higher and higher, riding a wave of cheers toward the heights, and Strongwind had an idle thought: if those twenty slaves suddenly let go of their chains, would the king’s cage come crashing all the way back down to the waterfront? It was an idea that might bear investigation in the future.
More onlookers were gathered at the lower levels, looking down upon the sunlit harbor. One of these in particular caught his eye. An ogress studied him from a balcony perhaps a hundred feet overhead, and he met her gaze with a cool inspection of his own. She was unusually voluptuous for one of her race-unlike the blocky and bearlike ogre queen, this one was graced with an impressive bosom, her shape tapering to a narrow waist. The whole was wrapped in a dress of bright red, a color that stood out rather shockingly from the white or brown fur and buckskin garments worn by most of Winterheim’s populace. Her face was not bestial but was rather attractive in a full-fleshed way, and it creased into a sly smile as she met his gaze. She twisted one hand in a lazy, casual wave.
A prod in the back shoved the captive forward, and Strongwind staggered, rattling his chains, barely keeping his balance. He whirled to confront a leering guardsman bearing a wide-bladed, blunt-tipped sword.
“Keep moving,” growled the ogre with a cruel sneer. “You don’t wanna get walked on, you don’t!”
Drawing himself erect again, Strongwind continued forward, following the escort of several royal guards-they were called Grenadiers, he remembered-as they broke away from the main body of returning warriors. The Highlander was taken into a lofty tunnel leading away from the harbor, where coldness and shadow once again settled around him. Conscious of the same bullying swordsman behind him, he managed to keep pace with his captors until they arrived at a large wooden door.
This was pulled open from the inside to revealed a torchlit cavern where a few ogres sat idly at a large table. These looked up with grunts of greeting for the arriving party. The human king guessed that this was some kind of garrison room for the ogre warriors. There were many benches along the walls, and swords and bucklers dangling from equipment racks.
Strongwind was pushed again, the blow this time hard enough to knock him down. He spun about on the floor, pushing himself to a crouching position, glaring into the face of the sneering guard.
That ogre raised his sword and rested it across his shoulder with a casual gesture, then gestured to another who came forward with a ring of iron keys.
“Take th’ cuffs off,” said the bully. “No escape chance for him no more, not from Winterheim.”
Strongwind rubbed his wrists as the manacles were released then stretched his legs, allowing the chains to be pulled free. Only when he had worked out some of the kinks did he slowly rise, eyeing the sword-wielding ogre from the corner of his eye.
When he was standing, the Highlander arched his back and extended his arms, continuing the charade of loosening his creaking joints. Most of the other ogres from his escort were unclasping buckles, sitting down to remove their boots, or hanging their weapons from the equipment hooks. They chortled crude greetings to their comrades, exchanged a few rough clasps or thumping blows to each other’s backs and shoulders.
Strongwind was, for the moment, left under the watch of his lone tormentor. Clenching his fist, the king whirled suddenly and sent a hard punch directly into the nose of the bully. That guardsman roared loudly, dropping his sword as he staggered back, both hands clutching his bleeding snout.
“That was for knocking me down,” Strongwind said, calmly eyeing the sputtering brute.
The captive’s coolness only seemed to inflame the beast. “He’s mine!” he roared, waving back his comrades who were advancing to restrain Strongwind. “Insolent human scum-you could have long life here! You are too stupid for that-and now you die!”
The Highlander kicked the sword out of the way and flexed his knees, fists raised to meet the onslaught. There were worse things, he thought, than dying in battle with a bullying captor-and he planned to get in a few more good licks before he fell. The ogre put his head down and charged. Strongwind punched again, a roundhouse blow landing on the brute’s ear. The human ducked away before the long arms could trap him then bounced up again, fists raised as he waited for the next rush.
“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
