Douglas Niles: The Golden Orb

“Maybe not,” Coraltop agreed, surprisingly. “Still, don’t you wonder sometimes?”

“Yes… I do wonder.”

Coraltop surprisingly said nothing.

“He left me his ring, you know,” Kerrick added, suppressing a shudder. He thought of that powerful, deadly circlet of gold-right now it was in his trunk, next to the bed where he lay sleeping. He hadn’t worn it in years. He kept it as a remembrance of his father.

“You don’t wear it much, it seems,” the kender noted. “Don’t you like it any more?”

“I don’t like it!” That was the truth. On the few times he had slipped his finger through it, the ring’s magic had infused his body with supernatural strength, allowing him to accomplish great feats, but that strength had come at a cost. When he removed it, his body was consumed with lethargy, and he was so weary that he had been known to sleep for days. Furthermore, after wearing the ring, he found himself obsessed with that magic, thinking about it and desiring it as if it were the breath of life. That feeling, as much as anything else about the magical band of metal, he found deeply unsettling, even frightening.

“No, I don’t like it… don’t want to wear it,” he said, his voice growing thick again as his dream-body once more became dull and unresponsive.

“Well, still, I wonder about your father….” Coraltop Netfisher was saying.

Kerrick was too tired and didn’t even try to reply. He nodded back into his deep sleep. Through the rest of the long night, he had flickering dreams, glimpses of his father, his mother, his king. Always, it seemed, he was gazing at them from a distance through a small frame made by a ring of glowing gold.

Grimwar Bane drew a deep breath to try and calm the pounding of his mighty heart. The ogre king stood still, his massive bulk planted on the two stout pillars of his legs, legs set in a wide stance with knees slightly bent. His head was cocked, ears pitched to any faint suggestion of noise that would emanate from beyond the panels of the banded oaken door. Finally he found his confirmation: a sonorous exhalation, long and measured and genuinely relaxed.

He knew that his wife, at last, was sleeping.

And this would not be just any sleep. She was exhausted, drained, and, if he knew his wife, she would be unconscious for a long time.

Stariz ber Glacierheim ber Bane was not merely the wife of the ogre king. She was also high priestess of the Willful One, Gonnas the Strong, baneful deity of the ogres of the Icereach. It was in the latter capacity that she had recently performed a grueling prestidigitation, a spellcasting that had lasted, uninterrupted, for the better part of a week. Smoke had swirled through the lofty temple chamber, a foggy murk swaddling the obsidian image of Gonnas, god of all ogrekind. Slaves brought warqat and meats to the high priestess, and dozens of lesser clerics bent their deep voices into chants that vibrated through the very bedrock of the mountain.

At last the high priestess had exclaimed her joy of revelation, and at the same time the king had felt a sick wateriness in his bowels. Bitter experience had told him that while his wife was the recipient of commands from the Willful One, it was her husband, Grimwar Bane, who was the oft-burdened executor of those decrees. Undoubtedly there was some onerous task lurking in the monarch’s near future.

There would be time enough later to find out what was his next job. For the time being, for at least this full day and part of the next, he could slip away. Perhaps it would be his very last chance for a long time. He had already sent a message to his lover and knew that she would be waiting for him in the private suite of apartments he kept for their all-too-infrequent meetings. It was time to make haste. The king leaned closer, listening to one more resonant breath. He could picture the queen’s broad nostrils flexing with the snore and was finally convinced that she had lapsed into her deepest stupor.

Grimwar did not depart from the front of the royal apartment, for he knew that his wife had spies throughout the mountain city of Winterheim. Any number of them could be lurking out there, watching and waiting to record the surreptitious activities of their ruler.

Instead, he crossed the great room, with its arched ceiling and massive fireplace. His feet, clad in soft leather boots for indoor comfort, made no sound on the plush rugs of white bearskin. Entering the hallway leading to his own sleeping quarters, he continued past his anteroom to the place where the corridor ended in a stone wall decorated only with a single torch sconce. The stout stick remained cold, for there was rarely need for light in this remote alcove.

The king grasped the torch sconce with his burly fist and pulled. It took all of his massive strength to wrench the metal bracket downward. Gears, well greased and huge, rumbled slightly, and a crack appeared in the corner as the end of the corridor slid back to reveal a shadowy passage. Swiftly, the king stepped through the secret entrance, turning to put his shoulder against the heavy granite slab.

He heard the knock at the door, the sound coming from the outer entrance to the royal chambers. Several sharp raps echoed explosively through the stillness, and after a moment the rude summons was repeated.

He froze, startled, trying to think. Who would dare disturb him now in his quarters, when he had left specific orders that the queen was acquiring her well-deserved rest and that the king desired to be left alone to meditate? The question was overridden by a more urgent concern-the disturbance, if it continued, would inevitably arouse his wife from her well of exhaustion.

Grimacing, unable to suppress the growl of irritation rumbling within his cavernous chest, he slipped back around the secret door to reenter the royal apartments. Hastily he pulled on the sconce until the massive portal rolled shut, then hurried into the great room. The knock on the door was repeated again, a little louder this time, annoyingly persistent.

“What do you want?” snarled Grimwar Bane in what he hoped was a loud whisper, leaning close to the double doors that gave egress from the king and queen’s abode.

“Begging the king’s pardon,” came the tremulous reply, the deep voice denoting a large and powerful ogre.

“But there is a… situation… in the temple of Gonnas.”

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

“I fear not, Sire. The situation is in the Ice Chamber, and Her Majesty, Queen Stariz, has left longstanding orders that she is to be alerted at once, should there be a disturbance in that most holy of rooms.”

“The queen has retired and is exhausted by her previous labors. I am certain that she will want to wait until-”

“What is it?” Grimwar’s statement was cut off by his wife’s sharp voice and sudden appearance. The door to her chambers flew open to reveal the immense, square-faced ogress. Stariz wore her sleeping robe, a cloak of gray linen, but there was no sign of fatigue or dullness in the bright spots of her eyes.

“A disturbance in the Ice Chamber,” Grimwar grunted, trying to cover up his frustration as he opened the outer door. “Enter,” he declared, moving into the great room as the messenger followed behind. The king stood with his back to the fireplace and glared at the other ogre. He recognized the fellow as a captain in the Royal Guard, one Broadnose ber Glacierheim. “What is going on?”

His wife, her great tent of a gown flapping around her, shambled into the entry hall. Stariz glared at Grimwar, those small eyes glittering, and the king wondered how she could have woken so quickly and completely.

“What is the nature of the disturbance?” she demanded from the messenger.