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 the Icewall. Many ogres live at these gates. I was garrison captain of the Bearded Glacier Gate for many years.”
“All over the mountain?” Moreen squinted pensively. “Is there one that is far away … that is not on the mountain?”
“Not to the city,” Broadnose said. “Nope, the only way there is Icewall Pass. That goes into the Moongarden-still a long way from Winterheim!”
“The Moongarden. Sounds magical.”
“Old magic. Stones glow in big cave, make sunlight for lots of stuff to grow. Slaves work there, keep the food coming even in winter.”
“Where is this place? I would like to see it,” Moreen said.
“It’s under the ground,” Broadnose said, shaking his head, trying to graciously conceal his opinion that this woman was clearly not very bright. “You can’t see it, not unless you climb the Icewall and go in!”
“Climbing the Icewall … that sounds very difficult,” she allowed. “There must be a way into this Icewall Pass?”
Broadnose grunted and nodded. “There is, but it starts from escarpment, where the tuskers live. Don’t think they’d let you go there.”
“No,” said the small woman, her eyes narrowing as she thought about something the ogre captive didn’t understand. “No, the tuskers wouldn’t like that, not at all.…”
Kerrick stood upon the familiar rampart of Brackenrock and looked over the vista surrounding this proud, ancient fortress. He had climbed to the highest portion of the keep until finally he emerged onto a wall-top palisade flanked by two crennalated battlements. To his left was the courtyard, where people-Highlanders and Arktos together-went about their tasks in busy good humor. A small market buzzed to the sounds of barter, as produce, goats, tools, and leather goods were traded. There were tanning racks where Arktos were hanging pelts to dry and a long roasting trough where a dozen Highlanders, men who had spent the past few years living in the fortress, were making charcoal. Beyond the walls were more people, gathering and pitching tents and huts on the tundra as humans came from all across the Icereach, drawn by the summons of Moreen Bayguard’s bold quest.
The elf looked to the right, where the vista was open and empty. He saw the green hills rolling away toward the south, leading toward the fertile lands known as the Whitemoor. The rugged horizon of the escarpment and the white outline of the Glacier Peaks rose beyond, just at the limit of his view, and he knew that still farther away the massif of Winterheim rose toward the sky. He had seen that mountain from the sea and had been awed by its majesty, its sheer size. His many journeys along the coasts of Ansalon had never brought him within sight of a comparable peak.
His leg was barely sore, so effective had been old Dinekki’s healing spell. He had climbed this long stairway with ease, relishing the freedom to get about after the weeks of confinement in the tiny submersible. He loved the sight of clouds, of the broad vista of tundra and ocean offered by this lofty vantage. His thoughts were as light, as free as those clouds, and for a time they roamed the heavens, wandering across the landscape of his life. He thought of glorious, crystalline Silvanesti, of soft lute music and delicate elf ladies.
Naturally, his musings grew more focused, turning back to this place, to her. She was a remarkable woman, Moreen Bayguard. The elf chuckled at the realization that he was glad of her new quest, glad that he had a cause.