Still neither breaking stride nor glancing at his lackey, Dauroth calmly said, “In his own manner, Golgren serves the ultimate cause, Safrag. He does not realize that yet, but he will eventually. We shall reclaim the Golden Age of our ancestors—nay! We shall surpass it, and then there will be no more need of the grand lord. Until then, he serves his purpose, and until then, he is to be tolerated in all things.”
Although his master could not see Safrag, the apprentice bowed his head in acknowledgment of Dauroth’s wise words.
However, before Safrag could complete that bow, the grand figure striding ahead of him added in an equally calm voice, “And remember, any who seek to touch so much as a hair of the grand lord’s before I grant that right will suffer the fate of Falstoch.”
Safrag let loose with a hiss at mention of the despised name. Falstoch was a lesson learned to all the Titans; he suffered worse in his punishment than one who had no more elixir with which to rejuvenate himself. The latter would suffer only the horrors of degenerating slowly, becoming less than they had been before becoming the powerful, blue-skinned sorcerers.
Even that was better than to become like Falstoch. Even degeneration was better than becoming one of the Abominations.
The knights were not supposed to be there. Their presence was a clear act of war. However, Stefan did not care. He and the seven men with him had come on a scouting mission based on a report passed onto their superior by a free elf. Stefan himself would have discounted any word given by one of the ancients—for their kind had always had a history of looking down on humans—but the mere mention of the Grand Lord Golgren had been enough to set Stefan riding off into that dread ogre land.
The elf’s directions had been clear, his warning more so. A vast force of ogres with a military precision worthy of the Knighthood—the elf’s comparison, the young Knight of the Sword thought with a snort of derision—had been heading toward that region, possibly to meet with a large contingent of local warriors. If they were joining together, then it stood to reason that the grand lord might be preparing to cross the vaguely defined border of Kern into the western lands—an incursion that the Knights of Solamnia could not tolerate.
“We must be on the right track,” Willum, a broad-shouldered knight to his right, exclaimed, pointing ahead. “That ridge over there, the one with the two horns, he called it Kinthalas’s Helmet or something like that. Anyway, it’s in the missive.”
“Who’s ‘Kinthalas’?” asked another rider. Like Willum, he sported one of the thick, long mustaches for which members of the Knighthood were known. Only Stefan and Hector did not wear such traditional mustaches—Hector because he seemed not to be able to grow any facial hair yet and Stefan because he preferred the close-cut beard his father—bravely slain in battle ten years earlier—had worn. Stefan’s beard ran along his jaw on both sides and up to the ears. The area above and around the upper lip was as clean. It was a style worn more by one of the seafaring nations and some thought that suggested that Stefan’s father acknowledged ancestry other than Solamnic.
They did not make that suggestion within Stefan’s hearing.
“Kinthalas is Argon, who is also Sargonnas,” Stefan informed the questioner. “ ‘The Horned One,’ as he is also called.”
“A perfect kingdom for him, then, this place,” Willum jovially commented. “Only a god like him could favor ogres and minotaurs.”
Stefan was not entirely certain that Sargonnas favored the ogres, not considering reports of a deep rift between the two races in the past few years. It was widely believed that the current minotaur emperor had put a price on the head of the charismatic leader, once his ally, who was rising up to unite the ogres. Whether or not the rumor was true, there was much evidence of growing bad blood between the races. Stefan doubted Sargonnas would divide his followers and wish them to slaughter themselves. Better that they band together against outsiders, such as those he and his companions represented.
Shaking off that uncomfortable thought, Stefan took a sip from his water sack. Even though it was near dusk, Kern was still hot and dry. Wearing armor hardly helped, but protocol was protocol.
Besides, the armor was a small burden in the face of the exciting prospect ahead: learning more about the strange and mysterious Golgren. That mission had become Stefan’s passion over the past few years. He had become convinced early on that the activities of the half-breed signified a monumental shift in the east and had entreated his superiors again and again until they had agreed to let him proceed with his surveillance of the grand lord.
And even Stefan had been astounded by what he had learned and documented about the ogre’s ambitions.
The party skirted around Kinthalas’s Helmet. The sun had just slipped below the higher peaks, causing large shadows to be cast over the open region ahead.
But those shadows were not yet deep enough to obscure the carnage laid out in front of them for as far as the eye could see.
“Kiri-Jolith protect us!” muttered one knight.
Indeed, to Stefan it seemed that perhaps the bison-headed god of just cause had protected his party, for the dead that lay scattered and torn were all ogres. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of ogres lay about, all chopped up, ripped apart, or half eaten. Stefan fought back his disgust; he had seen the losses of battle before, but what lay before him had clearly been a massacre of some sort. One hand slipped to a pouch at his belt, where he took comfort in the warmth of the item within.
Leaning forward, Willum gasped, “The ground looks all torn up! It’s as if there was an eruption or earthquake.”
“Is that—is that what killed ’em?” Hector asked with just a hint of a tremor in his voice. Out of respect for the youngest knight’s relative inexperience, the others gave no indication that they had noticed any fear.
Stefan shook his head, explaining, “No. Most of them were slain in combat, that is clear. You can see the handiwork in the nearest corpses.”
Hector swallowed and asked nothing more. The scouting party urged their mounts ahead, wading into the monstrous scene, guiding the animals as best as possible around the many decaying bodies. Black flies and carrion crows flew to the sky as they passed then settled down afterward to renew their gory feasting.
A gigantic animal corpse caught Stefan’s attention. “A mastark,” he said, nodding to Willum. “The victors had no concern for time. The bodies have been methodically stripped. Most of the dead animals, too, have been stripped of anything useful.”
Indeed, there was not a serviceable weapon or decent utensil to be found anywhere.
“Who did this?” asked Hector. “Minotaurs?”
Stefan actually wished it had been the horned creatures. That would be less peculiar. “No, the bull-men do not stray this deep into Kern. Not yet, at least.” He stiffened, then glanced at Willum. The broad-shouldered knight wore the same brooding expression as Stefan. “Willum, we assumed that the grand lord was putting together a larger force with the intention of heading west, but—”
“Aye! But instead it seems that they were hunting one another!” The mustachioed soldier grinned. “So it’s good news we’ll be bringing back! Let the beasts kill one another.”
But as Stefan surveyed the darkening stretches of grisly remains before him, he could not help but reflect on how ogres had a distinct advantage over humans, in size and strength. And how dangerous might they become if their master managed to whip them into line and actually teach them discipline?
He pushed his mount in among the dead. Everyone knew that ogres were simple-minded monsters, incapable of organized warfare. That was the way it had been in his father’s time, his grandfather’s, and for as long as the Knighthood had recorded history.
But Golgren appeared to be writing a new, modern history.
His mount stumbled over the ravaged bones of a particularly large ogre. A stench arose, one that caused the horse to shy. As Stefan fought to regain control of his steed, that stench suddenly made the hairs on the nape of
his neck stiffen. It did not come from the dead, but rather from something that had been gnawing on the bones.
Raising a hand, Stefan silently signaled for the party to turn around. No one questioned his decision. As the Solamnics guided their mounts, Hector—who had been in the rear—momentarily took his place at the head.
All of a sudden, a sleek shadow that at first Stefan mistook for a runner darted at Hector. There was a hiss, and two arms shot forth. The young knight was dragged off his horse. The animal shrieked and tried to run, but another tall, narrow form rose up and slashed through the horse’s belly with curved talons as long as human fingers.
And suddenly, seemingly rising from the ground beneath, a dozen reptilian fiends surrounded the scouting party. Their hisses sent chills through Stefan even as he reached for his sword. Those unnerving hisses were punctuated a moment later by Hector’s screaming.
“Get that devil off of him!” Willum shouted, charging toward the fallen knight.
Stefan tried to join the rescue, but a long, narrow head out of nightmare thrust itself up at his face. Claws snatched at him, only to scrape against his breastplate.
The creatures were like giant baraki, the bipedal fighting lizards said to be exploited as entertainment by the ogres’ upper castes. Researching ogres and Golgren in particular, Stefan had learned how the ogre race enjoyed watching baraki fight one another; he himself had witnessed such bouts and been repulsed by their viciousness. However, those creatures were no more than waist-high even as adults. The creatures before him were as big as men.
Finally freeing his sword, Stefan slashed at the two-legged reptile. He expected to sever its head, but the monster dodged away with a nimbleness that astonished him. A moment later, his own mount cried out and shuddered.
Stefan barely had time to get his feet out of the stirrups before the horse collapsed on the ground. As he leaped away, another lizard snapped at his hand. The knight managed to avoid getting his limb bitten off, but just barely.
A shrill sound raised his hopes. Someone—likely Willum—had dealt at least one of the creatures a mortal blow. However, it was all Stefan could do to keep from being torn to ribbons as the two lizards pursuing him renewed their onslaught. He slashed again at the nearest and was pleased to see that his sword cut a veritable river through the creature’s chest. Hissing angrily, the badly injured beast withdrew.
“There’s another one!” a voice called. Stefan tried to locate his companions, but between the deepening shadows and the reptiles harrying him, he caught only glimpses of the fight elsewhere. There seemed to be only one figure still astride a horse, which did not bode well for the situation.
His view filled with the toothy maw of another attacking lizard. Stefan reacted instinctively, thrusting under the creature’s jaw. He ran the lizard through the top of its throat, the sword’s momentum shoving it through the other side.
Rid of that foe, Stefan once more looked around for his companions. His gaze at first alighted onto the lone horse, but no longer was there any rider. Worse, he saw only two other knights standing; one of them was Willum. The other knight’s armor was drenched in blood; he hoped it was that of the reptiles. Although he breathed heavily, Willum still was swinging his sword with impressive strength.
Encouraged, Stefan started toward him. Unfortunately, he got no more than a few steps before another lizard popped up in front of him. For the first time, Stefan understood how the knights could have missed seeing the creatures. Their backs were sleek and dark, blending into the shadows of night. Despite their large back legs, they could also bend down almost flat against the uneven ground, crouching while running.
The lizard’s claws raked his breastplate. Growling, Stefan lunged at the beast. It dodged his attack and went for his arm.
Strong teeth clamped down on his elbow. The human screamed as some of those teeth managed to slip in between the pieces of his metal armor. Stefan felt warm blood seeping out of his wound.
Somehow, though, he found the strength to react, bringing the sword down hard along the side of the lizard’s head. The blade easily cut through the creature’s scaly hide. The monster began to convulse but did not release Stefan’s limb.
In desperation, the knight turned the hilt of his sword around and smashed it against the beast’s head. The lizard’s jaws finally opened. Stefan pounded away until at last the lizard balked, its long, sinewy tail nearly bowling over the human as the creature whipped around and fled away.
But as that monster retreated, Stefan saw Willum go down under the onslaught of two more of the vicious reptiles. The other knight struggled to rise up off the ground, but he was swarmed by claws and teeth and could do little to defend himself.
With a roar, Stefan leaped toward his comrade. He slashed the nearest lizard through the back. As it struggled to turn and face him, the bearded fighter ran it through the chest.
Letting the first monster fall, Stefan kicked at the second, who was still bent over Willum, ravaging him. Slavering, the two-legged reptile spun and snapped at him, catching Stefan’s blade in his mouth. There ensued another tug of war, made the worse by the aching in the human’s wounded arm.
Stefan reached for the dagger in his belt. Forcing himself to wield the sword with his damaged limb, he drew the smaller weapon and immediately stabbed at the creature’s eye.
The tip of the blade sank in with a squishing sound, which was quickly followed by an enraged hiss from the reptile. When the lizard released his sword, Stefan finished it off.
“Willum!” he called, leaning over his comrade. “Give me your hand!”
But Willum could not reach up to him, for one hand was bent underneath him and the other … the other was gone. So was his throat and much of his face; the elaborate, jovial smile Willum wore was in fact the curve of jaw bones laid bare by his wounds.
It was all Stefan could do to keep from losing the contents of his stomach. Quickly looking around, he realized that he was alone save for at least seven of the lizards. They slowly encircled him, each one looking poised to leap upon him at any moment.
“As you wish, then,” snarled the knight. Stefan had no hope of escape. The lizards were excellent stalkers. Stefan did not fear death, though he would have preferred to die in battle sword against sword, not perish as food for some ravenous beast.
But that was apparently the fate the gods had in mind for him. He gripped both of his weapons tightly, determined to take at least one more creature with him before he breathed his last.
Two of the savage reptiles lunged forward.
An echoing hiss from far to the north caused all of Stefan’s monstrous adversaries to suddenly freeze, listening. Another urgent hiss quickly followed the first.
One of the beasts surrounding him hissed a reply. The rest—even the pair that had been moving in on him—immediately retreated from the knight. Stefan remained perfectly still. One false action could return their attention to him.
Moving like graceful runners, the lizards suddenly turned and raced off to the hills in the northwest. Stefan did not move until the last of the creatures was several yards off, moving away from him. Then he cautiously backed away, at the same time looking to see if any of the knights’ mounts had survived.
Suddenly, he sensed something. Again, the hair on his neck stood on end. Stefan prayed to the god Kiri-Jolith as he spun around to confront the new, unknown horror.
Something heavy struck him hard on the side of the head; his helmet offered little protection to such a blow. The knight twisted and bent as he lost his balance and, in that brief moment, he caught the outline of a hulking, shaggy-maned figure looming next to him. In one hand the brute held a huge club.
As he collapsed, Stefan’s last coherent thought was to wonder if the lizards would be coming back to eat him.
V
TYRANOS
The corpse of the Grand Khan Zharang was unceremoniously burned, and the ashes were brought to Golgren as he sat on the throne of Kern before an
assembly of representatives of the highest castes. Elite guards flanked the gathering, with the warriors, wielding keenly honed swords and axes, clad in newly polished breastplates. Golgren’s banner hung by the scores from the rafters.
Before the properly respectful throng, the grand lord hefted the round bronze container brought to him by Khleeg then dumped its contents on the steps and the floor before him.
The crowd anxiously stepped back as he stood and, without ceremony, trod harshly over the remains of his former sponsor. Then, with Khleeg’s warriors cleaving a path through the onlookers, Golgren strode the length of the long, columned chamber, leaving in his wake a trail of ash gray footprints. Reaching the opposite end of the room, he inspected his handiwork then marched back to the throne, in the process spreading the remnants of Zharang over much of the chamber.
He sat down on the throne, grinning broadly.
By thus treading upon Zharang, literally, Golgren had marked his predecessor as a shamed figure. Any who would associate themselves with the former grand khan’s memory would risk the same fate that had befallen the deceased. Zharang’s legacy and spirit would be officially shunned from that moment on.
As Golgren sat on the throne, Idaria—silently rushing from the shadows—immediately bent and brushed clean the soles of his sandals. At the same time, the elegantly clad ogres in attendance knelt and placed their faces to the floor. They tried to avoid touching or inhaling the former grand khan.
A gesture from Golgren signaled one warrior to blow a horn. The harsh blare gave permission for the assembled ogres to rise and depart, which they did at a slow, respectful pace.
When the audience had departed, two other slaves entered and began sweeping away the dust and ashes. No more would the name of Zharang be spoken aloud there, and within days every memory of him would be eradicated. His household would be sent into exile. Zharang had no offspring and, therefore, no one else the grand lord needed to execute with dispatch. His key followers were already in custody. The ceremony that day was thus short, although its meaning had been well understood by those in attendance. Golgren leaned back idly as the sweepers worked, ruminating as he waited for Idaria to finish her task.
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