Douglas Niles: Winterheim

“Take the prisoner to the Salt Caves,” he ordered the captain of the Grenadiers. “His fate remains to be decided.”

Some of his crewmen hurried to form an escort for the human, while twin ranks of palace guards, dressed in their scarlet cloaks and bearing huge, ceremonial halberds, flanked the approach to the lift that would carry the king and queen up to the royal level. The monarchs stepped inside the cage, turning to face the crowd as the door of metal bars rattled shut.

“Lift, slaves!” shouted an overseer, cracking his whip in warning. Instantly two dozen slaves put their shoulders to the gearlike teeth of a large crank. Chains clanked, and the floor beneath Grimwar’s feet lurched then settled into a steady rise. More roars of approval rose from the ogre population, and the king treated his subjects to another wave.

Stariz, however, waited only until they were a few dozen feet up, out of immediate earshot of the guards and attendants. She had been surly and glowering during the whole voyage, but since the ship had been very crowded this was the first real privacy they had experienced since beginning the journey home from Dracoheim.

“How do you intend to recover from this disaster?” she demanded. “You have lost Dracoheim Castle and one of your ships-”

“Did you think I had forgotten?” snapped the king, his deep voice rumbling above the metallic noise of the lift.

“I wondered,” she replied tartly, “yet if you had listened to me-”

Grimwar Bane was in no mood to hear his wife’s rebukes though, as usual, his mood did not diminish the queen’s torrent of words. Nevertheless, he felt the sting of those words with unusual acuity. Perhaps this was the reason that he responded not in an exasperated roar but in a rumbling growl-a tone that, at the very least, commanded her attention.

“Do you think I do not grieve for the loss of my own mother? That I do not understand that it was the humans who brought about this disaster? Do you think I forget that it was you who bade me go to Dracoheim to have the orb made! If blame rests in this palace, my queen, it falls upon your ample shoulders!”

Stariz snorted, and avoiding the king’s eyes, turned to look outward through the gridwork of the cage door. The two royal ogres rose steadily through the great central atrium of Winterheim. The galley Goldwing rested in her berth below, illuminated by the sunlight that spilled through the still-opened harbor gates. The ship was scarred, battered and worn from a season of vigorous campaigning, looking as tired as Grimwar felt. The empty slip nearby, where Hornet should be docked, absolutely tore at the king’s heart. That beautiful ship was driftwood now, timbers scattered on the rocky shores below fortress Brackenrock.

Stariz drew a breath-a sign that she was taking a rare pause before continuing her tirade. When she did speak, her own voice had softened, her tone as gently persuasive as she could manage.

“Why did you refuse to execute the prisoner on Dracoheim?” she pressed. “Your own men witnessed the destruction wrought by the humans. Did you not see that a display of royal resolution-and vengeance-might go far toward restoring their spirits? What is the value of one paltry slave brought back to Winterheim? He is perhaps a strapping specimen of a man, though still he is but one.”

Even when her tone was gentle, the king reflected, it was as coarse as the growl of an angry she-bear.

“I saw that, and I saw, too, that this human is no ordinary prisoner. His value does not come from the fact that he is another slave-I already have thousands of the wretches! He is unique-you saw how his companion revered him! He is a king of the humans!”

“Why should that insure his life?” demanded Stariz.

“Perhaps it does not, but surely it is reason for consideration and planning. If he is to die, then his death can be wielded to good effect.”

She surprised him by nodding in pensive agreement. “You may be right. How should he be killed, then?”

“I have not decided, yet,” declared the ogre monarch, realizing that he had not decided because he hadn’t given the matter proper thought. Until now, it had been enough to know that he held an important enemy leader. “I have been giving the matter much consideration,” he declared breezily. “I will let you know when I have made my decision.”

“He should be executed on the day of the equinox, at the ceremony of Autumnblight!” Stariz announced excitedly. “It will be a death witnessed by all the slaves in the city and will serve as a strong lesson to them, a reminder of your mastery!”

The king felt his temper rising again. “I have thought about this matter, and I will solve it my way, not yours!” he barked. “Now I desire to bathe and to garb myself in royal finery. Unless you have something important to say right now, I suggest that you depart for your quarters and do the same.”

Stariz scowled, a wrinkled and dour expression that rendered her blocky face into an ugly smear. Her husband fought a powerful urge to smash his fist into her piglike nose. It was not the presence of the honor guard, royal troops assembled as the lift came to a rest on the lofty royal level of the city, that held his hand. Indeed, these ogres were loyal to him, and many had felt the lash of the queen’s tongue. No doubt they would not be displeased by such a display of royal temper. Nor did he worry about the slaves, human men and women who stood respectfully back from the landing, waiting to garb the king and queen, to feed and bathe them. They were less than nothing-he didn’t know how they would feel about a blow delivered by the king to the queen, but neither did he care.

In truth, acknowledged only in the deep pit of his belly, it was fear that restrained his blow-fear not of his wife but of the vengeful god who was her true lord. For Stariz Ber Glacierheim Ber Bane was not just the queen of Suderhold and mistress of Winterheim. She was the high priestess of Gonnas the Strong, seer of mystical truths and worker of dire magicks.

He was afraid that if his anger was released in violence, her reprisal-though certainly more subtle-would be far worse than a punch in the nose. Would his belly turn to fire in the night, wracking him with agony until his guts exploded to poison him? Would his eyes wither and dry, leaving him blind? Or his mind fail, turning him into a feeble, drooling fool who couldn’t so much as ladle gruel to his own lips? Or would she think of something even worse?

These were questions he could not answer and had no desire to explore. He gave his wife a curt nod then let the guards fall in behind as he stalked regally through the palace gate and down the long, wide hallway leading to the royal apartments. The doors were opened by slaves, and at last he felt as though he could exhale as he entered the familiar comfort of the cavernous chambers. A fire burned on the massive hearth, and the several comfortable chairs arrayed about the room, each layered in plush white bearskin, offered instant soothing for his weariness.

Instead he turned immediately toward his bathing chamber where a tub of steaming water awaited. The waters relaxed and cleansed him, and the heat soothed the aches of the long campaign from his flesh. He lay there, half conscious, eating a loaf of fresh bread and five steamed ice-trout, and gradually his life seemed good again. He was clean, well fed, and found that he could think about more pleasant pursuits.

One pursuit in particular came to mind … for he knew that Thraid Dimmarkull, the royal mistress, awaited him with a greeting that would banish all of his remaining troubles to the far corners of his mind.

Thraid Dimmarkull lolled against the railing of one of the city’s lower balconies, excited and frightened at the same time. She would have loved to greet the galley in the harbor, to have run forward and clasped her beloved Grimwar with all the affectionate power of her soft, enveloping embrace. Though it seemed terribly unfair, she knew that such a display would only make him mad.