The Fire Rose

IV

The meredrake hissed and spat, struggling to pull itself free from the heavy boulders linked to a chain around its thick neck. The dull green and sandy brown reptile was as long in body as an ogre and could easily drag the heaviest foe down if given the chance. The size of a horse, meredrakes were among the worst predators of the ogre lands. Their paws were clawed, and their teeth designed for two things: ripping flesh and crushing bone.

Slapping its heavy tail on the dusty ground, the meredrake opened its mouth and tasted the air with its long, red tongue. Its fiery eyes squinted, and the huge round nostrils at the end of its muzzle flared.

A small bit of rancid meat lay just beyond the meredrake’s reach. Driven by its basic instincts, the reptile tried again to reach the still tasty morsel. It never waited longer than several moments before attempting yet another futile lunge.

It was such determination to keep trying and fighting that was part of the reason the beast was kept prisoner.

The sun hung low on the horizon. The meredrake had been bound for some hours. The slavering beast’s claws had dug deep ravines into the harsh ground, and more than once it had defecated in its frustration.

The jaws again snapped at the tantalizing meat. The meredrake hissed … and its entire body froze as if some spell had turned it to stone.

Its nostrils flared. The meredrake forgot the morsel for which it had struggled so hard and so long. Suddenly the reptile turned and scrambled as best it could over the boulders holding it anchored in place. However, those who had secured the beast had done their job well, and no matter where the giant lizard skittered, its tether always allowed it to go only so far.

The ground to the west suddenly rumbled, as if provoked by a minor tremor. The meredrake strained to head east or south, where the rocks rose to hills and even mountains farther on. Yet, like the meat, the higher landscape was beyond its reach.

The tremor grew closer. The earth to the west rose and buckled.

The meredrake frothed at the mouth as it twisted around in an effort to gnaw on its chain. Marks on the iron links gave ample evidence to the lack of success it had achieved thus far. Yet the savage lizard could imagine no other means of escape.

The ground continued to buckle toward the meredrake. The tremor reached the boulder to which the chain had been bolted. With little effort, the tremor tumbled the huge boulder upside down. The full weight of the rock fell upon the bolts, which snapped.

Sensing its freedom, the meredrake started to flee.

From below ground burst a massive crocodilian head at the end of a sinewy neck several times the length of the meredrake. The abomination’s huge and oddly pointed jaws seized the hissing meredrake at the midsection, and raised the lizard high.

Its claws wildly scratching, the meredrake tried in vain to bite at its foe’s neck. More and more of the burrowing leviathan emerged, showing two small forelegs ending in thick, webbed claws perfectly designed for ripping through dirt and rock.

The meredrake’s tail wrapped around the upper neck of the other reptile. For a moment, there was a stalemate.

With the ease of biting into a piece of soft fruit, the serpentine giant bit through the meredrake’s muscular torso.

The meredrake’s hiss stopped. Parts of its tail and hind legs fell in one direction, the head and one foreleg another.

With great gusto, the burrower swallowed all that was left in its mouth. Down its great gullet went nearly a third of its prey.

Dropping its head down, the victor stuck its snout under the meredrake’s tail and hind legs, seeking the best morsel. Clamping its jagged teeth around part of a haunch, it raised its snout skyward, tossed the bloody gobbet up, and let it fall into its gullet.

The burrower’s head descended for more-

From behind the rocks charged a pack of stocky, muscular ogres. They were not clad so finely as those who lived in Garantha, for they were from one of the many nomadic groups that still populated much of the wilderness of old Blode. In such harsh regions, life was spent hunting or being hunted. Or hunting the hunter.

The burrower let out a croaking roar and backed toward the hole from which it had sprung. It snapped at the first of the kilted ogres, almost biting off the eager warrior’s head. Fortunately, quick reflexes sent the ogre scrambling just out of reach.

More than a dozen ogres materialized to confront the giant beast. It snapped again at one tusked attacker, tearing from his hand the spear that he was about to jab at its long neck. The weapon broke easily and, after being tasted, was spit out.

The full length of the reptile was exposed. The entire body was cylindrical, with another pair of vestigial limbs ending in digging claws at the rear of the body. The creature’s form ended in a short, pointed tail perhaps three feet in length.

Another ogre threw his spear. The point went into the side of the burrower’s neck. It gave another croaking roar and shook the point free. Dark blood dribbled from the wound.

As half a dozen more ogres joined those already attacking, the massive reptile chose flight over food. It twisted its body around and began digging furiously at the soil with its pointed snout. Between strength and the sharp point, the reptile dug down almost as quickly as if it were diving into water.

But as swift as the immense creature was, the ogres were even quicker. They thrust spears into its side. The reptile roared in pain as it drew back up to confront its foes.

Two ogres with smaller spears moved in close. The heads of the spears were smaller and hooked at the end, making them difficult to remove from any target. On the other end of the spears had been attached long strands of rope made from the sturdy hi’turu shrub, a plant known by nomadic ogres for its durability.

The first of the pair threw his spear. The small missile glanced off the upper edge of the beast’s great neck and fell away. He scrambled after the spear as the second tossed.

The second’s spear sank deep enough to catch in the scaled hide. Both the spear thrower and another nearby warrior immediately grabbed hold of the rope and tugged.

But as they did, the burrower’s head darted down. Before the pair could pull it away, it caught the head and arm of the ogre chasing after the fallen spear.

Compared to a meredrake’s tough body, the ogre’s was very soft and so easy to bite through.

The bloody bits that were left afterwards twitched madly before thunking to the ground. The burrower instinctively swallowed the ogre’s head and arm, its digestive system more than able to handle the bones.

But its instincts were working against it, for that move bought time for the ogres to gather nearer and bring forward more warriors with short spears. Two hurled their weapons from the opposite side. Both spears struck home. A pair of warriors grabbed each attached rope and pulled.

One spear that had barely penetrated popped out, taking a chunk of scale with it. The two ogres pulling on the line stumbled and fell, but, fortunately for them, the huge reptile was far too occupied to dip down and snack on their bodies. Another warrior threw a spear, followed by two more.

With five hooked spears sticking into the body of the monster, the ogres were able to drag its head closer to the ground. The burrower croaked its fury, and its paws scratched as wildly at the ground as those of its own victim, the meredrake, minutes earlier.

“Ku ji f’han di ihagheed-araki ko!” roared an older hunter with a balding pate and pronounced belly.

Additional ogres advanced upon the burrower with long spears. Behind them followed ogres with axes and clubs.

But the burrower was not yet defeated. Suddenly, its body whipped back and forth in a frenzy. The rapid movements caught some ogres by surprise. Those clutching two of the ropes lost their grip, and a third rope was held desperately by only one ogre. An ogre approaching with a spear was whacked by the beast’s tail and, despite it being only a yard long, its thickness and the speed with which it struck was enough to shatter the warrior’s rib cage.

Other ogres rushed to seize the ropes. Another with one of the short spears tossed his weapon. As soon as the point of the spear penetrated, that rope was seized too.

With six ropes embedded, the ogres managed to keep the reptile more at bay. They pulled its head closer and closer to the ground, though its snapping jaws prevented anyone getting near.

The burrower continued to writhe in an attempt to free itself while other ogres moved in with long spears. Wherever they found an open spot on the sinewy body, they thrust hard.

The monster’s roars became gasps. Its body grew sluggish.

A warrior with an axe came up next to its head-The elder ogre grunted a warning, but it was too late. With a sudden twist, the burrower’s head came around and bit through one leg and the torso of the axe-bearing ogre. The stricken warrior managed a brief cry of defeat before dying.

No longer interested in food, the trapped beast flung the bloody refuse away, the gory body parts pelting the attackers.

More spears were thrust into its body. The burrower let out one more croak, and the great head dropped with a thud.

Still wary after the beast’s last trick, the hunters added a few more spears before they began hacking away at its limbs and tail. When their quarry did not even twitch, the elder ogre finally pointed to a pair of warriors with axes. They rushed up on each side of the creature, behind its huge head.

The leader pointed at the dead burrower’s head. Raising their weapons, the pair hurled themselves at the spot where the skull met the neck. With great gusto, the ogres chopped away at scale, flesh, and bone.

Only when they had the head utterly severed did the hunters shout “Iskar’ai! Iskar’ai!”

Iskar’ai-victory-often meant merely surviving in the wilds. The huge burrower-called hageed-araki by the ogres and the “volewyrm” by the few outsiders who had survived the experience of witnessing one-had hunted and devoured more than half a dozen of the local citizens in the past two weeks. Using the same technique designed to capture meredrakes-the only difference being that they staked out goats or amaloks to lure the smaller predator-the ogres had triumphed.

But as the elder ogre shared in the victory celebration, a figure in glinting armor caught his attention. While the rest dove in to strip the hageed-araki of its meat and other useful parts-nothing was ever wasted in the wilds-their leader turned to the silent figure and raised his weapon in salute.

The figure, a human in Solamnic armor, saluted back with his dusty sword. The glint masked dents, dirt, and scratches all over the armor of the human. Yet, through all that, the symbol of the Order of the Sword shone clear.

The knight wore a full beard, the areas around the jaw thicker than the mustache, which had only begun growing in the past few months. The dark-haired Solamnian sheathed his weapon and turned to go. His time with Hogran and his people was over. They had done well for him as he had worked to understand his new path. Fortunately, his patron had made it clear to Hogran’s clan from the start that he was a human who was a friend, not an enemy. Although he had not been permitted to be a part of the hunt-Hogran insisting that the kill must be made by ogres-the knight had contributed his share by suggesting the capturing of a meredrake for bait. The Solamnian had even stood by, ready to help if needed. But even with so many terrible deaths, Hogran had not signaled his participation.

Besides, the knight’s patron had other designs for him, which required him to leave immediately.

As he walked, seemingly indifferent to both his harsh surroundings and the fact that he carried no supplies, no water, no map, Sir Stefan Rennert took heart in what dangled on his chest. He gently pulled free a leather cord hanging around his neck, drawing forth a medallion that was identical to one that he had received from the hands of his friends and comrades, Willum and Hector.

Received from their dead hands in the midst of a monstrous attack by undead on the ogre capital.

Stefan turned the triangular medallion around to study it. Its metal was steel; two long, arching horns in brass were etched in the center. His patron had given it to him. The first such pendant had been given to another who also needed guidance.

He did not recall anything of his journey so far south from Garantha. The last thing that Stefan remembered was the ground erupting and the skeletal dead streaming everywhere. Somewhere along the way, he had lost track of the elf maiden, Idaria, who had been at his side. There had been a shower of stone, he thought, and more than one had hit him on his helmeted head.

After that, the Solamnian-minus his helmet-had awoken in a different region. Stumbling to his feet, he had walked directly into the path of Hogran and his tribe. The ogres had reacted most oddly for their kind; instead of attacking, they had raised their weapons in salute. Hogran had handed the human a water sack and let him take up a place beside him on the nomads’ march to their seasonal encampment.

The ogres had helped Stefan recover. Already adept at some elements of their tongue, he managed to communicate with them enough to see to his needs. But at first, they didn’t explain their hospitality.

The answer came to him barely a week after his arrival in their midst. Too weak to depart, but too frustrated to let his recuperation take the time it needed, Stefan tried his best to get Hogran to explain why the Solamnian appeared to be expected and thus was welcomed by the leader and his tribe. The elder ogre led him into the nearby wilderness. There, Hogran chose a place where the stars were brightest and sat down with legs folded. He indicated that Stefan should do the same.

The ogre pointed up at the constellations. Stefan turned his gaze to the one most prominent in that direction-

And a strong yet comforting voice had filled his head.

I’ve need of you, good warrior, the voice had said. I’ve need of your arm, your head, and your good heart. I need you to stand before an enemy like none you have known… An enemy called capriciousness.

It was a very odd request the voice had made, but Stefan knew whom the voice belonged to, and that any request by that speaker would have good cause. Entirely unaware of his surroundings, the Knight of the Sword had listened to the rest of the words.

And when the voice was done, Stefan had stirred to find not only was Hogran no longer beside him, but morning was nearly upon the human. More importantly, clasped in his right hand he had found the second triangular pendant, a token of the speaker, whose constellation was just vanishing in the light of dawn.

As he departed the ogres who had been his family for weeks, Stefan brought the medallion to his lips and kissed it lightly “I’ll make myself worthy of the honor, my lord,” he whispered to his patron. “I swear by the Oath and the Measure-and you, great Kiri-Jolith-that I will.”

And so, Stefan pushed on to where he knew he needed to be, to where once again he would find the half-breed ogre, Golgren.

But he did not head toward Garantha.

Generation upon generation, the war machine of the ogre race had been the same: a vast horde of individual fighters relying on their brutal strength to overwhelm opponents in chaotic struggle. There was no skilled combat, no finesse with arms. Clubs, swords, and spears had been wielded with basic skills and fury. Sometimes, the swarm of ogres had brought great victory; other times, it had brought ignominious defeat.

But the age of Golgren, as some of his followers thought of it already, had begun to change all that.

The one hundred ogre warriors practicing their sword thrusts were part of the new ogre army. They wore the shining breastplates and metal-tipped kilts that were standard among all those who served the Grand Khan. Helmets had been temporarily set to the side for better hearing of the commands barked by their trainer. The swords were heavy and among most humans would have required powerful strength to hold with one hand, much less wield. The swords were well-honed, new, and of ogre make.

The warriors moved with an organized flair stunning even to those who had followed the initial transformation of Golgren’s forces. The swords thrust simultaneously, and as one shifted to counter an imaginary attack.

“Feint! Thrust! Retreat! Thrust!” roared their instructor, who was not an ogre. Indeed, he was possibly the last creature one might have expected to be willingly training ogre forces.

The minotaur was nearly as broad in his chest and girth as his students. Although he was more than a foot shorter, any who watched him move agilely could not doubt that-one against one, or even two against one-the outcome of any fight would leave the minotaur the victor and his opponents dead at his feet.

The minotaur wore the armor of the imperial legions, a marred black horse on its hind legs still visible on the breastplate. His armor was polished, but clearly more well worn than that of his charges.

Dark brown of fur, the minotaur had obviously seen much action. There were scars on his arms and shoulders, and even a wicked mark across the right side of his muzzle. Part of one nostril had been severed during the making of that scar. The smallest finger on his left hand had also been lost.

But most arresting about the ogres’ instructor was his singular lack of horns. It was not that he had not been born with any, but that those horns had, at some recent point in time, been expertly shorn just above the skull.

There were a handful of others like him, scattered around various parts of Golthuu. They were renegades with no life left for them in the empire. Some had served the previous emperor, Hotak, with too much fervor for his successor to accept their existence. With nowhere else to go, they had turned to the one livelihood left to their dishonored selves, while at the same time garnering a chance for vengeance against the new Uruv Suurt emperor.

And while the minotaur continued to teach and admonish, the grounds surrounding him and his students-grounds situated just to the north of Garantha-shook with activity. Hundreds more ogres were practicing, marching, and working. The latest hand took shape. Three mastarks under the guide of handlers also went through paces, learning signals that would enable them to be much more of a threat to the enemy than to their own force, as had often been the unfortunate case in the past. The handlers, seated atop the shoulders of the beasts, prodded the tusked giants left, right, forward, and even hesitantly backward.

Meredrakes went through training too, although with the huge lizards there was less that could be absorbed. Trainers used whips to teach the reptiles never to turn on them or those nearby. Meredrakes were always urged forward. To emphasize the practice, haunches of old amalok meat were hung before them; the meredrakes were only rewarded after they had learned that heading in any direction but forward was forbidden.

Another surprising activity was taking place on the training ground. For the first time, Golgren’s people were producing quality weapons in mass quantity. Every sword was a replica of minotaur make, but the work was being accomplished by their own kind. A vast, round forge had been set up for the task in a mud-block structure with open slits near the curved ceiling. Burly smiths worked with molten iron brought as ore from distant mines, where slaves and ogre prisoners worked under whips both day and night. Wagons arrived each hour at the forge. Those not filled with ore carried more coal and other fuel needed to maintain the blistering heat.

The smiths wore cloths over their noses and mouths, but otherwise had no protection from the heat or the searing metal. As the newly arrived Khleeg peered inside, he saw ogres with all sorts of burns covering them. Many had patches of hair missing. Smoke rose everywhere, and the stench of sulfur was so great that the officer’s eyes immediately teared and burned.

Hands protected by covers of thick meredrake skin carried orange-hot ladles of molten metal to the molds. The original molds had been stolen from the Uruv Suurt for just that purpose, stolen because even the late Emperor Hotak had not trusted his allies enough to do more than provide them with finished weapons. Of course, there were always those of any race willing to profit by theft, and so for Golgren, gaining what he needed to start the facility had not been difficult.

Khleeg surveyed the many molds, trying to make a count. Twenty were still serviceable, but two more had cracked, rendering them worthless. In another area, ogres were attempting to duplicate the consistency of the Uruv Suurt’s molds, but with varying success. Still, the molds that were usable temporarily gave the Grand Khan’s swelling forces what they needed.

Khleeg stepped back past workers freeing those blades cooled enough to finish upon the anvil. The clang of metal against metal was deafening, and more than a few who had labored in the forge for a few years were deaf to all but the loudest sounds.

The officer finally located the overseer. He seized the other brute by the arm and roared, “How many? Enough?”

The scarred and burned overseer-one eye had been seared shut months past after a chance encounter with a falling piece of burning metal-peered dumbly at Khleeg. Khleeg thought that the worker did not understand his Common speech, but the other ogre turned one fat ear toward him.

“Enough?” the Blodian roared at the top of his lungs. His question ended in a choking cough due to the sulfur.

The overseer waited until he had recovered before nodding vehemently. “All!” he roared back. “All!”

Stifling another cough, Khleeg finally abandoned the building. Outside, as he inhaled the relatively cleaner air, the ogre looked up at the top of the facility. Smoke did rise steadily from the vents, but not nearly as much as was needed.

A score of riders awaited his return, Golgren at the forefront. With one last cough, Khleeg reported, “All ready!”

The Grand Khan dismounted, his guards following suit. Two in the rear ushered forth a prisoner: an Uruv Suurt legionary minus his armor. The horned warrior scowled despite his dire situation.

Khleeg led his lord and the others to where several ogres were stacking new weapons in what seemed at first to be oddly arranged piles. Only as they drew closer did a pattern become visible. The stacks formed a sunburst, an homage to Sirrion, whose fire had allowed them to be cast.

A space ten feet by ten feet filled the center of the pattern. Into the area stepped Golgren. He removed all but his kilt and his sandals, handing his possessions to Khleeg for safekeeping.

The legionary was shoved into the empty space with the Grand Khan.

Khleeg stepped up. “Uruv Suurt … would you like freedom?”

The prisoner snorted. “I am to believe that?”

Golgren’s second in command gave a warning grunt. “If the Grand Khan promises freedom, the promise is kept. But to win it, you must fight him … and slay him.”

The horned soldier eyed Golgren up and down, especially the missing hand. He bared his teeth in the minotaur equivalent of a grin. “Give me but a sword!”

In response, one of the guards handed him a weapon. The legionary studied it, testing its weight. He glanced at Golgren in surprise. “It is my very weapon.”

“To be fair in all ways.” Golgren remarked quietly. The Grand Khan turned. However, rather than receive a blade from one of his followers, he picked out one of the newly crafted swords.

As the Grand Khan turned back to him, the captive legionary went into a battle stance. Golgren waited a breath, and nodded to the minotaur.

The two lunged at one another.

Their blades clanged sharply as they met. The legionary bared his teeth, eager for the kill. The minotaur had no doubt slain more than one ogre in the past and certainly thought that he could handle the slighter, maimed Golgren.

The legionary’s blade came under Golgren’s slash. Suddenly the ogre shoved the oncoming sword down with his own. The horned soldier quickly brought his weapon around in an arc, yet once again the Grand Khan’s was there to block it.

Khleeg and the rest of the ogres remained oddly silent. Other warriors gathered. They watched expectantly.

The pair traded several blows. The minotaur’s eyes were red with effort and fury, his nostrils constantly flaring. He had finally realized his adversary was far more skilled than most ogres.

Golgren nodded, as if he understood and pitied the minotaur’s revelation. He bared his teeth, and suddenly thrust under the legionary’s attack, driving his blade halfway into the other’s chest without striking the ribs.

The legionary let out a choking sound. Blood erupted from his mouth. He dropped his sword and, as Golgren withdrew his own, crumpled to the ground dead.

Those surrounding the two let out low, victorious grunts. Golgren silenced them with a dark glance and stretched forth the bloody sword as far as he could. The Grand Khan held the red tip over one stack of blades.

Golgren spoke in both Common and Ogre. “Tuzun i kalys ifhani! The weapon is the death of the enemy! Tuzun if’han ikalysi! The weapon is the enemy of death!”

A drop of blood fell from the sword to the stack of new blades, staining the top of the pile. As the drop touched, Golgren let out a triumphant grunt and shouted, “Mergos i dura tuzun holoc! Blood has been tasted by the weapon, and it hungers for more!” He moved the red blade over the next stack. “Holoc di sirri! Hungers like fire ever!” Another drop fell, staining the second stack. The blade went to the third. “Du otuzun ibarikis! Let those weapons feed!”

The Grand Khan let a drop fall on each stack. When he was done, he set the blade, still soaked, atop the body of the legionary and stepped away from the center.

Two warriors turned the corpse on its back, making certain that the blade remained on top of the body, and carried the Uruv Suurt to the building where the forge ever burned.

Golgren signaled other warriors to gather up the stacks of blades. They did so eagerly.

“The swords are blessed,” Golgren explained to Khleeg. “They will find their targets well.” The Grand Khan changed the subject. “The hand will be ready in three days, yes?”

“Yes, my lord. They will march well and as you command.”

Golgren started to nod, but Wargroch came riding up. The younger officer wore a troubled expression.

With a nimble leap for one of his girth, the Blodian dismounted and made his way to his ruler. As was his way, Wargroch dropped down on one knee.

“Speak,” Golgren quietly commanded.

“Great one!” Wargroch visibly steeled himself should he be punished for the bad news that he was bringing. “No birds bring message from the hand of Vorag. Cragur sends word that he cannot find the warriors.”

Another hand was missing.

“Khleeg,” Golgren began slowly, his eyes narrowed slightly, but his expression otherwise emotionless. “The hand must march tomorrow.”

His second in command was too wise to argue. “My lord.”

Golgren eyed the weapons being handed out to the warriors around them. “And I will lead them.”

All that Khleeg did was nod.