Douglas Niles - Winterheim

Thedric Drake was gone.

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.