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.
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.
Gently he opened that door. He could see the outline of his lover’s body on the bed, the soft curves actually making him short of breath. With trembling hands he moved the door mostly shut, allowing just a sliver of light into the room. This dimness was the perfect illumination for lovemaking, he knew.
“My pet?” he whispered.
Ah, the coy wench was playing with him, lying still. Hesitancy gone, he crossed the room in three long strides, sat on the edge of the bed and touched her shoulder.
“I am here-” he began then stopped.
Something was wrong. His touch had provoked no reaction, not even the trembling playful stillness she sometimes affected, knowing it increased his desire.
“Thraid, my lady,” he said, shaking her gently.
No response. In growing confusion he pulled the blanket back and rolled her from her side onto her back. He saw those red lips, so carefully rouged for him, but there was more redness, too, a horrible crimson gash through her throat, the wound gaping like some ghastly caricature of her sensual mouth. Blood soaked the sheets and her sleeping cloak, still sticky but already cool to the touch. He gagged and staggered across the room, crashing into the wall. His hands flew to his face, but they could not stifle his moans, could not wipe away the cruel truth.
The Lady Thraid Dimmarkull was dead.
16
She, Kerrick, Bruni, and Barq had descended the gently graded trail down to the floor of the Moongarden, and now they walked, entranced, among the stands of giant fungi, along the stone-lined bank of a rippling stream. The rest of the warriors were trailing behind, each stopping for a moment to gape in awe at this vast and illuminated garden.
At Kerrick’s suggestion, the fighters lingered behind in the shelter of a small grotto while the four companions scouted ahead.
“This Moongarden is huge-several square miles I’d say,” the elf ventured. “I see passages, a half dozen or more, going off to either side. Who knows where it all leads.”
Moreen nodded. She was thinking about all the food represented by these mushrooms, which resembled the little caps and stems that were so common in the groves and meadows of the Icereach. They grew almost overnight during the warming days of spring, and for three or four months they were gathered to form a staple of the Arktos diet. Her people even dried them so they could be stored throughout the cold months.
But here! She imagined that just one of the bigger mushroom-trees would have provide sustenance to all of Brackenrock for several days.
“It’s no wonder they can support a whole city underground,” she said. “They must farm this place, use it as a food warren all year around.”
