Winterheim

3

After his weeks in the hold of the ogre galley, the mere act of walking across the deck and down the gangplank hurt Strongwind. His muscles felt crippled, and the chains weighed him down even further. Like an old man in pain, he shuffled across the crowded dock, still aware of little beyond the clean air in this vast place.

He only vaguely noticed the attention falling upon this ship, the populace of Winterheim gathered to greet their returning king and queen. As a side curiosity, the crowd of ogres also examined this unkempt, bedraggled human prisoner-Strongwind heard murmurs of interest, a few snorts and chuckles of amusement, as he climbed the half dozen stone steps leading up from the wharf to the broad, flat expanse of the harbor square.

Something about the crowd infuriated him, and his first instinct was to raise his chained fists, to rail and curse at these ignorant brutes, yet he realized immediately that such a reaction would only entertain and amuse them. There was no way, at least not here and now, that he could frighten or even worry them.

For now he drew himself up straight, ignoring the pain that tried to twist his spine. He bent his arms into curls, showing them that the weight of the chains was not enough to drag him down. He stalked up the steps as if he were the homecoming king, his glare haughty and disdainful as he swept it around the vast, underground harbor.

Despite his facade, he could not help but be mightily impressed, even awed, by this place. The harbor consisted of an open circle of water connected by a wide channel that led out through the still-opened gates. Each of those massive slabs of stone was moved, he saw, by the labor of hundreds of human slaves hauling on cables that turned huge capstans. Those slaves were watching him now, and he acknowledged them with a slight nod of his head, all the while marveling at the engineering that allowed such unthinkable weight to be manipulated by such mundane means.

The sun, low in the northern sky, poured brilliant light across the placid water and broad waterfront. There were three great mooring slips in the harbor, each a gash in the dock wide enough to allow a large ship to slide in between a pair of bracketing wharves. Goldwing occupied the central of these berths, while those to the right and left were empty. Beyond the wharves a series of wide ramps and stairways led to the vast plaza, raised ten or twelve feet above the dock height. It was on this square that most of the ogres were gathered. They made a festive crowd, cheering loudly as the king and queen, who had been first off the boat, passed them by, then turning their attention to the crewman and their lone prisoner.

Strongwind heard a few jeers and catcalls but paid them no mind as he looked around, studying this place with a tactician’s eye. He watched the two monarchs enter a cagelike enclosure and was amazed to see this compartment start to move upward. Scrutinizing the scene, he saw another group of slaves, a score or more of them, laboring to pull the chains that controlled some sort of geared mechanism.

He saw that a circular atrium rose high above. Though the heights of that vertical shaft were lost in shadows far overhead, it was easy to imagine it extending nearly all the way to the mountain’s summit. The atrium was ringed by balconies, more of these than he could count, rising upward to form a vast chimney. The royal couple rose higher and higher, riding a wave of cheers toward the heights, and Strongwind had an idle thought: if those twenty slaves suddenly let go of their chains, would the king’s cage come crashing all the way back down to the waterfront? It was an idea that might bear investigation in the future.

More onlookers were gathered at the lower levels, looking down upon the sunlit harbor. One of these in particular caught his eye. An ogress studied him from a balcony perhaps a hundred feet overhead, and he met her gaze with a cool inspection of his own. She was unusually voluptuous for one of her race-unlike the blocky and bearlike ogre queen, this one was graced with an impressive bosom, her shape tapering to a narrow waist. The whole was wrapped in a dress of bright red, a color that stood out rather shockingly from the white or brown fur and buckskin garments worn by most of Winterheim’s populace. Her face was not bestial but was rather attractive in a full-fleshed way, and it creased into a sly smile as she met his gaze. She twisted one hand in a lazy, casual wave.

A prod in the back shoved the captive forward, and Strongwind staggered, rattling his chains, barely keeping his balance. He whirled to confront a leering guardsman bearing a wide-bladed, blunt-tipped sword.

“Keep moving,” growled the ogre with a cruel sneer. “You don’t wanna get walked on, you don’t!”

Drawing himself erect again, Strongwind continued forward, following the escort of several royal guards-they were called Grenadiers, he remembered-as they broke away from the main body of returning warriors. The Highlander was taken into a lofty tunnel leading away from the harbor, where coldness and shadow once again settled around him. Conscious of the same bullying swordsman behind him, he managed to keep pace with his captors until they arrived at a large wooden door.

This was pulled open from the inside to revealed a torchlit cavern where a few ogres sat idly at a large table. These looked up with grunts of greeting for the arriving party. The human king guessed that this was some kind of garrison room for the ogre warriors. There were many benches along the walls, and swords and bucklers dangling from equipment racks.

Strongwind was pushed again, the blow this time hard enough to knock him down. He spun about on the floor, pushing himself to a crouching position, glaring into the face of the sneering guard.

That ogre raised his sword and rested it across his shoulder with a casual gesture, then gestured to another who came forward with a ring of iron keys.

“Take th’ cuffs off,” said the bully. “No escape chance for him no more, not from Winterheim.”

Strongwind rubbed his wrists as the manacles were released then stretched his legs, allowing the chains to be pulled free. Only when he had worked out some of the kinks did he slowly rise, eyeing the sword-wielding ogre from the corner of his eye.

When he was standing, the Highlander arched his back and extended his arms, continuing the charade of loosening his creaking joints. Most of the other ogres from his escort were unclasping buckles, sitting down to remove their boots, or hanging their weapons from the equipment hooks. They chortled crude greetings to their comrades, exchanged a few rough clasps or thumping blows to each other’s backs and shoulders.

Strongwind was, for the moment, left under the watch of his lone tormentor. Clenching his fist, the king whirled suddenly and sent a hard punch directly into the nose of the bully. That guardsman roared loudly, dropping his sword as he staggered back, both hands clutching his bleeding snout.

“That was for knocking me down,” Strongwind said, calmly eyeing the sputtering brute.

The captive’s coolness only seemed to inflame the beast. “He’s mine!” he roared, waving back his comrades who were advancing to restrain Strongwind. “Insolent human scum-you could have long life here! You are too stupid for that-and now you die!”

The Highlander kicked the sword out of the way and flexed his knees, fists raised to meet the onslaught. There were worse things, he thought, than dying in battle with a bullying captor-and he planned to get in a few more good licks before he fell. The ogre put his head down and charged. Strongwind punched again, a roundhouse blow landing on the brute’s ear. The human ducked away before the long arms could trap him then bounced up again, fists raised as he waited for the next rush.

“Hold!”

The roar came from the entrance to the guardroom where another tall ogre stood, glaring at the guard who still snorted in rage. Looking at the crimson flow from the smashed snout, Strongwind smiled tightly. In his mind, this ogre would forever be known as Bloodsnout.

“Lord Forlane!” shouted one of the guards, and the whole company snapped to attention-all except Bloodsnout, that is, who was trying to stem the flow from his nostrils as he knelt and groped for the sword that the Highlander had kicked across the room.

The arriving ogre was dressed in what Strongwind took to be noble finery. His bearskin cloak was clean and pure white, descending all the way to his calves. His boots of walrus skin were polished to a bright shine, and though his garments were mere tanned leather, they were clasped with a belt of solid gold, and many chains of the same precious metal dangled from a neck as thick as the trunk of a pine tree.

“The prisoner was to be brought here merely for unshackling!” growled the lord, who seemed to have fixed his attention on Bloodsnout as the source of his displeasure. “Why is it that I find you in the midst of a full-scale revolt?”

“He-he struck me,” declared the bleeding ogre, with a wicked glare at the human. “I was making ready to defend myself.”

“A sword is of better use in the hand than on the floor,” snorted Lord Forlane in amusement. Several ogres chortled appreciatively, ignoring a murderous glance from their bleeding comrade. The noble turned to regard Strongwind shrewdly. “I have instructions t’bring you to the slaves quarters on the Royal Level. Will I need to shackle you to get you there?”

The Highlander king made a short, stiff bow, recognizing a change in his circumstances of which he was ready to take advantage. “It would be my honor to accompany your lordship,” he said.

“Very well.” Forlane’s chuckle was deep, like gravel shifting in the belly of a gold-grinder. “Clean this mess up,” he snapped at the sullen guard, gesturing at the red smears across the floor. “Wash your face while you’re at it.” He gestured to another guard. “Give the slave two lashes for punishment-he must learn that violence against our kind will not be tolerated.”

Strongwind had no chance even to react as a whip snapped, slashing across the bruised skin of his back. Fiery agony tore across his skin. He grunted and staggered forward but managed to brace himself enough for the second lash to hold his position. Though he swayed unsteadily and drew a deep gasp of breath, he did not fall to his knees. Instead, he glared at Lord Forlane with narrowed eyes and a new sense of appraisal. The noble seemed to be taking stock of the prisoner as well. He grunted a sound of amusement, like half of a chuckle then pointed to a pair of grenadiers.

“You two, come with me-keep an eye on this fellow.”

Immediately they stepped forward, one taking each of Strongwind’s arms as they started toward the door through which Lord Forlane was already departing. The Highlander felt Bloodsnout’s eyes boring into his back as he followed the lord from the chamber. Strongwind resolved to be alert for that one. The bullying ogre seemed like one who would carry a grudge.

He felt certain there would be a lot of grudges and much cause for revenge in this place.

“He will make arrangements to see that trollop again, probably within a matter of hours,” Stariz hissed. “I want him followed-I want to know the place where they meet and how long they are together!”

“Yes, my queen, of course,” replied Garnet Drake, her most trusted spy.

Garnet was a human, but he had been born and raised amid the slaves of Winterheim. The queen had no doubt of his loyalty, for her favor had given him a status among his kind. She saw that he received gifts of good food and beer, and in return, he did her bidding and brought her word of all that happened throughout the city of Winterheim.

Now, as usual, the object of her curiosity was none other than her own royal husband. For just a moment Stariz looked longingly at the tub of once-steaming water, the bath that had been drawn for her by her personal slaves. How good it would feel to immerse in that soothing warmth! She forced that thought, that longing, aside, recognizing it for the sign of weakness that it was.

No doubt her husband had already proceeded to his own bath, was no doubt dreaming of one or more of the fanciful pleasures that drew so much of his limited attention. For he was weak, Grimwar Bane, weak in resolution and determination, areas in which his wife was strong. For a moment she gave way to another kind of longing, an idle wish that the ogre king would acknowledge the precious strengths of his queen. How could he not see that it was her traits and intelligence that had carried them as far as they had gone together?

Indeed, Grimwar Bane-with his clever queen-had the potential to be one of Suderhold’s great rulers, a truly historical figure. Stariz knew her history well and understood that this kingdom had once been great, a colony formed of the ancient ogre realm that had held sway over all of civilized Krynn. It had been thousands of years since those days, however, and that distant ogre empire had long since crumbled.

She thought bitterly of the second ship of the royal fleet. Hornet had been designed by an elf captive and built with the labor of human slaves, but Stariz almost cried as she remembered the blast that had destroyed that prize ship. She almost cried, too, recalling that her most powerful ally, Dowager Queen Hannareit, was dead. Now everything was up to her, Stariz ber Glacierheim ber Bane.

There was only one good thing about the recent disaster. Stariz was convinced that the Elf Messenger had perished in the blast. She knew he had entered Dracoheim, and her god had warned her that the elf was a harbinger of doom. Indeed he had been a bane of her existence since his arrival in Icereach some eight years earlier. The knowledge that he was dead brought her some small degree of pleasure.

Garnet Drake was still standing there, patiently waiting for his mistress’s next words. He bowed as she raised her eyes to his.

“Does the trollop still maintain her usual apartments?”

“In fact, no, my queen. In the recent weeks she has been spending time preparing a new place, a terrace house overlooking the middle levels of the city. She has ordered new chairs, two dozen bear furs, a hundred lamps for the place, and …” Garnet coughed regretfully.

“Speak!” demanded the queen. “What?”

“She commissioned the carpenters to create a new bed … gave specific orders to the master slave that it must be delivered before the king returned from his campaign.”

Stariz trembled, felt her face flushing. For a moment she couldn’t speak, could only clench her teeth, jutting the twin blunt tusks upward from her lower jaw. “The impertinent wench!” she spat, finally. “Is there no end to her shamelessness?”

“Perhaps your majesty may take some comfort in the fact that, among the slaves and ogres alike, there seems to be no knowledge of the king’s … indiscretions. At least she has been delicate enough to prevent the affair from becoming common gossip.”

“That is no comfort!” growled Stariz, her withering glare fixing upon Garnet Drake, who could only bow in humble apology. “No comfort at all! Now, go, do your job!”

The spy slave departed to set his agents in motion. No move of the king’s or of Thraid Dimmarkull’s would go unreported, but in the silence of her chambers, alone with her thoughts, Stariz understood that it was no longer enough to simply maintain knowledge of her husband’s acts. No … the time had come to for her to take action of her own.

Once more she looked at the tub, its waters growing cold. Her skin itched. The sea voyage had left her hair crusted with salt, and the crude accommodations of the ship’s cabin made her feel filthy and unclean, but still the bath would have to wait, her comfort again overruled by priority.

Pausing only to take her mask and robe, symbols of her status as high priestess, from the stand where they awaited her, she left the royal apartment and started along the promenade.

She needed to go to the temple to pray and to meditate and practice the magic of her arcane lord. As always, she would let the will of Gonnas the Strong show her the way.

Grimwar Bane ambled down the corridor leading away from the royal quarters. There were others-slaves and ogres alike-about, but his wife was off to the temple and would be kept busy for a long time. That gave him, at last, his chance at freedom.

He kept his eyes on the human slave, Wandcourt, who was two dozen paces ahead of him. He knew that Stariz would have spies lurking, so Thraid Dimmarkull’s slave and the ogre king were making it appear that they were not together. It was important that Grimwar observe the route that Wandcourt took, because that was the path to his goal.

The man turned into an alley, one of the many passages that gave access between the great stone edifices of Winterheim’s royal level. This one followed directly below the outer wall of the palace. The turn was not unexpected, but the king ambled past that alley with apparent indifference-they had agreed that it would be too obvious if both of them turned into the same, little-used passageway.

Instead, Grimwar passed the next block of buildings, elegant shops where gold items and rare spices were purveyed, and turned at the alley beyond. He hastened along the shadowy passageway until he reached the even darker connecting route-generally used only by slaves-behind the sprawling edifices lining the Promenade. This passage was shadowy and littered with refuse, but the king took no note of these distractions. Instead, he sought and found the black space to his left, just where Wandcourt had said it would be. In another second Grimwar darted through, then heard a soft rumble as the secret door was closed behind him. Only then did the slave unmask his lamp, the pale beams of light revealing nothing more than a small landing and a steep stairway leading down through the bedrock of the mountain.

“Do you think we were seen?” whispered the king.

“I do not think so, sire,” replied the human. “There was a shadow, as of one entering the alley behind you, but by that time you were already at the rear of the building. If it was someone following you, he will not know where you have gone from there.”

“Good. Lead on,” ordered the monarch, impatience adding an edge to his voice.

Immediately, the slave started downward, holding the light to illuminate the steps for the king, even though in the darkness ogre eyes were much more keen than a human’s. Still, Wandcourt apparently knew this route well, for he proceeded with good haste and no stumbling.

They went down the stairs for a long time. The terrace level, after all, was near the middle of Winterheim’s ascending layers, while the royal palace was at the very top. All the while the king could hear his heart pounding in his ears, and it wasn’t from the exertion of the descent. His thoughts were churning, anticipation bringing sweat to his palms, rendering his very breathing feverish with desire.

Finally they came to another door, one that Wandcourt knocked on discreetly before pushing it open. Grimwar all but pushed past the man, who had enough experience with these trysts to step out of the way. The king took little note of his surroundings, rushing through a small anteroom as a door opened beyond.

She was waiting for him, as he had known she would be, and she was even more beautiful than he remembered. Her gown, that silken shimmer of crimson that was so unlike anything else in the city of Winterheim, did little to conceal the voluptuous curves of her body. Her lips were rouged in the same color, and her eyes sparkled with joy as the king stepped forward and swept her into his brawny arms.

“My Grimwar!” she whispered, pulling him close. Somewhere behind he heard a door close and knew that the slave had withdrawn. “How I missed you!”

Still clinched, the two lovers moved sideways into another room, the boudoir. Hastily the king kicked the door shut. He kissed her with crushing force, almost angrily, and she met his embrace with passion of her own. His hands cupped her flesh, and she moaned, still kissing him. His knees were shaking, and he needed to draw a breath, but he wouldn’t release her. Instead, they remained together, moving slowly across the sumptuously appointed room. The king only cast a sideways glance for a second, just to make sure that he could find the bed.

The Temple of Gonnas was a sacred chamber, huge and dark, located in the highest quarter of Winterheim’s Nobles Level, just below the royal palace. This was Stariz’s favorite place in the world, the great room where she truly felt her own power and at the same time knew the might of one who was so much greater than her mere mortal self.

The image of Gonnas the Strong looked down at her, an immense statue of slick black stone standing three times or more the height of a large ogre. The Willful One was represented as a strapping bull of her kind, an image that bore an uncanny resemblance to the glowering visage of her husband, the king, but where Grimwar Bane was lazy and vacillating, subject to the temptations of the flesh and the distractions of an idle mind, Gonnas was 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.