The Black Talon

IV

The valley lay nestled only two dozen miles from the ogre city of Bloten-capital of Kern’s sister and once-rival, Blode-yet even the most wily of ogre hunters would have had an all but impossible time finding it. That would have assumed that they even knew that it existed, for powers had been at work for decades to strip all of knowledge of its existence-the powers of those who dwelled within.

The Titans.

What had once been, for the ogre realms, an idyllic, forested valley surrounded by imposing mountains was now a fog-enshrouded domain where no sounds of animal life could be detected. Those unfortunate enough to stumble into the deep valley found it impossible to quickly depart, for even the path by which they had entered seemed to change. Instead of heading out, it would lead deeper and deeper into the misty land.

And once trapped into following that direction, there was no escape from the Titans, the guardians of Bloten.

The terrifying fate of such poor lost souls was of little concern to the giant spellcasters, especially their master, Dauroth. All that interested them was their ambition and their arts. With the latter they hoped to achieve the former, that being the revival of the Golden Age of their forebears.

A revival currently being tarnished and twisted by what some referred to as “the mongrel” to whom they had to bow.

Some questioned why Dauroth let Golgren live, much less command their magic for his own gains, but none brought up the matter to the elder Titan’s face. If Golgren somehow held Dauroth in his sway-for surely there could be no other reason for the spell master’s tolerance of the half-breed-it was also certainly true that Dauroth held the rest of the Titans just as tightly in his formidable grip. After all, only he knew the secret of the process by which they sustained their power.

And that night, as the fog grew to its thickest, blanketing the entire valley, the blue-skinned sorcerers were busy preparing the ritual of admitting one into their exalted ranks.

There were many chambers in the citadel of Dauroth, many more than even his followers could tally. Oftentimes, those chambers would change their size and location at Dauroth’s whim. Those who wandered his citadel soon learned that no one even walked around there without the spell master’s permission.

Crystals the color of Nuitari’s moon illuminated many of the corridors, but in some, fiery balls the size of apples lit the way. Only Dauroth knew why or how. Most of the halls were built of stone, but a select few boasted walls of iron and were decorated with images of tall, magnificent Titans staring back at their living brethren. Again, it was only the master who knew why the walls varied so, although there was certainly reflection and discussion about the subject among his followers.

In general, there were always two or three of the sorcerers walking the halls to some destination, yet such was not the case at that moment. That night all the Titans were gathered in the circular chamber where most group spells were cast and most general experiments performed. Under the domed roof of the main chamber, the spellcasters-more than five dozen strong-stood in a circle within a circle. At the center of the pattern had been set a platform upon which lay something that to an outsider might chillingly resemble a long, metallic coffin, whose lid could be raised or lowered by use of chains. Yet to the sorcerers, it was not a symbol of death; instead it was rebirth. For it was where all Titans began.

Dauroth was positioned nearest the sarcophagus, an array of vials and small objects at his side. Next to him stood two others-his chief apprentices, Hundjal and Safrag. His senior assistant, Hundjal, striking and athletic, even compared to most of his brethren, was just then handing a golden bowl to his master. Safrag, almost a shadow in size compared to the other two, silently mixed herbs together.

Dauroth held up the bowl. The words he spoke were not those of his race’s bastardized language nor were they even, in truth, those in the revered tongue of the ancient High Ogres. They came from the language of the latter only as the elder giant dreamed that language to have existed, just as so much about the Titans of late was the product of his dreaming.

It was a dream he was determined would soon become reality for all.

“Aarias asana atilio,” Dauroth sang, for his High Ogre language was pure music. “Afreesia ausias aairias.”

The other Titans repeated his words with the same fervor as their leader. The beauty of their voices would have touched even the souls of an elf court, though the ritual that musical language accompanied might have shocked the cultured race. Even before they finished their chant, a crimson aura had formed over the top of the golden bowl, an aura radiating from its contents.

Dauroth lifted the bowl, displaying it for his followers to admire. The crimson glow illuminated the chamber better than the crystal globes, which hovered at equidistant points along the walls. The red tint turned the Titans’ blue-skinned faces into lurid parodies or, perhaps, better revealed their true essences.

At the top of the sarcophagus was a system of tubes and a long, narrow vent. Into the vent, Dauroth poured the crimson liquid from the bowl. As it seeped inside, from within the strange sarcophagus there came a sound like sighing.

“Asiriosio anthrayan isul,” Dauroth announced, holding high the empty bowl.

“Asiriosio anthrayan isul,” repeated his flock.

Safrag handed his steaming mixture to Hundjal, who handed it to Dauroth. The lead Titan immediately poured the potion into the same vent. Again there came the sighing sound, one that might have been a mixture of pleasure and pain.

Dauroth’s apprentices retreated into the shadows. Dauroth himself bent over the coffin, the palms of his hands running across its tremendous length. Black energy crackled at his fingertips, an energy that remained there several seconds after he withdrew his hands.

Gazing up, Dauroth examined the array of tubes. They ran from various points in the darkness above into the center of the sarcophagus. For three nights upon three, he had imbued what would flow through them with his magic. For three nights upon three, he had added the necessary alchemical ingredients to what the magic had created.

For three nights upon three prior to taking those necessary steps, the screams of elves had echoed throughout the citadel.

Nodding his satisfaction, Dauroth turned his gaze back to the sarcophagus. With one taloned finger, he drew several blazing black runes on the edge of the coffin. That, in turn, caused others already etched in the metal to stir to life.

Stepping back, the senior Titan raised his hands to gesture to his followers. As they in unison repeated his latest movement, the same black energy Dauroth had summoned moments before flared up and erupted around the Titans as a whole.

Dauroth began chanting, with the rest repeating his words moments afterward, a choral echoing. The dark aura grew stronger, spreading from around them to embrace the metal coffin.

And at last, when it had fully enveloped the sinister sarcophagus, Dauroth gestured to the shadows above. There was a brief flash of red, followed by a rushing sound, as if water or some other liquid had suddenly begun to flow with tremendous force.

The tubes shook. The sound of running liquid echoed from inside of them. Then, from inside the sarcophagus, came the first distinct trickle of drops against metal.

Dauroth’s hand came whizzing down.

The sarcophagus blazed a startling blue. A shriek escaped from within. Hard, desperate banging arose against the coffin walls, and as quickly the sound faltered and faded away.

The Titans renewed their chanting, feeding their power into the process of which Dauroth alone was master. The tubes continued to shake as their contents flowed into the fiery coffin.

For more than an hour, the assembled sorcerers repeated their calls without hesitating for breath. By the end of that time, the container flared as hot and as bright as an azure sun.

Then Dauroth cut off the chanting with an abrupt wave of his hand. The other Titans took a step back from their original positions, leaving in front only their leader and his two apprentices.

A snap of the fingers drew two new figures through the ranks toward the red-glowing sarcophagus. Ogres those muscular beasts were-at least according to vague definitions of the race. However, those specimens had heads too small and brains smaller yet. Their eyes were wide and dark like creatures accustomed to only the blackest night. It clearly pained them to approach the hot, blinding sarcophagus, yet they did so without hesitation. Although shorter by far than the Titans, the brutish figures were well muscled. At Dauroth’s indication, one began unlatching the steel hooks that kept the metal coffin locked. With that accomplished, both seized the chains used for lifting the lid and began tugging it open.

Even with their strength multiplied by Dauroth’s experiments, it took some effort at first for the pair to pull the top free. Finally, with a fierce, sucking sound, the lid came open. A gush of thick, red liquid poured over the sides of the coffin but, oddly, evaporated before reaching the floor.

In utter silence, the servants slowly pulled the lid higher for all to see what lay within. Expressions of growing anticipation spread among the Titans until at last it was revealed: a bubbling, congealing, red mass. Steam rose from the ugly, red bubble and a scent like that of burned flesh wafted past the nostrils of the watching sorcerers. They did not skitter back in disgust, however; rather, they openly welcomed the smell.

As his servants secured the chains so the lid would not drop down again, Dauroth approached the sarcophagus. Hundjal and Safrag followed softly in his wake. The apprentices took up positions on each side of the wider part of the coffin and waited expectantly for their master. Dauroth stretched a hand over the bubbling contents and uttered a single word.

And from within the red mass a howling figure who looked as if he bled profusely all over sat up. The howling went on unabated for several seconds; then the half-seen form shivered. Slowly the red slime dripped and fell away, and for the first time, the brilliant blue skin of the figure became apparent.

The hand that he had held over the sarcophagus Dauroth offered to the shivering figure. Blinking away tears of blood, golden eyes seized eagerly on the hand. The blue-skinned, blood-drenched figure reached for that hand, but his own slipped.

Dauroth smiled like a patient father. Stepping back, he gestured for the figure to rise. When the other faltered, Hundjal and Safrag immediately grabbed him-for it was clear by that point that the striking figure was male-by the arms, assisted their master in guiding the dripping being out of the coffin, helped him to a standing position next to it.

“Issura assalias,” murmured Dauroth. The rest of the solidifying red slime burst from the figure’s body, but rather than splatter those watching, it immediately dissipated in the air.

Before the assembled spellcasters, the new Titan stood blinking and, to all appearances, looking around. He was perfect in the eyes of the others, just as each thought himself so. Handsome, lean, and muscled, he was the newest and latest created as gods over their kind-over all races-an ogre who could crush other ogres as easily as ogres crushed bugs.

Once he had been a subchieftain by the name of Ulgrod. He had bowed to Golgren but with a reluctance not unnoticed by Dauroth. Ulgrod’s ambitions and his passion for Dauroth’s dream had enabled him to rise up despite many enemies, and in the past he had eagerly performed certain “tasks” for the lead Titan.

What had occurred had been Ulgrod’s reward for showing that his loyalty was to Dauroth, not to the half-breed pretender.

The apprentices waited only long enough to make certain Ulgrod could stand on his own then retreated into the shadows again. The new Titan eyed Dauroth, awaiting his command.

But Dauroth did not speak yet. Instead, he pointed at Ulgrod, and suddenly from the darkened recesses of the chamber, cloth and metal converged on the former subchieftain. In the space of a single breath, garments akin to those worn by the others had materialized to clothe the naked form.

Ulgrod stared in wonder at himself then looked again to Dauroth. Ulgrod’s expression twisted awkwardly as he clearly tried to form words that were as yet beyond him.

“We shall speak in Common for the duration of this joyous occasion,” Dauroth declared to the transformed ogre. “The barbaric tongue you were once used to is fit only for commanding the unblessed.” He put a welcoming hand on Ulgrod’s shoulder. “By the morning, the glorious language of our forebears will be known to you as if you had spoken it from your first birth on.”

“My head-” Ulgrod murmured, his eyes darting around from one sorcerer to the next in the surrounding circle. “So much fills it! My thoughts are sharper than they’ve ever been.”

“It is only the beginning, my brother … only the beginning.”

Staring at his right hand-taloned-Ulgrod summoned a ball of fire the size of an apple. Dauroth watched with stoicism, well used to such activity by new converts. The first day was always one of adjustment and amazement; a freshly reborn Titan was like a child given a new toy. They had to test the limits of what they had become, learn what they could do.

“Such power!” the former subchieftain gasped. He stared at the flames at his fingertips; the fiery ball had swollen in size yet did not in the least singe his skin. “I can do anything!”

Dauroth frowned, shaking his head. “No, not yet. That will come with time, as I have indicated, my friend.”

As if not quite believing this, Ulgrod glared at the fiery ball, furrowing his brow. That time, though, nothing happened.

Ulgrod dismissed the flames. An evil grin spread across his handsome features. There was still enough in those features to enable anyone to recognize his former identity. All of the Titans retained faint glimmers of their old visages.

“Power enough,” the new Titan proclaimed lustily. “Enough to drag that half-breed from the throne he covets and feed him kicking and screaming to the meredrakes!”

“No!” Dauroth’s vehemence made Ulgrod step back in surprise and fear. The other Titans wisely kept silent, although among them there were one or two nods of agreement with the newcomer’s impulsive sentiment.

“No,” the lead Titan repeated more calmly and yet also more threateningly. “Golgren is not to be touched.”

“Great Dauroth! I meant no disrespect-”

Dauroth cut him off. The elder giant smiled, his sharp teeth very much in evidence suddenly. “You are new and, therefore, Ulgrod, you are forgiven.”

Underlying the sympathetic statement was the threat-quite evident to all who listened-that any further suggestion from Ulgrod of removing the grand lord would not be allowed to pass. Ulgrod swallowed and immediately bowed his head.

“Hundjal. Our brother Ulgrod will need to orient himself to his ascension. Guide him to the meditation room, where he may understand and learn better what he has become.”

The apprentice took the new Titan by the arm and led him out of the room. As the pair vanished, Dauroth turned to face the rest of his followers, who knelt before his glory. He acknowledged their gesture then silently strode from the chamber.

Safrag followed at his heels. Not as athletic in build or fair in face as Hundjal, Safrag was still typical of the Titans in his dark beauty. Yet where his counterpart usually walked at Dauroth’s side, Safrag always kept a respectable step behind.

The apprentice did not dare speak until they were far away from the ears of others. When Safrag finally gave voice to his thoughts, the Titan did so in the Common that his master had used in addressing Ulgrod. Safrag did not feel that his concerns were worthy of the wondrous high language Dauroth had introduced to him and the others, which they used in the ceremony.

“They do not suspect how risky that was this evening, my master.”

“But you do, of course,” returned Dauroth without looking back at his apprentice. “You understand very well, Safrag.”

“The mongrel must either give us more fresh subjects or stand out of our way while we take them!” The Titan grew more strident as he walked and talked. “And he must be taught that he is less than the dirt beneath your glorious feet! The way that he spoke to you earlier, at the very site of battle, a battle that would have proven far more costly to him and his side had you not agreed to lend our talents to his dubious cause!”

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.