“No,” countermanded the king, drawing a sharp look from his wife. He, too, knew what a thanoi smelled like. “We will descend and interview him on the harbor level. Have the royal accounting house made ready.”
He glared at his wife, who-for once-bit her tongue. Broadnose bowed deeply. “It shall be done at once, Sire!” he declared, before hastening back to the lift.
The king expected Stariz to complain as soon as they were alone, but she surprised him by bustling back to her chambers, calling for her slaves to bring a deerskin robe. Irrationally pleased at this minor victory, the king made his own preparations, draping his prized robe-the unique black bearskin claimed in a raid on the Arktos eight years earlier-around his shoulders. His slave helped him slip his feet into heavy whaleskin boots, and he waited impatiently for no more than a minute before Stariz, too, was ready.
“How did you know this messenger was coming?” he asked his wife, as they rode down through the city together.
“Several times I have spoken to the Dowager Queen in the Ice Chamber… about many things,” she said, with a pointed look.
The king was silent, anticipating his wife’s next remarks. “She repeats her request,” Stariz said, “asking you to punish the harlot, Thraid Dimmarkull, for the shame she brought to your mother. I tell you, the Dowager Queen is right, my lord. Have the wench put to death, and bring your mother home!”
“I have spoken on this matter,” growled the king. “I will not put an innocent ogress to death for a dalliance that was my father’s fault, more than any other’s.” He squirmed, wanting to talk about something, anything, else. “Now, tell me, what is so important about this thanoi’s message?”
“Be patient, my king, and you will find out,” Stariz replied curtly.
He pressed further, but for her part the queen would provide no details, even though it was an hour or more before they finally reached the harbor level. Here Grimwar paused to regard his two sleek warships, Goldwing and Hornet, moored side by side in the great vault of the enclosed harbor. Both were polished and sleek after a long winter inside the mountain, and he allowed himself a moment of expectation. Soon he would take them out, crossing the White Bear Sea, perhaps even venturing onto the blessed ocean itself. He could almost smell the sea air, feel the salt spray against his skin…
“Husband,” Stariz muttered, firmly grabbing his arm, “must I remind you that this is a matter of no little urgency?”
“Of course not,” he growled, following her to the accounting office.
This sumptuous chamber was a large room located a short distance from the harbor. It was accessed by a pair of wide doors, now closed, through which cargo passed after it was off-loaded. There was a smaller door leading into the elegantly appointed anteroom, which was open, and as they approached the king detected a strong stench of oily fish.
They entered to find the walrus-man standing between a pair of ogre guards. Stariz peremptorily dismissed the men at arms, while Grimwar studied the emissary with distaste. The thanoi was bigger than a human, though not so tall as an ogre. His most distinctive characteristics were the twin tusks jutting from beneath his blubbery upper lip. Unlike true walrus tusks, which curved downward against the animal’s breast, the thanoi’s tusks had an outward, more elephantine bend. The king knew they made formidable weapons.
The fellow was naked, outfitted only with an ivory tube suspended from a leather loop around his neck, and a golden collar bearing the royal sigil of the Bane kings. His skin was brown and wrinkled, except on his limbs, which were relatively sleek. The fingers and toes of his extremities were webbed, allowing for that impressive swimming speed, and the barrel-shaped torso was thick with a layer of fat that caused the flesh to collect in a series of rolls around the walrus-man’s middle. The thanoi’s eyes were small and dark-piglike, Grimwar had often thought-and now they regarded the royal couple with a glare of pride mingled with fear.
“Who are you?” demanded the king bluntly.
“My name is Long-Swim Greatfin,” replied the walrus-man, lifting himself to a semblance of attention. “I am chief of the Dracoheim Thanoi, a loyal subject of her majesty, Dowager Queen Hannareit.”
“You swam all the way to Winterheim?”
“To the eastern shore of the Dracoheim Sea,” corrected the thanoi. “I crossed the mountain barrier on foot, for that is the most direct route.”
Grimwar nodded. He knew that the near shore of the Dracoheim Sea lay not very far west of Winterheim, just beyond the long but slender Fenriz Glacier. If the thanoi had instead tried to come all the way to Winterheim by water, he would have had to swim far to the north, entering the White Bear Sea through the Bluewater Strait and nearly doubling the total distance traveled.
“You have done well to make haste,” the king declared with approval, wishing he knew what was so urgent about this foul-smelling creature’s message.
“You bring us something from the Dowager Queen?” Stariz asked without preamble, as the departing guards closed the door, leaving the two royal ogres alone with the messenger.
“I have it here, my queen,” said the walrus-man, lifting the narrow ivory tube, curved slightly, from a thong around his neck. Grimwar guessed the container had been made from a walrus tusk.
“I’ll take that,” said the king, determined to demonstrate some semblance of his authority. He clasped the smooth tube, then looked in vain for some means of opening it. He saw the Dowager Queen’s sigil, the engraved “H,” in the surface of ivory that formed a blunt end of the object. The other end came to a dull point, reinforcing his impression that this was the massive outer tooth of a bull walrus, but though he looked at it from every angle, he could discern no crack or seam, nothing that looked likely to allow access.
“Let me have a look,” said Stariz, snatching the tube away. The king glowered, watching, as she spun it in her hands to reveal that the wider end was a cap, cut with grooves so that it screwed tightly onto the body of the tube. She unscrewed the container holding it upright as she peered into it. Her attention focused on whatever was inside the container, something she took great care not to spill.
“He has succeeded,” she declared simply, as Grimwar tried to look over her shoulder.
“Who has succeeded? With what?” he demanded crossly.
“The Alchemist, of course,” Stariz replied. “He has given us the means to destroy our human foes, utterly, completely, and without mercy.”
“What are you talking about?”
She looked at him with her jaw set sternly, her little eyes burning with intensity. “It means that now, this summer, you must at last mount an expedition to destroy Brackenrock, to make yourself master of this land for once and for all!”
“Explain yourself!” Grimwar demanded, not liking the way this conversation was going. Brackenrock! Why, the very name gave him chills. He remembered the last time he had attacked the place, eight years before-that had been the single most catastrophic raid of his lifetime!
“I will explain, privately,” the queen replied, with a meaningful glance at the thanoi, who was doing a less-than-convincing job of pretending not to listen. “You have done well, Long-Swim Greatfin. Go and find such food and drink as you desire in the harborside kitchens. Await our word before you depart. It is likely that we will give you a missive to carry back to your mistress.”
“Very well, Your Highness,” replied the tusked messenger. He bowed deeply until his tusks almost touched the floor, then backed to the door and departed.
“What is this madness about Brackenrock?” demanded the king, as soon as the thanoi was gone. “That place has walls as high as a mountain! Gonnas only knows how many archers the Arktos and their Highlander allies will have on the ramparts! It is a death trap, and I will not sacrifice my best warriors in a fruitless attack! I know they hold the sacred axe, but face the fact, my wife: That artifact is gone forever!”
The queen spoke fiercely. “You call it a death trap-but perhaps it may become a trap for the humans themselves.” Stariz brandished the tusk-tube. “There is a powder in here, my husband-a concoction of the Alchemist with hitherto unknown explosive properties. When prepared according to the instruction the Dowager Queen has conveyed, it will make a weapon capable of destroying the entire citadel! Imagine, my lord-all of those humans dead! Their wretched fortress blown off the face of the Icereach! Surely you know that only when Brackenrock is gone will you be the true master of our lands!”
In truth, Grimwar felt enough like a master of the Icereach and didn’t care to quibble about Brackenrock, but his curiosity was piqued. “How is it even possible to make a weapon such as you describe?”
“Do not underestimate the power of Gonnas or the lore of our Alchemist,” the queen explained eagerly. “You can use it in two ways: a small explosion to destroy the gatehouse and breach the walls. Your warriors will be able to rush inside, to retrieve the Axe of Gonnas-I beg you, husband: We must recover that artifact!-and then a larger device will be placed. When that explodes, it will destroy the fortress and all of its contents, for once and for all!”
“You make it sound like child’s play,” snorted Grimwar. “Of course it will never work as smoothly as that!”
“I tell you, my king, the world of Krynn has never seen a weapon like this! Your mother was able to destroy an entire village of slaves with a minor test!”
“My mother!” he snorted again. “I should have known you two were cooking up some infernal plan. Why are you so insistent that I strike now, this summer? If what you say is true, there will be plenty of time to mount a campaign, next year or the year after! I will take the winter to plan and prepare, make sure that nothing goes wrong-”
“What do you have to do that is more important?” Stariz asked, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Are you planning to dally here all summer with some ogress slut?”
Grimwar’s vision grew hazy, and such a rage took him that his fist clenched and clenched again of its own accord. He raised his trembling arm, knuckles white, and was pleased to see the fear flash in Stariz’s eyes as she cringed away from him.
“Have a care, wife,” he growled. “Even a queen has bounds she does not dare overstep.”
He turned on his heel and left impressively, he hoped, but he was bothered by her words. Indeed, he had a meeting arranged with Thraid for that very night-could his wife be privy to that knowledge? Surely not… but it galled him to think that he might be dragged to battle, once more, by his wife.
* * * * *
Grimwar opened the secret door into the private chamber, palms sweating, heart pounding. It had been a long time-far, far too long-since he and Thraid had stolen a moment together, and the prospect of a quick tryst with his mistress made him feverish as he pushed through the door. “My lady?” he croaked, as a torch flared, briefly blinding him.
When he discovered that it was a human slave instead of the comely Thraid Dimmarkull who had lit the torch in the secret room, his fury rose immediately, almost causing him to do the man fatal harm.
“How do you come to be here?” growled the king of Suderhold, holding the slave-a man of graying hair and no remarkable physique-around the neck. Grimwar lifted the hapless fellow with one hand until the slave’s feet kicked and flailed above the floor.
Only then in the light did the king recognize the man as Wandcort, a loyal retainer of Thraid’s and one of the few slaves trusted with knowledge of the royal affair. Even so, it was with reluctance that the king lowered the man to the floor, and he waited impatiently for Wandcort’s inevitable fit of coughing and gagging to subside.
“Do you have a message for me?” he demanded, urgency raising his intended whisper to a growl.