“Yes, Your Majesty, I do,” he confessed, “though I should be eager to answer your call, no matter what the time or the cause.”
“That is what I thought. Tell me, how sharp is your knife?” she asked him bluntly.
Garnet Dane’s eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t hesitate to answer. “In your service, it is a razor, my queen.”
“Splendid,” she said. “It is time for you to use it.”
He leaned close, his thin lips creasing into a smile as she outlined her orders.
“Whalebone!”
Strongwind heard the snap of Thraid’s fingers as she summoned him into the great room where she indolently lay as usual upon her divan. It was late morning, but she had slept late on this day, as was also usual.
“I need you to make a trip to the market for me, but there is no hurry.”
“As you wish, my lady,” he said. “Am I to fetch anything in particular?”
“Yes … make it a lamb, this time.” She fished several gold coins out of a purse. “Do not come back until this evening.”
“Of course, mistress,” he replied.
Strongwind was delighted at the timing of the request and relieved to get away from the voluptuous ogress for a few hours. Her attentions to him had been unnerving. She had insisted that he help her with her bath, an experience leaving memories that would require gallons of warqat to wash away.
Now he had important news about the connection between Thraid Dimmarkull’s apartment and the royal palace and was eager to report his discovery to the nascent rebel group. He went immediately to the market and made his way to the window at the salt alcove. Black Mike was at the counter, and when he saw the Highlander approaching he quickly called for a replacement, then moved sideways to open the door so that Strongwind could join him in the evaporation room.
As before, they made their way through the aisles of stacked salt into the storage room in the back. The slave king noticed other men throughout the room setting their tasks aside and gradually, casually converging on the room.
A few minutes later the band had gathered, perhaps twice as many men as the dozen Strongwind had seen on his first meeting here. The group circled close, regarding him with interest as Black Mike folded his arms and waited.
“Well, did you learn anything?”
“Yes. The king did come to visit the Lady Thraid. There were guards-the King’s Grenadiers-outside her apartment, and they wouldn’t let me pass.” Some measure of modesty caused Strongwind not to mention the disheveled appearance of the ogress when later he had returned to the apartments.
He was about to describe his search for the secret door when one of the men at the back of the throng held up his hand and whispered urgently, “Hsst! be silent!”
They all heard the thump of heavy boots. There were cries of consternation from the market, screams of frightened humans mingled with harsh ogre commands. Something heavy crashed to the floor outside of the room, and guttural roars bellowed above a growing din of panic.
“Out the back!” declared Black Mike. “Move!”
Strongwind was carried by the throng, as the men surged toward the shadowy nether reaches of the room. The Highlander could make out a door there and saw one slave pull it open.
In the next instant a spear darted into the opening, striking the man in the chest and erupting from his back in a shower of gore. Gasping, he tumbled back into the room, kicking weakly, dying very slowly.
There was light beyond the doorway, but that illumination only served to outline the shape of a hulking ogre, one of the red-coated grenadiers. He reached forward to retrieve his weapon, shaking the spear contemptuously to 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. Goldwing was sparkling again, fully repaired and freshly painted. The sight of his gleaming galley made him happy. A small mountain of timber was stacked nearby in his shipyard, and he idly considered the notion of building another ship, a vessel to replace the lost Hornet. Perhaps that work could begin this winter?
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, anti
cipation 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
The Moongarden
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.”
“If this is a farm,” Bruni said, raising a hand in caution, “don’t you think we might run into some farmers?”
“Good point,” Barq agreed, scowling into the shadows of a particularly thick grow of giant fungus. “They might be watching us right now.”
“They might,” Kerrick said, “but I don’t think they are. I’ve been looking around, and-at this end of the Moongarden at least-I don’t see any sign of tending or cultivation. It’s as if all of this stuff just grows wild here.”
“It’s so big that maybe they don’t have to come this far to get what they need,” Moreen speculated. “After all, we have to assume that the city lies somewhere beyond the far end of this cavern, don’t we?”
“It has to be in that direction,” the elf agreed, pointing. “We haven’t come far enough from Icewall Pass to reach the mountain of Winterheim yet. I’m certain that we’re underground, maybe right under the Icewall, but still someplace between the pass and the city.”
“Well, we’re on the right path,” the chiefwoman declared. “We just have to keep moving.”
“How’s your face?” Bruni said, speaking to Barq as they ambled along. “Do those bruises still hurt?”
The big warrior put his hand to his nose and wiggled, then shook his head. “The old lady’s ointment’s good stuff. I can even breathe with my mouth closed again.”
“The power of Chislev Wilder,” Moreen remarked. “Dinekki has long been in favor with our goddess.”
“Perhaps we should find a place to rest while we’re still in the wild part of the Moongarden,” Kerrick said. “This might be our best chance to gather our strength and have plenty to eat, before we try to push on into Winterheim itself.”
“Good idea,” Moreen said. She turned to Kerrick and Bruni. “Over there looks like a nice grotto. It’s out of sight from the main cavern. I see signs of a waterfall, and it might be large enough to give us all some soft ground for sleeping.”
She led them along the bank of a rapid stream. Nearby, the uneven floor of the cavern rose from the ground level into a ten- or twelve-foot embankment, a ledge that would serve very well to conceal them. The clearing was small but flat, and a layer of lush moss cushioned the ground.
“This looks like a good place,” Kerrick offered. “There’s enough space for all of us to stretch out, make a camp, and still be out of sight.”
“I’ll have a look around,” Barq One-Tooth said. “Make sure we don’t have any neighbors.”
“Be careful you don’t meet the neighbors,” Moreen warned.
“No chance o’ that,” the Highlander snorted.
He stepped across the stream on several small, dry-topped stones, showing surprisingly nimbleness for his size. Three steps later he had disappeared between the trunks of the mushroom trees in the nearby grove.
In a few minutes the two Arktos women and the elf had dropped their packs and shucked their heavy boots. Moreen sat down and relished the feel of her feet immersed in the cold spring water flowing past. Nearby, Kerrick found a pool of comfortably warm water in which he quickly washed his hands, feet, face, and hair.
Bruni, meanwhile, was delegated to go back to get the rest of the war party. Rolling her broad shoulders, stretching after she relieved herself of the heavy load of her pack, she lumbered toward the entrance where Mouse waited with the others. Kerrick made himself comfortable, dropping on his back and closing his eyes.
Moreen felt refreshed and invigorated but not yet ready to bed down, so she decided to take a walk along the shore of the stream. She scrambled up a steep stretch of jumbled rock beside the small waterfall where the water spilled over the embankment.
She stopped in shock when she saw movement a short distance away, someone walking in a meadow beside the stream. Ducking down, she recognized the rounded shoulders and hulking size of a bull ogre. The creature, who carried a heavy whip, stopped suddenly and planted his hands on his hips.
“All right, Tookie, you get out here!” he barked.
Moreen gaped as a human girl suddenly stepped from the cover of the fungus grove, barely ten feet away. The youngster’s eyes flicked in panic to the chiefwoman, who was still concealed from the ogre’s view. The child turned to the ogre and stepped out of Moreen’s sight, but the Lady of Brackenrock could hear her clearly as she spoke.
“Y
es, Master Harmlor. What do you want from me?”
The chiefwoman drew farther back, leaning against the stalk of a giant mushroom, her pulse pounding. She couldn’t see the girl any more but knew that the child had spotted her. Would she reveal the presence of intruders to the whip-wielding ogre? There was no way to know.
Turning back to the grotto, Moreen skidded down the stones of the steep embankment, dropping the last few feet into the meadow where her elf companion rested.
“Kerrick! Wake up!” she whispered urgently, kneeling beside the elf, nudging him.
A seasoned campaigner, he awakened without a loud expression of alarm and quickly snatched up his long sword. Moreen spotted Bruni off a short distance away, where the big woman had apparently stopped to wash up, and waved at her in agitation. Bruni came lumbering back, whispering
“What’s wrong?” as she drew close to her companions.
“There’s an ogre up there-and a human girl, a slave. She saw me then got called away by the ogre.”
The elf was already climbing, his sword held in his right hand. A few steps from the top he froze, and the chiefwoman looked past him and gasped.
The ogre she had observed moments before stood there, looking down at them with a wicked grin. The little girl was at his side, her arm clasped in his meaty hand as she tried to squirm away. His other hand held the long, sinuous whip in a relaxed, ready grip.
“What do we have? Mice or rats?” asked the ogre with a deep chuckle. He tossed the girl away contemptuously; she landed among the rocks and started to cry.
“You bastard!” Kerrick snarled, lunging.
The ogre was faster. The whip curled out and snapped loudly. Kerrick cried out and stumbled back, clutching his hand, as his sword dropped from his grip to fall between several of the jagged boulders.
“That’s enough o’ that,” barked the ogre. “You three waits right here, and ol’ Harmlor keeps an eye on ya. There’ll be help comin’ soon enough, then we’ll find outs where you needs to go.”
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