Winterheim

9

It gleamed in her mind like the sun, shining and golden, limned in fire. It was more glorious, more precious even than the life-giving orb in the sky, for it was the talisman of her master, the image of his power and the symbol of his omnipotent will. She could discern every detail, each carved symbol and immaculate, perfect facet. Once it had been hers, to hold and cherish, but she had failed her master, her god.

The Axe of Gonnas remained just out of reach, but Stariz tried-she tried desperately-to seize that magical haft once again. Her blunt fingers strained, but they were too short for the task. Her arm was inadequate, her great weight held her down like an anchor, and the glowing object seemed to be getting farther and farther away with each panting breath. Her feet were mired in clutching mud, and a strong brute-her husband, Grimwar Bane himself-held the ogress by her shoulders, bearing her down, holding her back from that which she so desperately desired.

She was soaked in a cold sweat when she awoke to gasp aloud in anguish, for she knew that the cherished trophy remained beyond her grasp. It was gone, lost-she acknowledged in the depths of her soul-by her own failure to kill the Elven Messenger when she’d had the chance. Though he was now dead, the axe remained unattainable, locked away in the fortress of humans.

Or was it? As her pulse ceased racing, she reflected more carefully upon her dream. The intense emotion, the brilliant colors … these were signs of more than just a mundane, sleep-induced fantasy. There had been a magical quality, a vivid presence that she could feel in the pit of her stomach. Truly, this dream had been sent by Gonnas himself.

For what purpose? What was he trying to tell her? What did he want her to do?

“Please, O Willful One, forgive my ignorance,” she whispered. “Grant me the wisdom to understand.”

The great sleeping chamber, her private sanctuary, remained lightless and silent, except for the measured sound of her breathing. The walls were cold, the lamps dark. Whatever the purpose of her god’s dream, it remained for her alone to decipher.

The axe remained on her mind as she rose and went about her toilette, disdaining the services even of her handmaidens, since she desired solitude for reflection. Could it be that one of the humans had dared to use the axe for some new purpose? Had it been moved from the hall of Brackenrock? She would pray and meditate on this matter and hope for enlightenment.

One of the house slaves informed her that the king had already departed, intending to inspect his treasury. She believed this, for it was too early in the day for one of his assignations, and Grimwar Bane would know better than to try and deceive her with a lie she could so easily confirm or disprove.

Satisfied that she had some time to herself, the queen lit three candles around her table and focused her mental energies on the flickers of flame. The tiny lights amplified her thoughts, and the power of her brooding god allowed her to send a silent message through the ether of magical space. She was pleased-albeit unsurprised-when Garnet Dane arrived at the secret door to her apartments only a few minutes later.

“Enter quickly,” she said. “The king is gone for the next hour, but I have much to do in these precious minutes of freedom.”

The spy nodded humbly and nervously scuttled through the door, standing in the shadowy alcove near the back of her dressing chamber. He looked up at her with wide, fearful eyes, and she was pleased to see that her recent discipline had apparently made a lasting impression. Long ago she had learned that fear was an important tool, a key means to instill obedience in her subjects, even in her husband.

“There is a slave in the city, the man whom we brought back from Dracoheim, captured on that island,” she declared curtly. “He is a savage fighter, a very dangerous man, and I think that my husband does not understand the menace he poses. Ten days ago the slave was placed somewhere in Winterheim upon the king’s orders.”

“Indeed, Your Majesty. I observed him debark from the ship and understand he came to blows with one of the overseers during his initial march to the barracks.” The spy looked up at her slyly. “Do you wish to have him killed?”

Stariz snorted contemptuously. “What I wish is my own concern. I do not wish for you to kill him, however. I command you to locate him!”

“Of course, Majesty. Please forgive my impertinence. Am I to assume that he remains somewhere in the city?”

“Yes, certainly. My husband has posted him somewhere and will not reveal the location to me. I think it is safe to assume that he has not been sent off to the southern mines-we have plans for him, after all, at the ceremony of Autumnblight. Rather, I had the impression that Grimwar Bane had a place of relative safety in mind for this particular slave. I would not be surprised to find him in the upper city, in some private household. I don’t expect him to be at the Seagate or in the fish market or the lumber yards.”

“As you know, I have many contacts in the Middle Terraces. There is one woman in particular who is very well placed to provide information on matters such as this. I will go to work at once,” pledged the spy.

“As I knew you would,” the queen replied smugly. “Make your report to me as soon as possible-but for now, I do not want this man know that he is the subject of royal inquiry.”

“Naturally, Your Highness. As ever, I maintain discretion.”

“It is your best quality,” the queen replied, her eyes narrowing to bore in upon the suddenly perspiring spy. “You might say that it is all that has kept you alive … so far.”

The secret door closed behind Garnet Dane a moment later. The queen turned to other more mundane matters, certain that the man would do everything in his power to see that she was not disappointed.

“Whalebone-I am taking you to the Nobles’ Market-you will carry back the salmon for this evening, two of them.” Thraid Dimmarkull made the announcement with an air of excitement, the first enthusiasm she had displayed in the week or so of the slave king’s service. She reclined on the fur-lined divan where she had spent the past few hours, now pushing herself to a sitting position.

“Yes, my lady,” replied Strongwind Whalebone. He masked his own reaction, but he was glad to have an opportunity to get out of these stultifying rooms in which he had been confined.

“Brinda, fetch my walking cloak,” commanded the ogress.

“Yes, lady.”

Brinda was making bread in the kitchen. She stopped her mixing only long enough to wipe a strand of gray hair back from her forehead. Strongwind thought she looked tired, and he wasn’t surprised. Every morning the slave woman was already working when he got up from his slave’s pallet. She remained busy throughout the day and was still cleaning up when he and Wandcourt retired for the night. Now she went without complaint to get a white bearskin cape, trimmed in red fur. Her husband took it and reached to drape it over their mistress’s shoulders.

Strongwind was anxious to get out and see more of this city. Thus far, his work had been confined to the apartments, where he had been ordered to build some storage shelves and perform mundane cleaning tasks. He had been hoping for a chance to perhaps meet and talk to other slaves, particularly in the area of the Nobles’ Market. Wandcourt and Brinda had proved to be taciturn. They had bluntly discouraged any of Strongwind’s questions about their voluptuous mistress. After a few perfunctory attempts at conversation, the king had learned to keep his thoughts and words to himself.

Thraid produced a supple length of chain and a metal collar, and Strongwind guessed that he would not have a great deal of freedom on this excursion. However, the new slave was willing to endure the humiliation of having the collar shackled around his neck if it would get him out of the apartments for a few hours. Still, he glowered at Wandcourt, and the elder slave shrugged in mute apology as he fastened the device. Thraid tugged roughly on the chain, yanking Strongwind to the side as she concluded that it was attached satisfactorily.

“I will walk along willingly, my lady,” he said through clenched teeth. “You will not find it necessary to jerk me along.”

“Oh, but I like to!” she said with a giggle, pulling hard enough that he fell to his knees. She smiled in delight, and as he stood again the man reflected with some surprise that it was not a cruel expression but more like the innocent happiness of a child with a new toy.

“Now come, Whalebone,” she said.

They departed the front door, crossed through the courtyard, and went down the narrow side street that seemed to lead only to Thraid’s house. Strongwind followed behind the voluptuous ogress, taking care to stay close. Even so, she tugged hard on the chain when they reached the corner.

“This way!” she exclaimed, pointing ostentatiously, drawing the attention of others within earshot.

They joined the stream of other slaves and ogres moving along the terrace promenade. Here, as on the other levels of Winterheim he had seen, the promenade was a great, circular avenue that passed completely around the ring of the city’s central atrium. The humans tended to remain away from the balcony, walking close to the building fronts that lined one side of the wide avenue. The other, with its sweeping view down to the waterfront and harbor, was best left to the ogres who strolled with much less urgency than the humans.

Strongwind, tethered as he was, found himself walking among the ogres. He noticed sneering, contemptuous glances and imagined that the brutes delighted in his chained confinement. He ignored the looks and did his best to stay close to the Lady Thraid. Only gradually did he realize that some of the looks-especially the contempt of other ogresses-seemed to be directed at his mistress, not himself. He was surprised at that, since he had guessed that the king’s personal interest in his assignment had meant that the lady was a favorite of the king himself.

The Nobles’ Market was up two levels, and the ogress and the slave king climbed the ramp in long strides. Finally they arrived at a wide double doorway leading into a cavernous chamber where many slaves milled about and a few armed ogres glowered and shouted orders or fingered long, wicked-looking whips. There was a great hubbub of noisy conversation and a significant amount of jostling for position in several long queues.

“A smelly lot,” Thraid sniffed, indicating the mob of humans. “I command you, slave, to get me two large salmon. I shall wait for you over at the plaza inn, where I will be having a mug of tea.” She reached forward and used a small key to disconnect the chain from his collar, then pressed two gold pieces into his palm. “These are for the fish and nothing else. Do you understand? On your honor, return to me swiftly.”

“Certainly, my lady.” The slave king’s expression remained blank, but his heart pounded at the thought that he would at last be turned loose among a great congregation of slaves-and in the Nobles’ Market, the place he most wanted to visit in all the city!

He wandered through the door and looked around, grateful that his height allowed him to see over most of the crowd. Six or eight large alcoves opened in the wall around the perimeter of the big room, which had a temperature much chillier than the rest of Winterheim.

After a moment’s inspection, the Highlander king deduced that these alcoves each opened into a large warehouse where different types of food were kept. The alcoves were used for disbursement. Wooden signs with crude pictures marked the locations. A fish, a flask of oil, and a loaf of bread were readily found, and with a little study he understood that salt, berries, and sea-greens were among the other offerings.

He would get the salmon, but first he would seize this moment to briefly extend his freedom. Remembering Tildy Trew’s words, he joined the line at the salt alcove, waited for the half dozen slaves in front of him to have their sacks filled by a big, swarthy man-obviously an Arktos-who curtly gestured for the next in the queue to move forward.

“Can’t give ya salt wit’out a sack,” he declared, all but sneering when Strongwind arrived before him.

“I don’t want salt,” he replied. “I want to talk to Black Mike.”

Though he hadn’t known what to expect, the Highlander king was startled when the glowering fellow reached across the counter and seized him by the front of his collar. With a jerk of a sinewy forearm, the man pulled Strongwind forward and hissed at him a few inches from his face.

“Where’d you hear a name like that? What kind of a fool are you, to use it here?” The man’s mouth was clenched into a tight line, and flecks of spittle flew from his lips as he all but snarled.

Firmly the king broke the grip, his own fingers twisting the salt vendor’s wrist with unrelenting pressure as he leaned back and pulled his adversary halfway onto the counter. “Where can we go to talk?” he asked, conspiratorially.

The fellow’s eyes narrowed to twin spots of darkness, and his black hair and beard framed the swarthy face in bristling fur. In that instant Strongwind knew: This was Black Mike himself.

“Garic, take over here,” said the salt vendor, and another fellow-a lanky, long-haired Highlander-advanced from the recesses of the alcove.

Shooting a sideways, narrow-eyed glance at the two men, he took his place at the salt counter. The slave in line behind Strongwind was already pushing forward as the Highlander king stepped to the side then went through the door that opened for him, following the other man into a dark, cool room. Blocks of salt were stacked up to twelve or more feet high, enclosing the walls of the room and forming several corridors of small passages in the large chamber. Wooden stepladders were erected here and there, providing access to the tall stacks. To one side, near the counter, several male slaves were busy grinding a salt block into granules for distribution.

“I’m taking the new man back to the evaporation room,” announced Strongwind’s guide. They followed a narrow corridor between two towering stacks of salt blocks, turned a corner near what seemed like the back of the room, then passed under a stone arch that led to a wide connecting hallway. At the end of that hall was a door, which the man opened then stood back, gesturing to the king to proceed.

A sense of alarm prickled along the nape of Strongwind Whalebone’s neck, but he had come too far to back out now. Indeed, he was encouraged that his question had provoked such an unquestionably genuine reaction. Balling his hands into fists, he stepped through the door and quickly looked to the right.

A man was waiting there with an upraised club, and the Highlander reacted immediately, stabbing a punch into the fellow’s face, drawing a curse as the would-be attacker stumbled backward. A heavy blow smashed onto Strongwind’s head from behind-from another club wielder lurking on the other side of the door-and Black Mike drove into his side with a charging rush.

The king went down, but not before he kicked the second attacker in the gut. His hands grappled for the third man, and when the two hit the floor Strongwind wound up on top. Only when he saw the two clubbers raise the weapons to either side did he release his grip, springing away to face the trio in a fighting crouch.

“What’s this about?” he demanded. “I ask a simple question, and you try to bash my brains in!”

Slowly he became aware that other men were in this room, a dozen or more surly-looking fellows advancing from the shadows to surround him in a menacing ring.

“I’ll have the truth from you one way or another. Where did you hear that name?” demanded Black Mike.

“Your name?” Strongwind acted on his guess and saw by the man’s widening eyes that he had hit the mark. “A slave woman told me-made it sound like Black Mike was somebody I’d like to talk to.”

“You’re awfully careless, then,” snarled Black Mike. “Why shouldn’t we kill you right now?”

“Because I don’t know the rules of slave life in Winterheim? I’ve only been here for ten days, so forgive me if I come up short on some of the finer points of rebel etiquette.”

“Ten days?” One of the other slaves, a muscular, stocky Highlander, spoke up. “Are you the bloke that came in on the galley with Grimwar Bane? You’re the king?”

“That’s me,” Strongwind replied.

There were several appreciative whistles from the men. “Well, they put you to work, I see-for now,” said one of them, with a grim chuckle.

The Highlander wondered what the fellow meant but didn’t take the time to ask. Another slave nodded, apparently impressed. “I had it from some of the grenadiers that you gave them a pretty good licking before they took you. Those bastards would have loved to have your head on a pike. So you’re really the king of Guilderglow?”

“I was a king. It seems I am a slave, now, but I am still a man, and they have not broken my pride.”

Black Mike was scrutinizing Strongwind with a more intrigued and markedly less hostile glare. He rubbed his throat where the king’s fingers had throttled him. “You’re a fighter, I’ll grant you that, but what do you want with me? Why did you come asking after Black Mike?”

“I want to get out of this place. I want to break the backs of these slobbering ogre lords. I want to see our people free to live, to go where they will, not as slaves of brutes who can barely remember the symbols of their own civilization. The woman I talked to suggested you might have some of the same desires.”

“Those are dangerous words in Winterheim,” Black Mike said, shaking his head. “You’re not the first man to think them-all of us have done the same-but you should know that anyone who’s tried to act on them in the past has ended up dead, quickly and unpleasantly. What makes you think you’d be any different?”

“As you said, I’m a fighter, but I’m not a fool. I want to find other men, fighters like me, and see what we can do together. I might be able to help-I’ve got a position in the house of an ogress noblewoman.”

“There’s lots of slaves in houses like that,” Black Mike snorted. “Most of them are pretty well tamed. Who is your mistress?”

“Thraid Dimmarkull-the lady Thraid Dimmarkull,” Strongwind replied. He hoped that the name would carry some meaning, but he was surprised by the grunts of appreciation from some of the men and saw a couple exchange nudges in the ribs or mutters of coarse humor.

“Now that is interesting,” said Black Mike, “and unique.”

“Why?’ asked the king.

“I guess you’re too new here to know what’s going on. You’ll be interested to hear that you’re serving the king’s own private whore.”

Grimwar Bane was running out of patience. His wife had been watching him like a hawk these past few days, and he had been unable to so much as get a message to Thraid. Yesterday, he had been obliged to inspect the treasury and as a result a splendid opportunity-six whole hours, when his wife was distracted by the training of temple acolytes-had been wasted.

Now, again, Stariz was off to the temple, and he knew she would be busy for most of the day. Though he had not communicated with his mistress, he was determined to take advantage of this chance and surprise her with a visit. He left the palace for a stroll and quickly turned around the corner into the Slaves’ Way. Certain that no one was looking, he pushed through the secret door, lit the lamp, and descended the long spiral of stairs toward the terrace level. His feet drummed on the stones, a pounding cadence that bore him farther and farther downward.

Finally, panting for breath and covered with sweat, he arrived at the terminus of the secret passage. Here discretion demanded that he be careful, so he settled for a thumping knock on the panel, knowing that he was the only one who usually came to her this way. Nothing happened for several seconds, so in his growing agitation he knocked again, harder.

He was just preparing for his third signal, which in all likelihood would have knocked the door from its hinges, when the portal was pulled open to reveal Wandcourt looking at him, his eyes wide with surprse.

“Your Majesty!” said the slave, bowing deeply. “Forgive me. We were not expecting you!”

The king bulled eagerly through the door, through the room beyond and out into the apartment’s main chamber. “My lady!” he called in a hoarse whisper, “I have come to you!”

“Er, Sire,” Wandcourt said, hesitantly.

The king was busy looking around, realizing that there was no sign of Thraid Dimmarkull. He turned his attention to the elder human.

“What is it? Where is she? Speak man!”

“Not here, Your Majesty-though she will be terribly distressed to learn that she missed your visit. She has taken the new slave, Whalebone, to the Nobles’ Market.”

“She took that slave out in the city?” demanded the king, appalled.

Surely he had insisted that she keep him out of sight! Hadn’t he? He growled softly, realizing that, perhaps, he had failed to make that point clear. No doubt Stariz would soon learn of the slave king’s whereabouts. Still, the fellow wasn’t here now, and that might be a good thing. Discretion, Grimwar Bane knew, was still important.

“Did she cloak him, hide him under a robe or something?” the ogre monarch asked hopefully.

“Not exactly, my lord king,” explained Brinda, who had emerged from the kitchen to stand at her husband’s side. “That is, I think she wanted to, well, show him off.”