Winterheim

7

An hour later Tildy Trew and his bath were merely pleasant memories as Strongwind again found himself flanked by a pair of big ogre guards, following Lord Forlane through the halls of Winterheim. They were on the highest level of the city, he suspected, judging from the view of the harbor he glimpsed from the edge of the great, round avenue that circled the central atrium. Above him there was only an arched stone surface, and he knew he was looking up at the bare bedrock of the hollowed out mountaintop.

The lord led him past several guards and through a large, stone door. Great hallways branched to both sides, and the walls were lined with woolen tapestries depicting hunts, landscapes, and several examples of glorious sailing ships and galleys. Strongwind guessed that this was the entrance to the royal palace. Two minutes later he was led into a room where Grimwar Bane himself was waiting to look him over.

The ogre king was feasting on a haunch of mutton, and his jowls were slick with grease. A dozen of his subjects, all male, were seated at the table with him. All were dressed in long bearskin capes such as that worn by Lord Forlane. Several seemed quite old, with wrinkled faces and withered arms, and one caught the human’s attention simply because he was immensely fat. That one had a shred of stringy mutton dangling, apparently unnoticed, from one of his tusks.

Grimwar grunted in approval, apparently satisfied that Strongwind had been adequately washed. The other ogres looked at the slave with interest, and the king leaned back in his huge chair, gesturing expansively.

“Here’s the one I brought back myself,” he said. “Put up a real fight, too. He and his comrade killed a dozen of my Grenadiers.” This description drew several whistles of astonishment and appreciation.

“Do you think he’s still dangerous?” asked the fat ogre, his eyes wide as he looked Strongwind up and down.

“Yes, very,” said the king, with a glance of contemptuous amusement at the huge lord. He gestured to the two guards. “These fellows will kill him if he so much as makes a move toward the table.”

Grimwar Bane turned to Lord Forlane. “I have decided what to do with this slave, for now,” said the king of Suderhold.

Forlane leaned in, and Strongwind watched them talk, wondering what fate had in store for him now.

“I sent Garnet Drake to fetch that slave, the one we brought back from Dracoheim, and bring him to the temple,” Stariz told Grimwar. “I wanted to keep him there in preparation for Autumnblight! My lord, that ceremony is only three weeks away!”

The king had just arrived home after a dinner with several of the lords of the different city levels of Winterheim. He was full, a little drunk, and tired. He hadn’t even had a chance to take his boots off yet, nor did it look as if he would get that chance, as his wife continued her verbal onslaught.

“Garnet was told that the slave had already been assigned-and he was unable to find out where the human was sent!”

Stariz glared at him, her hands on her hips. Grimwar faced that gaze, resentment building, wishing he knew a way to dam that torrent of words. His wife opened her mouth to speak again, and the truth washed over him: He didn’t have to listen!

Instead, he plopped down into his most comfortable chair, ignoring her so blatantly that she stammered a surprised sound then clamped her jaw shut. He couldn’t see her fierce expression as he lifted one foot at a time to allow the two slaves to pull off his walrus-hide footgear. He knew that she would be staring daggers at him, but he felt cloaked in a strange new sense of invulnerability. Why hadn’t he made this discovery years ago?

In fact, the king decided that he had had just about enough of being cowed by his wife. There was much of which he should feel proud. The wasted campaign aside, his kingdom seemed to be doing very well indeed. All the gold mines were operating at full capacity, and his coffers were gathering wealth at an unprecedented pace. His mistress had been very good to him since his return from the summer’s campaign, and he knew that she anxiously awaited his next visit. Thraid would undoubtedly be delighted and grateful that he had provided a slave for her amusement, at least until Autumnblight.

“I myself gave orders for the slave to be moved,” he finally said, leaning back in the chair and gesturing the slaves to leave. Moments later king and queen were alone. “I did not want you doing him any harm, not yet, in any event. He will be yours for the ceremony but not until then.”

“I must prepare him, and you know that! The Willful One must be appeased, and what better way than to sanctify the blood of one who did him such grievous harm? You had no right-”

“I had every right, woman!” roared the king, pushing himself to his feet with a flex of his powerful arms. Stariz halted in mid-rant, eyes narrowed, watching him suspiciously.

He shouted again, delighting in the release of his temper. “Do not forget that I am king here-king of Suderhold! You hold your station only because I have placed you there! I am tired of arguing with you over matters that are my own decisions. You too often lose sight of your place-but I am the king! I am lord of Winterheim, monarch of Suderhold. I am your master!”

She recoiled from his words as if he had raised his fist to her, and he took great satisfaction from the expression of fear on her face. He lowered his voice to a growl and bared his impressive tusks.

“I see that you are afraid of me, my queen. Remember that feeling. It is one you should remember, for you will have cause to fear me if you do not do a better job of learning your own station.”

“Forgive me, Sire,” Stariz said meekly-more meekly than she had ever said anything to the king in all their years of marriage. “I shall remember your words, and I thank you for your kindness in giving me warning.” She bowed her head, then astonished him with a curtsy!

The king was somewhat taken aback by her abrupt mood change. His temper evaporated and was replaced with a sense of bemused satisfaction. Turning abruptly, he stalked out of his apartment in his bare feet onto the promenade far above the harbor. He was well satisfied with his handling of the matter. The human slave would be forgotten for the next few weeks, and quite possibly his wife would be a little easier to live with.

If he chose to continue living with her.

That thought, daring and sacrilegious, came into his mind unbidden. He thought about his words to her. He had spoken the truth-he was the master here, and why should the master of a powerful realm not be the master of his own bedroom?

Of course, there were reasons for the marriage, all of them centering on politics-Stariz was from Glacierheim, a barony that was historically among the most restive of Suderhold’s fiefdoms. As high priestess, she was the leader of the ogre religion, pre-eminent interpreter of the will of Gonnas, a fact that she had used to her advantage on many occasions.

As for Glacierheim, that frost-bound realm had been peacefully acquiescent for years, and he had more than enough might in his own royal guards to deal with any rebelliousness that might develop there. The religious aspect of his wife’s influence was more worrisome. He knew that her clerical powers were real, that the god of her temple was a proud and willful deity, but Grimwar Bane honored Gonnas in his own way. It seemed at least possible that the powerful immortal would not bring down his displeasure merely to soothe the wrath of a scorned ogress.

More importantly, right now neither Glacierheim nor Gonnas seemed as important to the king as his own reborn sense of purpose. After all, there was precedent for the ogre ruler choosing his own desires over outside concerns. Indeed, his father had divorced his wife for a younger woman-that had been the cause of the dowager queen’s exile to Dracoheim. Perhaps Grimwar Bane himself should take a lesson from that history.

As he thought about it, the idea began to make more and more sense. He imagined a life without Stariz sticking into his side like a venomous thorn … and with Thraid’s lush body, instead, warming the royal bedchamber.

He was king, a mighty king. Why should he not have what he wanted?

“O Great Gonnas the Strong, Willful Master of Ogre-kind-grant me the wisdom to understand the danger and the power to act in your interests!”

Stariz, her face obscured by the great black mask of her station, prostrated herself on the smooth slate floor, heartsick and frightened. The massive statue of her dire deity, obsidian and standing three times the height of any mortal ogre, loomed above her, silent and impassive. Always in the past she had found that massive presence comforting.

Now, however, the fear that gnawed at her would not subside.

Bitterly she recalled her husband’s dreadful rebuke and the even more disgusting acquiescence she had pretended in order to mollify him, at least temporarily. How dare he speak to her like that? Didn’t he realize the strength, and the wisdom, that she brought to their royal pairing? Didn’t he fear her power?

In truth, she suspected that he didn’t, at least not as much as he should. If it wasn’t for her, Grimwar Bane would probably have been content merely to amass his gold and to live in his citadel, master of an ancient and steadily waning kingdom. It was she, Stariz, who had convinced him of the need to make relentless war against the humans, to drive them from their coastlines and verdant valleys, lands that rightfully belonged to Suderhold. It was she who was responsible for him bringing hundreds of slaves into the warrens of Winterheim, and everywhere in the Icereach the humans were on the defensive. She was the one who rooted out the potential rebels among the slaves, through her network of spies and the potent auguries of her god. She made examples of these recalcitrants-vivid examples-and throughout the king’s reign there was no hope of inciting of even a modest rebellion.

The king was a fool! He would throw it all away, she knew, if ever she ceased pushing him, guiding him onto the paths chosen by their dark and warlike god. He had been seduced by a pretty ogress, one who was empty of mind and character, who offered nothing to the kingdom except carnal diversion for the monarch.

Stariz began to understand. The king was right about some things: He was powerful, too powerful for her to change when his mind was set upon a stubborn path, so she would not strike at the untouchable king. Instead, she would find someone else to feel the brunt of her wrath, someone close to the king but still vulnerable. Someone whose fate would serve a warning to the king.

Someone like the Lady Thraid Dimmarkull.

Once more Strongwind was led through the halls of Winterheim, this time back down from the palace, past many levels, until he guessed that he was near the middle of the lofty fortress-city. Lord Forlane led the way, with the two sturdy guards maintaining a vigilant escort. They emerged from the long, descending ramp to follow the wide street that seemed to occupy the ring around the atrium on each level.

Soon they turned into a narrow side street, following this back from the atrium and into the shadows near the outer mountain wall. Several lamps, presumably fueled by whale oil, brightened the narrow street and illuminated the entrance to a narrow courtyard that abutted a door at the very far end. Strongwind guessed that this structure, at the fringe of the city, lay up against the solid bedrock of the mountain itself.

One of the guards stepped forward and knocked on the door, which was quickly opened by a muscular human of middle age or slightly older-a Highlander, Strongwind judged, by the man’s high forehead and blue eyes. The hair might have once been straw-colored, though it was now thin and wispy at the top and shaded to whitish gray in the fellow’s beard.

“Lord Forlane, welcome,” he said. “You must be bringing the new house slave our mistress mentioned.” The elder human turned to look a Strongwind. His expression was unreadable.

“My name is Wandcourt.”

“Call me Whalebone,” Strongwind said as he entered.

Lord Forlane followed him inside. “Is the Lady Thraid in?” asked the ogre nobleman.

“Yes, my lord, expecting you both, in fact,” Wandcourt replied with a bow.

The elder slave led the ogre and Strongwind through a stone-walled anteroom that seemed remarkably plain in its appointments, given the size of the chamber. The Highlander got the immediate impression that this place hadn’t been occupied for long.

That notion was reinforced as they passed under a high stone archway into the apartment’s great room. There was a large hearth in the opposite wall and several bearskin rugs in the center of the room, with a chair and a large divan arranged there. Several lamps burned in alcoves in the walls, but-like the anteroom-the rest of this chamber seemed barren, as if still awaiting more furniture. It called out at least for the softening touches of a few additional bearskins.

Only then did Strongwind realize that someone occupied the divan-an ogress who faced away from him and was partially screened by the back of the long, couchlike seat. Wandcourt led him around to face her, and he quickly bowed.

“Lord Forlane! What an honor to see you, personally,” declared the ogress, in a voice like a purr-the purr of a very large, and very dangerous, bear. She pushed herself to a sitting position and extended a hand, which Strongwind’s escort bent to take.

“My Lady, I would never pass up the chance to spend a few moments in your charming presence. When His Majesty asked me to see to the delivery of your new house slave, I marked it an opportunity for a visit.”

“This is the slave?” Thraid murmured. Strongwind, still bowing, felt her attention shift to him, though he couldn’t read her tone. “Straighten up and let me look at you.”

He did as she bade and returned the inspection as she looked him over. He was startled to see a creature of softness and curves, with rouged lips, and eyelashes outlined in henna. He recognized her at once-she was the ogress who had watched him debark, had waved to him as he was taken off of the galley. She shifted slightly, leaning to balance on an elbow as she partially reclined on the divan. The slave king had a sense of helplessness, as if he were a small rodent being inspected by a cat, the feline pondering whether the snack had enough meat on its bones to make it worth the trouble of the kill.

He was tempted to make some remark of greeting but decided that his new status made it safer for him to wait until she addressed him. Again she purred, her full lips curving into a small smile.

“You look as though you will do quite nicely,” she remarked. “How are you called?”

“I am Whalebone, my lady,” replied Strongwind. “It is an honor to be considered for your service.”

She chuckled. “Very nice, indeed. One cannot assume that such manners will be ingrained in all those of your countrymen. You are a Highlander, are you not?”

“Indeed, my lady.”

“Of noble birthright, perhaps?”

Strongwind shrugged. “There are some who would say so.”

“I have heard something of your battle prowess,” she said, musing. “There was even a suggestion that you might be, well, dangerous, but I had a feeling that first time I saw you, when you came ashore from the ship … a sense that you would be a good slave, that I can trust you. Surely you realize-as Wandcourt or Brinda will tell you-there are many worse postings for a slave than in the house of a noble ogress.”

“I do not doubt that for a moment, lady,” Strongwind replied evenly.

Thraid Dimmarkull rose very slowly from her divan. She did not so much stand up as undulate into an erect posture. She was as tall as the Highlander king, and again he noticed the exaggerated contours of her shape. Her tusks were barely visible behind those full, pouting lips. She reached out a hand and placed it on Strongwind’s shoulder. The king stood still, not knowing what to expect-but he was too astonished to resist when she suddenly pressed downward with a hammer blow of force, dropping him to his knees.

He grunted and strained to rise, but she held him down with one hand while with the other she took his chin and forcibly tilted up his face. Her expression was mildly amused-except for the spark of fire he saw in her eyes. Clearly, she was enjoying this very much.

“Pretty words,” Thraid said, her lips pursing in an expression that Strongwind couldn’t read. “So long as you remember your place-and fall to your knees when I so command-you will do nicely.”

She squeezed his cheeks, and Strongwind’s temper flared, but he exerted all of his self control to mask his feelings.

“Wandcourt, show … ‘Whalebone’ … where he will be staying. You and Brinda take some time to acquaint him with the household and with his tasks. For now, leave me with Lord Forlane-I have important matters to discuss, things that are not for human ears.”

“Very well, my lady,” replied the elder slave.

Strongwind rose stiffly and followed him through the archway and down a smaller, darker hallway. The slave king resolved to pay attention, to learn what he could. Always he would remain alert, analyzing his new masters for the weaknesses that undoubtedly existed in Winterheim’s tenuous relationship with its slaves.

The King’s Rampart was the loftiest platform on Winterheim’s outer slopes. Only the summit itself, ice-draped and sheer, rose above it. Several paths climbed to this flat, square surface which, by tradition, was intended only for the feet of the monarch of Suderhold.

Grimwar Bane stood alone here, wearing his black bearskin robe, staring into the northwest, where the sun was nearing the horizon, bringing the end to an early autumn day. He looked between the Ice Gates, across the bright stretch of the White Bear Sea. The air, even at this lofty elevation, was cool but not cold.

He thought fleetingly about his cloak, the only black bear pelt he or any other ogre had ever seen. He had captured it from what he thought was a simple village of Arktos peasants nine summers earlier. His warriors had slain every man of that tribe, and with only a few females and young escaping into the hills, he had thought the band eradicated.

How ironic that it had been one of those women who had become his most vexing foe! It was she who had led her people to Brackenrock, reclaiming the long-abandoned stronghold from the savage thanoi who had taken up residence there. It was she who had made the place a true fortress, a bastion that stood against his most devastating attack.

The human woman was dead now, slain with her elf companion in the catastrophic explosion that wracked Dracoheim, yet she continued to fascinate him. This was one reason why the captive warrior, the slave he had sent into the house of Thraid Dimmarkull, was interesting to him. That man had been willing to give his life for the Lady of Brackenrock, and sooner or later the king intended to ask him why.

He had more important matters to concern him for the immediate moment. Indeed, he had many things on his mind, did the king of Suderhold.

One of these was paramount. The matter of his vexatious wife demanded resolution, a resolution that would allow the king to proceed with his life, his future, in a manner of his own choosing. If Stariz remained attached to him, she would be his doom, a cancer eating away his manhood and his rule until he was an emasculated hulk, a mere puppet for the priestess-queen.

He had blustered and threatened, pleaded and dealt with her, but ever she remained the same. For all this time he had sought a solution that would work with Stariz ber Glacierheim ber Bane. Now, finally, he could see the error of diplomacy. There could be no solution with her, for she herself was the problem.

He realized now that he had to send her away. He would wait until she had performed her ritual sacrifice at the ceremony of Autumnblight, then he would make his announcement to his wife and to his people.

His marriage would end, and the rest of his life would at last begin.