Douglas Niles - Winterheim

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.