massive chest. He was tired of reminders, tired of all the preparation for the future that had filled his days since his return from the campaign. It was time to be done with it, done with it all!
“I do not mean to badger you, my husband,” Stariz said with sudden, surprising gentleness, still holding the mask as she came to sit beside him. They were alone in their royal apartments, their slaves having withdrawn to allow the couple some privacy. “In truth, my spells have been full of dire warnings. I fear for you, and for our kingdom. This is a winter’s night of grave portent. You must be alert, watchful for danger.” Her eyes narrowed, a look that penetrated to his core. “Or opportunity,” she concluded.
“Bah-Suderhold is in fine hands!” he snorted indignantly.
Even as he spoke, the words sounded hollow. When he thought about his father, he, too, felt dire concern for the future. How could the realm prosper, under a king who was only concerned with counting his gold, and punishing his slaves? It had been many years since King Grimtruth had embarked upon a campaign. The last time, the prince remembered, his father had returned home with a paltry dozen slaves, Highlanders taken when the ogres had come upon an unfortunate hunting party. Though the king might insist that his son recite the names of their ancestor, back for a hundred generations, Grimwar had little faith his father could perform the same trick. Indeed, for the past three years it had been Stariz, in her role as high priestess, who had performed that ritual.
His wife seemed to sense his unease, but she only glared at him. He hated that look, just as he hated the attention, the privilege that was his father’s due. He hated the knowledge that, so long as Grimtruth reigned, Grimwar Bane would be a mere footnote in the continuing history of Icereach, and the Kingdom of Suderhold.
“My preparations are completed,” he said abruptly, rising to his feet. “I will take in the view from the King’s Promenade while we wait for the rites to begin.”
“But our prayers-” Stariz looked up in surprise as he rose.
“Speak to Gonnas for me,” Grimwar declared, feeling a little better as his wife bit down on her lower lip. She drew the black mask over her face, but he avoided looking back as he stalked through the door that was whisked open by a slave.
The King’s Promenade was a circular hall at the heart of the Royal Level of Winterheim. The central atrium of the mountain was open before him, the shadowy cavern plummeting thousands of feet. Far below, he could see the still waters of the harbor, reflecting the light of the magical ice panels.
“It is a beautiful ship.”
He was startled and pleased when Thraid spoke from his side. She stepped up to the stone parapet and peered with him into the depths beneath the great city. “Despite what the king says, I think you did very well to bring back so many slaves … hundreds of them, was it not?”
“Three hundred and twenty-seven,” he replied with a proud smile.
“Did the humans fight hard?” She asked the question absently, as if thinking about something else.
He chuckled, reflecting on the mild skirmishes at the various Arktos villages. “Mostly not,” he allowed. “They seemed almost not to believe we were there.” He was about to go into detail when he realized that Thraid was looking at him with a peculiarly intense gaze.
“What?” he asked, feeling suddenly stupid and apprehensive.
She began to sob, quickly clapping a hand over her mouth. “It is no life-this fate of mine!” she said, crying softly. “He is a monster! And you choose to allow it!”
“I do not!” Grimwar protested in bewilderment. “He makes all the decisions. I have no power, but to obey his commands!”
“How … how could you give in to him about this?” Her voice was a rasping whisper, reaching his ears alone. “You knew how I felt-about
The prince grew increasingly confused. Couldn’t she
He glowered, feeling his face grow hot, then shivered with a sudden chill. Turning, he saw Stariz approaching, wearing her obsidian mask and looking as fearsome as Gonnas himself.
He grunted a farewell to Thraid, who glanced up through narrowed eyes to nod to the high priestess. Stariz returned the nod contemptuously, her small eyes glittering like beads through the narrow slits in the mask. She reached to take the prince’s arm, accepting her husband’s escort toward the great feast that was about to commence.
The Rites of Neuwinter combined somber religious ceremony with ribald feasting, a lavish banquet in a vast, warm chamber with the brutal onset of winter, a solemn commemoration of Suderhold’s dynastic history with blood sacrifice and the release of primeval power. The festivities traditionally began in the huge room known as the Hall of Blue Ice, a massive chamber carved from a huge portion of the mountain’s eastern shoulder and protected from the outer weather by a wall-sized window of frost, the deep azure color giving the hall its name.
The chamber was a massive, semicircular vault, with one side a series of tiers rising high into the mountain’s interior. The outer wall was the vast sheet of blue ice, now murky and obscure because of the lightless night yawning beyond. Just outside the window was the juncture where the massive Ice Wall met the flanks of Winterheim. The sweeping dam extended into the far distance, and, beyond that, the surging Snow Sea.
The entire population of Winterheim, ogres and human slaves alike, gathered in this massive chamber. The ogre masters were arrayed around the three lower tiers, seated at huge banquet tables, all facing the vast window of blue ice so that they could see the climax of the rite. They were ranked in order of status, the royal clan and fellow nobles on the first tier, the warriors and merchants on the second, commoners on the third. The temperature in the hall was cosy for now, but each ogre had brought plenty of furs and blankets, for they knew that when the window melted away, the full fury of winter would surge into the chamber.
Above the ogres, the humans gathered in a silent body. Their involvement in the feasting was limited to their role as preparers and servers of food. Those humans who were not working remained on the upper terraces, silent faces turned downward, watching and waiting. All were required to attend, and they, like the ogres, would witness the death of a chosen slave that would mark the culmination of the rites and the release of another bitter, sunless winter onto the tundra, mountains and seas of Icereach.
At one time, the hall would have been filled with one hundred thousand ogres, the long-ago population of Winterheim, each ogre accompanied by chosen slaves. Now, in the reign of King Grimtruth, there were barely twelve thousand ogres in all the city, and perhaps that many human slaves. The upper chambers of the hall remained silent and empty.
Lord Hakkan, the protocol chief, emerged onto the upper platform and signaled the trumpeters. The human slaves raised their golden instruments and a fanfare quickly resounded through the hall. Rustling and rumbling, the ogres turned their attention upward.
Prince Grimwar Bane, Princess Stariz ber Glacierheim ber Bane on his arm, entered to the sounds of the triumphant processional. He marched down the long, inclined aisle from the upper section of the hall, to the royal table far below. He wore his golden breastplate, with the Barkon Sword encased in a bejeweled ceremonial scabbard at his belt. His tusks were fully coated with gleaming gold. Around his shoulders was draped the pelt of the massive black bear, a fur so large that the forelegs descended to his belly, and the tail all but dragged on the ground behind him.
The crown princess was an equally awe-inspiring sight. Stariz, wearing her obsidian mask, carried the mighty Axe of Gonnas, the golden blade extended before her. The ghastly visage of the Willful One was the same tusked, snarling face carved into the huge temple statue. Turning her head this way and that with regal grace, she cast her masked, searing gaze across the entire assemblage. There was none, ogre or human, who did not feel as though the powerful god looked directly into his soul.
Grimwar led his wife Stariz to their ceremonial chairs at the great table that stood directly before the sweeping pane of blue ice. Baldruk Dinmaker was already there, standing behind the chair he would occupy between the prince and the king. The trio remained standing while the trumpets blared again, this time announcing the arrival of the king and queen. The royal couple, too, started down the long procession.
