The gargoyle who had first called out fluttered up off its perch.
Tyranos turned and ran.
In scores, the other winged terrors leaped into the sky. The wizard did not have to look back to know they were pursuing him.
“Saariit!” he shouted, once again calling upon the staff to carry him to safety. Again it failed to do so.
The flapping of hundreds of wings vied with the eager screeches of the flyers, both sounds echoing over and over through the vale. Tyranos did not wonder at the racket. After all, there was no one around to hear, except him and their master.
He sensed rather than heard the first of the gargoyles creep up behind him. Scowling, Tyranos acted uncharacteristically for a wizard: he spun around in mid-step and, gripping his staff with both hands, struck the oncoming beast soundly across the jaw with its crystal head.
There was a flash and the sudden stench of burning flesh, but the force of the swing was as much the reason for the gargoyle tumbling backward as any magic in the attack. Tyranos’s warriorlike appearance was no simple facade. The strength his body hinted at was as real as could be.
A second gargoyle suffered the same fate as the first. A third managed to dodge his swings, but Tyranos, releasing one hand, seized hold of the creature’s thick throat and squeezed.
The winged one’s windpipe caved in with a satisfying snap. Tyranos let the writhing body fall, swinging at another pair of the beasts who had angled around for their own attack.
Although for the moment he was keeping them at bay, the wizard did not go unharmed. There were shredded areas all over his garments and more than a few cuts along his arms and face. Worse, the gargoyles were slowly but surely backing him into a corner.
He batted away another attacker, but when the next drew near, Tyranos freed one hand again and grabbed the winged fiend by the arm.
The gargoyle instinctively flew up. Its vast, leathery wings were so powerful that, with some strain, the creature pulled the wizard up into the air with it.
Tyranos waved the staff to keep another gargoyle at a safe distance as the one that struggled with him continued its haphazard ascent. The towering spellcaster continued to be lifted up as if he were a feather. More gargoyles swarmed around him.
“Let’s try and even the odds,” Tyranos snarled. He beat the gargoyle clutching him hard on the leg with his staff. The creature screeched and flew higher. Tyranos peered around, trying to find some shelter in which he might drop and hide.
More and more gargoyles reached him. They rent his cloak and robe, scoring his legs as well as his arms and chest. The strain of holding tight with one hand was telling on him.
Tyranos had no choice but to force the gargoyle to descend again. Any higher than he was at the moment, and he was sure to lose his grip and die. Tyranos began striking furiously at the shoulder of the winged fury, trying to drive it groundward.
A thundering roar cut through the vale, a roar that could have come from only one leviathan of a creature.
A dragon.
The roar had an astounding effect on the gargoyles. Almost as one, they scattered back the way they had come. Their fear was so strong that the wizard could taste it. His own gargoyle fought to fly off even with him still clinging to it.
As for Tyranos, he had no desire to face a dragon of any sort or size. Whatever color or metal, the thing sounded hungry.
The frantic gargoyle began clawing and scratching at his hand as never before. Tyranos, already weary, could not fend off every scratch.
His grip faltered.
He slipped and plunged.
The ground was not so far away as he had feared, but far enough that when he struck it, every bone in his body seemed to vibrate. Pain coursed through every nerve. None of his limbs would obey his commands, and Tyranos did not know which direction was up. He bounced once and rolled helplessly for several yards before colliding with a rocky outcropping.
He was fair game for even a savage rodent at that point, and Tyranos prepared himself to be the dragon’s meal. Yet several tense moments passed, and only silence filled the vicinity.
At last, the wizard heard movement behind him. For a dragon, the newcomer was soft of foot. Tyranos struggled to rise, or at least push himself onto his back so that he could face his death as his people preferred, but his body continued to betray him. He waited, steeling himself for the first awful bite.
“Not the one for whom I’m waiting,” murmured a cultured voice. “But at least it is one I’ve been expecting.”
A pair of strong hands carefully turned the injured wizard over. Through bleary eyes, Tyranos beheld a shadowed, very human face half-hidden by a dense, dark beard.
“Healing is the special skill of those of Mishakal,” the man went on, reaching for something dangling over his chest. His armored chest. “But my patron might help nonetheless.”
The thing that dangled over the breastplate suddenly glinted with light despite there being no earthly source for it. The wizard beheld what he recognized as a variation of a familiar symbol.
“I know you! You are”-his usually booming voice came out as a croak-“a cleric of Emperor… of Kiri-Jolith!”
“My name is Stefan,” the other replied, nodding. “And I know you too, outcast.”
VIII
DEADLY WARNING
Golgren had no doubt as to the reason for the elf’s sudden appearance far from Garantha, and that reason was Tyranos.
Idaria’s expression radiated momentary surprise, followed by a return of the calm expression she generally wore. Golgren was certain she had not intended the magical journey. It smelled of the sort of trick of which the wizard was fond. Golgren had purposely left Idaria behind, there being no place for her where he was going. A slave would only get in the way and impede him, at least that had been what he had told Khleeg.
Idaria stared at the signet, seeming to be almost mesmerized by its light. Golgren passed his hand over the artifact, and the light vanished. Aware that she could see better in the dark than he could, he pointed to where he knew an oil lamp was hanging by the door. Idaria went over to the lamp wordlessly and lit it with some tools nearby.
The elf approached him. “Grand Khan,” she murmured, falling to her knees. “Forgive me. I am not-”
“Responsible. Yes. Tyranos is. We both know that, my Idaria.”
“Tyranos.” The elf repeated the name with torn emotions that matched those Golgren experienced each time the wizard intruded in his life. Not all were good; not all were bad.
One could never trust the leonine spellcaster’s motives.
“I will return to Garantha,” the slave offered. “The Grand Khan ordered me to remain there, and I will oblige-”
“No. You are in Ben-ihm. You will remain with me.”
“My lord?”
He grinned without humor. “The wizard, he likes to play games. But his games are never for play.”
She nodded at his wisdom. “As you command.”
Reaching down, the Grand Khan cupped her chin in his hand and slowly raised her to a standing position. “My Idaria, do you believe me when I say your people will still be free?”
There was no hesitation. “Yes.”
Golgren cocked his head. “That is one reason Tyranos sends you to me.” He considered for a moment longer, before saying, “The discussion is ended. It is time to sleep. Tomorrow, we ride with the hand of Barech to the vale.”
“Yes, my lord.” Idaria started to turn back to the lamp with the intention of dousing it.
“No. Leave it lit.”
“My lord?”
His gaze shifted to the shadowed corners. “Leave it.”
Khleeg gaped at the sight of Idaria, but held his questions. His Grand Khan would tell him whatever he needed to be told.
However, there was another whom Golgren needed to tell of the elf’s presence. Ignoring Khleeg and Idaria, he pulled forth the stone.
“Wargroch,” he called, staring into the crystal. “
Wargroch, your Grand Khan summons you.”
There was a hesitation, and the muddiness transformed into a tiny vision of the younger officer’s toadlike countenance. Wargroch wore a startled look, as that was the first time he had experienced the stone in action. The one contacted first heard the voice of the summoner in their head. At the same time, the stone in their possession grew noticeably warm. Khleeg and Wargroch had been ordered to keep the crystals on their persons day and night, just as their ruler did.
“My lord,” the tiny face finally blurted. “The slave, Idaria … She is gone!”
“Idaria is with her master.”
Wargroch again started. “Great lord, she is … She is-”
“I have sent for her. She has come.” Unseen by Wargroch, Khleeg grinned at his counterpart’s astonishment. The Grand Khan’s second in command was no less surprised of course, as Golgren had told him only that Idaria had been brought by means familiar to the ogre leader. But that was all the explanation the loyal Khleeg needed.
“The Grand Khan is wise in all things,” Wargroch finally responded.
“Garantha is secure?” Golgren asked, changing the subject.
“Wargroch stands against any enemies of his Grand Khan!” the officer declared. “My life is yours-”
“Yes, Wargroch is very loyal. We ride from Ben-ihm with the coming of the Burning.” The Burning was an ogre phrase which meant the daytime. “We will speak when night falls.”
As Wargroch nodded, Golgren cut off any further conversation by simply putting the crystal away. To the other officer, he said, “Tell Barech. One hour, his hand marches.”
“My lord.”
Barech did not fail Golgren. His column was standing ready an hour later as the Grand Khan and Idaria mounted. Idaria’s horse was a gift to the ogre ruler from the local leader. That it was to carry a slave didn’t matter, not when that slave was clearly a favorite of the Grand Khan, and somewhat of a miraculous sight herself, no one having witnessed her arrival.
Khleeg, his misgivings evident in his expression, saluted his lord. “It is not right. I should ride with.”
“Khleeg must defend Golthuu. That is what is right.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The horn sounded. Barech signaled his warriors forward. As they marched, their comrades in Khleeg’s hand barked their support for the other column’s mission. Barech’s warriors returned the cheers and salutes, aware that Khleeg’s force would be heading to meet a hated foe. Humans were spindly creatures to look at, but their fighters were often skilled adversaries.
Golgren and Idaria rode close to Barech. With the reins bound around his maimed limb, the Grand Khan waved imperiously to his warriors and other followers. Even among the denizens of Ben-ihm, the ogres appeared different since Golgren had taken over. Yes, Golgren thought, looking around at the crowd cheering, ogres had always been muscular giants, but now they were muscular giants who were well fed and better dressed. The Uruv Suurt would learn to fear a healthy, mighty ogre race.
As they headed out of the settlement, the rounded buildings gave way to the pens where amaloks and goats were kept. It had taken some effort for Golgren to convince his warriors that herding animals was not children’s work. The sturdy state of the pens and the healthy appearance of its occupants showed that even outside Garantha, Golgren’s dictates had taken hold.
The goats bleated and pushed to the opposite side from where the ogres marched. The amaloks, ever more defiant, pressed to the front and barked at the cheering warriors. A few made vicious snaps at the air. Most were females; males were hard to keep together in numbers. The striped beasts were notorious for their combative nature and durability under the worst conditions, which was why ogres imitated their call when cheering.
An older ogre warrior stood next to the pen, the wooden rod with which he kept the animals under control clutched in his right hand. Like Golgren, his other hand was missing. In fact, his arm up to his elbow had been severed-likely in battle-and cauterized. Even so, such a warrior would have had little hope for a future in the old days. But the Grand Khan’s ability to convince his people that they could not survive just on what they found, hunted, or stole had enabled the rehabilitation of that maimed fighter. His life still had meaning.
The ogre slapped his ruined limb against the side of his chest, the best he could do under the circumstances. Golgren lifted his own maimed arm and, even with the reins, saluted back. He made certain as many as possible observed his action.
Beyond the outskirts of Ben-ihm, they came across a number of ogres clad only in kilts gouging out a vast gap in the hard, harsh ground. The workers toiled with a number of tools: pick axes and flat-ended shovels, to be sure, but also a huge, iron wedge weighted at the back of its base that required four warriors to guide it and another atop a mastark to drag it forward. Under the handler’s guidance, the huge beast-a leather harness around its shoulders and iron chains stretching back from the harness to the sides of the wedge-would strain forward for several steps. That, with the help of those guiding the wedge, would be enough to tear up a good-sized section of rock and baked earth. Others would come in with shovels and axes to break up and carry the debris away.
The gap was already over four feet deep, indicating that the mastark team had made more than one pass over the area. The full gap ran over fifty yards and would stretch a great distance when completed. It would provide an extension of the water system on the other side of the settlement, enabling Ben-ihm itself to expand. The trench would be deep enough that the mastark-or another, if that one perished-would be up to its considerable shoulders when finished.
Seeing the great work made the Grand Khan think of Stefan Rennert and wish the knight could observe such progress and report back to his superiors. Ben-ihm’s rebirth would surely have shown the Solamnians how civilized Golthuu was becoming.
He caught sight of Idaria studying the scene.
“No slaves,” the Grand Khan murmured to her. “Is that what pleases you?”
“They are working so hard,” she returned. “Working and not warring.”
Golgren nodded. “But they will fight when they must. And they must.”
The last of Ben-ihm dwindled behind them. Barech’s force marched directly toward the eastern mountains. Ahead lay a path that the commander swore would take them to the Vale of Vipers, without too much struggle or detour along the way. Barech posted advance scouts to check the path for any signs of danger.
But the incessant heat was the enemy that day. iSirriti Siroth-Sirrion’s Burning-was doing its best against the hardened ogres, but it was failing. Golgren watched with grim satisfaction as not one of the warriors flagged, much less fell to the side. Unlike past rulers of both Kern and Blode, Golgren had made certain those who were willing to die in his name thrived under his rule until their time came.
There was no tent for the Grand Khan and his slave; Golgren preferred the night air on the journey. Barech assembled a trusted guard unit to maintain a watch around his lord’s camp. The commander took more precautions than one might have expected that deep in the ogre homeland, but with the odd vanishing of more than one force, complacency was a danger in itself.
“The mountains we will reach in two days,” the officer informed Golgren before taking his leave for the night. “I think the vale may be reached four after.”
It was what Golgren expected to hear. “The sooner, all the better.”
The outdoors suited the half-breed far more than Barech’s quarters would have. In contrast to the night before, he quickly fell asleep on his bedroll on the hard ground.
And to his surprise, he awoke the next day feeling refreshed. Not once during the night had he experienced any of the thousand nightmares and memories that usually assailed him in his sleep. Idaria’s eyes, staring at him, showed that she understood, for she was well familiar with his oft turbulent nights. Golgren would sometimes go from absolutely still to suddenly shaking violently or muttering in his sleep. The slav
e was used to awakening him at the most violent of times. It was a command that he had given her the very first night she had become his servant, and one that she had never failed to obey.
Much rested, Golgren pushed Barech to gather the warriors with the utmost haste. Golgren allowed them to eat and drink, but little else. Barech’s hand moved on even before the sun’s first light rose over the horizon. Their discipline was impressive.
The mountains loomed ahead like the jagged tusks of hundreds of gargantuan ogres. An outsider might have wondered why Golgren went north to send Khleeg to deal with the Nerakans and to bring himself to the vale, which lay far southeast of Garantha. Attempting to traverse the mountains by any other route than that which he had chosen would have taken weeks for a force so great. The same held true for where Khleeg was going. Unfortunately, the very mountains that helped protect Garantha could also hinder its Grand Khan at times.
“No one do I have who knows the vale itself,” Barech informed Golgren along the way. “But there are those of Ben-ihm who have heard tales. Vipers, f’hanos, winged shadows-”
“Winged shadows?” Golgren interrupted, his eyes attentive.
Barech shrugged. “Winged shadows, dragons, mastarks that eat flesh. Many tales, many fools.” Golgren said nothing.
Night arrived before they could reach the edge of the mountain chain. Golgren considered continuing on for several hours, but he knew the folly of entering mountains in the dark. Whether or not there were dragons or flesh-devouring mastarks, there were certainly treacherous passes and likely meredrakes. Even the rare but deadly hageed-araki could lurk around. And they were not the mountains of the vale yet.
The column halted enticingly close to the mountains, so much so that the Grand Khan did not retire immediately but stared at the peaks, contemplating their ancient might. Making certain he was not observed, he removed the signet from its macabre hiding place and touched the symbols on top.
Nothing happened.
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