Tides of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  The city in those long-ago days had been divided into four distinct quarters. The low, broader buildings to the west had housed the less affluent, though at the height of its majesty even the least of Garantha’s people would have been considered prosperous. Every home had some sort of front garden, each High Ogre vying for the most distinctive, colorful flowers and exotic trimmings. Besides the vast zoo, the northern quarter also housed most of the Guilds, where much of the planning and industry of the city was done. To the east, the wealthiest of Garantha lived in splendid villas with huge hanging gardens and pillared entranceways with the omnipresent gryphon etched on steel doors.

  At the center of the city lay not the palace of the ruler—that was found in the east—but rather the grand arena. Built and modified over the course of one hundred years, with two dozen arching columns meeting at the center of a great layered wooden dome, the famous edifice stood ten stories high, before the two stories that incorporated the roof. One hundred yards wide and twice that long, the grand arena had enabled a mighty throng to gather for such events as the crowning of rulers, the honoring of heroes, and ritual reaffirmations of the glory of the High Ogre race.

  But all that had been centuries ago, before the decadence, before the downfall. Before ogres had become objects of fear and scorn.

  Now the once-glistening, once-white wall with its magnificent reliefs lined only sporadic sections of Garantha; most of it had long since been ravaged by storm, quake, and internal strife. Piles of weatherworn rubble decorated the outer border. The sections of wall were gray and dirty. The extravagant images had either been reduced to faint markings or been cracked into minuscule pieces. Since the downfall, little attempt had been made to rebuild the proud barrier, though one section near the eastern entrance—still bearing upon it the city’s icon—had been hastily and haphazardly renovated before Golgren’s visit.

  Inner Garantha had weathered time and catastrophe little better than its once-esteemed wall. Of the magnificent towers, mostly shells remained. Only one still bore a crown, and even that was missing two of its points. With no one to retouch the paint, the gargantuan gryphons had all but faded from the tower facades.

  The magnificent gardens before each home were gone, the diligent care they required was impossible in these times. The houses themselves bore many cracks, and some had collapsed inward.

  Yet, despite its wounds and scars, Garantha was not dead, not even close, though some might have wished it otherwise. The ogres still dominated this city, and be it called by its ancient title or the outsiders’ Kernen, it still remained a seat of power. When the first of the Grand Khans, Juk i’Fhanhrik—The Death of His Enemies That Is Juk—brutally seized absolute power in a struggle ending in the slaughter of nearly a quarter of all the ogre population, he had made Garantha the seat of his throne. Fearful subjects with a modicum of talent in stone and weaving had attempted, on pain of torture and agonizingly slow death, to re-create for him the garments and trappings displayed on the remnants of the reliefs and sculptures among the crumbling ruins.

  Juk’s subsequent death—his arms, legs, and head had been ripped from his torso while he screamed futilely—did not deter his successors from imitating his example. The continual restoration, however faulty, of the great architecture of the High Ogres became the passion of all the Grand Khans who followed him.

  As the caravan approached the eastern gates, fearsome sentries in red cloth kilts perched precariously atop the crumbling wall lowered their spears. Putting curled goat horns to their tusked mouths, they blew what was a symbolic greeting to the newcomers and, quite possibly, a warning to the those in the palace. Ogres everywhere looked up, ceased what they were doing, and headed as one toward the gates. Other sentries took up the huge, leather drums and beat out a harsh, militant sound. Those who nominally ruled the city rushed out in what they considered their finest, ready to greet the august arrival.

  As Garantha’s inhabitants gathered upon the wall and near the entrance, near where a shattered obelisk still greeted newcomers, they gaped at a spectacle that truly seemed out of their past.

  A long line of ogre warriors clad in breastplates and resting their swords and clubs on their left shoulders marched toward the open gates. Numbering almost a thousand, they were but a fraction of the force that could have been brought to Garantha, but the host was impressive nonetheless. Soldier trumpeters blew a long, low signal announcing the imminent arrival of their leader and the ranks shouted out “Iskar’ai! Iskar’ai!”—the ogre word for victory—over and over. Ogre captains strutted among the ranks, their whips and harsh tongues keeping the unruly in check.

  As the imposing ranks of fighters advanced, the proud roars took on a sudden fierceness. Grouped among the ready warriors were squat, slightly shorter figures in rusted breastplates and helms. The image of a bloody hand had been etched on each of their breastplates. This troop of ogres eyed the city warily but still marched confidently alongside the others. To the ogres of Garantha, the ogres of Blöde were a disturbing sight; they were considered a breed almost as bestial as the minotaurs. This close to the border, and mixed in with their own kind, it was worrisome.

  But the ogres of Blöde were now allies of the ogres of Kernen, cajoled by the mesmeric personality of Golgren into a pact as stunning as the one he had managed to forge with the historic foe, the Uruv Suurt. At the forefront of the Blöde contingent rode the hog-jawed brother and second in command to Nagroch, Belgroch, representing the absent subchieftain. He studied the capital as if Garantha were his for the taking, earning him threatening looks from more than a few in the crowd.

  Behind the imposing columns of warriors, handlers urged on several dozen leashed meredrakes, the monstrous brown and green reptiles hissing and snapping at everything around them. They, in turn, were followed by open wagons—many of which had been liberated from the Knights of Neraka—in which supplies and items salvaged from the dead enemy had been piled high for the appreciation of onlookers. There was armor, Nerakian, Solamnic, elven—swords, lances, goblets, jeweled clothing, and more. Metal, any metal, was a valuable commodity in Kern, and so much metal spoke of the great wealth the column’s master had accumulated during the campaign.

  Next came a sight the ogres savored more than weapons and metal: a score of badly beaten humans and elves were being steered by guards who prodded and whipped them mercilessly each step of the way. Blood and dirt covered the enemy prisoners, and some were stumbling along trying to carry others. They walked without hope, without any semblance of pride. Garantha jeered the hapless prisoners, pelting them with rocks and refuse until the guards, who were also pelted, yelled at them to stop or suffer their wrath.

  Then, with these undeniable examples of his success, power, and status preceding him, the Grand Lord Golgren arrived in his impressive carriage. Twin mastarks, the desert-brown behemoths of western Kern, drew the carriage. They raised their downwardly curled tusks and snorted loudly and, it seemed, somewhat anxiously through their long, tapering snouts. The carriage driver, an ogre in a shining breastplate, snarled and lashed at the flat-footed beasts, adroitly maintaining control.

  By human standards, the carriage was gaudy to the point of ugliness; gold leaf was plastered along every edge and glittering jewels were attached to its sides, but to ogres it evoked the glamour of their glorious past. Ostentatious scrollwork liberated from the armor of Nerakian officers decorated the windows, which were veiled with green, silken cloth. Carefully written in High Ogre script—by the hand of a skilled and now-dead elf—the sides of the carriage boasted the greatness of he who rode within, enumerating his many battle victories. That only a few could read the ancient script did not matter to the emissary; the litany of his achievements would be especially impressive to the literate.

  Only his face could be glimpsed from outside the carriage. Clad in his finest forest green elven robe and his well-tailored, sand-brown garments, Golgren nodded at the roaring citizens. He came of course as Grand Lord of Kern, em
issary and servant to the Grand Khan, but Golgren had brought about the pact with the Uruv Suurt, the minotaurs, and so his name was called out almost equally with his master’s. At first the pact with the minotaurs had been considered a vile political compromise, but that was before it had led to the ousting and extermination of the hated knights. The pact had provided the ogre nation with the supplies and weapons they desired for their planned deep incursion into Ansalon.

  It was Golgren’s genius that had united two disparate, oft-warring ogre realms and forged a rout of the invaders.

  Atop the walls, along the dirt-strewn, cracked streets, the ogres of Kernen roared in their guttural tongue as Golgren entered Garantha. Those who wielded clubs or other large weapons began to beat them on the stone walls or nearby rocks, keeping time with the drums. Among some of those favored by the Grand Khan, however, dark looks quickly passed. One rose up among the ogre race only by leaving behind a trail of blood of enemies, and Golgren had left a particularly long and bloody trail. He had his admirers and his sycophants, but he also boasted many enemies.

  The chipped and worn heads of gryphons stared down from the roofs and statues as the force moved through Garantha. One mastark’s proboscis twisted to the south, sniffing at the scent of vegetation in the southern quarter. The heavy, padded feet of the monsters cracked the ancient cobblestones as they lumbered along.

  Entering the center of the city, the column reached what remained of the huge arena. Like so much of Garantha, so much of the ogre realm, this once-fabled structure had deteriorated badly. Of the astounding dome, nothing but a few looming arches still existed. The northern side of the building had collapsed inward, burying half the interior. The eastern section was more intact and still used for civic events, but the arena was hardly grand nowadays; it was a pale shadow of itself. Some attempt had been made to renovate the ruined sections, but as with all things in Kern, the craftsmanship was inferior, and the work never seemed to get done.

  Golgren frowned as he stared at the arena, but he did not have the carriage slow.

  Then, as his train neared the palace, it was as though a change came over Garantha. As if time had turned backward, the past flared alive. Age still touched the sprawling villas of the High Ogres, but here the cracks had been sealed and genuine attempts had been made to keep the grounds clean. Actual gardens—beautiful gardens that would have astounded outsiders—were thriving in front of most buildings. The flowers may have been stunted, the plants more wild than exotic, but their mere presence bespoke the higher status and ambition of those who lived in this quarter.

  From behind the fence of one villa, striped, yellow-gray creatures resembling lupine horses, with necks stretched high—Kernian amaloks—peered over the thick, stone fences, their twin horns turned suspiciously toward the mastarks. The giants ignored them; one of their feet would crush any amalok. Amaloks were popular domestic animals among the elite of the capital. They were raised to fight one another, their horns capable of ripping through armor. The Grand Khan and his inner circle placed wagers on the outcome, and winners were bred for their foul tempers. Losers became a part of the feasts held nightly in the palace.

  Here the long column halted, the ranks immediately splitting in twain in order to let the carriage pass. Golgren straightened, his eyes glittering with eagerness. He peered ahead.

  The palace beckoned him.

  Had someone placed three perfect turtle shells—one six stories tall and the others four—together with the largest nestled between the smaller ones, they would have approximated the High Ogres’ design of the ancient edifice. The roof sloped at a perfect angle to accent the illusion of the gargantuan reptiles in repose. Underneath the ridged roof of each of the three sections, a line of arched windows ran along the length. Twin towers, like those near the gates, stood at opposite ends of the palace. A subtle greenish tint, almost pearl-like in luster, added an aura of majesty to the stone. The secret of the process had been lost after the downfall of the race, so where nature and war had later necessitated repairs, white marble made a stark substitute.

  Passing under a high arch carved to resemble two battling gryphons, Golgren’s carriage reached the palace grounds. A line of warriors clad in shining minotaur breastplates emerged from the palace and took their places before the steel doors. The Grand Lord himself was responsible for their fine armor, not to mention the new, shining axes and swords borne by the guards, but it was his master who now displayed the spoils of war. The guards eyed the column, the meredrakes and mastarks—even the disheveled prisoners—with pronounced wariness. They were sworn to the Grand Khan, but they recognized the prestige Golgren wielded.

  To the cheers of the throngs beyond the outer walls, Golgren descended from the carriage onto a path of pure red stone. The Grand Khan’s guards tensed visibly as Golgren, followed by a retinue larger than their number, strode serenely along the path then slowly wended his way up the sprawling white steps.

  Seated twin gryphon statues peered down over the entrance, so lifelike despite the ravages of time that they seemed to take the stern measure of each who passed. Golgren paused long enough to stare into each stone face, defying them to find him wanting.

  The benevolent and beautiful face of some unknown High Ogre from the ancient days split in two as the steel doors opened for Golgren. The Grand Lord entered the palace flanked by the guards and followed by some seventy strong, including the prisoners he was parading as trophies. Several of the latter labored hard under bulky wooden chests whose contents clattered with each step.

  A torch-lit hall welcomed him. The flickering flames created dancing shadows. Two helmeted guards, each handling the chain leash of a snapping meredrake, eyed Golgren and his company with distrust.

  “H’jihan!” snapped one with a broken tusk. “Garata i’Golgreni toruk!”

  “Garata len kerak i’Zharangi!” Golgren returned humbly, almost abasing himself before the Grand Khan’s minions. “Garata ky jukal i’Zharangi! Garata corvai kerak i’Zharangi!”

  The ogre with the broken tusk slapped his free hand against his breastplate. “Garata y kerak ky toruk pnum i’Zharangi!”

  To this the Grand Lord nodded and sharply replied, “Kee!”

  Moving aside, the pair allowed him to enter.

  The scent of Grmyn flower pervaded the hall as he and the others neared the great throne room. The rare blossom with the jagged stem and midnight purple center grew in the swampier regions of Kern, just to the east. It was savored by many of those among the hierarchy, just as it had been prized by their ancient ancestors in the final days of the High Ogre civilization.

  Along the walls, stretching from the front doors of the palace, the sculpted reliefs of the High Ogres told the saga of the race. In rich, flowing robes, precious earrings dangling and jeweled chains resting on their proud chests, the High Ogres could be seen playing lutes; hunting amaloks and other game; guiding the wills of the younger, less-intelligent races; and presiding over the history of their storied realm. The figures stood twice as tall as any ogre, further enhancing their godlike perfection.

  Golgren stood ramrod straight as he headed into the sanctum of his khan. Nearly two feet shorter than most of his kind, he was hailed respectfully by all he passed. The few ogres early in his career who had thought the Grand Lord’s stature a thing to mock no longer had tongues—or heads—with which to mock him.

  A thick-browed giant so tall that he had to stoop even in the halls created for his ancestors glared at the approaching emissary and his noisome throng. Hefting a club nearly as thick as Golgren’s chest, he boldly approached the Grand Lord.

  “Garata i’Golgreni toruk!”

  Golgren bent low, repeating what he had said to the earlier guards, proclaiming to the guard his complete devotion, his utter loyalty, and his reverence for the Grand Khan of all Kern, Zharang.

  The massive brute scratched his dull, black fur then backed away. As he did so, he revealed a thick, crimson curtain, which then parted for t
he high-ranking visitor.

  All hint of self-abasement gone, Golgren entered the royal chambers.

  Torches set intermittently into the walls vainly tried to light the way. Strident notes of music assailed his ears. The scent of Grmyn flowers grew thick. A slight purple haze filled the chamber. Golgren’s nostrils flared momentarily at the heady, sweet smell.

  Cages lined the walls. The nearest, only three feet high and four feet wide, held in it an ugly dwarf, one of those from the hills. The dwarf, naked but for his thick, soiled beard, still breathed, but his stare was that of a dead creature. The cage forced him to remain on his side with his legs folded into his chest. He had looked exactly the same the last the Grand Lord had been granted an audience with his master.

  A larger, wrought-iron cage held a dire dark red bird with a wingspan twice the height of the enclosed dwarf. In contrast to the emaciated, wrinkled figure, the sharp-beaked, fire-crested avian creature looked well fed, its eyes flitting eagerly for any new morsel. Zharang had a fondness for the bird, and the bones littering the cage, some of them finger fragments, gave testimony to that fact. The malevolent black orbs of the bird eyed the emissary briefly as a possible meal then glanced away quickly when Golgren bared his teeth. Predators recognized predators.

  The many other cages held a variety of beasts, mostly small but deadly—some very, very rare. Golgren, however, paid the cages no further mind, for ahead sat his master, Zharang.

  The Grand Khan was not alone. Nearly a hundred other ogres of varying age, sex, and size sat upon huge, stuffed cushions garishly colored and patterned. Most cushions were stained with wine and a more vital, crimson fluid. The celebrants themselves bore not a few stains on their clothing; wine and bits of half-chewed food constantly spilled from their wide, laughing mouths.

  A human slave only marginally identifiable as a female was handing out square plates filled high with goat meat, still bloody. One of the male ogres snatched at her scantily clad form, but she managed to avoid his huge, nailed fingers. The human scurried from sight as the ogre and several near him laughed at her fear.