Douglas Niles: Winterheim

Dinekki the bat felt strong again. She had perched on the high mast of the galley and watched the slave revolt sweep across the waterfront. Ogre blood stained the deck below her, and pockets of battle still raged. Nearby, a dozen grenadiers were barricaded in the shipyard, while a hundred humans threw burning brands between the planks of their small fort. Already flames were springing up from the stores of timber. The old shaman shuddered at the thought of all that smoke filling up this mountain cavity.

Now she had pressing business, and once again she took wing. Her flight led her up the wide chimney of the city’s atrium, past level after level where slaves still fought their masters or celebrated their newly won freedom.

Higher up, the ogres were still in control, she saw. She spotted the queen wielding her blazing axe and heard the cheers of hundreds of ogre warriors as they beheld their talisman. The ogres on the highest levels were gathering for a downward attack, while other ogres-those in the scarlet cloaks-were fighting their way up from below. There was much killing still to be done, she feared, and it looked as though the main group of rebels would be pincered here on the Terrace Level and annihilated.

The power of Chislev bore her easily, and she offered a prayer of thanks to her benign goddess. When she looked at that flaming axe again, she glimpsed the power of another god there, a deity of pride and violence. Though she sought proof of his dark, evil nature, instead she sensed a power as natural, in its own way, as the might of her nature goddess.

Finally she was at the very top of the mountain city. Winging down a long corridor with a high, arched ceiling, she hurried toward the throne room of the ogre king. She dived through an open door and spied Strongwind Whalebone chained and seated in the corner of the throne room. Bruni was there, too, talking to the ogre king. No one noticed her, just a mere bat, as with a sense of relief Dinekki finally fluttered down and came to rest on a link of chain right next to the slave king’s ear.

Mouse looked up and saw a high, vaulting archway and a vast space yawning beyond. Torches and lamps flickered like stars high above, and he knew that he was seeing the inside the ogre city. There was a scent of salt in the air, suggestive of the sea, and the Arktos sailor knew that somehow, inside this mountain, the great city’s harbor was near.

The bodies of a hundred ogres lay scattered through the cavern behind them. Mouse and Thane Larsgall had led the defeat of the defenders of Winterheim. As the war party surged through the wide tunnel, each detachment of ogres had been overwhelmed in a brief, furious skirmish.

The war party had been reinforced by hundreds of slaves liberated from the Moongarden barracks. Along the way to the city, as they passed other slave pens, caverns to either side of the passageway that were fenced off by pickets of stout timbers, they threw each gate open, and additional men and women had joined the revolt.

Slyce was still running with the humans, a grin on his face. The gully dwarf carried a long knife that he had claimed from a foe, and though at first Mouse was afraid the little fellow would get injured, he had welcomed the enthusiasm with which Slyce had flung himself into each attack.

The Arktos captain had no idea how many slaves had spilled out of their pens and were charging along with the throng-hundreds, perhaps even a thousand or more. They carried pitchforks and cudgels, hammers and picks, anything that might serve as a weapon. Shouting and whooping, they headed toward the ogre fortress with an air of joyousness, a spirit that Mouse suspected would be violently dashed all too soon. He couldn’t help feeling that it had been too easy up until this point.

He saw Feathertail running along in the crush, her eyes alight. She smiled at him, a slash of white teeth in her brown face, and she looked fierce and beautiful at the same time. He wanted to live through this battle, to spend the rest of his life with her, but he knew that if they were to die here it would be a death that would be the stuff of legends.

At last the corridor opened into a wide atrium, but here the momentum of the rush slowed. Mouse pushed himself to the front rank, then stopped and stared in dismay. The exit from the corridor was blocked by a solid phalanx of ogres, six or eight deep, armed with long spears and sheltered securely behind a wall of tall, iron shields. A captain stood with them, and upon his order the formation began to advance at a measured stride.

The slaves outnumbered the ogres here, but the weapons and the narrow frontage all worked to the defenders’ favor. Mouse heard murmurs of dismay and a few cries of fear, coming from the slaves who were massed behind him. As if sensing this wavering morale, the captain of the ogres shouted something, and the heavy formation, spearheads gleaming like wicked swords, broke into a trot, still holding those tight, precise ranks.

Mouse raised his sword. “Archers, shower them with arrows!” he called. “Highlanders and Arktos, meet them with your blades and your blood!”

Thane Larsgall was beside him, the man’s bearded face creased into an almost bestial smile. He held his hammer high and cried out an ululating challenge. The shout was picked up by the humans of both tribes.

The tromp of the ogre march was a drumbeat in the corridor. Arrows poured down, bouncing from the shields, here and there penetrating the chinks in the enemy armor. No order was given, no signal made, but as if they shared the same mind the humans surged forward against the ogre steel.

Grimwar Bane stared at the captive human woman, who in some ways reminded him of Thraid. She had that same buxom, attractive shape, and her eyes were large and entrancing, even now as they burned with anger and contempt. At the same time, he saw an intelligence there, a depth of knowledge and wisdom that far exceeded any ogress, even his shrewd queen.

“I think I start to understand your feelings,” he said, surprising himself with the blunt truth of the statement.

She shook her head in what was almost a gesture of pity. “What does a monster like you understand about anything?”

“A monster?” The king felt genuinely hurt. “I try to rule my realm with wisdom and care. I study, and I learn, and I rule.”

“You’re a killer of innocents, a maker of war!” she declared, though her eyes narrowed as she seemed to consider his words.

“You are an interesting person,” he said. “I regret that we are forced to be enemies by the reason of your birth.”

“It’s not my birth,” she retorted, glaring at him. “It’s because you keep coming out of your city and attacking my people, dragging us into slavery or killing us. That’s why we’re enemies!”

The king flushed. Nobody spoke to him like this! Even in his anger, his response was not the slap or kick that such a remark would normally have provoked. By Gonnas, why did she have to make everything so confusing? He wanted to talk to her, and she insisted upon saying these infuriating things!

Abruptly he spun on his heel, stalked out of the palace, and crossed the promenade to the edge of the atrium. It pleased him to see that the battle was progressing well. The humans were being pushed back everywhere. He should be happy, but he was not. Instead, he was confused.

Absently he started along the promenade, walking, not paying attention to where he was going.

He needed to think. Think!

Stariz made her way back to the throne room, satisfied that the ogres were determined to win for their god and their king-or at least, their queen. Her thoughts, when they turned to her husband, were furious. He was a weakling! He lacked the resolve necessary to destroy his enemies, and thus, unless she continued to protect him, it was inevitable that his enemies would destroy him. For the first time, she no longer felt willing to coddle him.