implacable and stern.
These were two traits that Stariz admired very much and tried to emulate to the best of her very considerable abilities.
“O Gonnas my Lord, my Immortal Master, please forgive my failures.… I return to you now not with the victory that you so verily deserve but with a plea for guidance and wisdom, for knowledge of the truths you may help me to see and of the actions that I should take in your ever-awful name.”
The high priestess pressed her masked face to the floor, to the smooth black obsidian that was as shiny and dark as the statue itself. Her great face-mask, the grotesque and exaggerated image of the god, seemed to meld to the flat surface, and she felt her robes spread out like oil across warm water. Even her flesh seemed to flatten and to merge, as if she was no more than a rug, worthy only to cushion the footsteps of her all-powerful master.
She felt the presence of Gonnas as that crushing weight came to bear upon her. A lesser priestess would have cried out in agony-indeed, many an acolyte had perished upon the first sensation of this blessing-but to Stariz ber Bane the pressure of her lord was a blessing, even an ecstacy. She gasped in pleasure as she felt the weight increase, and she knew that her god was pleased-with her, if not with all of his flock. The high priestess couldn’t breathe, but that was no matter, for it was now the power of Gonnas that brought oxygen to her flesh and vitality to her mind.
She would remain thus as long as it pleased the Willful One, and every second would give her naught but pleasure. Her mind was vibrant and active, full of thoughts of glory, of the punishment of her people’s enemies, and of the aggrandizement of her god and her land.
Slowly, with excruciating and tantalizing glimpses, the will of Gonnas became known to her. She saw the human slave, the king they had captured on Dracoheim, sliced open so that his blood might fall into the god’s ever- hungry maw. The image grew within her mind until she saw that Grimwar Bane was watching, all the ogres of Winterheim, and all of the slaves as well were watching the sacrifice. Stariz knew that her first instinct was right, and she knew a flush of pleasure at that thought.
“It shall be as you will, my master … the human king will be sacrificed at Autumnblight … and all of Winterheim shall behold his suffering, his fate, and your unending glory.…”
There was another squeeze of power from her lord, and she cried out in sheer joy under the merciless pressure of his own pleasure. It made her heart swell with love to know that she had pleased the will of the powerful god.
Stariz almost lost consciousness, so consuming was the grip, the crushing might, of Gonnas. With an effort of will she kept her wits, murmuring words of praise and exultation, promising over and over again that the slave king would die on the altar of the great, summer-end feast known as Autumnblight. This was what she had wanted, and it gave her great pleasure to know that her own wishes were so in tune with those of her true god.
Only then, as the last tendrils of awareness finally escaped her, did the Willful One remind her of her husband, Grimwar Bane, whispering that he could become a great king of Suderhold, perhaps the greatest in a thousand years. She was the key to that greatness, for she was strong where he was weak, and only through her diligence and care could that majesty be achieved.
Though it tore at her heart to hear the command from her god, she understood the last inkling of his will, and vowed to obey.
For the ogre king must be watched, very carefully indeed.
4
Broadnose did not know how long he had been held in this cell, though it was many days now, more than all of his fingers and toes added together. The big ogre, once commander of an elite company of royal Grenadiers, had resigned himself to spending the rest of his life as a captive of the humans. He wondered why they were doing this, holding him here, locked up. They had made no move to hurt or kill him, which surprised him. Neither did they make him work, so he had to conclude that he was not a slave. They fed him and even cared for his wounds in order to keep him alive. Funny creatures, these humans.
Probably they would kill him when they got around to it, Broadnose figured. After all, he had killed many of them in his turn and had been intent upon further bloodshed when he had been captured in the Mouse-warrior’s ambush. His raiding party had plundered villages, massacred farmers, destroyed homesteads, all as his king and queen had commanded. He had been captured by his enemies, after all of his own troops had been killed in the battle.
A door of steel-banded wood prevented him from making any move to escape, with only the narrow slit at the bottom sliding open once a day to produce a wooden plate of food and a small gourd of water. Aside from a few perfunctory nudges, he hadn’t investigated the strength of that door-and besides, what would he do if he got out of this cell? His king was far away, and there was no one to give him orders. He contented himself with sitting here, looking forward to his next meal.
He reached up to his face, lifted the dried leather patch, and touched the rough scab that had formed over his missing eye. The wound no longer pained him, and he imagined that it would make him look fierce if he ever got out of this dark hole. There didn’t seem much chance of that.
Every once in awhile a human woman came to visit him. She was large, almost the size of an ogress, and possessed of a strange kindness. She was called Bruni by her kind, and Broadnose thought of her as Bruni-warrior. Well did he remember her ferocity when she had wielded the captured Axe of Gonnas in defense of her fortress. He had great respect for her strength and her courage.
It was she who had led him to this cell after he had been brought here to Brackenrock, the only survivor of his ill-fated raiding party. Periodically after that she came to personally bring him his food, and she would talk to him for a little while. She seemed curious about Winterheim and willingly shared much about Brackenrock. Oddly enough, she seemed like a better companion than most of the ogresses he had known. Her round moon of a face, with those large, dark eyes, Broadnose found pleasant, even beautiful.
Those visits were rare, and the rest of his life passed in a daze of gloom and boredom. He wondered when they would kill him and how they would do it, but so far they hadn’t even kicked or punched him. The skinny old shaman had even worked magic over his damaged eye to make sure that it wouldn’t … what had she said? Become “affected” or something? His vision remained limited to his one good eye, but the wounded socket had ceased the burning and blistering that had started to become a real distraction.
His cell was far down in the fortress dungeon, and at the end of a long corridor. There was no one else anywhere near him, so when he heard footsteps approaching this day, he knew they were coming to his cell. He expected his usual feeding-indeed, his stomach growled audibly as the footsteps drew near-but was surprised when instead of the food slot moving to the side he heard a key turn in the lock.
The door opened to reveal the Bruni-warrior, and Broadnose brightened. She was accompanied this time by a small woman with dark hair. He remembered her. She, like himself, was missing an eye, though she wore a clean sealskin patch over the socket. She was the chief of this place, Broadnose recalled. Pushing himself to his feet, though he had to stoop in the low-ceilinged chamber, he grunted a noise of welcome.
“Hello, Broadnose,” said Bruni. “This is Moreen, the Lady of Brackenrock. She would like to speak with you.”
“I will talk to the lady,” he agreed.
“Bruni tells me that you know much of Winterheim,” Moreen began. “It sounds like a truly wondrous place.”
“Big. And old,” he noted, pleased at her flattering words. “The great Seagate is a marvel to see-opened by an army of slaves! The channel is deep enough for any ship, and wide enough that the galley oars can be extended.”
“Surely there must be other gates,” she suggested, “for when one or two ogres want to leave, they don’t go out on the galley?”
“Oh, no,” he said. “Many gates are on the mountainside. Lofty and stone, they look over the Black Ice Bay or
