Douglas Niles - Winterheim

Now he had important news about the connection between Thraid Dimmarkull’s apartment and the royal palace and was eager to report his discovery to the nascent rebel group. He went immediately to the market and made his way to the window at the salt alcove. Black Mike was at the counter, and when he saw the Highlander approaching he quickly called for a replacement, then moved sideways to open the door so that Strongwind could join him in the evaporation room.

As before, they made their way through the aisles of stacked salt into the storage room in the back. The slave king noticed other men throughout the room setting their tasks aside and gradually, casually converging on the room.

A few minutes later the band had gathered, perhaps twice as many men as the dozen Strongwind had seen on his first meeting here. The group circled close, regarding him with interest as Black Mike folded his arms and waited.

“Well, did you learn anything?”

“Yes. The king did come to visit the Lady Thraid. There were guards-the King’s Grenadiers-outside her apartment, and they wouldn’t let me pass.” Some measure of modesty caused Strongwind not to mention the disheveled appearance of the ogress when later he had returned to the apartments.

He was about to describe his search for the secret door when one of the men at the back of the throng held up his hand and whispered urgently, “Hsst! be silent!”

They all heard the thump of heavy boots. There were cries of consternation from the market, screams of frightened humans mingled with harsh ogre commands. Something heavy crashed to the floor outside of the room, and guttural roars bellowed above a growing din of panic.

“Out the back!” declared Black Mike. “Move!”

Strongwind was carried by the throng, as the men surged toward the shadowy nether reaches of the room. The Highlander could make out a door there and saw one slave pull it open.

In the next instant a spear darted into the opening, striking the man in the chest and erupting from his back in a shower of gore. Gasping, he tumbled back into the room, kicking weakly, dying very slowly.

There was light beyond the doorway, but that illumination only served to outline the shape of a hulking ogre, one of the red-coated grenadiers. He reached forward to retrieve his weapon, shaking the spear contemptuously to cast the corpse aside. With a rumbling chuckle of deep amusement, he advanced into the room, while more of his comrades followed behind-a dozen huge, armed ogres blocking the escape route.

At the same time the door on the other side of the room burst open. Strongwind was not surprised to see more ogres there, the rest of the company apparently. They separated, weapons raised, as the human captives stood frozen. One man fell to his knees and started to cry.

“Shut up!” Black Mike ordered, and the fellow’s blubbering ceased. The slave leader cast a murderous glare at Strongwind before the ogre captain came swaggering through the two ranks of his men.

“Search them for weapons and lock them in chains,” he barked. Grenadiers came forward to begin frisking the rebels, while others followed with heavy coils of iron chain. The captain looked at his ragged captives, tusks bared in a lip-curling sneer of disdain. “You lot are coming with me-we have a little appointment with the queen.”

He chuckled, a sound like a bubbling vat. “No doubt she will have some of you talking-soon, while you still have yer tongues.”

Things were going pretty well, thought Grimwar Bane, leaning on the railing of his lofty balcony, admiring the view of the harbor far below. Goldwing was sparkling again, fully repaired and freshly painted. The sight of his gleaming galley made him happy. A small mountain of timber was stacked nearby in his shipyard, and he idly considered the notion of building another ship, a vessel to replace the lost Hornet . Perhaps that work could begin this winter?

He was happy to see slaves toiling busily in the lumber yard as well. Hundreds of humans bustled back and forth under the eyes of a couple of whip-cracking overseers. Elsewhere there were more humans, throngs of them carrying goods to the marketplace, selling and buying alongside ogres.

His wife was busy with her own little projects, staying out of his way. Indeed, he had been able to visit Thraid twice in the past three days, a state of affairs he found very satisfactory. There were plenty of advantages in the current arrangement. Idly, he wondered if there might not be some way to keep his wife as queen and his mistress as his lover. Certainly Stariz had her uses. It was hard to imagine Thraid being much help in tracking down sedition among the slaves, for example. There she had acted decisively. Just an hour ago he had learned that two dozen slaves had been arrested in the Nobles’ Marketplace … she worked quickly, did Stariz ber Glacierheim ber Bane.

Nevertheless, he shook his head at the thought of both ogresses competing for his attention. He had been living that misery for too long, and he had made up his mind, yet there was no sense of urgency, no reason for him to act prematurely. The execution of the salt-cellar slaves from the Nobles’ Market would provide splendid entertainment at the Rites of Autumblight. That was another task for which Thraid, for all of her voluptuous qualities, was clearly not suited.

Ah, but those qualities she did possess, she possessed in such abundance! The memory of those charms made him smile, stirred him deeply. In fact, they were much on his mind, because he knew that she was waiting for him in her suite. She had sent her slaves away and promised to be alone. Soon he would be there, in her arms.

Stariz had informed him that she would need more time to interrogate the prisoners-she would be occupied thusly for the rest of the day. The king nodded in satisfaction. No doubt she would get to the bottom of this latest insurrection. In the meantime, he had some time to himself.

He sauntered down the passage leading around the edge of the royal palace, walking casually, nodding to a couple of ogresses who waddled past. They were bedecked in gold and black sealskin furs and giggled happily at the royal attention. The king stopped to chat with the grenadier who stood guard at the next intersection. Another glance around left him feeling fairly certain that he was not being followed, so he turned down the alley and darted into the Slaves Way.

In a minute he was at the secret door, his heart already pounding as he turned the now-familiar latch to slip the portal open. Quickly slipping through, he pulled the door shut behind him and took the oil lamp that Wandcourt had left for him in the little alcove by the door. A spark ignited the wick, and he started down the long, winding stairway that in recent days had taken him so many memorable times to the Terrace Level and to the delights of his mistress.

Long strides carried him down the steps, anticipation building as he spiraled through the descent. His voluptuous ogress was waiting for him at the terminus of the long, secret stair. He relished the little circle of light around him, the pleasant glow of the lamp that was like his own little sun.

At last he was there, stepping off the bottom step, crossing the last few steps to the second secret door, the passage into his lady’s chambers. Feeling very gentle, he touched the wall almost affectionately, working the metal lever that caused the portal to slowly slide toward him.

He stepped through, relishing the familiar surge of desire, taking his time to let the feeling grow within him. The apartment was quiet-good, she had followed through on her promise to send her slaves away. With soft footfalls he crossed the small room and entered the large central chamber. Nothing stirred here, though several lamps burned in the wall sconces, providing a soft and romantic illumination. The king uttered a low, affectionate growl as he realized that his mistress awaited him in the bedroom.