Douglas Niles - Winterheim

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.”

Karyl Drago ber Glacierheim was an immense ogre, even by the standards of that immense race. Indeed, it had been said by others of his kind that he was too big-as if such a thing was possible in an ogre warrior. It was not in his fighting ability that his size was viewed as a liability. On the contrary, Karyl’s prowess with his great, stone-headed club was legendary. He easily twirled around a weapon that a normal ogre would have trouble lifting from the ground. He had never been defeated in combat, not by human slaves, thanoi foes, or ogre opponents. Once he had broken the neck of an ice bear in an arena contest, just for the sport of it.

Unfortunately, the strength of his musculature and his grace with that mighty club were not matched by a sense of ease in the presence of other ogres, nor, most notably, did he possess even the rudimentary manners needed to master the confines and rituals of Noble Winterheim.

Karyl Drago had been born and raised in the remote outpost of Glacierheim, where by the time of adulthood his reputation as the barony’s pre-eminent warrior was well established. Even there, in that mannerless, practically barbaric community, his lack of social graces had marked him as an outcast.