A swell lifted Cutter’s hull and, for an instant, the rugged skyline to the north hove clearly into view. He was too far away to see the high walls, the sturdy towers of Brackenrock. The Arktos held that stronghold in no small part because of the contributions made by Kerrick Fallabrine. He had helped the Arktos, whose previous nautical experience was limited to one- and two-person kayaks, to become a seafaring people, building large, impressive boats of their own and becoming adept at fishing and sailing. He felt a pride in the place.
The wind turned chilly, though the sky remained clear. The sun was setting already, skimming along the northwestern horizon; in minutes it would vanish for another long night. Such was the fleeting nature of spring in the Icereach, yet Kerrick was content to know that fourteen or sixteen or even eighteen hours later, he would again welcome a fresh and dazzling day.
For now, he decided to take in some sail, slowing down the speed of his graceful boat for the run through the darkness. Quickly he stowed the jib and shortened the mainsail, until Cutter glided through the water with gentle, lapping progress. Next he lashed the tiller in place to hold him on course during the night. He took a drink of fresh water and ate a piece of salmon that he grilled on his charcoal cooker.
At last, content and tired, he entered the cabin and lay down to get some sleep.
“Going home? Pah, you were thinking about going home without me! How far is it in miles, anyway? I bet it would take a long time, as long as it took to sail here the first time. Of course, back then we sailed without a sail, really, cuz the turtle-dragon knocked it down. Wow, I sure thought that turtle-dragon was going to kill you!”
Kerrick groaned and shifted on his bunk. He was dreaming, he knew-one of those peculiarly vivid dreams that came upon him when he was very deeply asleep.
In his dream, Coraltop Netfisher was talking to him, and the kender’s presence made him irrationally happy. It had been eight years since he had seen his sailing companion, and during that time the memory of his shipmate’s irrepressible cheerfulness as well as his mysteriously unexplained appearances and disappearances had faded into a sort of fairy tale recollection.
Coraltop? Is that really you? Where have you been? He wanted to talk, to welcome his old friend back, but this seemed to be one of those dreams where his muscles, his speech, would not respond to his will. So he made no sound, no acknowledgement. Instead he lay still in his bunk and listened to Coraltop Netfisher prattle on. Of course, the dream-kender was the same as any flesh and blood representative of the race, so the lack of a response to his remarks was absolutely no impediment to conversation.
“I hear you’ve got lots of gold now. Three chests of it in Brackenrock, right? And you’ll get more from this trip to Bearhearth. Hey, did they really make the hearth out of a bear? Or is it just that a bear came in and went to sleep on the hearth? You really should ask, at least on my account. I’m just a little curious as to where they got that name.”
Kerrick agreed that, yes, he could ask on Coraltop’s account. He hoped he would remember that part of the dream when he woke up. It was not an important question, but Bearhearth did seem to be a curious name, and it would be interesting to learn how it had come to exist.
“I bet your elf king would be pretty glad to see you come home, especially with all you could tell him about the Icereach. He’d be interested in your gold too-I think it kind of bothers him that the Kingpriest of Istar is richer than the king of Silvanesti. Don’t you? Think that it bothers him, I mean.”
Again, the slumbering elf found himself in full agreement, even if the kender’s insights into the elf king’s envy rather surprised him. Kerrick once more tried to speak but still found his body unwilling to answer the commands of his mind.
“So, you’ve got plenty of gold, and the king who exiled you, well, he’d be happy to see you back home. That leaves just the matter of your father, don’t you think?”
“My father?” Now the words came, croaked sluggishly through the thickness of his tongue. Why was Coraltop talking about his father?
“Yes, your father. Did you ever stop to think that he might have showed up back home? He might be interested in your gold, too. You know, you’ve been gone for eight years, and a lot can happen in eight years. Maybe he just sailed up the river, right to Silvanost, and went looking for you to say ‘Hi son!’ But alas, you weren’t there.”
“My father’s dead. You know that, Coraltop.” Of this Kerrick was certain, but on the other hand wasn’t Coral- top dead too? Well, this was a dream, and the dead often appeared in dreams.
“If your father came home, and he didn’t find you-couldn’t find you-I would think he’d be awfully sad!”
“My father was killed by ogres,” Kerrick replied, growing more confident of his speech. “You remember the ogre king’s ship, Goldwing, don’t you? Well I recognized it, knew it the first time I saw it. It was once called Silvanos Oak, and it was the ship my father sailed away from Silvanesti. He never would have surrendered that ship. No, he’s gone, dead in the ogre dungeons… he didn’t go home… and he’s not looking for me.”
“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.
3
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
