Douglas Niles - Winterheim

“Hold!”

The roar came from the entrance to the guardroom where another tall ogre stood, glaring at the guard who still snorted in rage. Looking at the crimson flow from the smashed snout, Strongwind smiled tightly. In his mind, this ogre would forever be known as Bloodsnout.

“Lord Forlane!” shouted one of the guards, and the whole company snapped to attention-all except Bloodsnout, that is, who was trying to stem the flow from his nostrils as he knelt and groped for the sword that the Highlander had kicked across the room.

The arriving ogre was dressed in what Strongwind took to be noble finery. His bearskin cloak was clean and pure white, descending all the way to his calves. His boots of walrus skin were polished to a bright shine, and though his garments were mere tanned leather, they were clasped with a belt of solid gold, and many chains of the same precious metal dangled from a neck as thick as the trunk of a pine tree.

“The prisoner was to be brought here merely for unshackling!” growled the lord, who seemed to have fixed his attention on Bloodsnout as the source of his displeasure. “Why is it that I find you in the midst of a full-scale revolt?”

“He-he struck me,” declared the bleeding ogre, with a wicked glare at the human. “I was making ready to defend myself.”

“A sword is of better use in the hand than on the floor,” snorted Lord Forlane in amusement. Several ogres chortled appreciatively, ignoring a murderous glance from their bleeding comrade. The noble turned to regard Strongwind shrewdly. “I have instructions t’bring you to the slaves quarters on the Royal Level. Will I need to shackle you to get you there?”

The Highlander king made a short, stiff bow, recognizing a change in his circumstances of which he was ready to take advantage. “It would be my honor to accompany your lordship,” he said.

“Very well.” Forlane’s chuckle was deep, like gravel shifting in the belly of a gold-grinder. “Clean this mess up,” he snapped at the sullen guard, gesturing at the red smears across the floor. “Wash your face while you’re at it.” He gestured to another guard. “Give the slave two lashes for punishment-he must learn that violence against our kind will not be tolerated.”

Strongwind had no chance even to react as a whip snapped, slashing across the bruised skin of his back. Fiery agony tore across his skin. He grunted and staggered forward but managed to brace himself enough for the second lash to hold his position. Though he swayed unsteadily and drew a deep gasp of breath, he did not fall to his knees. Instead, he glared at Lord Forlane with narrowed eyes and a new sense of appraisal. The noble seemed to be taking stock of the prisoner as well. He grunted a sound of amusement, like half of a chuckle then pointed to a pair of grenadiers.

“You two, come with me-keep an eye on this fellow.”

Immediately they stepped forward, one taking each of Strongwind’s arms as they started toward the door through which Lord Forlane was already departing. The Highlander felt Bloodsnout’s eyes boring into his back as he followed the lord from the chamber. Strongwind resolved to be alert for that one. The bullying ogre seemed like one who would carry a grudge.

He felt certain there would be a lot of grudges and much cause for revenge in this place.

“He will make arrangements to see that trollop again, probably within a matter of hours,” Stariz hissed. “I want him followed-I want to know the place where they meet and how long they are together!”

“Yes, my queen, of course,” replied Garnet Drake, her most trusted spy.

Garnet was a human, but he had been born and raised amid the slaves of Winterheim. The queen had no doubt of his loyalty, for her favor had given him a status among his kind. She saw that he received gifts of good food and beer, and in return, he did her bidding and brought her word of all that happened throughout the city of Winterheim.

Now, as usual, the object of her curiosity was none other than her own royal husband. For just a moment Stariz looked longingly at the tub of once-steaming water, the bath that had been drawn for her by her personal slaves. How good it would feel to immerse in that soothing warmth! She forced that thought, that longing, aside, recognizing it for the sign of weakness that it was.

No doubt her husband had already proceeded to his own bath, was no doubt dreaming of one or more of the fanciful pleasures that drew so much of his limited attention. For he was weak, Grimwar Bane, weak in resolution and determination, areas in which his wife was strong. For a moment she gave way to another kind of longing, an idle wish that the ogre king would acknowledge the precious strengths of his queen. How could he not see that it was her traits and intelligence that had carried them as far as they had gone together?

Indeed, Grimwar Bane-with his clever queen-had the potential to be one of Suderhold’s great rulers, a truly historical figure. Stariz knew her history well and understood that this kingdom had once been great, a colony formed of the ancient ogre realm that had held sway over all of civilized Krynn. It had been thousands of years since those days, however, and that distant ogre empire had long since crumbled.

She thought bitterly of the second ship of the royal fleet. Hornet had been designed by an elf captive and built with the labor of human slaves, but Stariz almost cried as she remembered the blast that had destroyed that prize ship. She almost cried, too, recalling that her most powerful ally, Dowager Queen Hannareit, was dead. Now everything was up to her, Stariz ber Glacierheim ber Bane.

There was only one good thing about the recent disaster. Stariz was convinced that the Elf Messenger had perished in the blast. She knew he had entered Dracoheim, and her god had warned her that the elf was a harbinger of doom. Indeed he had been a bane of her existence since his arrival in Icereach some eight years earlier. The knowledge that he was dead brought her some small degree of pleasure.

Garnet Drake was still standing there, patiently waiting for his mistress’s next words. He bowed as she raised her eyes to his.

“Does the trollop still maintain her usual apartments?”

“In fact, no, my queen. In the recent weeks she has been spending time preparing a new place, a terrace house overlooking the middle levels of the city. She has ordered new chairs, two dozen bear furs, a hundred lamps for the place, and …” Garnet coughed regretfully.

“Speak!” demanded the queen. “What?”

“She commissioned the carpenters to create a new bed … gave specific orders to the master slave that it must be delivered before the king returned from his campaign.”

Stariz trembled, felt her face flushing. For a moment she couldn’t speak, could only clench her teeth, jutting the twin blunt tusks upward from her lower jaw. “The impertinent wench!” she spat, finally. “Is there no end to her shamelessness?”

“Perhaps your majesty may take some comfort in the fact that, among the slaves and ogres alike, there seems to be no knowledge of the king’s … indiscretions. At least she has been delicate enough to prevent the affair from becoming common gossip.”

“That is no comfort!” growled Stariz, her withering glare fixing upon Garnet Drake, who could only bow in humble apology. “No comfort at all! Now, go, do your job!”

The spy slave departed to set his agents in motion. No move of the king’s or of Thraid Dimmarkull’s would go unreported, but in the silence of her chambers, alone with her thoughts, Stariz understood that it was no longer enough to simply maintain knowledge of her husband’s acts. No … the time had come to for her to take action of her own.