“We will now look at the mines in the valley,” the king said, addressing the driver.
Kod Bearmaster held sturdy reins and a whip but coaxed the bears along with a series of barking commands. Now he guided them onto a steep sheet of ice that spilled down the valley between two great summits to merge onto the main glacier. All four of the bruins strained in the harness, taloned paws gripping the smooth surface firmly as they hauled their royal cargo.
In a surprisingly short time they had reached the pass between those summits, the best vantage in all Icereach for seeing into the world beyond. In places they could glimpse the surface of the Snow Sea, saw the dark waves of blizzard heaving and tossing. Again Grimwar involuntarily shivered to glimpse that power, the unrestrained might, waiting for the release that could only be provided by the king of Suderhold.
“Where did you get such an unusual pelt?” asked Queen Thraid, who was riding with Baldruk Dinmaker on the front seat.
“Yes, who ever heard of a black bear?” wondered the king.
“I found it in a human’s hut, in the last village we sacked,” the prince explained. “All during the summer we had heard of this particular talisman. It was supposed to be the symbol of the high chief of the Arktos.” Grimwar chuckled grimly. “He’s dead now, and I have his sacred cloak.”
“It is good you killed him,” the king said. “I do not like to have these humans thinking of themselves as chieftains. Far better when they only have a mind for slavery.” The monarch beamed, baring his impressive tusks, as the bear cart glided around a bend in the glacier. “Look. See what they can accomplish as slaves.”
The prince saw the long, scarred face of mountainside, pocked by the holes of hundreds of tunnel mouths, great heaps of yellow-brown tailings strewn in fans at the foot of the vast cliff. The workers were using the few hours of daylight to make last, frantic progress before the Sturmfrost marked the end of the mining season.
The Highlund Valley was a great bowl in the mountains. Lofty, snowcapped peaks rose above the rim, but the heat of the miners’ activity had melted any trace of snow within the vale itself. A dozen low, sooty smelters were at work, black smoke belching from the chimneys, huge piles of coal rising like small mountains beside each of the buildings.
The mines were linked by a grid of ledges and catwalks, some of the scaffoldings rising hundreds of feet in the air to provide access to the higher tunnels. The stink of smoke and bitter fumes was thick and a dark haze obscured the view. Hammers and picks clattered in a regular cadence, and as the bears slowed their pace and the cart skidded to a stop Grimwar could hear men shouting, ogre overseers cursing, and mining carts rumbling along the numbers of tracks that linked mines, holding piles, and smelters.
The king’s driver steered them to a stop before a sturdy building of gray granite sculpted into a miniature fortress. Two ogres stood guard at the massive iron door, but they quickly pulled the great portal open as the king, queen, prince and dwarf climbed down from the cart.
“Welcome, Sire,” said one, making a low bow. “The goldmaster has set out the ingots for your 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.