order to assemble. More than two hundred grenadiers spilled from the dozen or so doorways along the far wall, adjusting tunics, buckling boots and helmets as they hurried forth.
Watching them gather into their ranks, the king couldn’t help but be impressed. These ogre warriors were the pride of Winterheim, he knew, and they made a fine-looking formation indeed. To an ogre they were trim and muscular, avoiding the tendency to bulge in the middle that was a trademark of most adult ogres, including-if he was honest enough to admit it-the king himself. Each carried a long-hafted halberd and wore a wide-bladed sword at his belt. Those belts, as well as their boots and the many straps festooned across tunics and helmets, were polished to a gleaming black.
The grenadiers did more than just look impressive, the king was pleased to note. They marched to and fro in perfect unison, turning to the right or left as sergeants-major barked commands. Their heavy boots thudded against the floor with a cadence that stirred his heart. When they ceased their movement, the ranks were as crisp and precise as they had been at the start of the drill.
Several detachments advanced for weapons demonstrations, and this part of the display helped to lift Grimwar further from his bleak mood. He relished the slashing of the halberds, the clash of blade against hilt in tightly choreographed routines. In one impressive maneuver, two ranks of a dozen ogres each roared loud challenges, then rushed together to meet in an apparently frenzied melee. With stylized movement they wheeled around the floor, advancing and retreating in precise lines.
The final aspect of the drill was a contest of sword play in which sixteen skilled fighters were paired in duels. Unlike the careful precision of the halberd drills, which were designed to look furious while following prescribed forms of attack and defense, the sword matches were actual contests-though the edges of the blades had been dulled for the occasion. The first set of matches yielded eight winners and several bruises and broken bones among the losers. In short order the eight were pared to four, then to the best pair of fighters in the esteemed regiment.
At last, these final two swordsmen came together to put on a dazzling display of combat, slashing and clanging at each other in a duel that carried them back and forth across the wide floor. The watching grenadiers shouted encouragement to their favorites, and many gold pieces changed hands as bets were placed and paid off. At last the victor, a lanky sergeant who used his long arms to great advantage, knocked his foe to the ground and drove the blunt tip of his sword right up to the loser’s throat.
“Bravo!” cried the king himself, as the ranks of ogres erupted in cheers or groans-depending on the wagers placed. Grimwar Bane himself placed a heavy chain of solid gold links around the neck of the winner, then retired with Captain Verra to his office, where they shared mugs of warqat.
“I commend you on the training of the regiment,” said the king, raising his tankard in a toast.
“Your Majesty is very gracious,” replied Verra, “but I confess, these good ogres do make me proud.” The officer looked hesitant for a moment, then cleared his throat. “May I speak frankly, Your Highness?”
Feeling expansive, Grimwar waved the ogre to continue. He liked this soldier and trusted him. Now, he watched curiously, wondered what the captain wanted to say.
Verra’s jaw was set firmly, his twin tusks jutting upward a good inch or more in a fine display of ogre masculinity. His shoulders were square, and his eyes showed a depth of curiosity and understanding far from common among the males of Winterheim. He fixed those eyes upon his king.
“I worry for the safety of the realm,” Verra began. “I train my men to do the best that they can, but we are not enough. The citizenry of the city has, by and large, become complacent concerning the existence of a great threat right here in our midst.”
Grimwar growled softly. “By ‘threat,’ you mean the human slaves that necessarily dwell among us in such numbers,” he suggested.
“Aye, Sire, I do. Have you noticed how, in many families-even among the higher nobles, those who should have a sense of history-the slaves are granted a great deal of freedom. They make decisions, plan menus, establish schedules … as if they are the masters.”
“It has always been thus, has it not?”
“I suggest, Sire, that the situation is becoming extreme. My men have reported to me rumors of another uprising, a cabal of slaves that seeks to overthrow your regime, our whole populace, and claim Winterheim for themselves.”
“I appreciate your bluntness,” said the king. “Indeed, a conversation such as this is all too rare. Usually, those with whom I speak are only interested in telling me what they think I want to hear. Surely you know that it has always been thus-there are a few rabble rousers among the slaves. When they are caught, as they inevitably will be, they become but examples to all the rest of the folly of resistance.”
“Indeed, Sire, this is how it has gone in the past, but my sources indicate that this group of rebels is especially pernicious and cunning enough to have avoided discovery up to now.”
“Do you have specific information? Where are these slaves posted-what is the nature of their plans?”
The king began to sense an opportunity here. One of his queen’s most valuable functions had been to discern these types of plots, and if he could put her onto the trail of something like this, it would provide the perfect distraction through the next week until the ceremony at Autumnblight.
“The best indication is that at least some of the rebels are posted in the Nobles’ Marketplace. I wish that I could give you more specifics, but alas, I have none to offer. However, the rumors indicate that the movement is widespread and continues to gain support.”
“Captain, I thank you for the valuable information,” said Grimwar Bane, rising to make his farewells. “I will bring this matter up with the queen. Perhaps we shall be able to offer some compelling sacrifices this year in the ceremony of the Autumnblight.”
“Your Majesty does me great honor,” Captain Verra replied. “I thank you for hearing me. It is my most sincere hope that these rascals can be publicly brought to justice.”
“Yes,” agreed the king, as he departed. “I think that would be a happy ending for all concerned.”
Thraid relaxed in the tub of steaming water, pleasant memories of her lover drifting through her mind.
It especially pleased her that the king had seemed just a little jealous of her new slave when he learned that she had taken him to the Nobles’ Marketplace. She enjoyed teasing him about things like that, but it only seemed fair. Didn’t he know that she got jealous, knowing he had to go back to that cow of an ogress every night?
Yes, indeed … it was a rare pleasure to be able to turn the tables. She giggled quietly as she sank deeper into the tub. Was her water getting a little cool? It didn’t really matter, come to think of it.
“Oh, Whalebone?” she called, sitting up a little, so that the upper globes of her massive breasts emerged, slick and shiny, from the bath.
“Yes, lady?” he asked, discreetly remaining on the other side of the door.
“I need some more hot water. Bring it to me, at once!”
“Of course,” he said. She heard the scrape of a pot as he put it on the stove to warm. In a few minutes, she would have him pour it into the tub.
Perhaps she would ask him to scrub her back.
“In the temple this morning … I had a vision of the Axe of Gonnas,” Stariz announced to Grimwar Bane as they dined together at the long table in the royal apartments.
The king suppressed a sigh. He had had a very pleasant day and thus far had escaped any meaningful conversation with his wife. Now he would have to feign interest in this most tiresome subject. He lifted his head from his haunch of beef to look at her and nodded in what he hoped looked like a thoughtful gesture.
“Indeed. Was it unusual?” he asked.
He knew the queen’s bitterness over the loss of that treasured artifact. She tirelessly grieved over it. However, since this was one of the few difficulties in her life that she had never been able to blame on him, he allowed himself a perverse pleasure as she discussed it.
“Yes!” she said, her eyes flashing with excitement. “That’s just it-it was a hopeful message, a sign from the Willful One! I believe we have the chance to regain the axe!”
The king’s expression immediately darkened. “If this is a dream that sends me to Brackenrock again, I’m not going!” he warned. “How many hundreds of my warriors must die before you’re content? Besides, winter is closing in-”
