“Bek!” called one of the guards “Over here!”
Faros rushed over to the guard, who handed him a bucket of water and a ladle. “Everyone gets one swallow only. Understand?”
“Aye.” Faros began giving drinks to prisoners. Most gratefully took what he offered them, although each stared with eyes that begged for more.
“Come here with that,” a familiar voice muttered.
Faros turned to discover Paug. For so massive a minotaur, the Butcher moved with surprising stealth.
Paug took the ladle.
“You can't—” The glare he got silenced the younger minotaur. The overseer tossed the ladle aside, then gulped down almost the entire contents of the bucket.
Faros said nothing, but simply moved on to the next miner. It was Ulthar. The bucket held only enough water for one more drink.
Ulthar raised the bucket to his mouth. He paused for a moment, then appeared to drink heartily as Faros watched with puzzlement.
“Aah! So good! Refreshes 'un, eh?” After Faros' listless nod, he added, “Thank you, Bek! You drink now!”
Frowning, the younger prisoner tilted the bucket.
Water sloshed at the bottom, nearly all that Paug had left.
Faros looked up, but Ulthar had already returned to his labors, striking with gusto and humming. He acted refreshed.
Desperate, Faros tilted the pail and let the cool liquid dribble down his throat. Ulthar continued to ignore Faros' efforts to catch his eye, even turning away.
The day dragged on. Faros fell into a trance, his mind drifting away. Some of the pain dwindled.
The mine trembled.
“Eruption!” somebody shouted.
Rocks from the ceiling broke off, pelting the startled miners. A crossbeam cracked in two, one bulky section striking a slow-moving prisoner. Some of the workers tried to run, but guards blocked their path.
“No eruption!” Ulthar cried. “Wait! See!”
The tremor passed, leaving most shaken but unharmed. Thick dust filled the narrow chamber, causing most to cough.
One of the overseers finally ordered everyone outside. Faros and the rest moved as quickly as their chains allowed. An officer on horseback, his mane wildly disheveled and his fur covered in dust, arrived just as the last gasping workers spilled out.
“Any casualties?”
“Just one, sir. The tremor knocked some rock loose, but nothing much else. Air just got too thick with dust. I'll have 'em back inside soon, I swear.”
“Never mind that now!” The officer made a futile attempt to brush himself off. “Get any with strength left lined up. Eighteen's collapsed. There may be survivors.”
“Aye!” The stunned overseer turned. “You, you, and you!” Faros, Ulthar, and Japfin found themselves among those chosen.
Dug into the far side of the crater, the other shaft required a lengthy trek over a cracked, boulder-strewn path. Ahead of Faros, other prisoners were working their way up the slope, stumbling because of the loose footing. A wooden ore cart lay to the right of the path, its sturdy side crushed by good-sized rocks.
As Faros and the others neared, they noticed the wall of rubble clogging the mouth of the shaft.
“No one could be alive in there,” Faros whispered.
“No one,” returned Ulthar, wearing the most solemn expression Faros had yet seen. “Still, we must try.”
“Let's go!” shouted the officer who had brought them. “Get those lines moving!”
The magnitude of the collapse became more apparent with each passing minute. The devastation had been thorough.
No one truly believed they would find anyone alive.
Yet still they worked frantically. Faros dug alongside Ulthar and Japfin until at last they came across the first of the dead.
The stench was recognizable even in the sulfuric air. A hand materialized under a lifted rock and more of the grotesque find came to light. Hardened minotaurs swallowed and swore under their breaths.
One had been a guard, that much his kilt and the sword by his side indicated. His head was crushed beyond recognition. The sight shook Faros. Ulthar had to take him by the shoulders and push him past the mangled corpse.
An overseer came to investigate. With practicality, he retrieved the dead guard's sword. “Get the body out of here! Now!”
Each penetration brought to light a new corpse. Most were prisoners, but now and then a guard joined the growing list of casualties. None of the workers expressed any pleasure when finding the latter; in death, all minotaurs were the same.
As he dug, an occasional lightheadedness took hold of Faros. He noticed it start to affect others.
Even Ulthar appeared a bit disoriented.
The tattooed figure sniffed the air—and almost lost his balance. He shook his head. “Bad. Very bad.”
“What is it?”
Ulthar coughed. “The breath of Argon. The death of the air. Kills you as you breathe it.”
“What do we do?”
Ulthar started to answer then paused at a distant, mournful sound. A moan… from within the ruined shaft.
Faros and Ulthar looked around. No one else had noticed the moan.
At that moment, an overseer neared. He started to say something, then began to cough uncontrollably. A horrified look spread across his face and he raced away.
“Hurry!” insisted Faros. “We've got to hurry!”
“The air is dangerous, Bek,” Ulthar whispered, backing up. “They be dead before we reach 'em… and if we stay, so may we.”
Faros stared, dismayed. He recalled his own dying family. “You go, then, if you like.”
Ulthar faltered. Finally, with a frustrated snort, he bent down to help. Redoubling their efforts, they made headway.
Once more came a brief sound from within the wall of rubble.
“Ulthar!” Faros shouted. “Did you—?”
“All right! Everyone out! This shaft is a death trap! Stop your work and get out! There's nothing left to do!”
Guards began pulling prisoners back. Ulthar and Faros continued.
Paug appeared, brandishing a whip. “You heard! Move! Don't think I won't use this!”
“But someone's alive in there!” Faros insisted.
Paug pushed him aside, then put an ear to the rock. He quickly pulled back. “I don't hear anything!
Everyone's dead in there—” he coughed—”and I don't care to join them.”
Faros hesitated. Paug snapped the whip at him, its sharp sting sending the prisoner stumbling. With the overseer pushing them along, the prisoners abandoned the ruined shaft.
The officer who had led them to this place eyed Paug. “That the last?”
“Aye! Caused some trouble this one did,” Paug indicated Faros. “Needs to be punished, I think.”
“We'll deal with that later. Are all the guards accounted for?”
Another guard spoke up. “No one left alive.”
“And the prisoners?”
“Five bodies unaccounted for.”
The mounted minotaur nodded his satisfaction. “We'll waste no more time here, then. Have the guards' bodies brought back, the others we'll burn. I'll make out the report.”
“But there's still someone in there!” spouted Faros.
The officer glanced at Paug, who shook his head.
“Just as I said, then. You guards have your orders. I'll report this all to the commander.”
He rode off. Paug and his comrades rounded up the miners and loaded them into the creaking wagons.
As they rode back, Faros muttered to Ulthar, “I thought they wanted to dig everyone out.”
Japfin snorted in derision. “What did you expect? They needed to make certain about the guards.”
He leaned forward, eyes red. “They can always get more miners. The only lives they value are their own. We're the refuse of the empire! We're of no worth to it save as hands to dig!”
Faros looked at Ulthar, who nodded agreement.
They rode on in silence.
*****
Drums beat, and the call was sounded. Across the hot, rock-strewn land and into the crumbling, nearly buried remains of a once-proud city abandoned long before the rise of the elves, poured ogres by the hundreds.
Huge beastmen from the mountains, their tusks broader and their eyes constantly trying to adjust to the lowland sun, dragged their hook-edged clubs behind them. Shorter, squat ogres with splayed feet emerged from the direction of the sandy regions. Musclebound, round-chinned hulks with jagged, curved swords and bronze breastplates—elite warriors from the area surrounding the nominal seat of power, Kernen, glared around haughtily at all.
They came in unprecedented numbers, a sign of just how important this gathering was. They came from all points in Kern, and some even dared journey across the harsh border from rival Blöde.
Each group that entered the ruined amphitheater—a hollowed-out, oval structure built from chopped blocks of granite—was led by a chieftain. So many unwashed, lice-ridden bodies together quickly created a stench that aggravated even the dull senses of the ogres, stirring up already-taut nerves.
Old enmities die hard, and among ogres they linger longest. As the fierce, tusked warriors packed together, squabbles and feuds were resurrected everywhere.
Two bands that had just entered began exchanging harsh growls and grunts. One ogre brandished a club at his more heavyset counterpart. The other responded by swinging his brutish weapon at the first. In moments, a pitched battle broke out between the pair.
The clubs met with thundering cracks. Animalistic roars of encouragement raced through the throng, as each side urged their champion to further violence.
The hirsute figures battered away at one another. One landed a blow on the other's shoulder that would have cracked the bone of any human or elf, but only caused a small grunt of pain from the victim. Eyes blazing crimson, the heavier ogre barreled into his taller foe, sending both plunging into the stone pathway. Dust rose as the two grappled.
Suddenly, two towering ogres clutching swords broke through the howling crowd while others similarly armed pushed the mob back. The new pair went to the two combatants, kicking at the dust-covered fighters. As the ogres on the ground paused, the guards put the tips of their hefty blades against the duo's throats. One guard growled harshly, and the pair on the ground separated and returned to their respective bands.
The guards steered the two groups away from one another, then moved along. They and others had the unenviable task of keeping some semblance of order. It would literally be their heads if this gathering collapsed into violent chaos.
The drums continued to beat madly. A hundred of them had been set around what had once been an elegant walkway at the top of the amphitheater. The rhythm stirred the ogres' blood, for it spoke of victory, of conquest. Generations had passed since ogres had held sway over any other race, but the dream never died.
Which was why so many had come here, even with the Knights of Neraka encroaching so near.
Under lonely, cracked columns that once had supported a vast roof upon whose ceiling had been etched the glories of the ancient ogre race, a race whose beauty and perfection had not left even a shadow on its barbaric descendants, the gathering horde roared its impatience. They had been summoned, and they had come. Where now, was the one who had demanded their presence?
As the drumbeats reached a crescendo, a single, cloaked figure stepped up onto the dais at the eastern end, the marble platform where ages before enlightened ogre rulers had greeted their subjects. Of them all, he was the only one who dressed remotely as his ancestors had, and he was the only one who sought to make himself resemble the wondrous beings whose weather-eaten statues lay scattered in pieces throughout the lost city.
The latest debacle against the knights remained fresh in the memories of all, but the cloaked ogre did not let this show on his face. He raised fists high and roared loud and long. Although his features were less monstrous and his form slighter than his fellows, his fearsome shouts overwhelmed both the drums and the cries of the throng.
He had used the questionable authority of the Grand Khan, symbolic ruler of Kern, to bring so many together, even those from hated Blöde, but his reputation had stirred the others to make the trek during this dangerous time. The knights were slaughtering ogres left and right. Warriors were needed at the fronts. A gathering like this took precious might from the flanks.
But for him, they had come.
The sun hung high overhead, scorching the amphitheater. Despite his voluminous cloak, the emissary from the Grand Khan did not look at all overheated. He roared again to his fellows, in his people's barbaric tongue haranguing the ogre warriors. Morale grew lower with every day, every slaughter. Ogres as a rule used brute force and berserker fury to pummel their foes into submission and death. The careful, organized strikes by the humans had left them in doubt and disarray. The knights had shown once again why an ogre empire was only a fantasy, a dream of a lost era, a dream as ancient and as lifeless as the city surrounding this assembly.
The tempo of the drums shifted, accenting his fresh stream of words. The heartbeat of every warrior in attendance matched the cadence. Not all cared for the notions of this strange ogre, but they were caught up in the excitement with the rest.
“Garok lytos hessag!” He shouted, pointing in the general direction of Neraka. Ogres roared and beat their clubs or ends of their spears on the amphitheater's steps. Warriors on each end of the structure raised curled goat horns, blaring out harsh, sinister notes—a symbolic warning from all ogres to any from Neraka who would dare invade their lands.
The emissary bared his sharp teeth and pointed to the east, making the waving motion that to his kind signified the sea and all that lay within it. “Queego! Garoon teka ki! Garoon teka—Uruv Suurt!”
A protesting roar erupted from the listeners. Several chieftains rose, brandishing their war clubs in response to the audacious words. A few began to leave, their retinues following. Those still seated repeated the last words over and over, each time with growing vehemence. “Uruv Suurt… Uruv Suurt…”
Uruv Suurt. Few words from Ancient Ogrish had survived the ages, but these two together had been a part of the race's dwindling lexicon from the beginning. Uruv Suurt—the ogre words meaning minotaur.
The cloaked speaker signaled the guards. Immediately a band of loyal warriors blockaded the exits, snapping at the exiting bands and threatening them if they did not return to their seats.
Most obeyed, but one large faction refused. The leader, a huge gray monster, rumbled angrily at the guards then, with one lightning sweep of a club almost as long as his arm, shattered the skull of the one standing nearest to him.
Renewed howling erupted. Those who had alliances with the murderous protester moved to take his side while others prepared to vent old grievances on them. Pitched duels exploded all over the ancient arena, all semblance of order abandoned.
Above the chaos, the imperial emissary quickly snapped his fingers. One guard raised a horn and blew three notes. Below, the mob barely noticed the urgent call.
Then, suddenly, the guards blocking the entrances stepped aside. Through the gaps the other ogres plunged—only to back up with shouts of surprise and dismay.
Long tongues darting out, huge reptilian forms pushed into the amphitheater. Their red, inhuman eyes shifted hungrily. One hesitant ogre screamed as massive, toothy jaws snapped shut on his leg, and he was wrestled to the ground. The horse-sized lizard, a meredrake, raked its eight-inch claws through his chest, ripping it open.
Guards with whips and tethers moved other meredrakes forward, restoring order in brutal fashion.
The battles in the stands broke up. Only the original chieftain and those who followed him still stood defiant.
Club dripping, the former glared up at the neatly clad figure and growled, “Neya! Neya Uruv Suurtfenri! Uruv Suurt hela barom! Neya Uruv Suurt!”
The smaller ogre shook his he
ad and shouted back, “Neya Uruv Suurt? K’cha! F’han Uruv Suurt…
Garoki Uruv Suurt fenri! F’han!”
“F'han?” The chieftain blinked, utter confusion just another ugly expression on an ogre's visage.
“F'han.”
In the stands, an opposing war leader rapped the end of his club on the step. His escort took up the signal. The act spread throughout the crumbling arena. Above the racket, many rumbled over and over, “F'han… f’han… f’han…”
Still the one chieftain refused to accede. He shook his head. “F'han bruut! Bruut!”
He turned back to the entrance, still obstructed by the wary guards and the salivating lizards.
Atop the dais, the cloaked figure waved the guards aside.
Meredrakes snapping at their flanks, the defiant chieftain led his band out. A handful of smaller groups descended hurriedly from the seats and joined him. From his perch, the elegantly clad ogre watched as they filed out and vanished.
Those remaining behind were his entirely. Cries of f ’han continued long after the departures. The drums recommenced, matching the grating voices. Ogre blood stirred, ancient desires burning bright.
Seizing the momentum, the emissary nodded to another guard, who waved to a comrade well below.
Through the eastern entrance, two lumbering warriors pushed forth a disheveled, beaten figure. The lone Knight of Neraka had been captured during the ogres' latest rout, a single prize in an Otherwise disastrous day. Gone was the brilliant black armor, the arrogant expression. Legs weak, right arm held tight, the knight stumbled out into the arena. He wore only the tattered kilt given to him by his captors. Bruises covered his body.
The ogres howled anew, swinging clubs and stomping their feet. The guards kicked the pathetic figure into the middle of the amphitheater, then stood watch over him.
From their seats arose the strongest, most dominant of the chieftains and war leaders. They barged their way through the wild crowd and leaped down onto the field. The meredrakes hissed and strained to join, but their handlers whipped them into silence.
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