The Messenger

16

The wind howled across the vast expanse of the Snow Sea. The frigid blast of air came from the southernmost end of the world, and it roared through the deep mountain canyons. This part of Krynn had already lost the sun, and for weeks it had been freezing in a lightless, lifeless glacial winter storm.

Tornadoes preceded each phase of the storm, picking up snow, ice, pieces of monstrous debris and strewing them across the land.

A wall of ice blocked the northern advance of the storm. On one side rose the mountain called Winterheim. The storms could not defeat that steep, lofty slope. Beyond the mountain was the great, frozen dam, a barrier extending a hundred miles or more across the wasteland of southern Icereach.

The monstrous storm hesitated at the Ice Wall, reaching with frigid fingers over the top, sending snow and rock tumbling down the face of the dam before falling back. Growing ever more powerful, ever more angry, the Sturmfrost held back like a living, sentient beast, watching … and waiting.

“Are you certain that you are prepared for the Reciting of Ancestry?” Stariz asked Grimwar. The high priestess wore the black robe of her station, and held the obsidian mask before her as she scrutinized her husband.

The prince had the strange sensation that he was being studied by two powerful ogres. One he had married, with square-block face and protruding jaw. Beneath her was the image of Gonnas, carved in black stone, vacant eye-slits dark and menacing.

“Yes!” he declared. “How many times must I tell you that?”

“Until you have completed the ritual,” she growled back. “I truly wonder if you realize how important it is … how much of the future rests upon your shoulders. I was not here, in Winterheim, during the debacle of four years ago, but even in my father’s remote barony in Galcierheim, the displeasure of our god was respected and feared.”

“I understand,” he said, wishing that she would understand. Huffing in irritation, he pulled on his great bearskin cloak, buckling the golden clasps that held the garment around his bull neck and massive chest. He was tired of reminders, tired of all the preparation for the future that had filled his days since his return from the campaign. It was time to be done with it, done with it all!

“I do not mean to badger you, my husband,” Stariz said with sudden, surprising gentleness, still holding the mask as she came to sit beside him. They were alone in their royal apartments, their slaves having withdrawn to allow the couple some privacy. “In truth, my spells have been full of dire warnings. I fear for you, and for our kingdom. This is a winter’s night of grave portent. You must be alert, watchful for danger.” Her eyes narrowed, a look that penetrated to his core. “Or opportunity,” she concluded.

“Bah-Suderhold is in fine hands!” he snorted indignantly.

Even as he spoke, the words sounded hollow. When he thought about his father, he, too, felt dire concern for the future. How could the realm prosper, under a king who was only concerned with counting his gold, and punishing his slaves? It had been many years since King Grimtruth had embarked upon a campaign. The last time, the prince remembered, his father had returned home with a paltry dozen slaves, Highlanders taken when the ogres had come upon an unfortunate hunting party. Though the king might insist that his son recite the names of their ancestor, back for a hundred generations, Grimwar had little faith his father could perform the same trick. Indeed, for the past three years it had been Stariz, in her role as high priestess, who had performed that ritual.

His wife seemed to sense his unease, but she only glared at him. He hated that look, just as he hated the attention, the privilege that was his father’s due. He hated the knowledge that, so long as Grimtruth reigned, Grimwar Bane would be a mere footnote in the continuing history of Icereach, and the Kingdom of Suderhold.

“My preparations are completed,” he said abruptly, rising to his feet. “I will take in the view from the King’s Promenade while we wait for the rites to begin.”

“But our prayers-” Stariz looked up in surprise as he rose.

“Speak to Gonnas for me,” Grimwar declared, feeling a little better as his wife bit down on her lower lip. She drew the black mask over her face, but he avoided looking back as he stalked through the door that was whisked open by a slave.

The King’s Promenade was a circular hall at the heart of the Royal Level of Winterheim. The central atrium of the mountain was open before him, the shadowy cavern plummeting thousands of feet. Far below, he could see the still waters of the harbor, reflecting the light of the magical ice panels. Goldwing, already refurbished from the summer campaign, gleamed beneath the atrium, gilded rails shimmering like metal fire, oiled decks smooth and perfect.

“It is a beautiful ship.”

He was startled and pleased when Thraid spoke from his side. She stepped up to the stone parapet and peered with him into the depths beneath the great city. “Despite what the king says, I think you did very well to bring back so many slaves … hundreds of them, was it not?”

“Three hundred and twenty-seven,” he replied with a proud smile.

“Did the humans fight hard?” She asked the question absently, as if thinking about something else.

He chuckled, reflecting on the mild skirmishes at the various Arktos villages. “Mostly not,” he allowed. “They seemed almost not to believe we were there.” He was about to go into detail when he realized that Thraid was looking at him with a peculiarly intense gaze.

“What?” he asked, feeling suddenly stupid and apprehensive.

She began to sob, quickly clapping a hand over her mouth. “It is no life-this fate of mine!” she said, crying softly. “He is a monster! And you choose to allow it!”

“I do not!” Grimwar protested in bewilderment. “He makes all the decisions. I have no power, but to obey his commands!”

“How … how could you give in to him about this?” Her voice was a rasping whisper, reaching his ears alone. “You knew how I felt-about you. How could you let your father …” Thraid shook her head and turned away, drawing a deep, ragged breath.

The prince grew increasingly confused. Couldn’t she understand? Surely she knew what it was like, to live a life determined by the whim of one’s father, a king who seemed incapable of thinking beyond his own immediate pleasure!

He glowered, feeling his face grow hot, then shivered with a sudden chill. Turning, he saw Stariz approaching, wearing her obsidian mask and looking as fearsome as Gonnas himself.

He grunted a farewell to Thraid, who glanced up through narrowed eyes to nod to the high priestess. Stariz returned the nod contemptuously, her small eyes glittering like beads through the narrow slits in the mask. She reached to take the prince’s arm, accepting her husband’s escort toward the great feast that was about to commence.

The Rites of Neuwinter combined somber religious ceremony with ribald feasting, a lavish banquet in a vast, warm chamber with the brutal onset of winter, a solemn commemoration of Suderhold’s dynastic history with blood sacrifice and the release of primeval power. The festivities traditionally began in the huge room known as the Hall of Blue Ice, a massive chamber carved from a huge portion of the mountain’s eastern shoulder and protected from the outer weather by a wall-sized window of frost, the deep azure color giving the hall its name.

The chamber was a massive, semicircular vault, with one side a series of tiers rising high into the mountain’s interior. The outer wall was the vast sheet of blue ice, now murky and obscure because of the lightless night yawning beyond. Just outside the window was the juncture where the massive Ice Wall met the flanks of Winterheim. The sweeping dam extended into the far distance, and, beyond that, the surging Snow Sea.

The entire population of Winterheim, ogres and human slaves alike, gathered in this massive chamber. The ogre masters were arrayed around the three lower tiers, seated at huge banquet tables, all facing the vast window of blue ice so that they could see the climax of the rite. They were ranked in order of status, the royal clan and fellow nobles on the first tier, the warriors and merchants on the second, commoners on the third. The temperature in the hall was cosy for now, but each ogre had brought plenty of furs and blankets, for they knew that when the window melted away, the full fury of winter would surge into the chamber.

Above the ogres, the humans gathered in a silent body. Their involvement in the feasting was limited to their role as preparers and servers of food. Those humans who were not working remained on the upper terraces, silent faces turned downward, watching and waiting. All were required to attend, and they, like the ogres, would witness the death of a chosen slave that would mark the culmination of the rites and the release of another bitter, sunless winter onto the tundra, mountains and seas of Icereach.

At one time, the hall would have been filled with one hundred thousand ogres, the long-ago population of Winterheim, each ogre accompanied by chosen slaves. Now, in the reign of King Grimtruth, there were barely twelve thousand ogres in all the city, and perhaps that many human slaves. The upper chambers of the hall remained silent and empty.

Lord Hakkan, the protocol chief, emerged onto the upper platform and signaled the trumpeters. The human slaves raised their golden instruments and a fanfare quickly resounded through the hall. Rustling and rumbling, the ogres turned their attention upward.

Prince Grimwar Bane, Princess Stariz ber Glacierheim ber Bane on his arm, entered to the sounds of the triumphant processional. He marched down the long, inclined aisle from the upper section of the hall, to the royal table far below. He wore his golden breastplate, with the Barkon Sword encased in a bejeweled ceremonial scabbard at his belt. His tusks were fully coated with gleaming gold. Around his shoulders was draped the pelt of the massive black bear, a fur so large that the forelegs descended to his belly, and the tail all but dragged on the ground behind him.

The crown princess was an equally awe-inspiring sight. Stariz, wearing her obsidian mask, carried the mighty Axe of Gonnas, the golden blade extended before her. The ghastly visage of the Willful One was the same tusked, snarling face carved into the huge temple statue. Turning her head this way and that with regal grace, she cast her masked, searing gaze across the entire assemblage. There was none, ogre or human, who did not feel as though the powerful god looked directly into his soul.

Grimwar led his wife Stariz to their ceremonial chairs at the great table that stood directly before the sweeping pane of blue ice. Baldruk Dinmaker was already there, standing behind the chair he would occupy between the prince and the king. The trio remained standing while the trumpets blared again, this time announcing the arrival of the king and queen. The royal couple, too, started down the long procession.

Later, it would be Grimwar’s task to invoke the names of all his ancestors, calling upon them to melt the icy blue barrier. Only then would ogre and human alike feel winter’s deadly kiss, only then would the king release the Sturmfrost across the land.

Grimwar could hear the mournful wail of a cyclonic wind. The tumult was pure, frigid winter, churning with sleet and icy snow. The levels of snow had risen dangerously high, threatening the ice wall. Now, in this ceremony dating to the origins of time, the ogre king would once again release the storm onto the wider world, and Winterheim would be protected for another long, cold, sunless winter. Grimwar glanced toward the vast sheet of blue and was startled to see Balrduk Dinmaker glaring up at him, the dwarf’s expression somewhere between contemptuous and pensive.

“Prepare yourself!” hissed the royal adviser, before turning his attention to the royal couple, now but one tier above them.

The princess sniffed disdainfully at Grimwar’s side, and he glanced at her and her impassive mask. “She could at least wear a decent covering,” Stariz hissed. “Like too many others, she does not understand the sacredness of the event!”

Grimwar looked up at the young queen. Thraid wore a gown of white bearskin, cut low across her impressive bosom, gathered tightly to display the unusual slenderness of her waist. Rouge brightened her cheeks and her lips, creating an effect that the prince found altogether appealing. As she walked serenely, Thraid Dimmarkull ber Bane clutched King Grimtruth’s arm, clear proof to all of her position. Her eyes caught the prince’s as she approached, and she met his gaze with a hurt expression. For some reason, the emotion cut Grimwar deeper than any display of fury.

Angrily, he pulled his eyes away from the young ogress. The king himself, his father, Grimwar thought, looked downright disgraceful. Of course, he was dressed in the traditional white robes of his station, with the Crown of Cospid gleaming on his head, his black boots polished to a bright sheen. His slaves had seen to all that. As to the king’s person, his eyes were bloodshot, narrowed suspiciously, and a strand of drool dangled casually from one of his tusks. Those tusks were also circled with golden wire, but the monarch had not bothered to have slaves polish either the metal, or the ivory of his teeth. From the unsteadiness of the big ogre’s gait, the prince suspected that his father had begun celebrating early.

Nevertheless, the king reached the table without incident, and soon they, and all the other ogres of Winterheim, were seated. Stariz intoned a prayer, asking for the blessing of the Willful One. Baldruk raised the first toast, and the king took a gulp from his goblet that left warqat shining, slick and oily, down his chin.

A procession of slaves came forth with slabs of beef, whole salmon, great wheels of cheese, iced sturgeon eggs, and cask upon cask of pungent warqat. Throughout the hall ogres began to eat and drink.

To Grimwar, everything tasted like ash.

Baldruk Dinmaker rose again from his seat between the two mighty ogres. He cleared his throat, bringing the crowd to silence.

“It has been my great honor to serve the Bane kings for two generations-three, if we count the crown prince who, some day, will prove himself worthy of this throne.…”

The dwarf shot Grimwar a glance before continuing-again, that look half of disdain. The ogre heard none of the rest of the words. Instead, he flushed with a feeling of rage that started at his toes and spread upward through his entire body. Someday? He looked past the dwarf to the king, who was slurping noisily from his goblet, paying no attention to the speech, until he sensed that Baldruk was reaching his conclusion.

“… has applied himself with diligence to the learning. May it please the gods of us all-let the Rites begin!” Once more the trumpets, played by the human slaves who stood on the high rampart, brayed through the Hall of Blue Ice.

“The crown prince will now recite the Names of Dynasty!” proclaimed Hakkan. The lord of protocol, rigid and serene in a long green robe, stood before the royal table, his back to the king’s family as he bellowed his announcement through the Hall of Blue Ice.

“Are you ready?” hissed Stariz, who had sat through the dinner without eating, since to do so would have meant removing her tusked mask and risking the displeasure of her god. She rose to follow her husband, bearing the Axe of Gonnas as was required by her role.

Grimwar tried to concentrate on the names that were marching through his skull in dynastic progression. Baldruk leaned over and glared at him intensely. “You know what to do,” he said. Putting down the empty mug of warqat, which he had nursed through the long meal, the prince rose to the cheers of all the assembled ogres. Barely hearing the accolades, he was making his way past the king’s seat when Grimtruth seized his son’s hand and pulled him down closer.

“Do not embarrass me again.”

His father stank of warqat and sweat, both equally repugnant. Angrily, Grimwar pulled himself away and lumbered toward the massive window of blue ice.

Lord Hakkan was standing by to escort him, but the prince marched past without halting. The great sheet of frost, the window to the glacier and the Ice Wall and the Storm Sea, rose before him. Now Grimwar halted in the prescribed position. The names of his ancestors were ready, about to trip off his tongue, when his mind veered backward, to the humiliation of four years earlier.

“He’s a fool!” roared Grimtruth Bane, rising from his chair and lunging around the banquet table. The young prince stood paralyzed, speechless. For a long time he had been standing there, silent, unsuccessfully willing the names from his subconscious. He looked back, saw his mother, Queen Hannareit, looking at him with an expression of pleading … then Grimtruth Bane filled his vision, storming toward his son, face twisted by fury and warqat.

The high priest, Karn Draco, tried to stop the king, but Grimtruth would not be deterred. “Give me that!” he demanded, snatching the Axe of Gonnas from the priest’s hands.

“No-the window must melt before the Names!” protested Draco.

With a single blow from the golden axe the king shattered the blue ice. Shards of glassy frost exploded, and instantly winter’s vortex had swept into the hall. The first gust sucked Karn Draco into the frosty wasteland. Tables were tossed about, humans and ogres swept away by the lethal force of wind.

Grimtruth Bane seized a nearby slave, one of the hapless servers who had been working at the royal table, and, still carrying the Axe of Gonnas, marched out to the brink of the Ice Wall. Throwing the blubbering human down, he killed him with a single blow of the axe, so that his blood soaked into the dam as required by the ancient ritual.

That sacrifice was made without the full ceremony, however, without the blessing of Gonnas. When the Sturm-sea erupted that year, it did so capriciously, tearing away a great part of the city and burying a valuable gold mine in the process.

Everyone blamed Grimwar Bane. His father arranged the marriage to Stariz, whose tutelage, it was hoped, would see that the prince maintained a properly studious, devoted outlook on life. She came to Winterheim and replaced the fallen high priest and, for the past three years, it had been she who had recited the names.

Now, again, had come the time for the prince to prove himself.

“O Gonnas the Strong, Gonnas the Mighty, the Willful One …” Stariz intoned the names of the god. “Grant us your favor. Melt the Blue Ice, and let the king of Suderhold come forth to unleash your Sturmfrost upon the world!”

The watchers, ogres and humans alike, held their breath as Grimwar Bane took a step forward and began to speak.

“King Barkon, Barkon I, brought the clans to Winterheim, in the first year of Dynasty,” Grimwar began, “and reigned until year 63. It was then that his son, Barkon II, took the throne, until the year 91. Barkon III came next, in dynasty, to year 147. These were the Barkon kings, the founders of Suderhold.

“The Icetusk dynasty commenced in 150, with Garren Icetusk, who ruled through 212.…”

Surprisingly, the names seemed to burst forth with a will of their own. The Icetusks were easy-they had ruled for more than a thousand years, and it seemed that each date was inextricably attached to their name. When Grimwar said Icetusk VII, for instance, the years 503 and 571 loomed clearly in his memory. So, too, with the rest of that hallowed line.

He did not dare to look behind him, to examine the blue ice. He knew that Baldruk Dinmaker was watching, together with Stariz, the king, Thraid and the rest. But it helped when he imagined that it was only for Thraid’s benefit that he spoke. Still the names rolled and tumbled off his tongue. He continued, through the kings of the Whaleslayers, the Goldcrowns, the Manreapers. He noted the short and tragic reign of King Dracomaster who, it turned out, had taken his name quite prematurely. He passed through the Glacierlords and, finally, he arrived at his own clan.

“The Bane Dynasty was born, in 4370, with Grimword Bane ruling until 4426. His son, Grimstroke Bane took the throne, and was king until 4502 …”

Now he was speaking of his own family, and each name came with a face, and the memory and words that much clearer.

He reached his grandfather and spoke firmly. “Grimsea Bane ruled until the year 4875.”

He paused, and he sensed everyone drawing a breath, waiting for a grand conclusion. He would now speak of the last king to sit upon the throne of Suderhold. But the words, the name, suddenly caught in his throat, refusing to emerge. His frustration, his fury built up until finally he spat the words, in tones that might be mistaken for contempt, ringing through the hall.

“Grimtruth Bane, King of Suderhold from 4875 until now.”

The blue ice surface was slick and wet, water pouring down the shimmering face, pooling and splattering on the floor. The great window sagged visibly until, abruptly, it trembled and fell away like shattered glass.

“Gonnas hears and is pleased!” cried Stariz exultantly.

The prince was assailed by frigid wind, stung by particles of icy snow. The gale swept into the chamber, and all the ogres reached for their furs as they watched, awestruck. The humans in the higher reaches huddled miserably together but they, too, appeared rapt. Grimwar Bane stepped forward into the gale, then turned to watch as the king, accompanied by two warriors and a human slave, hurried forward. Baldruk remained at the table, but the dwarf’s face was lit by an expression of exultation.

“Do you mock me?” growled Grimtruth as he passed his son. “If so, your insult will not be forgotten.”

Grimwar’s own temper flared as he and Stariz followed the procession. The slave to be sacrificed this winter was a strapping human male. Certainly the slave knew that he was doomed, all the more reason why he showed little spirit.

The wind howled now as the small group made its way to the very brink of the Ice Wall, where the dam of frost met the solid stone of the mountainous balcony. This place, where the great dam merged with the mountainside of Winterheim, was a precipitous shelf poised over the surging Snow Sea.

Stariz held the golden axe, while the two guards stretched the human slave over the rim of the balcony. Grimtruth Bane stepped forward and took the hallowed artifact.

“O Great Gonnas!” cried the priestess, the roar of her voice carrying into the wind, rising over the gale in power and force. “Grant us your blessing and share your might! Let this blood sanctify your pleasure, and open the Ice Wall! Let your Sturmfrost surge forth and scour your enemies from the world!”

Now the human seemed finally to grasp the inevitability of his fate. He began to scream and struggle, to kick and thrash. The big ogres held him without even straining. Grimtruth Bane took the axe and stepped up to the man, holding the golden blade above the terrified human’s chest. The victim was stretched prone on the rim of the Ice Wall, a thousand feet above the face of the dam.

The king twisted about to cast a scornful glance at his son. “This is the mark of power!” he roared. “This is the deed of a king! By Gonnas, you have shown that you will never be worthy!”

The slave made one last, desperate attempt at escape. With a frantic effort he pulled one arm free and twisted outward. The king, his mind foggy with warqat, chopped, but the blade missed the slave entirely, cutting into the top of the Ice Wall and quivering in the grip of frost.

Then the human was swinging free, dangling below the balcony, suspended only by one wrist held by the second ogre guard. The Snow Sea surged and raged below, black tendrils of gale reaching upward, hungrily, pulling at his feet, coiling about his legs.

“Hold him!” roared the king.

The guard’s grip slipped. With a hideous scream, the slave vanished into the tumult, twisting in the air for a moment before disappearing.

“Fools! Wretches!” roared the king, spittle flying, eyes bulging. He wrenched the axe free and swung first at one, then the other of his guards. The first one fell after the doomed slave. The second screamed and clawed as he also plummeted into space down the long, barren cliff.

Grimtruth whirled upon his son. “See what you made me do?” he roared, advancing with the axe upraised.

“Wait!” screeched Stariz, though she made no move to step between the two ogres. “We will get another slave.”

The prince was in no mood to give ground. The Barkon Sword was in his hands now, no longer merely a ceremonial weapon. Baldruk Dinmaker’s word-someday-echoed in Grimwar’s mind. He raised the great weapon tentatively. It felt good in his hands.

“You dare to draw steel against your father, the king?” snarled Grimtruth, taking another step forward. “You worthless spawn, you are your mother’s milksop, a disgrace to my line!”

Before anyone could say anything else, metal clashed, and sparks flew. The weapons met again and again, propelled by all the strength of two bull ogres. A haze settled around the prince, and he hacked and charged, parried and smashed. The king was a huge ogre, and his axe was formidable, but his son was fast, and he felt driven by years of pent-up rage.

The great hall fell silent, the ogres gaping in awe and the humans in fear as the king and the prince battled. Thraid’s cheeks were flushed, her white-knuckled hands clenching the table. Baldruk Dinmaker licked his lips, stared, drew his breath in a great hiss.

Axe met sword in another ringing clash, and both ogres strained. The king’s weight and his huge weapon bore down on the prince, who suddenly backed away. The Axe of Gonnas cut deeply into the stones of the mountain balcony. Grimwar stabbed, his sword grazing the king’s shoulder, and Grimtruth roared in fury as he pulled his weapon back and struck anew. The younger ogre barely dodged.

Again and again they clashed and broke apart. First one held the advantage, then the other. Grimwar’s thigh bled from a deep gash, while both of the king’s wrists and arms were scored with cuts. Each wound seemed to drive his father into a wilder rage, while Grimwar, for his part, found himself growing calmer and more determined. Strangely he found himself thinking of the beautiful queen watching this fight, of the dwarf, and the masked high priestess. He knew what would happen, what he had to do.

Cautiously Grimwar circled his opponent, pressed him back against the rim of the balcony at the very edge of the Ice Wall. There was a measure of fear in the king’s eyes now as he lost strength and flailed wildly, no longer pressing the attack, merely holding his son at bay. He parried desperately, and Grimwar stabbed at the monarch’s exposed hands, driving the blade deep, forcing the axe out of the royal grip. The king sprawled backward, shrieking, to lie fully across the wall.

“The axe-you must draw blood with the axe!”

Grimwar heard the words over the gale, knew that his wife was speaking to him, uttering the awful truth that he already recognized. The rite had been sanctified by Gonnas, but the axe was needed to fulfill the ritual. The prince dropped his sword and picked up the artifact, raising it high over his head. The king, his father, this monstrous drunken cur of an ogre, was blubbering pathetically, trying to scramble away.

Grimwar Bane chopped down with all the strength of his powerful body, angling the blade toward his father’s bulging gut. The Axe of Gonnas sliced royal flesh, and Grimtruth gazed stupidly at the crimson liquid spurting from the great, gaping wound. The blood gushed across the ice, sinking into the white frost. The prince stood numb, watching, until Stariz grabbed him and pulled him back through the melted window, into the shelter of the Hall of Blue Ice.

More of the fallen king’s blood soaked into the frozen dam, and the power of the Sturmfrost surged and exploded, while all Icereach quailed at the threat of killing cold.