Douglas Niles: Winterheim

Why couldn’t they have just left him here to rot? Why hadn’t he simply had the sense, the decency, to die on Dracoheim next to the brave Randall? If he had perished then, it would have been but the death of one pathetic man. Now it seemed as though he would bring about the death of whole tribes, the end of humankind in the Icereach. For what would the Arktos do without Moreen? That was the greatest sadness of all.

“We had to come for you,” Bruni consoled him. She shuffled beside him, chained as stoutly as he was, and seemed to be reading his mind.

“Be silent!” One of the guards cuffed her across the head.

She turned and glared at the brute, then spoke to the king in a quieter tone. Perhaps because the queen couldn’t hear, the ogre didn’t strike her again.

“There is no point to our life in the Icereach if it means just hiding from the ogres every day of our lives, simply hoping not to get caught, to avoid the next slave raid, to live through yet another ogre attack. Don’t you see, we had to try. Besides, we’re not dead yet, are we?”

The slave king shook his head. “I would willingly give up my life if it meant the rest of you could go free! The cost is too great! I am but one man, and two whole tribes will be decimated in this vain effort to save me.”

“There are many of us who think you’re worth the effort,” the big woman said. “Do not lose hope.”

For Strongwind Whalebone, hope was already gone.

Grimwar Bane returned to the throne room, intending to speak with the human prisoners again. He was startled to see that the captives, as well as his wife and most of the palace guards, were gone.

“Where did they go?” he demanded, fixing a glare on one of the remaining standard-bearers.

“The queen commanded that the prisoners be taken to the temple!” declared the warrior, trembling and dropping to his knees. “Half-Tusk tried to object to her majesty, Sire, pleading that this was not your will, but she threatened him, and he complied! They marched out the door but a short time ago!”

The last words were still echoing from the high walls as the king burst through the doors and lumbered into a jog, hastening toward the ramp down to the Temple Level.

“Up there-take the ogre barracks!” Mouse cried, pointing to the Moongarden rampart where the slaves had first driven out the overseers.

It broke his heart to realize that they had been driven all the way back from the city, down the long cavern and to the edge of the vast food warren. How many members of his war party had fallen? He couldn’t know, and there had been no chance to count the bodies of the dead. How many slaves had been free for just a few hours only to perish in this brutal final fight?

They were at the end of the long tunnel, and there was no further retreat. If the humans went into the Moongarden, they would be surrounded and destroyed with ease. Here, in the ravaged yet still fortified barracks building, they could at least take a defensive position and make a valiant stand.

Feathertail herself was wounded, bleeding badly from a cut in her leg, and Mouse supported her with his left arm as he wielded his sword with his right. All the while the rank of red-coated ogres marched along behind them like a machine, maintaining the steady pace of the chase. Any humans who fell were butchered then relentlessly trampled beneath.

The survivors of the war party and the freed slaves moved through the wide doors that they had smashed only a short while ago. The big room still reeked of warqat, and the shattered barrel lay scattered on the floor.

“Form a line in here!” Thane Larsgall urged.

“Kill as many of the bastards as you can,” Mouse added. He eased Feathertail to a seat on a bench some distance from the broken door.

Some men scrambled up stairs to the second floor and took positions on the balconies overlooking the corridor and the downward ramp. The rest joined the rank in the great room, facing the door, waiting for the ogres to start through. Here they would await the inevitable final reckoning.

There would be no escape from this place. All they could hope to do was kill as many ogres as possible before the last of them died.

Stariz pushed open the doors to the temple, leading the way for the guards who dragged Strongwind Whalebone and Bruni of Brackenrock behind. Their chains rattled as the two captives, upon a gesture from the queen, were cast roughly to the black stone floor.

“Fetch my mask and my robe!” demanded the high priestess, and her ogress acolytes scurried to obey.

She drew a breath and looked up at the massive statue, the beautiful black image of Gonnas towering far above her head. This was her lord, she knew, not that pathetic weakling king who could not even bring himself to condemn these hateful rebels. Fortunately, Stariz had divined what needed to be done, and she had the resolve to take action, ruthless action. In a minute the heavy black mask had been placed over her head, the ceremonial robes draped to the floor from her blocky form. She felt pure, whole, and powerful.

She hoisted the axe, relishing the feel of her god’s might. The two captives were held flat on the floor, two guards and two acolytes holding each limb, pressing the humans on their backs, spread-eagled and vulnerable. Fire blazed from that golden blade, warming her and terrifying the enemies of her god.

Fingering the haft of the mighty weapon, she looked down at Strongwind Whalebone. All of the hatred, contempt, and resentment of her life swelled up in her heart as she raised the weapon.

“Poor luck, human,” she said. “I had planned to wait for this moment-but it seems as though Autumnblight comes early this year!”

The axe came down, and Stariz heard the satisfying sound of the big woman screaming in horror and grief.

Kerrick led the slaves down the narrow alley toward the bright lights on the avenue before him. He had nearly reached that intersection when he tripped over something soft and small and went tumbling headlong.

“Slyce?” he declared, astonished to see the little gully dwarf scrambling out of the way. “What are you doing here?”

“Watching,” said the little fellow miserably. “Watch ’em take big Bruni away.”

“They took her-where?” asked the elf urgently.

“Come. I show you,” said the gully dwarf. “She wit’ big ogress lady and shiny axe. Not nice lady, not nice at all.”

“No,” agreed the elf, sheathing his sword and motioning his comrades to follow. He pictured the ogre queen, and his heart was cold.

“Not a nice lady at all.”

“What do you mean by this?” demanded Grimwar Bane, bursting through the temple door. He advanced on his queen, his fists clenched and his face glowering red with fury. He gestured toward Bruni, who was sprawled in chains, held on the black stone floor by two ogress acolytes at her arms, two grenadiers holding her legs. Beyond was the lifeless form of Strongwind Whalebone, cloven by a deep wound inflicted by the Axe of Gonnas, which still glowed in his wife’s hands.

“I ordered you not to harm these prisoners! You could not wait to kill the first one, and now this one too? I will not allow it!”

“Yours are the orders of a fool!” shrieked the queen. “Any slut with a silly smile can twist you into idiocy! Now it is this one’s time to die, just as I had your whore killed! This time I shall have the pleasure of inflicting the lethal cut myself!”

The axe was over her head, flaming brightly. “Behold the will of Gonnas!” she cried in exultation. She started her swing.

Something halted the downward momentum of the axe. Stariz screamed as the weapon was plucked from her fingers like someone taking a toy from a child. Enraged, she spun around, shocked to see the hulking figure of Karyl Drago, holding the axe and shaking his head at her. The big warrior had stepped out from behind the statue, and now he blinked, almost sleepily, as he shook his head in denial.