He is an ogre, whatever his mother was, she tried again to remind herself. Her original reason for willingly becoming his slave had been muddled over time, and she had acted as the pawn of the gargoyle king, it was true. Even more important, though, over her time with the half-breed, Idaria had witnessed enough of Golgren’s attempts to raise up his people to see the love and care he had for them and the care he also displayed toward her.
It gave her a headache to try and sort it all out. All that should have mattered was freeing the slaves and yet—
The leaves rustled, yet there was no wind.
Stefan raised his hand, silently calling for a halt.
Something moved in the shadows ahead. It was tall and had an odd gait, as if in part dragging itself along. A scent that evoked images of a moldering grave filled the air. The knight went into a battle stance while Chasm flexed his claws. Idaria prepared to do whatever she could to help them fight.
Then her sharp eyes picked up another figure moving from the right, and behind it was a third and a fourth. The elf quickly looked around.
They were being surrounded.
She tapped Stefan’s shoulder. He nodded, understanding her warning.
“Stay between Chasm and myself,” Stefan whispered.
The leaves continued to rustle, almost as if urging the newcomers forward with whispers. Idaria counted at least a dozen and knew that there were probably at least twice that number.
The first stepped near enough to enable them to see it better.
Idaria stifled a gasp.
It was an ogre … or, rather, the skeleton of an ogre. There was no flesh, no muscle, merely bone. Some tattered garments remained; a few bits of hair clung to the skull. That was all. Its jaw hung slackly, almost as if the monstrosity were trying to speak.
In its bony hand it gripped a rusted but very serviceable axe.
The eyes were empty sockets, yet the skeleton peered around as though searching for something else besides them. Some of the others neared. They were identical to the first, save for their weapons. Some held axes; others, clubs, swords, or spears.
And they all intently scanned the general vicinity in which the trio was trapped, which made Idaria suddenly realize that none of the undead knew that the three were actually there.
Stefan leaned close. “The medallion is shielding us from their knowledge, but the magic of the forest is strong enough to tell them something is not quite right. We must continue to stand still.”
They had little choice. The macabre sentries had them ringed. It was possible that the stealthy Idaria might be able to slip past them, but the other two would not be as fortunate.
One of the ghoulish figures stepped nearer. It passed where Stefan stood and bent forward just before Idaria. The elf sensed Chasm starting to move and ever so slightly shook her head to warn him away.
The movement appeared to catch the skeleton’s attention. It tipped its skull to the side and bent closer. The empty eye sockets came within inches of her face. The jaw slowly swung back and forth. So near, Idaria felt an intense cold radiating from the fiend, a cold with which she, as a slave, was well familiar. It was the coldness of death, animating their movements.
Despite the horrific threat the skeleton posed, Idaria felt a moment of sympathy. She doubted that the ogre and his comrades had offered themselves up for such ghastly duty.
To her relief, the skeleton pulled back. It rejoined the others and after tense moments, despite the continued rustling of the leaves, moved on.
Stefan did not signal the other two to continue. The knight remained as still as a statue, and Idaria and Chasm followed suit.
Only the last two skeletons remained in sight. Watching them as they gradually moved on, Idaria prayed they would not turn back. The trees rustled harder and harder, as if trying to urge the skeletons not to make a mistake, to return.
The final ghoul melted into the darkness. Stefan waited a few breaths longer then pointed ahead. He took a step.
Idaria also took one. As her foot settled, she almost expected the monstrous patrol to come rushing back to slay them. Yet other than the incessant shaking of the tree branches, nothing happened.
Breathing easier, the elf picked up her pace to catch up with Stefan. Behind her, the gargoyle loped along, sometimes on his two legs, sometimes using his other two limbs as well.
Above them, the rustling grew almost thunderous.
Something darted across her path.
Idaria took it for a serpent at first, but it seemed to have no end to its long body. It sprouted from the ground, ran a distance, then bored into the earth again.
She paused to peer at it and finally realized that it was only an upturned root. Thinking no more about it, the elf straightened.
Her sharp eyes noticed that the ground was suddenly filled with twisting, upturned roots.
“Stefan—”
The knight turned to her. As he did, he stepped on one of the roots.
The end of the root shot out of the ground and coiled around his ankle. With a startled grunt, Stefan fell back.
Idaria sought to reach him, only to trip over another root. It wrapped around her foot, sending her down on one knee. In the process, that knee touched another root, which then proceeded to wrap around her upper leg.
“The roots!” she warned. “The forest could not locate us, so it set out snares that would attack when touched!”
Understanding her warning, Chasm immediately took to the air but collided with long, tapering branches that were sweeping down from above. At first, the gargoyle shoved them aside, but then, despite his best efforts, he became entangled. The forest had taken into account the possibility of visitors who could fly. The branches tightened around the struggling gargoyle.
Unable to orient himself, Chasm became more and more enmeshed in the tree limbs. Below, Idaria stretched her arms up in an attempt to keep the roots from seizing them as well.
Stefan hacked with his sword at those that wrapped themselves around him. The blade flashed silver each time it struck, and Idaria could only suppose that Kiri-Jolith had blessed it. The roots fell away from his determined blows.
But the sword was one weapon against a multitude. Stefan held up the medallion and muttered a prayer.
The medallion’s light grew so bright, it should have blinded Idaria, but instead she took comfort in the glow. The trees visibly recoiled, however, and both the branches and roots abandoned their harassment of the trio.
Chasm dropped to the ground next to the elf, using his body and wings to shield her from any root or limb that might attack again. Stefan revolved in a circle, making certain the area was safe.
“I had to do it,” he explained, “but it likely means that the Titans will detect us and know something is amiss here.”
No sooner had he spoken than a bolt of lightning blacker than the shadows struck the ground just beyond his feet. The force of the eruption hurled Stefan into Chasm, who caught the human effortlessly. The knight had been struck, however, and was unconscious. The medallion’s glow faded.
Idaria sensed the forest seeking to creep forward again. She rushed over to Stefan, trying to help him.
“You needn’t bother. He hasn’t very long to live.”
Chasm growled. Idaria turned to the source of the foul voice, already aware of just who it was.
The Titan grinned down at her as he raised his hands in spellcasting.
X
MARCH OF THE MINOTAURS
The elf felt helpless. Stefan had been the one who had guided them that far. He had had the patronage of a god to aid him. But it was left to her; for Chasm, too, whatever his great strength, had his hands full.
Had that been the forest of Silvanost, her home, she might have turned to Habbakuk and pleaded with the god. It amazed her that he did not feel the wrongness of the forest.
And even as Idaria pondered that, a transformation came over the vicinity. As if some great hand pulled back the shroud that had
draped over the trees and ground, the taint receded. A fresh and wholesome green colored the leaves and bushes, and the scent of spring overwhelmed the dank odors of the accursed forest. The trees took on a fresh, vibrant life; all their wickedness, all the Titan perversion, abruptly was gone.
The Titan faltered in his spell. “What—?”
Before he could utter another sound, the transformed area turned on him. Branches fell before his gaze, blinding him. More whirled around as if blown by the wind, striking the gargantuan sorcerer like battering rams. The Titan tried to collect his wits but clearly could not concentrate well enough even to muster a vanishing spell.
The very trap that the Titans had created overcame the lone spellcaster. Roots burrowed out of the freshened soil and seized him. He slashed with his talons at them, only to have his savage nails break off.
Idaria watched in awe, aware that somehow she was in part responsible for what was happening but uncertain just how. The Titan was already on his knees, due to not only the roots that coiled around his torso, but the continual rain of blows by the branches.
The blue-skinned sorcerer’s knee sank into softening dirt. Both legs plunged under, as if some huge beast below the surface were burrowing a hole.
Despite his obvious panic, the Titan glared. He stretched forth a hand at Idaria. “I’ll take you with—”
The ground gave way. With a howl, the fifteen-foot-tall villain dropped from sight.
Tree roots immediately covered the area, churning the dirt like massive worms. In seconds, there was no trace of the Titan even having been in that spot save a slight settling of fresh ground.
Idaria felt her pulse pounding. For the first time, she also sensed a warmth in her palm. Glancing down at it, the elf discovered Stefan’s medallion.
“I know this was not your sphere, Kiri-Jolith,” she whispered to the air, “but thank you.”
“K-Kiri-Jolith,” Stefan muttered. His eyes slowly opened. “Kiri—Idaria?”
She gestured for Chasm to gently lower him. The knight balanced himself, found his legs sturdy enough, and nodded. The gargoyle gave a satisfied grunt but stayed nearby.
“This belongs to you,” Idaria said, handing him the medallion. “But I thanked your patron for his aid.”
Stefan frowned. “I don’t think that’s possible. At least, not the way you say it. I think that another heard your plea through the medallion, perhaps through my patron, and responded.”
She looked at the nearby forest, which was still revivified. There was a permanence about it, she noted, that the rest of the tainted realm would not be able to overcome. A place of respite had been created in a land of darkness.
“Praise be to Habbakuk.” Like many elves, Idaria had lost much of her faith in the gods who supposedly watched over her people. None of them had stopped the invasions—first that of Mina and the Nerakans, then the sweep of the minotaurs—or had kept the forests from harm.
Yet perhaps she and her kind had been too harsh. Perhaps the gods had had no choice.
“Very curious,” Stefan announced, eyeing the path ahead.
Thinking that some other fiend approached, the silver-haired slave followed his gaze. “What is it now?”
“Nothing … and that’s what’s so curious.”
Chasm grunted his obvious confusion. Idaria shrugged, unable to clarify what Stefan was referring to.
Stefan gestured at the forest. “Where’s the others? Why hasn’t anyone come to see what has happened to their comrade? Surely, the rest of the Titans from the sanctum should be confronting us!”
“What do you think it means?” she asked, half expecting more Titans to sprout from the trees.
A slight smile crossed his beaten face. “It could mean that your Golgren has them stirred up elsewhere, especially in the south, since it’s too soon for my people.” His smile abruptly faded. “Or it could mean that Safrag is already the slave of the Fire Rose, and that bodes great ill.”
“Is that so terrible? It will mean dissension among them! They may end up fighting one another for it—”
“And, in the process, destroy others.”
Idaria nodded grimly. “But it means something else, too, does it not? It means that my people may be less guarded than we imagined.”
The knight frowned slightly. “Yes, it does.”
“Then we must take that into consideration, above all.”
Stefan eyed her for a moment then turned and led the way. Idaria knew what he thought of her, knew that at that moment she reminded him of Golgren—Golgren, who would drive resolutely toward his ultimate goal even if others might be harmed or threatened. The elf shrugged to herself; she could do nothing about the Titans and the Fire Rose. That was Golgren’s problem to deal with. All that mattered was releasing her people.
Yes, I have become like him, Idaria admitted to herself. Very much like him.
And oddly, she found herself wondering if that were such a terrible a thing after all.
The morning saw the southern reaches of Golthuu—the area still called the “province” of Blöde—aswarm with armored soldiers. The distinctive banners of the minotaur legions fluttered high and proud, even more so because the day found them led not by mere generals, but by the emperor himself.
The legionaries were spread over several miles of shrub-filled wilderness. Contact had already been made with those legions who had advanced after the defunct pact with the false warlord Atolgus. Those soldiers were already settled in and served as the advance guard for the new incursion.
The generals knew the truth about the invasion, that it had come at the behest of none other than the Grand Khan Golgren, so in typical minotaur fashion, they had loudly voiced their opinions about that. However, in the end, Faros had convinced all of them of the necessity. The ogre realm was ruled by spell-casters, and spellcasters, especially ogre ones, had no honor. The spellcasters explained why so many patrols already had perished in “accidents” or had just gone missing. Surely, the next step for the Titans would be to conquer Ambeon. It, therefore, behooved the empire to strike first …
No matter how many legionaries might perish.
General Thandorus, though one of the newest commanders, had been chosen by Faros to be his executive officer. Badger Legion had the honor of serving as the emperor’s personal military force. Thandorus did not mind what some might have taken for a slight demotion; to serve directly under the emperor was, for him, the proudest moment of his career thus far.
Scouts rode ahead of the ground forces, seeking as best they could signs of either sorcerers or the military “hands.” Most of the legionaries hoped for a direct confrontation with their ogre equivalents, as death by weapon was far more desirable than perishing in magical flames or some other distasteful spell, but they were prepared to face whatever was necessary. Minotaur soldiers did not back down merely because the enemy used tactics of which they did not approve.
The foremost ranks bore long lances held slightly upward with both hands. The angle was better for wielding them until an enemy actually stood before the line. The legionaries up front also carried at their sides well-honed, freshly cleaned swords and on their backs powerful, double-edged axes. There were daggers in their belts too. The weight of the weapons and the armor the legionaries wore meant little to the minotaurs; trained from birth for combat, they lived for battle. Their eyes held no fear of death, but rather eagerness to prove their mettle and earn honor for both themselves and their clans.
Behind the lancers came several ranks with long swords and axes. The ranks were there to add additional protection for the first lines, should any foe begin to move too close for the long spears to be effective. They were also ready to charge past the lancers if the situation warranted it.
Stationed at various intervals, mounted units with lances, axes, or other hand weapons kept a diligent watch. On a signal, the foot soldiers would break before them, allowing the cavalry free access for a charge of their own. There were hundreds of
warriors on horseback, all chosen for their riding skills and ability to engage in battle while in the saddle.
And flanking the cavalry were the archers. With their powerful bows, they could fire well beyond the front lines. Indeed, should an ogre hand march against the legionaries, the first deaths would belong to the archers.
Great weapons rolled behind—catapults, ballistae, and other mechanical wonders that had rejuvenated the empire and worried the rest of Krynn. The steady advance begun under Emperor Hotak and continued under Faros had enabled the latter emperor to start the machine of war and get it running at high capacity, with only a day or two’s warning. Whatever his own distrust of Golgren, Faros knew that his rival was correct concerning the threat of the Titans to his people. Better a thousand legionaries and more should pay the sacrifice if it gave Golgren the opportunity he desired to reclaim the throne.
Besides, once ensconced in Blöde, Faros had no intention of turning back. He would not leave Golgren in control of the enemy realm.
Faros, red-plumed helm set over his horned head, surveyed the advance from atop a massive, brown stallion—Thandorus’s own steed offered by the general to his lord. Thandorus rode beside him, and a score of officers trailed in their wake. The pair was surrounded by Thandorus’s personal guard, who had strict orders to protect the emperor even if it cost the general his life. Such was the intense loyalty that Faros brought out in his subjects. He was seen as the epitome of the storybook hero, rising from battered youth to slavery to rebel leader to emperor. The nephew of the despot Chot the Terrible, he had been an innocent pawn during his uncle’s downfall and execution on the Night of Blood. Hotak had tried to ensure that no blood member of the Kalin Clan would remain alive to seek vengeance, yet Faros had persevered through the fiery mining camps of his own people, the brutality of the ogre taskmaster Sahd, and pursuit by ogres and legionaries alike. To Thandorus and the other officers, he represented the entire brave history of their people.
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