Douglas Niles - Winterheim

“Or die trying,” Moreen echoed, drinking deeply.

She meant every word.

You lost him? The King of Suderhold goes out for a stroll in his own palace, and you cannot follow where he goes?” The queen’s tone was deceptively gentle, but she felt the growl rumbling in her throat, a menacing indication of her rising displeasure.

“Please, your highness!” cried Garnet Drake, kneeling abjectly, speaking in the direction of the floor. “There was nothing I could do-he followed the trollop’s slave only for a short time, then their paths diverged. Naturally, I chose to keep your husband in sight.”

“Not very effectively, it would seem,” Stariz noted in a calm, unemotional tone. She was pleased to see the film of sweat beading on Drake’s brow.

“Well, he turned into a narrow lane then made great haste. I followed him as closely as I dared, all the way to the Slaves’ Way!” The man’s voice was growing shrill, tremulous. “When I got there he was gone! There was no one within a hundred paces in either direction, though I raced back and forth with great urgency. It was as though he vanished into thin air! I suspect sorcery, your majesty-sorcery of black and sinister import!”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Stariz snorted, controlling her mounting anger only with the greatest difficulty.

She felt an urge to reach out and wring this useless wretch’s neck-indeed, the act would give her no small measure of satisfaction. Her chief spy was not entirely useless-indeed, his loyalty had been proven many times over, and if she were to dispose of him, she would have a headache replacing him.

Instead, she squinted then murmured a prayer-a minor entreaty, really, to the power of her awe-inspiring god. Immediately the human cried out, clasping his hands to his face, looking up at her with fear and horror in his eyes. He gagged, turning to the side, retching messily onto the floor.

The queen stood still, unmoved as she watched boils emerge from the skin of his hands and his face-sores, she knew, that were erupting all over his body. Each welt grew quickly, festering and bubbling beneath the man’s pale skin.

“Please … Highness … I beg you!” groaned Garnet, rolling in his own mess, thrashing and kicking. He choked, gagging and croaking as he strained to draw each agonizing breath.

Still she made no move but watched emotionlessly as the boils blossomed angrily then burst, one by one, to leave bloody sores. The spy groaned in agony, but each movement caused him even greater agony. After a while he lay rigid, staring at her in a mixture of horror and awe.

Five minutes later he was breathing a little more easily, sobbing abjectly, covered in sweat and specked with the blood that had marked his oozing sores. Slowly, he pushed himself to his knees and wiped a bloody palm across his face to smear away his tears. He would be disgusting to look at for a few days, but Stariz was satisfied, even pleased by the lesson she had taught him.

“Next time I trust you will be more diligent,” she declared, and he nodded mutely.

She gestured at the vomit and blood on the floor, wrinkling her piglike nose in distaste. “Clean this up,” she ordered, “and get yourself into some clean clothes. I want you to show me this place where the king of Suderhold disappeared.”

Stariz placed no credence in Garnet’s suggestion that the king had vanished through magical means. She herself controlled the most powerful magic in Winterheim, and there was none who would dare work such power in the face of her displeasure. She would not detect any spell casting nor residue of magic.

However, she had hopes that, with careful search, she might be able to discover a secret door.

Strongwind Whalebone and the three ogres of his escort walked in silence for a long time, at first climbing a wide, circling ramp that ascended steadily, then moving onto a stairway that spiraled about the center of a long, vertical shaft. Twice they paused to rest, and each time the lord and the two guards took drinks of water from a cask that sat, apparently for that purpose, on the landing. Strongwind was so thirsty that he would have had no qualms accepting the dipper from the guard who had just swilled from it, but in neither instance was refreshment offered to the slave.

Throughout these halls they encountered other slaves, humans walking with their eyes downcast, dressed in plain garments of brown wool. These people quickly moved out of the way as the party approached, and one woman cowered abjectly when one of the guards raised a fist to hasten her out of the way. None of them was chained, Strongwind noticed, and for the most part they seemed to be moving about on simple errands without any direct supervision or restraint.

Finally the group emerged into a straight corridor, once more on a level floor. They passed a room where pots clanged and tantalizing odors-baking bread and steamed fish prominent among them-suggested a kitchen. Several times they passed groups of men and women, all of whom stood to the side and bowed politely as Lord Forlane passed. These slaves, too, kept their eyes downcast, though the human king noticed several of them sneaking glances at him after the ogre nobleman had passed.

Strongwind returned the looks surreptitiously and made a few observations: While none of the humans were exactly fat, they did not seem emaciated either. Unlike the slaves on the lower levels, they wore garments of dyed wool, and their clothes-as well as faces, hair, and beards-seemed relatively clean. They made a contrast to the miserable wretches the king had seen laboring at the capstans in the harbor. He suspected these were some of the advantages of being enslaved in the higher levels of the ogre fortress.

Finally, the lord arrived at a broad door upon which he knocked once then pushed open. He led Strongwind into an anteroom lit brightly with oil lamps. Several humans were at work here cleaning some long tables and, in one corner, sewing patches on a several old leather cloaks.

“Tildy!” roared Forlane. “Where’s Tildy Trew?”

“Keep your boots on, your greatness!” came a peeved reply from one of the many doorways leading off of this large chamber. A moment later a stout, round-cheeked woman emerged to glare impatiently at the noble ogre. “Well? Don’t you know we’ve got to get the king’s welcome feast together? What do you want now?”

Strongwind was startled at the slave’s temerity-in his own castle, a servant who spoke thus might be subjected to a rebuke, even a slap. Lord Forlane chuckled agreeably, despite the stern frown on the woman’s features.

“This one is to be present at the feast for inspection by the court. The king wants you to get him cleaned up, dressed for the occasion, and so forth.”

“Oh, great,” muttered Tildy Trew, squinting up at Strongwind. He had the impression that she was nearsighted. “Did you just come in on the ship?”

“Er, yes,” he replied.

“Well, all right. Not as if I have any choice in the matter.” She addressed the ogre lord. “You can tell the king that I’ll do my best-though I can’t say he’s given me much to work with!”

As the ogre lord, still chuckling, turned to leave, Strongwind noticed that the Tildy was in fact somewhat younger than he had first suspected. Her clean, round face was unlined, and her hair was a rich dark brown, like good, fertile soil. She was much shorter than him, shorter even than Moreen he thought, and her green eyes glinted with something that might be good humor.

“All right, get undressed,” she declared, as soon as the door had closed behind Forlane.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Gotta look you over for wounds, you know. Heal you up if you need it.” She spun about and shouted, her voice as keen as the cry of a hawk. “Sherris! Draw a hot bath for our guest, here! Looks like we’ll have to comb some lice out!”