Something about the crowd infuriated him, and his first instinct was to raise his chained fists, to rail and curse at these ignorant brutes, yet he realized immediately that such a reaction would only entertain and amuse them. There was no way, at least not here and now, that he could frighten or even worry them.
For now he drew himself up straight, ignoring the pain that tried to twist his spine. He bent his arms into curls, showing them that the weight of the chains was not enough to drag him down. He stalked up the steps as if he were the homecoming king, his glare haughty and disdainful as he swept it around the vast, underground harbor.
Despite his facade, he could not help but be mightily impressed, even awed, by this place. The harbor consisted of an open circle of water connected by a wide channel that led out through the still-opened gates. Each of those massive slabs of stone was moved, he saw, by the labor of hundreds of human slaves hauling on cables that turned huge capstans. Those slaves were watching him now, and he acknowledged them with a slight nod of his head, all the while marveling at the engineering that allowed such unthinkable weight to be manipulated by such mundane means.
The sun, low in the northern sky, poured brilliant light across the placid water and broad waterfront. There were three great mooring slips in the harbor, each a gash in the dock wide enough to allow a large ship to slide in between a pair of bracketing wharves. Goldwing occupied the central of these berths, while those to the right and left were empty. Beyond the wharves a series of wide ramps and stairways led to the vast plaza, raised ten or twelve feet above the dock height. It was on this square that most of the ogres were gathered. They made a festive crowd, cheering loudly as the king and queen, who had been first off the boat, passed them by, then turning their attention to the crewman and their lone prisoner.
Strongwind heard a few jeers and catcalls but paid them no mind as he looked around, studying this place with a tactician’s eye. He watched the two monarchs enter a cagelike enclosure and was amazed to see this compartment start to move upward. Scrutinizing the scene, he saw another group of slaves, a score or more of them, laboring to pull the chains that controlled some sort of geared mechanism.
He saw that a circular atrium rose high above. Though the heights of that vertical shaft were lost in shadows far overhead, it was easy to imagine it extending nearly all the way to the mountain’s summit. The atrium was ringed by balconies, more of these than he could count, rising upward to form a vast chimney. The royal couple rose higher and higher, riding a wave of cheers toward the heights, and Strongwind had an idle thought: if those twenty slaves suddenly let go of their chains, would the king’s cage come crashing all the way back down to the waterfront? It was an idea that might bear investigation in the future.
More onlookers were gathered at the lower levels, looking down upon the sunlit harbor. One of these in particular caught his eye. An ogress studied him from a balcony perhaps a hundred feet overhead, and he met her gaze with a cool inspection of his own. She was unusually voluptuous for one of her race-unlike the blocky and bearlike ogre queen, this one was graced with an impressive bosom, her shape tapering to a narrow waist. The whole was wrapped in a dress of bright red, a color that stood out rather shockingly from the white or brown fur and buckskin garments worn by most of Winterheim’s populace. Her face was not bestial but was rather attractive in a full-fleshed way, and it creased into a sly smile as she met his gaze. She twisted one hand in a lazy, casual wave.
A prod in the back shoved the captive forward, and Strongwind staggered, rattling his chains, barely keeping his balance. He whirled to confront a leering guardsman bearing a wide-bladed, blunt-tipped sword.
“Keep moving,” growled the ogre with a cruel sneer. “You don’t wanna get walked on, you don’t!”
Drawing himself erect again, Strongwind continued forward, following the escort of several royal guards-they were called Grenadiers, he remembered-as they broke away from the main body of returning warriors. The Highlander was taken into a lofty tunnel leading away from the harbor, where coldness and shadow once again settled around him. Conscious of the same bullying swordsman behind him, he managed to keep pace with his captors until they arrived at a large wooden door.
This was pulled open from the inside to revealed a torchlit cavern where a few ogres sat idly at a large table. These looked up with grunts of greeting for the arriving party. The human king guessed that this was some kind of garrison room for the ogre warriors. There were many benches along the walls, and swords and bucklers dangling from equipment racks.
Strongwind was pushed again, the blow this time hard enough to knock him down. He spun about on the floor, pushing himself to a crouching position, glaring into the face of the sneering guard.
That ogre raised his sword and rested it across his shoulder with a casual gesture, then gestured to another who came forward with a ring of iron keys.
“Take th’ cuffs off,” said the bully. “No escape chance for him no more, not from Winterheim.”
Strongwind rubbed his wrists as the manacles were released then stretched his legs, allowing the chains to be pulled free. Only when he had worked out some of the kinks did he slowly rise, eyeing the sword-wielding ogre from the corner of his eye.
When he was standing, the Highlander arched his back and extended his arms, continuing the charade of loosening his creaking joints. Most of the other ogres from his escort were unclasping buckles, sitting down to remove their boots, or hanging their weapons from the equipment hooks. They chortled crude greetings to their comrades, exchanged a few rough clasps or thumping blows to each other’s backs and shoulders.
Strongwind was, for the moment, left under the watch of his lone tormentor. Clenching his fist, the king whirled suddenly and sent a hard punch directly into the nose of the bully. That guardsman roared loudly, dropping his sword as he staggered back, both hands clutching his bleeding snout.
“That was for knocking me down,” Strongwind said, calmly eyeing the sputtering brute.
The captive’s coolness only seemed to inflame the beast. “He’s mine!” he roared, waving back his comrades who were advancing to restrain Strongwind. “Insolent human scum-you could have long life here! You are too stupid for that-and now you die!”
The Highlander kicked the sword out of the way and flexed his knees, fists raised to meet the onslaught. There were worse things, he thought, than dying in battle with a bullying captor-and he planned to get in a few more good licks before he fell. The ogre put his head down and charged. Strongwind punched again, a roundhouse blow landing on the brute’s ear. The human ducked away before the long arms could trap him then bounced up again, fists raised as he waited for the next rush.
“Hold!”
The roar came from the entrance to the guardroom where another tall ogre stood, glaring at the guard who still snorted in rage. Looking at the crimson flow from the smashed snout, Strongwind smiled tightly. In his mind, this ogre would forever be known as Bloodsnout.
“Lord Forlane!” shouted one of the guards, and the whole company snapped to attention-all except Bloodsnout, that is, who was trying to stem the flow from his nostrils as he knelt and groped for the sword that the Highlander had kicked across the room.
The arriving ogre was dressed in what Strongwind took to be noble finery. His bearskin cloak was clean and pure white, descending all the way to his calves. His boots of walrus skin were polished to a bright shine, and though his garments were mere tanned leather, they were clasped with a belt of solid gold, and many chains of the same precious metal dangled from a neck as thick as the trunk of a pine tree.