Mungenast proved quicker on the uptake. While the ogre clutched at the pick buried in its chest, the man grabbed the bunch of keys hanging from the creature's belt. Bearing his prize Mungenast rolled across the floor to the big lock securing the iron bar. Fumbling, he fitted the key and twisted. It clanked open. Mungenast stood up with a gap-toothed grin of triumph only to be felled by the ogre's fist, but the creature's blow came too late. The slaves were free.
Greg stumbled back, expecting a wild rush of slaves for the exit. Reality turned out quite different. As one body the slaves hefted their tools and advanced on the ogre, matted hair and half-naked filthy bodies making them look like a wild tribe of savages. The ogre roared and swung its fists, but the action dislodged the pick. It fell out. Thick red-brown fluid began to pump from the wound. The brute swayed with sudden blood loss — then disappeared under a screaming tide of humanity.
For a horrified couple of seconds, Greg watched the tools rise and fall, each blow accompanied by sprays of gore. Then sense prevailed, and he ran from the scene. The tunnel back to the cells echoed to his footfalls, a mad slapping echoing cadence that seemed to chase him the whole mile.
Eventually he reached the area of the cellblock. Greg leaned against a wall, breathless and panting, his feet sore and bloody from a myriad of small cuts inflicted by sharp stones on the tunnel floor. A few of the slaves raised their heads and looked at him from their cells, puzzled to see something different about one of their number, but too exhausted to figure out what.
Greg panted, hoping to regain his breath before the other ogre appeared. For a moment, he wished he'd brought one of the tools to defend himself with, then shook his head. If I have to fight, I've already lost.
Minutes passed. His breathing returned to normal although adrenaline made his pulse sound hard in his ears. Greg listened, but could hear nothing beyond the fretting of tired slaves. He wished he could free them all, but the keys to the chains remained back with the dead ogre. Maybe one of the others will pick them up and come here. From what little he knew of the place, he stood in the only area with access to the outside world.
A sound made him raise his head. Noises echoing from the mine tunnel suggested the other slaves were on the move. The sound could alert the other ogre. Greg felt the outcome of any fight between weakened slaves and a healthy alert ogre could go either way, but he didn't intend to stick around to watch.
Moving away from the wall he steadied himself as his head swam. Lack of adequate nourishment had weakened him. His frantic flight had weakened him more — and he still had to escape.
He staggered in the direction he vaguely remembered the ogre bringing him and others from the huge train, so many days or even weeks before. Each step left a bloody footprint on the bare rock floor. Some yards farther along, loud snores from a big side chamber indicated where the ogre laid sleeping. Greg eased his way past the opening to the chamber, thankful for bare feet even if his soles felt like they'd been torn to shreds.
As he reached the other side of the opening a waft of colder, fresher air met his nose and the chill made his skin prickle. The foot of a ramp rose not far in front, the slope broad and tall, shiny metal rails for mine carts climbing the tool-worked surface. The way to it was blocked by a gate set in tall iron bars. A big crude padlock held it closed.
Greg walked up to the bars and shook them in frustration. The oil lamps lighting the ramp glowed a warm gold in the gloom, inviting him to come farther.
"No help for it," he muttered after a moment and headed back to where the ogre slept.
The brute laid on his back upon a bed of soiled furs, chest rising and falling in time to cavernous snoring. A ring holding three keys dangled from a length of rope attached to its belt. Greg looked at the rope, trying to figure how to cut it. His gaze fell on the oil lamp burning in a niche hacked into the wall. "Of course."
Picking up the lamp, he padded over to the ogre's bed and examined the rope. It looked stiff and greasy from close proximity to the ogre's body. Greg hoped it wouldn't burn like a candle wick. Setting the lamp on the floor he held the rope over the flame until it smoked, charred, then parted.
Greg gasped softly with relief — then the ogre's nostrils flared and it woke. Two yellow eyes with red pupils glared at him with disbelief from only two feet away. For a second they stared at each other. Then the ogre recovered its wits, roared, and lifted a fist the size of a pumpkin to smash Greg into the floor. Pure instinct took over. He flung the lamp into the brute's face. The glass shattered.
Blazing oil splashed over the ogre's face and chest. It bellowed in pain, swinging its fist. Greg ducked as the fist whistled over his head. Stumbling he turned and ran.
He reached the opening to the chamber as the ogre batted out the flames and rolled off its bed. It roared. Greg heard heavy feet running in pursuit as he reached the gate and fumbled with the keys.
The first two didn't fit. Greg's hands shook with increasing panic but the third slid into the lock. Muttering a prayer, he turned the key,
