Grimwar winced. Certainly Grimtruth would not be the first ogre bull to pleasure himself with a human female, but the king should at least have had the decency to discuss the matter at some other time, in some other company.
Grimwar found himself wanting to remind the young queen that the son was not the father. Instead, he met the king’s leering stare and noticed a spittle of drool now dripping from Grimtruth’s protruding lower lip. He abruptly vowed, privately but solemnly, that when he inherited the crown he would take every effort to avoid slobbering in public.
For now, he couldn’t avoid his father’s question.
“Yes, of course. We brought some wenches, some fair and big-boned. Of course, we mostly need slaves to work in the mines, to row the galleys, to open the harbor gates, and so forth. So most of the prizes are men.”
“Prizes?” The king snorted, but at least his thoughts had been distracted. He squinted at the queen, who was standing around in obvious embarrassment. “Why don’t you run off to bed, my lady. I will see to the debarking of the prisoners.”
“Of course, my lord,” said Thraid meekly. Whatever she was thinking, she kept her thoughts to herself and turned to depart without another look at her husband or his son.
Grimtruth went to the stone parapet at the edge of the balcony and looked down at the column of humans. His son joined the ogre king, and for the first time noticed exactly how bedraggled, how filthy and scrawny and unkempt, these pathetic people looked.
“These were the best of the lot?” Grimtruth asked.
“We raided a dozen villages. Yes, these were the finest specimens. The tusker told us of each place where the humans had settled, and we hunted them there. In the first battles we took many slaves, but halfway through the campaign the galley was filled to bursting with extra humans. After that, we just killed them.”
“All of them?”
Grimwar shrugged. “All of them that posed a threat. No doubt some women escaped and old ones too feeble to survive the winter. We left them no shelter, and polluted the wells and streams with the dead.”
“Good tactic, that,” Grimtruth acknowledged. “It would seem you have done well. I suppose some of this rabble will regain enough strength at least to till the fields in the Moongarden.” Even in his praise he sounded so restrained that the prince couldn’t help but feel insulted.
Once again the king’s eyes scanned the disembarking slaves, who shuffled numbly into the dark cavern of Winterheim’s Undercity. He pointed. “That one-bring her out of the line!”
Immediately an overseer hustled the woman forward. She cried and struggled, flailing with arms that were practically skeletal, then clasping the pathetic remnant of a cloak around her body.
King Grimtruth looked hard before he spat, the spittle catching on his tusk. He took no note of it. “Bah, who could enjoy one of those stick-females? I’m off to my chambers-you will report the details of the campaign in the morning.”
“Yes, Sire,” Grimwar Bane said. He watched his father lumber away and wondered how the king, who was married to the most alluring ogress the prince had ever seen, could even think about turning to the affections of a human woman.
He looked back at Goldwing and saw that young dock-workers were boarding the ship. She would be scrubbed and painted, new gold plated onto the rails, fresh caulking added where the timbers were showing signs of wear.
It occurred to him that he already he missed the sea, but even then he knew that what he really missed was the mastery of a place, where he heeded the command of no ogre, no being of any kind, especially his fool of a father, the king.
As he rode the icecart up toward the Royal Quarter of Winterheim, Grimwar reflected glumly on his own wife. It was ironic to think that the prince was married to a female older than his father’s wife by a full decade. Whereas Thraid Dimmarkull was a beautiful trophy, selected by a powerful king as his second wife, Stariz ber Glacierheim ber Bane had been matched to the crown prince because of her powerful family and the even mightier connection she had demonstrated to Gonnas the Strong, the god of all ogrekind.
His wife had not come to greet him at the dock, of course, though the king himself had been rousted from his slumber. No, Princess Stariz would doubtless be wallowing in deep prayer, seeking in the auguries of her god such messages as could be divined by the time and state of her husband’s return. These revelations would inevitably be revealed to him in painstaking detail, as soon as he reached his apartments.
Grimwar leaned back in his seat, a wave of melancholy breaking over him. The icecart rumbled through the steeply inclined tunnel, climbing steadily, its magical vibrations lulling the prince.
The lower part of the cart was a large block of ice, glowing softly from an ancient enchantment. Upon this frozen base rested a cart such as might have been found on a grand carriage. Two huge, bearskin seats faced each other across a space large enough to hold a table or another pair of benches. Since the ride took the better part of an hour, it was not uncommon for a royal passenger to enjoy a repast during the climb or descent. The cart passed through a long tunnel that was fully encased, floors, walls and ceiling, in ice. The only illumination came from the magical ice that formed the base of the cart, an intentionally soft and pleasing glow.
Riding alone, Grimwar pulled the fur, a great bearskin, closer around him. His father and Thraid would have returned already, but since the prince had stayed to see the offloading of his own booty he had taken a different icecart back to the palace. Again Grimwar wondered-how could his father have such a treasure in his bed and yet fail to appreciate his good fortune?
Thraid Dimmarkull was not new to Winterheim. The daughter of a minor noble family, she had grown into ladyhood on the fringe of the circle familiar to the crown prince. Indeed Grimwar had noticed her, had seen that she received the right invitations, was placed near the royal table at banquets. He had spoken to her, and her smile had spoken in return. Certainly she sensed his attentions. Very quickly she had changed her style of dress to favor gaudy, low-cut gowns that favored her voluptuous figure. She made a startling contrast to the typical dour ogress clad in tentlike robes with the typical ogress face that seemed as likely to catch fire as to break into a smile.
Unfortunately, the king himself took notice of this vision of ogre femineity. Thraid had cheeks as round and red as apples, a wide mouth with full lips and dainty twin tusks, breasts that swelled with every movement. Her waist was slender, by ogre standards, and her legs long and muscular.
Grimwar had watched jealously as his father had made his desires known. During his decades on the throne, the king had grown tired of his first wife, Hananreit ber Fallscape. Abruptly he ordered her exiled to the remote island of Dracoheim. After a brief farewell to her only son, the galley had taken Hanareit away at the first crack of spring, three and a half years ago. There, so far as the prince knew, his mother still spent her days in the dark, sky-piercing castle on that fortress isle, pining for the luxurious life she had known in Winterheim.
Thraid had been summoned to the royal chambers barely a week after the Elder Queen’s departure. Shortly thereafter the Grimtruth had taken her as his Younger Queen. And as if to emphasize his ultimate power, the king at the same time had arranged for the daughter of the baron of Glacierheim to marry his son, the royal heir. Stariz had been brought to Winterheim, and father and son had each been joined to a mate in a double ceremony at the Neuwinter Rites.
The icecart’s rumbling gradually slowed. The narrow corridor opened into a vast chamber, illuminated with a hundred torches. Looming far above the prince saw the great gates of the palace. He was home.
He suddenly felt a terrible longing for Goldwing, and the sea.