As he rode the icecart up toward the Royal Quarter of Winterheim, Grimwar reflected glumly on his own wife. It was ironic to think that the prince was married to a female older than his father’s wife by a full decade. Whereas Thraid Dimmarkull was a beautiful trophy, selected by a powerful king as his second wife, Stariz ber Glacierheim ber Bane had been matched to the crown prince because of her powerful family and the even mightier connection she had demonstrated to Gonnas the Strong, the god of all ogrekind.
His wife had not come to greet him at the dock, of course, though the king himself had been rousted from his slumber. No, Princess Stariz would doubtless be wallowing in deep prayer, seeking in the auguries of her god such messages as could be divined by the time and state of her husband’s return. These revelations would inevitably be revealed to him in painstaking detail, as soon as he reached his apartments.
Grimwar leaned back in his seat, a wave of melancholy breaking over him. The icecart rumbled through the steeply inclined tunnel, climbing steadily, its magical vibrations lulling the prince.
The lower part of the cart was a large block of ice, glowing softly from an ancient enchantment. Upon this frozen base rested a cart such as might have been found on a grand carriage. Two huge, bearskin seats faced each other across a space large enough to hold a table or another pair of benches. Since the ride took the better part of an hour, it was not uncommon for a royal passenger to enjoy a repast during the climb or descent. The cart passed through a long tunnel that was fully encased, floors, walls and ceiling, in ice. The only illumination came from the magical ice that formed the base of the cart, an intentionally soft and pleasing glow.
Riding alone, Grimwar pulled the fur, a great bearskin, closer around him. His father and Thraid would have returned already, but since the prince had stayed to see the offloading of his own booty he had taken a different icecart back to the palace. Again Grimwar wondered-how could his father have such a treasure in his bed and yet fail to appreciate his good fortune?
Thraid Dimmarkull was not new to Winterheim. The daughter of a minor noble family, she had grown into ladyhood on the fringe of the circle familiar to the crown prince. Indeed Grimwar had noticed her, had seen that she received the right invitations, was placed near the royal table at banquets. He had spoken to her, and her smile had spoken in return. Certainly she sensed his attentions. Very quickly she had changed her style of dress to favor gaudy, low-cut gowns that favored her voluptuous figure. She made a startling contrast to the typical dour ogress clad in tentlike robes with the typical ogress face that seemed as likely to catch fire as to break into a smile.
Unfortunately, the king himself took notice of this vision of ogre femineity. Thraid had cheeks as round and red as apples, a wide mouth with full lips and dainty twin tusks, breasts that swelled with every movement. Her waist was slender, by ogre standards, and her legs long and muscular.
Grimwar had watched jealously as his father had made his desires known. During his decades on the throne, the king had grown tired of his first wife, Hananreit ber Fallscape. Abruptly he ordered her exiled to the remote island of Dracoheim. After a brief farewell to her only son, the galley had taken Hanareit away at the first crack of spring, three and a half years ago. There, so far as the prince knew, his mother still spent her days in the dark, sky-piercing castle on that fortress isle, pining for the luxurious life she had known in Winterheim.
Thraid had been summoned to the royal chambers barely a week after the Elder Queen’s departure. Shortly thereafter the Grimtruth had taken her as his Younger Queen. And as if to emphasize his ultimate power, the king at the same time had arranged for the daughter of the baron of Glacierheim to marry his son, the royal heir. Stariz had been brought to Winterheim, and father and son had each been joined to a mate in a double ceremony at the Neuwinter Rites.
The icecart’s rumbling gradually slowed. The narrow corridor opened into a vast chamber, illuminated with a hundred torches. Looming far above the prince saw the great gates of the palace. He was home.
He suddenly felt a terrible longing for
“The auguries are positive, for now.” Stariz Ber Glacierheim reported, as a human slave woman removed Grimwar Bane’s boots and several others filled a great marble tub with steaming water. “You came back with many slaves, and you won great victories over the humans.”
“Yes, these are truths,” the prince said, trying to suppress his irritation. He could have told her these very facts! Yet he had long ago learned that it was best not to act impatient with his wife’s prognostications. Her words had a way of turning very ugly very fast if she sensed his devotion was wandering.
Stariz began to recite a remarkable litany of his landings, the tactics he used to capture each human village, numbering the captured and the dead. This recounting, Grimwar suspected, was intended to serve as a reminder that she could keep magical tabs on him wherever he roamed. Whether she had a spy in his crew or actually learned through the medium of her arcane powers, the prince did not know. Her information, as always, proved impressively accurate.
Stariz mentioned the name of an ogre who had been killed in the second raid, where more than a hundred humans had fought courageously. She droned on. Despite his good intentions to pay conspicuous heed to her words, the prince found his thoughts following their own path. He gazed curiously at his wife, studying her as if he was observing a picture, an image completely detached from the words she was saying.
Stariz had never been a beauty. Her body was stout and squarish, like her face, possessing all the grace of a craggy, ice-splintered boulder. Ropy strands of hair dangled past her shoulders, forever unkempt. Instead of the full lips that added such beauty to Thraid’s visage, Stariz’s appearance was dominated by an exceptionally large nose, and two prominent tusks that were nearly as big as a young male’s.
“And in the final battle you killed the men, but allowed the women to escape!” Stariz concluded. There was a hint of a questioning in her statement.
“Yes. It was no different than I had done before. What use are the wenches with no men? I suspect the lot of them will die over the winter.”
“I would not be so sure,” she said, with a tone of warning.
“What do you mean?”
“You remember my prophecy, the words I said to you in spring?”
“Yes,” Grimwar replied. “I must beware an elf. He will be a messenger,
“Would that were true,” muttered Stariz.
“Aye, praise to Gonnas,” Grimwar agreed. He had been well schooled on the events of Krynn’s history over the past five thousand years, since the rise of humans and elves had driven his own people, once masters of the world, into remote enclaves such as Icereach.
“But here we are strong-the Kingdom of Suderhold endures, even when the rest of ogrekind is on the wane!”
“Yes, that is true … so far,” Stariz mildly agreed. The prince was surprised and a little unsettled to see a hint of real fear in his wife’s eyes.
“The auguries show great danger in the future,” she continued. “The warning about the elven messenger came to me again, writ large in words of fire. The god tells me that a human woman may be the agent of his might and our doom.”
“I’m tired,” Grimwar objected, suddenly fed up with all the complications of this homecoming. “Tell me the rest in the morning.” He rose, bypassing his waiting bath on the way to their cavelike sleeping chamber and its warm hearthfire.
“I will tell you now,” Stariz said sharply, rising to follow him. “Even so, I fear I may be too late.”
8
The horizon was gray, angry cloud, and gray, angry water. A gray, angry mist swirled through the air. Now, at least, the murk and tumult was proof of real weather, not the enchantment of elven sorcerers.
