Douglas Niles: The Messenger

“You have served me well,” acknowledged the prince. “I am glad that I spared your tusks. You know, I gave serious thought to having them sawn off.

The thanoi scowled, his leathery face creasing into deep wrinkles. “It would have been a sentence of death-my tribe would never let me return, thus shamed.”

“I have decided to release you back to your tribe and let you return to your stronghold as chieftain. Take care that you remember who is your liege.”

“How could I forget, Your Majesty?” If the tusker was being sarcastic, Grimwar couldn’t tell. “My wives … they will be released, too?”

Grimwar nodded. He had no desire for the company of the three fish-eating cows-they had spent the spring and summer in chains and were a bother to feed.

“I have your assurance that this is the last of their villages, here on the Icereach coast?” the ogre prince asked.

“Yes-you have seen that the shore of the White Bear Sea is but sparsely settled. For all my life, my people have explored in the wilds along here, watching, spying, waiting for a campaign such as you have waged to rid this coast of human scum.”

“You have helped us,” the prince acknowledged. “The Arktos are finished, and your people shall be rewarded with the right to stay for all time in the citadel set aside as your own.”

“Your Excellency is most gracious,” said Urgas, with a bow so deep that his tusks touched the ground.

“Yes.” Grimwar had several practical reasons for allowing the walrus-men to maintain possession of the ancient fortress across the strait. For one thing, they would harry the few surviving humans, and for another he would have a stronghold of allies on the point of land at the terminus of Icereach.

“With your permission, Sire, my wives and I shall depart at once. We will swim across the strait and bring word of your greatness to the rest of my tribe, which awaits me there. Naturally, we desire to get there well before the release of the Sturmfrost.”

“Very well.” The prince was secretly relieved. He would have feigned a celebration with the tusker chief and his wives in his mountain fortress, but he could only imagine how bad the place would smell, what with hundreds of oily walrus-men now dwelling there. This was an ally from whom he would be glad to keep his distance. “You may make your departure at once.”

The thanoi chieftain waddled away, padding on his flapping feet, while the ogre prince turned his attention to the hills rising above the coastal village.

“We found only men here, hunters and warriors. There must be survivors, their families, up there, somewhere,” said Baldruk Dinmaker. The dwarf stretched as he leaned back to look slyly up at the ogre prince. His hand, still holding the deadly weapon he so jauntily named “Snik,” gestured toward the rocky hills rising beyond the little coastal village.

“Bah,” Grimwar Bane snorted. “We killed enough men. Let the women try to survive through a winter if they wish. It’s not worth the trouble to pursue them. Besides …” He chuckled at a thought that made him feel rather clever. “If some of those wenches are taken in by the Highlanders, they will spread the tale of our raids. I would like for the rest of these humans to fear me.”

“Fear you they shall, Excellency,” agreed the dwarf. “I daresay the name of Grimwar Bane will bring terror into human hearts for generations to come.”

The prince scowled. It was his deepest desire that there be no more human generations, no humans at all-except for slaves of ogrekind-in this great expanse of land that was his ancestral kingdom. To this end he had embarked on the brutal campaign that had lasted these past four months, a series of lightning attacks and several particularly satisfying massacres, culminating in this bloody landing that had so thoroughly shattered the main camp of humans.

He knew, though, that, even though the coastal-dwelling Arktos had been decimated, more of the humans lived in the inland hills and mountains. These warlike Highlanders dwelt in fortified towns and were beyond the reach of his galley. He vowed to himself that they, too, would eventually be exterminated, but that would require long, grueling years of war.

Now his thoughts turned to home, and he pictured his own wife, the stern high priestess Staric ber Glacierheim ber Bane. What dire prophecies, what bleak warnings, would she have for him when he returned?

Another thought-the voluptuous new bride so recently taken by his father-brought a deeper frown to the prince’s face. When this kind of temper swept over him all of his underlings except Baldruk Dinmaker left him alone. The other ogres drifted away, and the prince of Suderhold stood alone with his dwarven adviser in the village center, watching with vague displeasure while his minions went about sacking and destroying.

“Search among the fallen! Find me one who still lives!” the ogre prince called impulsively. “I would question a prisoner.”

As if he had been waiting for just that suggestion, one of the ogres gave a shout as he stooped to enter a hut. Cursing, he backed away and plucked a harpoon out of his thigh. Fortunately, the weapon had been thrust weakly, barely puncturing his skin. With an indignant snort the ogre bent double and reached into the small abode. A moment later he rose with a squirming, pathetic figure held in his arms. The prisoner was an old man, and when the warrior brought him to Grimwar and set him down the fellow collapsed weakly to the ground.

“An old human, Majesty,” reported the raider proudly. “ ’Was hiding in that little hut-legs don’t work.”

The poor cripple tried to crawl away from Grimwar, but the younger ogre kicked him around so that the wretch could only stare upward piteously at the prince. Grimwar knew that he made an impressive, even awesome, sight to a human. He puffed out his massive chest, feeling the solid weight of the golden breastplate, allowing the dazzling metal to reflect pale sunlight into the human’s eyes.

“Have you seen any elves here?” demanded the prince.

For a moment the man looked blank, then scowled and shook his head. “Who ever heard of an elf in Icereach?” he demanded.

The ogre who had captured the man cuffed him across the head, a blow that knocked him prone. “Be silent when you answer the prince!” he roared.

Grimwar suppressed a sigh, but didn’t point out the illogic of his underling’s command. Instead, he waited for the man to push himself back to a sitting position. The prince couldn’t help being impressed by the fellow’s spirit-even after such a blow, the human glared with defiance. Though he was an old man, he still had a warrior’s glint in his eye.

“You know nothing of any elves?”

The man’s laugh was dry and humorless. “If you mean, ‘have I ever in my life seen an elf?’ I can tell you ‘no.’ Nor have I heard of any elf in this part of the world-they live far across the sea to the north, as any fool would know.”

The prince held up his hand before his raider could land another blow as punishment for the man’s insolence.

“Tell me about precious stones, then. Why are you people so poor? There have been but a few coins, buckles, and the like among all your wretched villages! Why, do you have so little care for things like gold?”

“Gold? Do I look like I have any need of gold?” The man contemptuously cast his hands over himself, and the prince took note of his ragged leather clothing, the lack of any ornamentation. He didn’t even have a belt buckle-his pants were supported by a belt of frayed rope, tied in a knot at his waist.

“No, for gold you must seek the Highlanders. Talk to their king-he will tell you of gold mines, and then, undoubtedly, he will kill you!”