Winterheim

13

Stariz sat on the floor of the temple, a film of sweat damp on her brow. She was trembling, breathing heavily, trying to reconstruct the fragments of an unsettling vision, a sweeping experience of godly power that had left her drained and unconscious on the floor. Anxiously she stood on the smooth obsidian surface, casting a spell that brought light to the sconces posted on both sides of the great chamber.

“What is it, O Willful Master?” she murmured. Her mind was bright with an image of gleaming gold, an immaculate and sacred expanse. She recognized the memory: the Axe of Gonnas, the cherished talisman that she had lost more than eight years ago. It was a burden of guilt that bore heavily upon her conscience, even to this day. She had felt that loss anew when she had dreamed about the axe two weeks ago.

Why would she see this vision now, again, and in such a vivid fashion? It was as if … perhaps it was not lost forever.

Now she could really believe that the Axe of Gonnas was near. Whatever the means of its transport, it called to her, and not from terribly far away. Someone was bringing it to her, carrying it into Winterheim.

Where, once again, it would belong to the high priestess and queen.

Strongwind waited in his alcove for longer than two hours, but nobody came out of the Lady Thraid’s apartment. Finally, the two guards ambled past, chortling in private amusement over some crude joke. They did not see the Highlander, and he waited until they had turned the corner before he emerged.

The man looked at the exit, the only exit, from the courtyard. He had been posted where he would have seen anyone coming or going from here, and his vigilance had never waned. No one except those two guards had passed while he watched and waited.

He advanced to the door and knocked tentatively. A short time later, Wandcourt opened the door, and Strongwind entered without comment.

“So there you are,” Brinda said, coming out of the kitchen.

“What is that? Did Whalebone come in?” Thraid called from the bedroom.

“Yes, my lady!” Brinda said, with startling urgency. “I will put him to work cleaning up the supper mess.”

“Let me see him,” Thraid said. The door to her sleeping chamber opened, and the ogress emerged.

Strongwind glanced up and froze a mental image in his startled mind, then quickly looked away so that he would not be perceived as staring. The truth was plain in the smearing of the lady’s lip gloss and fact that her dressing gown hung wide open across her otherwise naked body.

Clearly the ogress had just engaged in a tryst with her lover. The presence of the royal guards seemed to confirm the rumor he had heard from Black Mike, that Thraid’s paramour was none other than the king himself. The final detail was proved by his watch over the only known approach to this place. He wasn’t sure what he could do with such information, but he knew it was valuable.

For now he knew beyond any doubt that there must be a secret passage connecting Lady Thraid’s new apartment to the royal quarters of Winterheim.

“Will my lord king be eating dinner in the royal apartment tonight?” asked Stariz solicitously.

“I don’t know!” snapped Grimwar Bane. “Why do I have to decide everything right away?”

“I beg Your Majesty’s forgiveness,” said the queen demurely, casting her eyes downward. “I meant no offense-merely hoped to have the pleasure of your company at the evening meal.”

“Well, yes, I will eat here, tonight,” the ogre king declared, guilt and irritation mingling to darken his mood. “First I have to go out-the grenadiers are drilling, and Captain Verra asked me to inspect the ranks.”

“Very well, my lord. May Gonnas watch over your footsteps.”

“Yes, may he do so,” Grimwar replied, hastily throwing a cloak of white bearskin over his shoulders and making his way toward the door so quickly that the slave on duty there barely had time to pull it open.

Once outside, on the King’s Promenade, Grimwar Bane drew a deep breath, angry with his wife and with himself as well. A week ago, when he had made up his mind to cast Stariz out of his life, he had felt grand and imperial, commanding and masterful. That feeling had lasted only until he returned to the apartment to find his wife offering him a comfortable pair of whaleskin slippers and a chilled glass of the finest vintage warqat.

Why did she have to be nice to him all of a sudden? He didn’t need her ministrations, didn’t even want them. Now that he had made up his mind to act, he resented her very presence, and it would have been much easier if she had treated him coldly, arousing the feelings of antipathy that had been so common during their decade of marriage. Instead, it was as if she were trying to prove herself a good wife.

Well, it was too late for that! Making long strides along the paving stones, he pushed through the crowds of lesser ogres like a great ship gliding through a flock of bobbing seabirds. The citizens of Winterheim drew their cue from the expression on his face and quickly moved out of the way, bowing and murmuring honorifics but making no effort to meet his royal eyes or to draw him into any conversation. This was as he desired it, and he began to feel better as he descended the long ramp to the Martial Level.

Once he entered the grenadiers’ barracks compound, he was almost back to his old, confident self. Certainly the matter of Stariz would have to be addressed, but he would postpone that until after the ceremony of Autumnblight. Until then, the best thing was clearly to avoid her as much as possible. That was when he remembered that he had just told her he would have dinner with her tonight.

“Your Majesty-thank you for honoring us with your presence!”

Captain Verra of the grenadiers rushed forward and bowed as the king approached. They were in the great, square training room, where the ogres practiced their weapons drills, as well as marches and other ceremonial pursuits. Several of the red-coated warriors were in here now, and they had snapped to attention at the king’s entrance. The others, Grimwar knew, would be polishing weapons or tending to their equipment in the many smaller rooms adjacent to this drill floor.

“Yes, of course,” barked the monarch. “Proceed with the review at once!”

“Certainly, my lord-right away!”

Verra, who was a stalwart ogre veteran of many raids and campaigns, spun on his heel and roared out the 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-”

He was somewhat surprised when she shook her head, cutting him off.

“No, the axe is near. The axe is coming to us!”

“Did your vision explain how the axe is traveling?” he asked, more tartly than he intended.

She didn’t seem to notice his skeptical tone. “Someone is bearing it. Mostly he keeps it masked, or I would sense it more strongly, but twice now he has used it, pulled the cover away from it. I could hear it calling to me, full of promise, crying for vengeance. It is the will of Gonnas, my lord!”

This conversation was getting more disturbing with each utterance. “What about the elf? Did you dream about the Elven Messenger?”

That, of course, was his great nightmare, that he would again be tormented by the creature who had been behind his problems for eight years. It was the elf who had taken the axe, who had led the Arktos across the sea to Brackenrock, and it was he who had drawn the king on his last, fateful adventure to Dracoheim. Although there was no evidence, he had hoped the elf was dead.

Stariz shook her head. “No, I saw no suggestion of any specific person. I think we are safe in the knowledge that he was killed in the explosion of the Golden Orb.”

“Yes … he must be dead, and that woman, too, the chieftain of Brackenrock, but then who else has the talisman of our god? Who is bringing the Axe of Gonnas to Winterheim?”

“That is what I intend to find out. I shall go to the temple again in the morning. There I will pray to the Willful One and hope that he favors me with illumination. My lord husband, I am convinced that this is a real opportunity. Trust me, the axe is nearby!”

“I trust you,” he said, lying. “Let me know as soon as you learn anything else.”

“Certainly, Sire, I will,” she replied, bowing her head meekly.

“Very well. Now, I intend to retire early tonight,” he said, pushing back his chair, rising to make his escape. It was only then that he remembered the subject raised by Captain Verra, a matter that could benefit from his wife’s unique skills. “One more thing, my queen?”

“Yes, Lord King?” Stariz waited expectantly.

“Have your contacts reported any rumblings about unrest among the slaves-more than the usual, I mean? Do you have any indications of a possible uprising?”

“I cannot say that any such reports have come to my attention, not in the immediate past,” she replied. “Of course, there were those treacherous smiths I discovered in the foundry last fall, but we put them to death at the Sturmfrost feast, you recall. Why do you ask this? Have you heard a rumor?”

“Just something from one of the grenadiers-a good officer. He said that there was some unusual activity in the Nobles’ Marketplace, and he wondered about some of the slaves there.”

“Interesting. It is a place where the humans mingle with little supervision,” Stariz said. “I agree, it’s a potentially dangerous situation. I will look into the matter at once.”

“I knew you would,” said the king, content that the issue was in capable hands. He exited the dining room with a bounce in his step, ready to get a good night’s rest.

After the way Thraid had been working him, Gonnas knew, he needed it.

Strongwind waited until everyone in the apartment was asleep. Brinda, the last to retire, had blown out her lamp a half hour earlier, and he could hear the measured breathing coming from behind the curtain where she and her husband shared a pallet. Slowly, quietly, the Highlander rose to his feet and padded out of the slave quarters into the great room. He pulled the outer curtain closed over the slaves’ alcove, and ignited a small oil lamp.

Next he pressed his ear to Thraid’s door, satisfied to hear the sonorous snores that meant his mistress was drowsing deeply. He was relieved that she had demanded a drink after her bath and that he had had the foresight to make it very strong. He hoped she was sleeping very soundly.

Finally, he looked around, wondering where to start his search for the secret door. He ruled out the walls of the kitchen, since they fronted the courtyard. Likewise Thraid’s bed chamber-one wall of which abutted the street outside.

One possibility was the great room, another was a wall of the social parlor, and a third was the storeroom. All of these abutted the bedrock of the mountainside and could provide cover for a hidden passage.

He started in the great room, holding the light close to the wall, grateful that the furnishings were still spare and that nearly the whole stone surface was bare. He spent a long time going back and forth, probing with his fingers, studying each irregularity, looking for some evidence of a crack, a breach, any kind of opening. After a half hour he was forced to conclude that the surface was solid stone.

Next he moved into the storeroom, pulling the door shut behind him, then turning the lamp wick up to its full height. He repeated the inspection on the two walls of the chamber that allowed possible connection to the city’s mountainous bedrock and once again failed to find any indication of a concealed passage. After refilling his lamp from the barrel in this chamber, he turned to the small parlor.

The parlor had three walls joining other rooms of the apartment but one surface adjacent to the mountain. Once again he pulled the door shut behind him and turned up the lamp to full brightness. The room was unfurnished and-in his estimate-hardly ever used. His attention was immediately drawn to the bearskin hanging on the wall, the only decoration of any kind in here.

As soon as he pulled the pelt aside, he knew he had found his secret panel. The outline of a door was faint, but he could clearly see a deep crack.

The portal seemed securely set in its frame, but he knew there had to be a way to open it. He turned his attention to the small alcoves set in the wall, perches for the lamps that were a feature of every house and every room in this subterranean city. There were two of them here, each with an iron bracket mounted in place. He reached into the alcove closest to the door, took hold of the bracket, and gave it a twist.

Immediately he heard a rumble of grinding stone, and with a touch to the bearskin he felt the wall behind the pelt sliding away from him. After a few seconds the sound, which was too faint-he hoped-to rouse any of the sleepers, ceased. Pulling the skin to the side again, he observed a narrow hallway revealed, extending only a couple of steps before it became a steep, narrow stairway leading up.

Quickly Strongwind adjusted the bearskin then turned the bracket to slide the door closed again. He was certain the route led all the way to the top of Winterheim, to the Royal Level, possibly the king’s own apartments. He didn’t know yet how he would take advantage of his discovery, but he doused his lamp and went to bed on his own pallet feeling that he had learned something very important, something that would prove to be quite useful indeed.