“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.”