by Doug Niles
The fellow was naked, outfitted only with an ivory tube suspended from a leather loop around his neck, and a golden collar bearing the royal sigil of the Bane kings. His skin was brown and wrinkled, except on his limbs, which were relatively sleek. The fingers and toes of his extremities were webbed, allowing for that impressive swimming speed, and the barrel-shaped torso was thick with a layer of fat that caused the flesh to collect in a series of rolls around the walrus-man’s middle. The thanoi’s eyes were small and dark—piglike, Grimwar had often thought—and now they regarded the royal couple with a glare of pride mingled with fear.
“Who are you?” demanded the king bluntly.
“My name is Long-Swim Greatfin,” replied the walrus-man, lifting himself to a semblance of attention. “I am chief of the Dracoheim Thanoi, a loyal subject of her majesty, Dowager Queen Hannareit.”
“You swam all the way to Winterheim?”
“To the eastern shore of the Dracoheim Sea,” corrected the thanoi. “I crossed the mountain barrier on foot, for that is the most direct route.”
Grimwar nodded. He knew that the near shore of the Dracoheim Sea lay not very far west of Winterheim, just beyond the long but slender Fenriz Glacier. If the thanoi had instead tried to come all the way to Winterheim by water, he would have had to swim far to the north, entering the White Bear Sea through the Bluewater Strait and nearly doubling the total distance traveled.
“You have done well to make haste,” the king declared with approval, wishing he knew what was so urgent about this foul-smelling creature’s message.
“You bring us something from the Dowager Queen?” Stariz asked without preamble, as the departing guards closed the door, leaving the two royal ogres alone with the messenger.
“I have it here, my queen,” said the walrus-man, lifting the narrow ivory tube, curved slightly, from a thong around his neck. Grimwar guessed the container had been made from a walrus tusk.
“I’ll take that,” said the king, determined to demonstrate some semblance of his authority. He clasped the smooth tube, then looked in vain for some means of opening it. He saw the Dowager Queen’s sigil, the engraved “H,” in the surface of ivory that formed a blunt end of the object. The other end came to a dull point, reinforcing his impression that this was the massive outer tooth of a bull walrus, but though he looked at it from every angle, he could discern no crack or seam, nothing that looked likely to allow access.
“Let me have a look,” said Stariz, snatching the tube away. The king glowered, watching, as she spun it in her hands to reveal that the wider end was a cap, cut with grooves so that it screwed tightly onto the body of the tube. She unscrewed the container holding it upright as she peered into it. Her attention focused on whatever was inside the container, something she took great care not to spill.
“He has succeeded,” she declared simply, as Grimwar tried to look over her shoulder.
“Who has succeeded? With what?” he demanded crossly.
“The Alchemist, of course,” Stariz replied. “He has given us the means to destroy our human foes, utterly, completely, and without mercy.”
“What are you talking about?”
She looked at him with her jaw set sternly, her little eyes burning with intensity. “It means that now, this summer, you must at last mount an expedition to destroy Brackenrock, to make yourself master of this land for once and for all!”
“Explain yourself!” Grimwar demanded, not liking the way this conversation was going. Brackenrock! Why, the very name gave him chills. He remembered the last time he had attacked the place, eight years before—that had been the single most catastrophic raid of his lifetime!
“I will explain, privately,” the queen replied, with a meaningful glance at the thanoi, who was doing a less-than-convincing job of pretending not to listen. “You have done well, Long-Swim Greatfin. Go and find such food and drink as you desire in the harborside kitchens. Await our word before you depart. It is likely that we will give you a missive to carry back to your mistress.”
“Very well, Your Highness,” replied the tusked messenger. He bowed deeply until his tusks almost touched the floor, then backed to the door and departed.
“What is this madness about Brackenrock?” demanded the king, as soon as the thanoi was gone. “That place has walls as high as a mountain! Gonnas only knows how many archers the Arktos and their Highlander allies will have on the ramparts! It is a death trap, and I will not sacrifice my best warriors in a fruitless attack! I know they hold the sacred axe, but face the fact, my wife: That artifact is gone forever!”
The queen spoke fiercely. “You call it a death trap—but perhaps it may become a trap for the humans themselves.” Stariz brandished the tusk-tube. “There is a powder in here, my husband—a concoction of the Alchemist with hitherto unknown explosive properties. When prepared according to the instruction the Dowager Queen has conveyed, it will make a weapon capable of destroying the entire citadel! Imagine, my lord—all of those humans dead! Their wretched fortress blown off the face of the Icereach! Surely you know that only when Brackenrock is gone will you be the true master of our lands!”
In truth, Grimwar felt enough like a master of the Icereach and didn’t care to quibble about Brackenrock, but his curiosity was piqued. “How is it even possible to make a weapon such as you describe?”
“Do not underestimate the power of Gonnas or the lore of our Alchemist,” the queen explained eagerly. “You can use it in two ways: a small explosion to destroy the gatehouse and breach the walls. Your warriors will be able to rush inside, to retrieve the Axe of Gonnas—I beg you, husband: We must recover that artifact!—and then a larger device will be placed. When that explodes, it will destroy the fortress and all of its contents, for once and for all!”
“You make it sound like child’s play,” snorted Grimwar. “Of course it will never work as smoothly as that!”
“I tell you, my king, the world of Krynn has never seen a weapon like this! Your mother was able to destroy an entire village of slaves with a minor test!”
“My mother!” he snorted again. “I should have known you two were cooking up some infernal plan. Why are you so insistent that I strike now, this summer? If what you say is true, there will be plenty of time to mount a campaign, next year or the year after! I will take the winter to plan and prepare, make sure that nothing goes wrong—”
“What do you have to do that is more important?” Stariz asked, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Are you planning to dally here all summer with some ogress slut?”
Grimwar’s vision grew hazy, and such a rage took him that his fist clenched and clenched again of its own accord. He raised his trembling arm, knuckles white, and was pleased to see the fear flash in Stariz’s eyes as she cringed away from him.
“Have a care, wife,” he growled. “Even a queen has bounds she does not dare overstep.”
He turned on his heel and left impressively, he hoped, but he was bothered by her words. Indeed, he had a meeting arranged with Thraid for that very night—could his wife be privy to that knowledge? Surely not … but it galled him to think that he might be dragged to battle, once more, by his wife.
Grimwar opened the secret door into the private chamber, palms sweating, heart pounding. It had been a long time—far, far too long—since he and Thraid had stolen a moment together, and the prospect of a quick tryst with his mistress made him feverish as he pushed through the door. “My lady?” he croaked, as a torch flared, briefly blinding him.
When he discovered that it was a human slave instead of the comely Thraid Dimmarkull who had lit the torch in the secret room, his fury rose immediately, almost causing him to do the man fatal harm.
“How do you come to be here?” growled the king of Suderhold, holding the slave—a man of graying hair and no remarkable physique—around the neck. Grimwar lifted the hapless fellow with one hand until the slave’s feet kicked and flailed above the floor.
Only then in the light did the
king recognize the man as Wandcort, a loyal retainer of Thraid’s and one of the few slaves trusted with knowledge of the royal affair. Even so, it was with reluctance that the king lowered the man to the floor, and he waited impatiently for Wandcort’s inevitable fit of coughing and gagging to subside.
“Do you have a message for me?” he demanded, urgency raising his intended whisper to a growl.
“Yes, Sire … forgive me,” Wandcort sputtered, drawing another ragged breath. “My Lady Thraid has been taken sorely ill, a stomach befoulment that has compelled her to the sickbed. She only sends me because she is too weakened to move.”
Grimwar forcibly suppressed the roar of irritation swelling within him. He wanted to demand, Why now? At last he had an opportunity to visit Thraid! His wife was engaged in the royal smithy, discussing with the metalsmith questions of the designs for her revolutionary weapon. Now, to have this rare opportunity thwarted by common illness!
Or, indeed, was it illness?
Another, darker possibility loomed in the shadows of the king’s mind. He scratched his chin while Wandcort watched nervously.
“Stomach befoulment? Tell me, what has the Lady Thraid had to eat and drink, within the last day?” Grimwar demanded.
“Er, let me think, Sire. There was bread and lutefish in the morning, and for the day meal, of course. I believe for dinner she had a beeve from the royal kitchen, with shellfish.”
The slave’s eyes narrowed shrewdly as he followed the king’s train of thought. Grimwar noticed real anger in the man’s expression and was pleased—this one was indeed loyal to his mistress.
“Yes, and warqat and wine, both from her own casks. Water I drew myself from the royal well.”
Now the ogre king was remembering his wife’s words, all but accusing him of a dalliance. Too, just an hour ago there had been a look, cool and appraising and slightly vengeful, that Stariz had given him before she departed for the smithy. At the time he had wondered what she was thinking. Now he guessed. She was coldly content that he would find no comfort with his mistress this day!
He thought about the risks of going to Thraid’s quarters, but he needed to see her, speak to her personally. If she had been harmed by that jealous cow, his wife and queen …
“Take me to the lady Thraid,” Grimwar declared.
Wandcort, who knew the value of discretion, looked briefly surprised, then bowed his head. “Of course, Sire. We can take the Servant’s Way—it should be empty at this hour.”
The king nodded and followed the slave out the secret door through which they’d both entered the room. In the passageway beyond, Wandcort turned left, away from the king’s own quarters and into the vast network of streets and alleys comprising Winterheim’s Noble Quarter. They passed under a stone arch and turned down a narrow passageway, a route marked with infrequent doors on either side. Some of these portals were wood, others iron, all of them closed. The oil lamps posted at each intersection cast long shadows down the corridors that, as Wandcort had suggested, seemed to be empty of other pedestrians.
Soon they emerged into a roofed alley, a tunnel that led outward to the Promenade, the great ringed street and atrium at the center of every one of Winterheim’s numerous levels. There, Grimwar saw ogres ambling past, while slaves bustled up and down the street on urgent missions for their masters. Turning away from the Promenade, Wandcort led the king deeper into the alley, and soon they turned onto a quiet street. Lights here were few—whale oil was a precious commodity—and the street was narrow, with numerous doors and vents branching to either side. These were the corridors used by the slaves who came and went from the noble manors, Grimwar knew. It was a part of his city that he rarely saw.
They met no one as they hurried along, crossed another alley, then stopped at an arched wooden door. The slave produced a key, and in another instant the king was inside Thraid’s apartment. Quickly he made his way through the kitchen and into the great room.
He had been here once before and cherished the memory. The great white bear’s head mounted above the fireplace was a gift from Grimwar, killed by the king’s own spear. The bestial face was locked into a snarl, and the ogre monarch fancied it as Thraid’s protector, a guardian assigned by royal decree. The rest of the room was tastefully luxurious: great couches of walrus hide, several graceful statuettes of carved ivory, lamps with cut crystal globes that scattered the light in myriad facets. One of these was lit now, the wick set low, but Thraid was not here.
A brighter light came from the arched entry to the sleeping chamber, and here the king made his way, up several steps that had been cut into the bedrock of the mountain, pushing through a curtain of soft sealskin strips. His eyes went immediately to Thraid lying upon her huge bed, with her maidservant—Wandcort’s wife, though Grimwar couldn’t remember her name—seated beside her. A lamp burned on the bedstand, and Thraid pushed herself up to a sitting position as the king entered the chamber.
“Oh, my lord, you have come to me!” she said, then pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle a sob.
Thraid Dimmarkull looked a mess. Her hair, normally a lush train of silken chocolate, the same color as her large eyes, now lay in a tangle of sweaty strands. Her face, the plump cheeks and lush lips once rosy with health and vitality, was pale and drawn, clammy with perspiration.
Grimwar felt a rush of fury—in his mind there was no doubt that Stariz had done this, had worked some sorcerous scheme or toxic herbal to thus afflict the king’s mistress. He controlled his emotions with great effort and sat gently on the very edge of the bed. Reaching out, he took Thraid’s hand, her skin cool and damp to the touch. The slave woman rose, bowed, and quietly withdrew to pass through the sealskin curtain.
“Are you in pain, my lady?” Grimwar asked gruffly.
“Not for the moment, my king,” she said, making a weak effort to squeeze her fingers. “It seems as though pain, as well as all else, has been wrung from me.”
“When did this strike?”
“Not long after the supper. I fear there may be some bad shellfish in the royal larder. I had Brinda send word to the cooks as soon as I was taken ill.”
Such an innocent! It warmed the king’s heart to see that she did not even suspect the wrong that had been done to her. Naivete was one of qualities he found so appealing about Thraid, and so different from his wife. His throat tightened as he raised her hand and kissed her fingers.
“You rest well, my dear. Has the royal surgeon been to see you?”
“Indeed, sire. He purged me, and bade me drink much water. Brinda has been faithful with the pitcher.”
“Very well. You must rest. If there is anything you want or need, you will have it. Slave!” Grimwar turned to the curtain, which was parted by Wandcort. “I shall desire word, steady reports, of the state of Lady Thraid’s health.”
The slave bowed. “It shall be done, Sire.”
Grimwar rose to his feet and gazed one more time at Thraid. His anger still burned, but the fire had been banked by his willpower. He started toward the door, and Wandcort hurried ahead to lead him through the kitchen. The slave turned, startled, as the king stalked past.
“I am leaving by the front door,” declared Grimwar Bane, his voice a deep and very royal growl.
“I would speak to you, my queen,” declared the king of Suderhold, stalking unannounced into his wife’s parlor.
She was making a diagram of something that looked like a hollowed sphere, an array of colorful inks spread upon her table and a quill in her hand. She looked up at him crossly, her eyes, so tiny in that block of a face, glittering with guarded thoughts.
“You take a cold tone with me, my lord,” she said, her own voice layered in ice. “I sense your displeasure, yet I do not know its cause.”
“You have said that you wish me to attack Brackenrock this summer,” he declared bluntly.
“To destroy Brackenrock, yes,” she corrected, “and to retrieve the Axe of Gonnas.
“Bah—we can retrieve tha
t ancient trinket next year,” the king snorted. “If it bears such significance, you should never have let the elf wrest it out of your hands in the first place!”
Stariz, still seated, straightened and glared ice. “Do not forget that the elf still lives with the humans. Have you not seen his boat, fruitlessly chased by your galley on several occasions? I should think his survival would be an affront not just to you but to our entire kingdom. It is a pity that you have so little regard for the Axe of Gonnas. Remember, it was the weapon that King Barkon used to hew the ice from Mount Winterheim, thus giving his clan—”
“Yes, yes, I know all this,” Grimwar said impatiently, although he did have a little trouble remembering the details. “Do you think I forget our heritage?”
Stariz pressed ahead. “Now that we have the powder from the Alchemist, the royal smithy will be able to prepare a weapon in a matter of a few days. This is the design—it will be a sphere of pure gold, filled with the powder prepared by the Alchemist.” Her pig eyes narrowed. “Have you started to organize the troops for the raiding party? And prepared the galleys for the voyage?”
Grimwar shrugged. “The troops, the ships, will be ready when I tell them to be. If I tell them to prepare. And I tell you now, Queen … I have decided. I do not choose to make this campaign this summer.”
Stariz snorted in exasperation. “You know that you have been granted an opportunity that has come to no other king in the many centuries of your line? You understand that, do you not?”
“Opportunity is in your eye, or mine,” the king said with a shrug. “I have no doubt but that the humans will be available to fight, whenever I deem myself ready. They are a fact of life but not a threat to our existence. And I did not lose the Axe of Gonnas.”
“The axe is a treasure of our people, an artifact dating back to the Barkon migration!” she retorted, shocked and outraged at his statement.