Douglas Niles: Winterheim

Once again ogre overconfidence had worked to the rebels’ advantage. The masters had guarded a cavern of five hundred slaves with a mere two dozen ogres. Apparently the city’s rulers had been overly concerned with keeping the prisoners in the pen and not particularly worried about a rescue attempt stirring from the outside. The overseers had been overcome in three minutes of furious battle, and when the bar from the inner door was at last lifted, hundreds of slaves had spilled forth. These included strong, muscular men who had been brutalized by ogres, sometimes for many years. Every one of them was spoiling for a fight.

“This is Black Mike,” Tildy shouted to Kerrick and Moreen as the elf led the group in passing out weapons. “He was one of the leaders of the rebellion and he has some ideas what to do.”

Kerrick looked at the swarthy human, a sturdy and bowlegged man of Arktos ancestry and evident fierce demeanor. “What do you suggest?”

“We’ve got to try and rush the city heights right away,” cried the man. “They have some massive stone gates in place. Once those are closed, we’ll never get up the ramps, and the ogres can hold out for the whole winter up there.”

“What about more slaves? Are there more places we can free lots of men who’ll throw in with us?” asked the elf.

“Yes-we’ve already sent men from the gates into the Moongarden and the fish warehouses, also into the lumber yard. They’ll have a thousand more recruits for us within an hour, and they’ll be bringing all the weapons and tools they can get their hands on.”

“Let’s get moving upward,” Barq One-Tooth said, coming to join the impromptu council.

By now all of the weapons had been dispersed. Kerrick could see hundreds of men milling around on the harbor plaza. Some were swarming onto Goldwing , battling the few ogres who were trapped aboard the ship, while others were chasing the merchants from their stalls on the marketplace one level above. The lower two levels of the city were churning in chaos under the onslaught of more than two thousand rebellious slaves.

“You men!” Moreen called. “Will you follow me against the ogre king? To rescue Strongwind Whalebone and to bring down the House of Bane?”

“Hail the King of Guilderglow!” cried Barq One-Tooth. “Long live the Highlanders!”

“And the Lady of Brackenrock!” Kerrick bellowed, exulting in the power of his own voice. “She leads the revolt, in the name of all the Arktos!”

The roars of hundreds of cheering men rose like thunder through the vast atrium of Winterheim. Kerrick found himself shouting along with the rebels, while Moreen held her sword over her head, looking every bit the part of the warrior princess. In a surge of energy, the slaves advanced, and the pair led the frenzied horde in a pell-mell rush across the harbor level.

“They would make a splendid couple, wouldn’t they?” Tildy Trew remarked dryly.

Kerrick was surprised to see the slave woman running beside him, keeping up with apparent ease. She carried a long pole, and he noticed that the end was slick with gore. Clearly, she had joined in the revolt with full enthusiasm.

“Who?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“Why, Strongwind Whalebone and Moreen Bayguard,” she retorted, without breaking stride. “Isn’t that what they both want?”

“Some would call it destiny,” the elf replied tentatively, feeling a familiar twinge.

Strongwind and Moreen were the leaders of the Icereach clans, and in their union, mankind would have a real hope of freedom and prosperity. Moreen herself had acknowledged that, and Kerrick had willingly offered to help her. He shrugged away his misgivings and ran, shouting.

The throng of rebels followed the elf and the chiefwoman as they raced across the plaza, up the steps to the market level, and onto the ramp leading them higher into the great mountain city. Barq and Tildy ran close to them, and Black Mike surged into the lead, waving a big sword. Kerrick felt a thrill of emotion and knew that there was nowhere he would rather be, nothing else he would rather be doing. Life in Silvanesti, life as an elf, was but a pale shadow of this intensity, this battle frenzy, this joy.

They charged past two more levels, everywhere witnessing scenes of struggle and celebration as the newly liberated humans wrested the city away from their former masters. Amid the chaos was proof of great violence. Bodies of ogres and humans, males and females, young and old of both races were scattered along the promenades, streets, and markets. Here and there pockets of ogre warriors battled stubbornly, each of them isolated in the midst of a storm of raging men, but they were disciplined, especially the red-coated grenadiers. They more than held their own, and in several places they were mounting savage, coordinated counterattacks.

“This is the Terrace Level,” Tildy explained to Kerrick as they ran past yet one more level of the ramp. “If we can get above this, we should be able to capture the heights!”

“Onward!” shouted Black Mike, at the head of the file.

They surged up a broad, inclined road, toward the opening leading toward the next level. A thin line of ogre warriors, less than a dozen spanning a fifty-foot gap, stood grimly in their path.

The crash came only moments before the slaves reached that tenuous line. Two huge barriers of stone swung forth on massive hinges, their own weight bearing them outward and downward until they slammed into a framework to form a makeshift wall, nearly crushing the leading rank of humans. Kerrick felt the paving stones shake underfoot from the impact, while many men were knocked from their feet by the powerful vibrations.

The result was clear to the elf and to all the humans, who groaned in unison. The two stone gates formed an impenetrable barrier across the ramp leading to the Noble, Temple and the Royal Levels of Winterheim. Beyond that wall of rubble they heard the cheers of a thousand ogres, roaring in defiance and victory, knowing that-for now-they were safe.

“Sire, the slaves are in full revolt!” cried Lord Forlane, reporting to Grimwar Bane in the throne room. “We have dropped the gates across the ramps above the Terrace Level and blocked them from the heights of the city, but I fear we have lost the harbor, the Moongardens and much below.”

“Hold the line at the gates,” ordered the king with an angry glance at Forlane.

He knew those stone blocks would be virtually impassable, at least until the humans started using their chisels and picks. There were small gaps in the stone barriers, but these were narrow enough to restrict access to single attackers and could be held by brave ogres. The king knew that under those conditions his warriors could stand against the humans indefinitely.

However, he understood that they needed to do more than simply hold back the slaves-they needed to attack. His judgment told him that he should lead that attack, but he found, to his continuing amazement, that he had no desire to fight, to kill, not right now. He looked at the big human woman, still in chains in the corner of his throne room, and once again felt that urge to talk to her, to try and see this matter from her point of view. Nearby was Strongwind Whalebone, the king of the Highlanders. He looked strangely apathetic for a king, as if he had no fears and no hopes regarding the outcome of this battle. Both people intrigued the monarch of the ogres.

“My husband, allow me to take the axe, to rally your warriors with the symbol of Gonnas. The men will benefit from the knowledge that the sacred talisman has been returned.” Stariz spoke for the first time since appearing in the throne room, bearing the Axe of Gonnas.

Grimwar scowled. He didn’t trust the queen and for that reason didn’t want her out of his sight, but he needed to do something, make some gesture to prove to his warriors that the royal presence was still in command. He glanced questioningly at Forlane, who nodded firmly.