The Nobles’ Market was up two levels, and the ogress and the slave king climbed the ramp in long strides. Finally they arrived at a wide double doorway leading into a cavernous chamber where many slaves milled about and a few armed ogres glowered and shouted orders or fingered long, wicked-looking whips. There was a great hubbub of noisy conversation and a significant amount of jostling for position in several long queues.
“A smelly lot,” Thraid sniffed, indicating the mob of humans. “I command you, slave, to get me two large salmon. I shall wait for you over at the plaza inn, where I will be having a mug of tea.” She reached forward and used a small key to disconnect the chain from his collar, then pressed two gold pieces into his palm. “These are for the fish and nothing else. Do you understand? On your honor, return to me swiftly.”
“Certainly, my lady.” The slave king’s expression remained blank, but his heart pounded at the thought that he would at last be turned loose among a great congregation of slaves-and in the Nobles’ Market, the place he most wanted to visit in all the city!
He wandered through the door and looked around, grateful that his height allowed him to see over most of the crowd. Six or eight large alcoves opened in the wall around the perimeter of the big room, which had a temperature much chillier than the rest of Winterheim.
After a moment’s inspection, the Highlander king deduced that these alcoves each opened into a large warehouse where different types of food were kept. The alcoves were used for disbursement. Wooden signs with crude pictures marked the locations. A fish, a flask of oil, and a loaf of bread were readily found, and with a little study he understood that salt, berries, and sea-greens were among the other offerings.
He would get the salmon, but first he would seize this moment to briefly extend his freedom. Remembering Tildy Trew’s words, he joined the line at the salt alcove, waited for the half dozen slaves in front of him to have their sacks filled by a big, swarthy man-obviously an Arktos-who curtly gestured for the next in the queue to move forward.
“Can’t give ya salt wit’out a sack,” he declared, all but sneering when Strongwind arrived before him.
“I don’t want salt,” he replied. “I want to talk to Black Mike.”
Though he hadn’t known what to expect, the Highlander king was startled when the glowering fellow reached across the counter and seized him by the front of his collar. With a jerk of a sinewy forearm, the man pulled Strongwind forward and hissed at him a few inches from his face.
“Where’d you hear a name like that? What kind of a fool are you, to use it here?” The man’s mouth was clenched into a tight line, and flecks of spittle flew from his lips as he all but snarled.
Firmly the king broke the grip, his own fingers twisting the salt vendor’s wrist with unrelenting pressure as he leaned back and pulled his adversary halfway onto the counter. “Where can we go to talk?” he asked, conspiratorially.
The fellow’s eyes narrowed to twin spots of darkness, and his black hair and beard framed the swarthy face in bristling fur. In that instant Strongwind knew: This was Black Mike himself.
“Garic, take over here,” said the salt vendor, and another fellow-a lanky, long-haired Highlander-advanced from the recesses of the alcove.
Shooting a sideways, narrow-eyed glance at the two men, he took his place at the salt counter. The slave in line behind Strongwind was already pushing forward as the Highlander king stepped to the side then went through the door that opened for him, following the other man into a dark, cool room. Blocks of salt were stacked up to twelve or more feet high, enclosing the walls of the room and forming several corridors of small passages in the large chamber. Wooden stepladders were erected here and there, providing access to the tall stacks. To one side, near the counter, several male slaves were busy grinding a salt block into granules for distribution.
“I’m taking the new man back to the evaporation room,” announced Strongwind’s guide. They followed a narrow corridor between two towering stacks of salt blocks, turned a corner near what seemed like the back of the room, then passed under a stone arch that led to a wide connecting hallway. At the end of that hall was a door, which the man opened then stood back, gesturing to the king to proceed.
A sense of alarm prickled along the nape of Strongwind Whalebone’s neck, but he had come too far to back out now. Indeed, he was encouraged that his question had provoked such an unquestionably genuine reaction. Balling his hands into fists, he stepped through the door and quickly looked to the right.
A man was waiting there with an upraised club, and the Highlander reacted immediately, stabbing a punch into the fellow’s face, drawing a curse as the would-be attacker stumbled backward. A heavy blow smashed onto Strongwind’s head from behind-from another club wielder lurking on the other side of the door-and Black Mike drove into his side with a charging rush.
The king went down, but not before he kicked the second attacker in the gut. His hands grappled for the third man, and when the two hit the floor Strongwind wound up on top. Only when he saw the two clubbers raise the weapons to either side did he release his grip, springing away to face the trio in a fighting crouch.
“What’s this about?” he demanded. “I ask a simple question, and you try to bash my brains in!”
Slowly he became aware that other men were in this room, a dozen or more surly-looking fellows advancing from the shadows to surround him in a menacing ring.
“I’ll have the truth from you one way or another. Where did you hear that name?” demanded Black Mike.
“Your name?” Strongwind acted on his guess and saw by the man’s widening eyes that he had hit the mark. “A slave woman told me-made it sound like Black Mike was somebody I’d like to talk to.”
“You’re awfully careless, then,” snarled Black Mike. “Why shouldn’t we kill you right now?”
“Because I don’t know the rules of slave life in Winterheim? I’ve only been here for ten days, so forgive me if I come up short on some of the finer points of rebel etiquette.”
“Ten days?” One of the other slaves, a muscular, stocky Highlander, spoke up. “Are you the bloke that came in on the galley with Grimwar Bane? You’re the king?”
“That’s me,” Strongwind replied.
There were several appreciative whistles from the men. “Well, they put you to work, I see-for now,” said one of them, with a grim chuckle.
The Highlander wondered what the fellow meant but didn’t take the time to ask. Another slave nodded, apparently impressed. “I had it from some of the grenadiers that you gave them a pretty good licking before they took you. Those bastards would have loved to have your head on a pike. So you’re really the king of Guilderglow?”
“I was a king. It seems I am a slave, now, but I am still a man, and they have not broken my pride.”
Black Mike was scrutinizing Strongwind with a more intrigued and markedly less hostile glare. He rubbed his throat where the king’s fingers had throttled him. “You’re a fighter, I’ll grant you that, but what do you want with me? Why did you come asking after Black Mike?”
“I want to get out of this place. I want to break the backs of these slobbering ogre lords. I want to see our people free to live, to go where they will, not as slaves of brutes who can barely remember the symbols of their own civilization. The woman I talked to suggested you might have some of the same desires.”
“Those are dangerous words in Winterheim,” Black Mike said, shaking his head. “You’re not the first man to think them-all of us have done the same-but you should know that anyone who’s tried to act on them in the past has ended up dead, quickly and unpleasantly. What makes you think you’d be any different?”
“As you said, I’m a fighter, but I’m not a fool. I want to find other men, fighters like me, and see what we can do together. I might be able to help-I’ve got a position in the house of an ogress noblewoman.”
“There’s lots of slaves in houses like that,” Black Mike snorted. “Most of them are p
retty well tamed. Who is your mistress?”
“Thraid Dimmarkull-the lady Thraid Dimmarkull,” Strongwind replied. He hoped that the name would carry some meaning, but he was surprised by the grunts of appreciation from some of the men and saw a couple exchange nudges in the ribs or mutters of coarse humor.
“Now that is interesting,” said Black Mike, “and unique.”
“Why?’ asked the king.
“I guess you’re too new here to know what’s going on. You’ll be interested to hear that you’re serving the king’s own private whore.”
Grimwar Bane was running out of patience. His wife had been watching him like a hawk these past few days, and he had been unable to so much as get a message to Thraid. Yesterday, he had been obliged to inspect the treasury and as a result a splendid opportunity-six whole hours, when his wife was distracted by the training of temple acolytes-had been wasted.
Now, again, Stariz was off to the temple, and he knew she would be busy for most of the day. Though he had not communicated with his mistress, he was determined to take advantage of this chance and surprise her with a visit. He left the palace for a stroll and quickly turned around the corner into the Slaves’ Way. Certain that no one was looking, he pushed through the secret door, lit the lamp, and descended the long spiral of stairs toward the terrace level. His feet drummed on the stones, a pounding cadence that bore him farther and farther downward.
Finally, panting for breath and covered with sweat, he arrived at the terminus of the secret passage. Here discretion demanded that he be careful, so he settled for a thumping knock on the panel, knowing that he was the only one who usually came to her this way. Nothing happened for several seconds, so in his growing agitation he knocked again, harder.
He was just preparing for his third signal, which in all likelihood would have knocked the door from its hinges, when the portal was pulled open to reveal Wandcourt looking at him, his eyes wide with surprse.
“Your Majesty!” said the slave, bowing deeply. “Forgive me. We were not expecting you!”
The king bulled eagerly through the door, through the room beyond and out into the apartment’s main chamber. “My lady!” he called in a hoarse whisper, “I have come to you!”
“Er, Sire,” Wandcourt said, hesitantly.
The king was busy looking around, realizing that there was no sign of Thraid Dimmarkull. He turned his attention to the elder human.
“What is it? Where is she? Speak man!”
“Not here, Your Majesty-though she will be terribly distressed to learn that she missed your visit. She has taken the new slave, Whalebone, to the Nobles’ Market.”
“She took that slave out in the city?” demanded the king, appalled.
Surely he had insisted that she keep him out of sight! Hadn’t he? He growled softly, realizing that, perhaps, he had failed to make that point clear. No doubt Stariz would soon learn of the slave king’s whereabouts. Still, the fellow wasn’t here now, and that might be a good thing. Discretion, Grimwar Bane knew, was still important.
“Did she cloak him, hide him under a robe or something?” the ogre monarch asked hopefully.
“Not exactly, my lord king,” explained Brinda, who had emerged from the kitchen to stand at her husband’s side. “That is, I think she wanted to, well, show him off.”
10
The Icewall
Karyl Drago ber Glacierheim was an immense ogre, even by the standards of that immense race. Indeed, it had been said by others of his kind that he was too big-as if such a thing was possible in an ogre warrior. It was not in his fighting ability that his size was viewed as a liability. On the contrary, Karyl’s prowess with his great, stone-headed club was legendary. He easily twirled around a weapon that a normal ogre would have trouble lifting from the ground. He had never been defeated in combat, not by human slaves, thanoi foes, or ogre opponents. Once he had broken the neck of an ice bear in an arena contest, just for the sport of it.
Unfortunately, the strength of his musculature and his grace with that mighty club were not matched by a sense of ease in the presence of other ogres, nor, most notably, did he possess even the rudimentary manners needed to master the confines and rituals of Noble Winterheim.
Karyl Drago had been born and raised in the remote outpost of Glacierheim, where by the time of adulthood his reputation as the barony’s pre-eminent warrior was well established. Even there, in that mannerless, practically barbaric community, his lack of social graces had marked him as an outcast.
At the drunken brawls that passed for the baron’s celebrations, no one wanted to sit next to Karyl Drago. Not only did he take up enough bench space for any two normal ogres, but he jealously and aggressively reached for every scrap of food, every tankard of beverage, that came within reach. Since his arms were as correspondingly huge as the rest of him, this inevitably resulted in a scouring of the banquet table that left very few tidbits for the other ogres in the immediate area.
Any attempt to redress this matter would inevitably provoke the great brute to violence, and no one-or two or even three-wanted to face up to Karyl Drago when he was enraged. Also futile was the effort undertaken by the baron himself to speak to the ogre after such incidents. Drago would willingly agree to behave himself next time, and he certainly meant those words, yet he would just as certainly forget his promises when once again subjected to the temptations of roast bear haunch or seasoned warqat.
When the baron’s daughter, Stariz ber Glacierheim, had been summoned to the royal capital by the former king, Grimtruth Bane, as a suitable match for his son, Grimwar, the baron had sent a score of warriors from his own garrison as an honor guard to accompany Stariz to Winterheim and to stay with her in the city. He took a great deal of pleasure in assigning Karyl Drago to this detachment.
Drago’s own reactions to this move were straightforward. He did as he was ordered, of course, and indeed he looked forward to life in Winterheim, which was widely known as the center of all ogre culture in Icereach. In fact, Drago had a secret fascination with all things gold and knew that Winterheim was the greatest magnet for gold in the world-at least, in all the world that was the Icereach. There he hoped to find some pretty toys that he could gather to himself and cherish.
As for the soon-to-be queen Stariz, with her mysterious rituals and undeniable influence with the Willful One, she frightened him, just as she frightened almost everyone else. In fact, there were rumors that her own father found her to be such an ominous presence that he had vigorously sought the match with the king and had agreed to a surprisingly miniscule dowry-a few silver mines and a hundred human slaves-in order to ensure that she would be shipped off to the capital.
Whereas Stariz had really found her element in Winterheim, quickly assuming mastery of the great temple there even as her husband ascended to the throne, Drago was even more out of place in the great city than he had been in the less cultured land of his birth. His first experience with a royal banquet had been nearly disastrous when he had elbowed the obese Lord Quendip out of the way in a lunge for a prime rib-all the ribs, actually-of beef. The lord’s six handlers had tried to intervene, and they had ended up with one broken arm and two dislocated shoulders. Lord Quendip had demanded exile for the offending lout, but the king-who knew a good fighting man when he saw him-declared instead that the hulking Karyl would be assigned to the garrisons of the outer palisades.
His first post had been at the South Gate, where the roads to the vast gold mines converged upon the city. Drago had been part of a hundred-ogre garrison charged with careful observation of all who entered or departed the city, as well as with the operation of the great stone gate itself. Karyl’s strength was a great asset in the gate-opening-he could turn the massive winch alone, though it had previously required the efforts of a half dozen stalwart ogres. Here too, however, his uncouth behavior led to suspicion and dislike from his barracks-mates. There never seemed to be enough food or drink for both Drago and the ninety-nine other ogres who shared
his quarters.
It was at this posting, however, that Drago really began to develop the love that was to last the remainder of his life. It was not an emotion extended toward any other being, male or female, that welled up in his mighty heart. Instead, he began to truly nurture his fascination and fondness for the golden metal itself, the product of the rich mines that had always captured his fancy.
Not that he was greedy or inclined to thievery or the amassing of wealth-far from it. Drago’s worshipful affection for gold was a purely aesthetic expression. Quite simply, he liked it because it was pretty to look at. He loved to study the metal, caress golden objects in his huge hands, feel its good, solid weight against his chest. His favorite items of gold were not the solid ingots that were imported so steadily into the city. Rather they were the small ornaments, the rings, chains and medallions, even the children’s toys sculpted into the shape of seals or bears. To most ogres, these lacked the value of the solid gold bar, and Drago had no difficulty amassing quite a collection of such trinkets. When he was not working he would sit in his room in the barracks, surrounded by his toys, admiring them.
In the end, as it had been in the palace, it was an incident with a noble that rendered the assignment at the South Gate unworkable. A certain duke, Greckan Marst, was charged with administering nearly half of the royal gold mines. On one occasion, he decided to make journey of inspection and to do it incognito so that his charges would have no advance warning of his arrival. Leaving the city on foot with merely a dozen slaves to bear the provisions required by the duke on his three-day tour, Grackan Marst led his entourage through the gate that had been opened by Karyl Drago.
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