Douglas Niles: Winterheim

Now they would die, and he had only himself to blame.

Dinekki’s shoulders were sore, and she found herself wishing she had thought to rub some of her walrus-blubber ointment on her joints before she had taken off. She loved to fly, yet as with so many other things, getting old complicated the whole procedure.

How many years had it been since she had worked the shape-change spell, taking on the form of a creature with wings? More than she could remember in truth. Still, the enchantment had come easily, the familiar blessing of her wild goddess warming her with the power. Normally she would have shape-shifted into the body of a bird, but the bat seemed to be more appropriate in this vast cavern. She found that the technique of flying remained pretty much as she remembered, though instead of the easy glide of a feathered form she had to flap her wings constantly to remain in the air.

Still, the fur lining her limbs looked sleek and soft and felt wonderful, and the skills needed to fly came back to her the instant that she had thrown herself from the ledge in the body of the tiny bat. At first exhilaration had filled her heart as she soared upward, chasing the flight of her fellows, winging past the fungus forests and those glowing, lichen-encrusted walls, fluttering over cold, clear streams.

She still had a long way to go when she first felt the cramps starting in her shoulders then extending through her back and her wings. The other bats had flown on or scattered, moving too quickly for her to keep up, but that didn’t matter. She didn’t need their company. She just needed to find the strength to make it farther into the vast, underground city.

Fatigue had started to drag her down, but now at least she was in the wide tunnel. She had gained some altitude in the early part of her flight, and now she swooped down near the floor, trying to ease the strain on her muscles. Lower and lower she dropped until she was nearly skimming the stone surface. She had to work constantly, however, for she had no more room to descend.

Finally the vast gateway loomed high overhead. The elderly shaman used her last strength to fly up through the high arch. She saw a ship docked in the middle of the harbor, a tall mast rising from the deck. With a few more wingstrokes she lifted herself up, slowed, and came to rest upon the crosspiece high on the mast.

Here she panted, trying to catch her breath, and started to look around to see what was happening and where she should go from here.

“We can’t stay here and wait any longer!” Mouse declared.

He studied the ogre patrols that were sweeping back and forth through the Moongarden. At least four of them were making circuits around the huge cavern. Each detachment numbered a couple of dozen enemy warriors, but the Arktos warrior reasoned that if the humans attacked fast they might be able to overcome at least one or two detachments. If all hundred or so ogres banded together, he knew his little force would have a very tough time of it.

“We have to do something,” he stated to Lars and Feathertail, who stood on either side of him. “It’s only a matter of time.”

“Better to be on the move and attack them on our own terms,” agreed the Highlander thane.

“What should we do?” Feathertail wondered.

“I think we should hit ’em hard and just keep moving,” counseled Thane Larsgall. “Make for the city and see what kind of damage we do before …” His voice trailed off.

Feathertail looked at him then turned her large, dark eyes to Mouse. “Before we die, he means, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, but we have to try something, don’t you see? It’s better than waiting here like rats in a trap, waiting for them to find us and rub us out!” He looked into those gentle eyes, and his heart nearly broke.

To his surprise, this Arktos maiden whom he had teased as a girl, and watched grow into the most beautiful woman in the tribe, nodded in agreement and understanding.

“Yes,” she said. “We have to try at least.”

Mouse reached out and took her hand. He wanted to tell her so many things, but he found that he could not speak.

“Let’s hurry then,” suggested Thane Larsgall.

A few minutes later they had gathered the war party. Every man and woman clutched a weapon, swords and spears in the front, those armed with bows consigned to the rear. Grateful for the protection of the waterfall’s noise, Mouse nevertheless spoke softly as he outlined the plan.

“Our plan is to head directly to Winterheim,” he said. “Right now, most of the ogre patrols are down in the far end of the Moongarden, where the passage to the Icewall Gate leads out. We’re not going to worry about them. There’s one group, twenty or thirty of the brutes, that’s up in the near end of the cavern. They’re down there in a fungus forest now, looking around. They’ll see us and get in our way. We’re going to attack, kill or cripple every one of the bastards and keep moving. Does everyone understand?”

There were no questions. He was glad that no one asked what they’d do after they got to the city, because he was afraid he would blurt out his honest opinion: Truthfully, he never expected them to get that far.

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.