Moreen didn’t know, “there are a thousand walrus men living there!”

“Then we’ll kill ’em all!” It was Kerrick, standing and swaying, lifting a new glass to right and left, some wine sloshing out. There was a moment of surprised silence, then a roar swept up from the gathering, echoing in the rafters of the great hall.

“Death to the tuskers!” The new chant swelled in the hall, and more glasses were drained.

“I will bring the Axe of Gonnas and smite the ogres with their own talisman!” exclaimed Bruni, gesturing to the sacred weapon, captured eight years ago and now displayed on the wall of the keep, above the great hearth. “Even the ogre god cannot stop us!”

“There are more things than gods to fear,” Dinekki said, her frail voice somehow cutting through the noise of the gathering, “but there are gods on our side, as well-gods, men, and even an elf,” she added, with a wink at Kerrick.

“How can we fail?” asked Bruni, who seemed to Moreen to be surprisingly sober. The big woman raised her mug, took a deep drink, and proclaimed aloud, “To the Tusker Escarpment!”

“Up the Icewall Pass!” Kerrick added.

“And through the Moongarden of Winterheim,” Moreen chimed in. Three more glasses crashed into the coals, and the vapors of warqat again puffed into their azure flame, the explosion whooshing right out of the fireplace.

The room fell silent, and the chiefwoman felt all eyes upon her. She felt sober now, alert and hopeful and in the company of good friends. Slowly and somberly she lifted her vessel for one final toast.

“A pledge,” she said. “I make a pledge to lead you, my loyal companions, to Winterheim. We will enter the ogre stronghold and rescue Strongwind Whalebone-”

“Or die trying!” Somehow Barq One Tooth had recovered enough to lift his bearded face, gravy smear and all, to make that last addition to the pledge.

“Or die trying,” Moreen echoed, drinking deeply.

She meant every word.