Tides of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  There was soft music coming from a curved lyre held by a pale, straggly haired figure barely identifiable as an elf. His pinched nose and narrow, pointed chin bore the bruises of beatings, for when the music did not please the Grand Khan—as the saying went—the Khan was very displeased. As with the dwarf, only flesh—thin, nearly translucent flesh—clothed this sickly one.

  Laughter arose from the celebrating crowd. In the midst of the richly robed participants, two peculiar reptiles poised on their hind limbs performed a macabre dance of death as they dueled with one another over a morsel of goat meat. On legs resembling those of scaled birds, they hissed and lunged at each other. Their front claws, generally withdrawn, now and then would dart out with frightening swiftness, tearing at each other’s brown, mottled flesh. The baraki were solitary creatures that jealously guarded their territoriality, only joining in pairs when mating. All other times, they lived as dire enemies, which made them the perfect gaming creatures for such indoor spectacles.

  Though he felt a frown coming on, Golgren managed what he hoped was a warm smile. The Grand Khan had been expecting him for days.

  The haze and stench grew more stifling the closer to the Khan he came. One of the partiers, his tusks shaved down to nubs in the same manner as Golgren’s, was clutching a narrow, silver-tipped pipe attached to a hose made from softened water reeds. He flipped open a small latch and inhaled the smoke that escaped. Positioned behind many of the jostling ogres were oval vats kept heated by small fires. Two nervous slaves—ogres, Golgren noted to his surprise—scurried around, making certain that none of the brass containers cooled. The addictive pleasures of the blue-tipped Grmyn flower were best savored when heated not quite to boiling.

  Golgren held up his hand, halting those who trailed behind him. Alone, he respectfully approached the revelers.

  At the far end of the room, chained to the dais upon which stood the wide, star-crested stone throne of the Grand Khan, a huge, winged beast suddenly moved to sit up, alert, its front paws poised. Its wings were stretched taut—wings that were clipped, so the winged creature could not attempt to fly to freedom.

  The beaked beast’s loud squawk announced the presence of the Grand Lord. An ogre near to the gryphon barked at the creature, silencing it. Then, with one last sniff of his pipe, the Grand Khan of Kern, Zharang i’Urkarun Dracon—The Great Dragon That Is Zharang—looked up from his cushion at his most loyal servant.

  The venom in his slightly bloodshot eyes was clear to see.

  Sensing the shift in atmosphere, the elf ceased playing then, chains dragging, cautiously retreated. Two ogres acting as handlers for the baraki leaped into the circle, using Nerakian gauntlets as gloves to protect them from the reaching claws and teeth. They carried the screaming, maddened reptiles away.

  The other revelers looked at the intruder, revealing in their eyes a combination of interest, disdain, respect, and, overall, a healthy fear.

  Golgren went down on one knee, but instead of lowering his own eyes as was custom, he raised them to meet the Grand Khan’s gaze.

  Zharang’s watery eyes looked away first. Only then did Golgren begin his ritual greetings to his master, listing the Grand Khan’s many flattering titles.

  When Golgren had finished, he stood again, another subtle flouting of tradition. Zharang, sniffing the pipe again, smiled broadly. While his tusks resembled Golgren’s, his teeth had been sharpened so they could bite through bone. It was the Grand Khan’s favored punishment for first offenders to remove one or more of their fingers with those teeth then feed the fingers to his caged bird.

  “Yurook ky ifana, i’Golgreni,” Zharang said, putting down the pipe and leaning back casually. Golgren could very well stand in his presence, but the Grand Khan would let everyone know that he was not in the least intimidated by such discourtesy.

  Golgren, in turn, did not respond to the glaring lack of his own formal titles in Zharang’s brief greeting. He snapped his fingers, and the chests were carried forward. The Grand Khan’s companions slithered back and away, as Golgren’s prisoners set the six hefty containers down before the corpulent figure.

  Avarice overcame distrust and loathing. Smoothing the gold trim on his emerald robe, Zharang seized a stick he had been using to bait the baraki and whacked the arched top of the nearest chest.

  One of the royal guards stepped forward and raised an ax, but with one easy movement, Golgren snatched the weapon from his grasp. With a practiced swing, the Grand Lord chopped off one sturdy iron lock after another.

  From where he sat, Zharang kicked the lid of the nearest chest back.

  Shining steel glittered in the torchlight. More valuable than gold these days, the weapons, goblets, and other precious items presented quite an array. To the ogres, it was a king’s ransom.

  One by one, Golgren kicked open the rest of the chests, letting all see the remarkable fruits of his efforts. More steel, but also jewels, other rare metals, and excellent cloth.

  Grunting as he forced his paunchy body to lean forward, Zharang took hold of one blade. He hefted it expertly. The other ogres peered closely, admiring the fine craftsmanship.

  “Igran ky verata i’Neraki?” Zharang asked. “F’han?”

  In response, the Grand Lord coolly turned and nodded to those overseeing his prisoners. One of his warriors kicked forward a human with thinning, flattened hair and one eye missing, thanks to his ogre captors. He staggered to the circle where the baraki had been fighting. Golgren aided his progress with a slap to the neck that sent the black knight collapsing before Zharang.

  Instantly, the rest of the guests grew feverishly excited. Shouts of “F’han! F’han!” filled the royal chamber.

  The Grand Khan Zharang raised himself up. The excess flesh under his chin unfolded, revealing his sparse beard. He grinned, encouraging the shouts with gestures of his hands. The human remained huddled at his feet, cowering but also feeble, possibly oblivious to the horrific situation in which he found himself.

  Atop the dais, the gryphon roared its eagerness for blood. Likewise did the finger-eating bird, which banged its sharp beak against the cage in hopes of a bit of the flesh. Their lusty cries paled compared to those of the shrill ogres. A few tossed the square, copper coins of the realm into the center of the party, making wagers on details of what was to ensue. Ogres, even those desiring to emulate their sophisticated ancestors, wagered not only on death itself, but also on the fascinating nuances. How many strikes, what angle, would the victim cry out, what would the death cry sound like … no excuse for a bet was ignored.

  When the shouting had reached a crescendo, Zharang raised the steel blade over his head. He grinned again, basking in the moment, the horror of it, and the adulation of his followers.

  Golgren kept his own face expressionless, save for a growing intensity in his eyes.

  The Grand Khan swung down.

  “F’han! F’han ne Neraki!” cried more than one reveler.

  The blade bit in midway between the nape of the neck and the shoulder blade. Clad only in a grimy, gray kilt, the knight had no protection but his own skeleton against the heavy strike.

  Blood spilled over the body as the human collapsed to the tarnished marble floor. The knight spasmed repeatedly, gasping, writhing, shuddering, but still he did not die.

  Zharang quickly struck again, raising the sword as high as he could and bringing it down with the full force of his strength.

  This time, he cut deep into the man’s left shoulder, audibly breaking bone and nearly severing the arm. The gasping ceased, but the human’s ragged breathing left no doubt as to whether he yet lived.

  As wagers were paid and others were advanced, the Grand Khan of Kern finally looked up at Golgren, almost with disappointment. Zharang’s eyes narrowed viciously as he attacked the body again.

  With his third strike, he managed to all but remove the head from the torso. There was no doubt now; the knight was dead.

  While his bleary-eyed sycophants cheered, the ogr
e ruler, his robe splattered with blood, tossed the blade away contemptuously. He pointed at the hacked-up corpse, grunting, “Jaragh i i’Neraki gea a’f’han! A’f’han, i’Golgreni!”

  The Grand Lord put on a bland mask. Only his darkening eyes hinted of his true emotions. “A’f’han? Ne ky, ne ky.”

  His face involuntarily flushing with shame, he picked up the discarded blade. Frowning, Golgren turned to his own party.

  Before he had completely turned, one of his warriors shoved forward two more prisoners, one another knight, the other an elf almost as wasted away as the lyre player.

  The moment they walked into range, Golgren moved. The blade flashed once, twice.

  With his free hand, he caught the head of the human as it toppled off its neck, and then grabbed the elf’s by the hair as the latter’s corpse crumpled to the floor. Golgren spun back to face the Grand Khan, smoothly burying the sword point in the chest of valuables.

  With a humble look now replacing the shamed one, Golgren presented the two dripping heads to Zharang.

  “Ne a’f’han i kerak, i’Zharangi,” he courteously remarked.

  He had made it clear to all present. There was no fault with the sword’s make, contrary to what the ogre ruler had implied. And in demonstrating that his gifts were worthy, the Grand Lord Golgren had also revealed his master’s deficiency.

  A nervous change swept through those around him. The wagering ceased. The merry-making tapered off then ended. The other high-ranking ogres watched silently and waited.

  Zharang stood up. His gaze shifted to the captain of the guard, positioned near the front wall, then back to Golgren.

  Sword in one hand, the captain, his rank marked by a red, metal band around his left arm, headed toward the smaller emissary. Golgren watched him, revealing nothing. The oncoming figure stood nearly as tall as the giant outside, but his eyes showed a keen intelligence. Twin scars, purposely cut, underlined his lower lids, and marked him as coming from one of the fiercest tribes.

  The two locked knowing gazes. As he neared Golgren, the hulking captain shifted his grip on his sword.

  Without warning, he sheathed his weapon.

  A slight gasp escaped more than one of the celebrants.

  The guard reached for the blade the Grand Lord had stuck into the wooden chest, raising it up for a better view.

  “Herak i Jeriloch uth Kyr i’Golgreni,” the other ogre declared respectfully to Golgren. He brandished the blade. “Kar oro?”

  “Kee,” Golgren replied.

  Grinning, the captain removed his own sword and tossed it to one of the other sentries. He sheathed the new one, bowed his head once to the Grand Lord, and returned to his place.

  Zharang suddenly seemed to shrink. Golgren, on the other hand, appeared to look down upon his lord, as if he had stolen his dignity.

  The Grand Khan dropped sulkily onto his cushion. With a gruff, overly exaggerated nod, he barked, “Ko hy, Jeriloch uth Kyr i’Golgreni!” He indicated that his emissary should join the festivities. “Ko i keluta, Hargo i Lanos i’Golgreni!”

  The abrupt mention of some of Golgren’s previously omitted titles did not go unnoticed by the rest. The Grand Lord bowed deeply to his master, then snapped his fingers. His warriors led the other prisoners away. Come the morning, they would be executed at a public showing, where Zharang and his emissary would stand side by side, the picture of a loyal servant and his honored lord.

  As Golgren folded his legs atop one of the massive cushions, the graying ogre next to him graciously offered a smoke of his pipe. Golgren declined the offer, but in a manner that accepted the merit of the gift. The eyes of the older ogre gleamed.

  A female on the other side of him leaned close, offering not only wine, but a view of fleshly treasures only one of the Grand Lord’s race could appreciate. He accepted the golden goblet, and let his eyes indicate his possible interest in her. Her mate, his mouth stuffed with meat, nodded his assent to the Grand Lord.

  Across from him, Zharang turned to the side and shouted. The handlers returned with the spitting baraki. Immediately, the wagering renewed. Golgren chose the one he believed would be the victor and placed a bet. Several of the others instantly imitated him.

  The elf began playing his odd music again. The music was different this time, a melody known to be favored by the Grand Lord.

  As the handlers released the baraki, Golgren’s eyes stared through the reptilian combatants, fixed on Zharang. The Grand Khan roared encouragement at the beasts, slapped a fellow celebrant on the shoulder, and inhaled more smoke of the Grmyn flower.

  Not once during the rest of that occasion would he look directly at Golgren. The others, though, turned to the emissary often, making friendly conversation, offers, and wagers, eventually leaving the Grand Khan a pathetic isolated figure puffing on his pipe, inhaling too much of the Grmyn flower …

  Knowing now that it was not he who really ruled Kern.

  For five days the hounds of Sahd—the two-legged as well as the scaly ones—hunted through the empty, ash-ridden land in search of the escaped slaves who had conducted the unprecedented raid on the camp. Fearsome ogre parties, large and well armed, clambered over the jagged rocks and black hills, often led by three or even four meredrakes straining at their leashes. The guards were pushed by their fear of Sahd to drive themselves to exhaustion, and more than once Faros, Grom, and Valun barely eluded capture.

  But after those five days, the hunting parties grew sporadic, the pursuit less fanatical. The three minotaurs debated why.

  “They’ve given up!” Grom insisted not for the first time. The trio had found their way back to their original cave, which, to their surprise, the ogres had not discovered. “Praise Sargas!”

  Valun, chipping away at another bone to create another makeshift utensil of the sort that had served them well in their foraging, nodded agreement. “Why else stop looking?”

  Faros rolled his eyes at their foolish talk. Had he ever been so naive as these two he was stuck with as comrades?

  “Sahd’s withdrawn most of the search parties because he knows we’ve only got three options left at this point,” he told them, not for the first time, in an irritated tone. “He knows that we are probably still out here, concealed and staying on the move, while trying to subsist off the land. He also knows how much of a chance we have of surviving that way in the long run.”

  Minotaurs were hardier than most races. They could go longer without food and without much water. The spring still satisfied their thirst, but scrounging for food while being hunted was an increasing problem. In the past few days, they had dined on only the spiny-crested lizards—which Grom had managed to mix with herbs and cook into something palatable—and one sickly, mottled vulture native to the region. But their hunger was taking its toll in low energy and ill tempers. For minotaurs, they were already weak and lean from the harsh conditions of the camp.

  “He also knows we might leave the area, maybe try for the coast and the welcoming arms of the empire. Even head somewhere else.” Faros snorted. “You know what hope we’ve got of succeeding in that pipedream with no maps, little food, and his spies and minions everywhere searching for us.”

  Three days earlier, they had circled wide away from the hunting parties and then tried circling back to the east. They had managed to cover many difficult miles, and their hopes were rising, when they stumbled across the two dead minotaurs.

  Or rather, they stumbled across what remained of the slaves who had preceded them in a fruitless quest to escape Sahd.

  Their bones had been picked clean and scattered, but the skulls were horned. One of the broken bodies lay near the base of a hill, the other they came upon some minutes later in a ravine. The two had not died at the hands of ogre violence, but from weakness and exposure. The three had argued among themselves before deciding that they were lucky to have gotten this far but should turn back before they, too, were overcome by the elements. Without weapons and food supplies, they would never mak
e it to the sea.

  “Of course we could always return to camp,” Faros concluded with a grim smile. “Beg Sahd’s forgiveness. There’s plenty of food there—plenty of rotten food and work intended to kill us slowly. Of course we might die faster when Sahd gives us his usual dose of punishment—whippings and worse.”

  “The guards have good food,” Grom said. “We could try again to steal some.”

  Valun ceased carving. “After the last failure, do we dare?”

  “It was my fault,” Grom said in a low voice. “I’d like a second chance.”

  Faros looked him in the eyes. “Now you’re talking! We eat or we die. We steal or we die. I say we go back and get all the food we want, and if we die this time—let’s die bravely.”

  “May Sargas watch over us,” Grom whispered.

  “I keep telling you, forget Sargas. We watch out for ourselves.” Faros rose, staring at the exit of the cave. “The sun’ll be down soon. We can’t afford to waste another day. I’ll go scout the perimeter.”

  Grom and Valun rose, insisting that they go with him. Faros shrugged, not caring whether they stayed or followed.

  The trio moved cautiously toward the camp. Sahd had lookouts on the high ridges. Picking their way behind rocks and foliage, the three arrived safely after dark. The slaves had returned from their backbreaking work in the mines, and the ogres were done with their day’s duties and were disappearing into their huts and tents.

  As they watched from behind a mound of rocks on a slight rise, Faros heard a harsh cry. The three looked up and saw several large, winged forms circling over Sahd’s domain.

  Carrion crows and crested vultures, the largest and most voracious of the scavengers. They were always eager for a morsel, and they were patient.

  Sahd cracked his whip, forcing the slaves, including Faros, to move forward so they could enjoy his latest spectacle.

  A bitter taste welled in Faros’s mouth. Shaking off his memories, saying nothing, he gestured to the others to follow then scrambled over loose rocks and dirt before arriving at the edge of a small cliff from which they could survey the camp.