inspection.”
“And transport is arranged?”
“Yes, Sire. They will be carted to the royal treasury in three days, when we close up the mines and retire to Winterheim for the season.”
“Very well,” declared Grimtruth, who beamed in fine humor as he swaggered through the entry and into the chilly depths of the great vault. With a clap of his hands-three quick slaps, a pause, and then a fourth-he brought the magical lights into being. Like those in the upper face of Winterheim’s King’s Hall, these panels now shone like windows filtering full sunlight.
Even Grimwar, who did not share his father’s lust for gold, was impressed by the array of the yellow metal reflected by this light. The ingots, each more than a hundred pounds, were bars of pure gold, arranged in a dozen stacks that nearly filled the large room, leaving only enough space for a strapping ogre to squeeze sideways between them.
“Ah, splendid!” crowed the king. “This will make a good season’s profit for my treasury, I declare.” Thraid, Grimwar, Baldruk and the guards watched from the doorway as Grimtruth walked up and down the aisles between the stacks of ingots. Here and there the king stopped to pick up one of the bars, cooing over it like a baby in his arms, then setting it gently back into place.
Grimwar grew quickly bored. Hearing a soft sigh beside him, he knew that Thraid, too, had tired of watching the king count and coddle his treasure. Baldruk Dinmaker, on the other hand, stood entranced, his eyes alight, his tongue licking his lips anxiously.
“Very good,” the monarch said finally, striding back through the doors and into the pale twilight of the valley. “Now let us go up to the mines.”
The little party, on foot now, made its way up the slope from the vault, between a pair of smelting houses, each with a stocky chimney spewing acrid smoke. Grimwar looked up at the massive frameworks of scaffolding leading toward the higher mines. Here and there human slaves climbed up the steep ramps or carefully maneuvered heavy wheelbarrows downward. A rattle and bang attracted their attention across the valley, and they saw a cloud of dust rising from a chute where a dozen slaves were pouring a gravelly mix of ore down toward the nearest smelting house.
Soon they came to a great stockade, the gate standing wide open as a few frail-looking humans swept out a large barracks hall and stirred several cauldrons steaming over low, smoky fires.
“Sire!” cried an officious ogre, hastening out of a little hut near the barracks gate. The prince recognized Brasstusk Whipcrack, the chief overseer.
“This is indeed an honor! My Lady Queen and Prince Grimwar! Welcome to you all.”
“Enough pleasantries. Tell me how the slaves are performing,” the king said impatiently. “Why do I see twelve men doing the work of two, there at the ore chute?”
“A shame, Your Majesty, a true shame, I agree,” declared Brasstusk sadly. “It is the new slaves, those who were brought here in the last month. They are low in spirit and so far have proven unwilling to learn even the simplest of tasks.”
Grimwar groaned inwardly. His father had never ceased complaining about the humans captured during the prince’s raid this past summer. The last thing he wanted to hear was yet another explanation of why his captives were inadequate and disappointing.
“Foolish wretches,” snapped the king. “Take one of them down right now, and kill him. Let the others witness the deed. That will let them know that we will accept no further shirking. Warn them that my son or I will return tomorrow to see whether they have begun to perform at an acceptable rate.”
“Of course, Sire,” replied Brasstusk. He turned to a pair of armed warriors standing outside the stockade gate. “Guards! Bring me one of those men, the scrawniest of the lot.” He pointed to the group at the top of the ore chute, who had ceased their labors to watch, intently, the royal party on the valley floor. “He shall be put to death by …” The overseer turned toward the king. “How should he be killed, Sire?”
“Snik will do the job,” volunteered Baldruk Dinmaker, stepping forward quickly, holding up his lethal dagger. “Bring the human before me.”
Again Grimwar felt a sense of disgusted boredom. How many times had he watched the dwarf dispose of a human captive with his poisoned magical blade? Certainly his father and Baldruk never seemed to tire of the sport, but the ogre prince failed to see the fascination. Hadn’t he risked life and treasure to bring back these slaves? Now his father had ordered yet another one killed, merely out of spite and pride.
By now the slaves had perceived the danger in the king’s attention and were busying themselves before the two guards arrived at the high scaffold. Nevertheless, the ogres wasted no time in seizing one wretch by the shoulders and dragging him down the long ramp toward the ground.
The prince noticed that his father’s young bride was looking a trifle stricken. Thraid mopped her brow with a handkerchief and glanced around restlessly, letting her eyes fall on anything except the sobbing, pleading, pitiful human captive.
“Would you like to return to the cart, my Queen?” asked Grimwar. He offered her an arm which she gratefully accepted. The king cast his son a glance of disgust, then turned away as the prince and queen started down the trail, past the smelting houses, and back toward the ice bears and the royal sled.
“By Gonnas, is it necessary to
Grimwar snorted, looking at her from the side. “Sometimes we must do things … unpleasant things, but necessary,” he said pointedly.
“Necessary?” She met his gaze, her large brown eyes flashing. He could tell she was upset. “Necessary, like marrying the daughter of a baron?”
“Or marrying a king-one who is older than your father!” he retorted.
She pulled her hand off his arm and turned her eyes forward. They walked as quickly as decorum allowed, but still they were well within earshot when the human slave, now stricken by the dwarf’s slow-acting poison, began to scream.
“O Great Gonnas, show your humble priestess thy immortal will.”
Stariz ber Glacierheim ber Bane bowed her massive head, averting her eyes from the blazing visage on the temple dais. She was on her knees, befitting her status as petitioner and priestess. A mask of black obsidian, carved into the bestial face as the god’s own image, covered her face. The princess of Suderhold-and daughter of the baron of Glacierheim-held her pose for a long time. Grimwar knew that she was letting the awe and the wonder and the power well up within her.
The prince stood in a darkened alcove off the temple’s entryway, feeling some of that awe himself. His wife did not know he was here. At least, Grimwar corrected himself, she had not been informed of his arrival, though she had ways of finding things out he had never been able to understand. For now, he would respectfully wait for her to conclude her devotions.
The image of Gonnas the Strong, the Willful One, rose in all its glory, the obsidian image of a massive bull ogre, improbably long tusks jutting proudly from the lower jaw. The great black statue, outlined in sparkling points of fire, was three times the size of the greatest ogre. It filled the whole central atrium of the temple, which itself was one of the largest chambers in the great underground sprawl that was Winterheim. The massive golden blade, the Axe of Gonnas, rested at the feet of the statue.
The high priestess was alone, except for her husband and an unimportant human slave. Even the king and queen were respectfully waiting outside. Any lesser ogre would have faced a sentence of death for daring to intrude upon her worship.
“Gonnas, source of all wisdom,” Stariz intoned, tusked mask turned upward. “Gonnas, Lord of Strength … Gonnas the Mighty … Gonnas, protector of ogrekind, we seek only to do honor to your image and your name.” Her voice boomed like a powerful drum. The power of the dark god was clearly in her now, as she began to tremble through her elephantine torso, neck, and limbs.
“Gonnas, Lord of Strength … Gonnas the Mighty …” Again came the Reciting of Names, the energy infusing her, slowly raising the pitch of her voice. Grimwar took a step backward, fearful of the power, envious of the frenzied joy he witnessed in his wife.
Stariz rose to her feet, arms outspread, face upturned to the black image. The voice of the ogress was a
