Tides of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  The ogre leader gazed at the downtrodden others, snorting unhappily. “No more hunger now, yes? Work harder now, yes? Fill double carts! No excuses!” When the slaves said nothing, did not even look up at him, Sahd nodded to the waiting guards. “Go!”

  As they marched the slaves away, Sahd, once more wielding his whip with relish, stared at the poles, at the heads and the empty places. The empty ones beckoned. Ten was not enough to make up for the humiliating acts of the escapees. His macabre grin returned, the scarred flesh peeling back to reveal the gums and bone.

  Sahd would reign over his little kingdom, no matter how many minotaurs had to die horribly to keep his strict order.

  The two ogres at the far western outpost surveyed their surroundings with disinterest—black, baked hills and a myriad of arched and rounded outcroppings and dead stone for as far as the eye could see. Among the areas surrounding the camp, this was the bleakest. No life, not even one of those spindly, pointed plants or a single gray, crested lizard could be found in this area. The nearest vegetation was more than four days away by swift horse.

  The outpost was considered the worst of banishments by the guards assigned there. Nothing ever happened here, and the ogre pair knew that. One scratched under the arm with the edge of his rusting blade while the other picked a mite from beneath the matted fur near his chest. Their stench was worse because of the hot, grueling day, and so were their tempers; only their mutual fear of Sahd had kept the two from each other’s throats thus far.

  The one with the sword suddenly froze. Far below them, a single ragged figure struggled wearily toward the setting sun. The ogre squinted, making out the broken chains and telltale horns.

  Well, well. An escaped slave.

  He prodded his half-dozing companion, grunting his discovery. The other ogre rose, quickly sighting the fleeing figure.

  Ready to take out their frustrations on the pathetic slave, they scrambled down after the escaping prisoner, who seemed to be stumbling every step of the way. Sahd would reward them well for the prize, whether or not the slave perished in the capture.

  But as they reached the uneven ground and closed in on their prey, more than a dozen minotaurs leaped from behind the rocks and bleak hillsides. One figure seized the blade-wielding ogre and, with a quick slit of his own sword, cut the guard’s throat.

  The second sentry swung his club, frantically trying to escape. He managed to crack the shoulder of one minotaur, but this only fueled the fury of the others, and he was swarmed upon. Fists pummeled the hapless ogre; his face was quickly reduced to a pulp, and his cries were drowned out by the rage of his opponents.

  Wiping off his blade, Faros watched as the others beat the ogre guard into an unrecognizable mass of blood and flesh. Afterward he told Grom, “Make sure there’s no weapon missed. They might have daggers.”

  “Aye, Faros.”

  “The others should be in position soon,” he told the rest. “We need to get moving.”

  Nearly all the slaves he had freed had found their way to his sanctum. Grom deserved some of the credit, or blame, as he felt honor-bound to Sargonnas to aid as many of his fellows as possible. Faros said nothing, not caring if they joined him or not. With so many new mouths to feed, the edibles stolen that night proved only enough to last two days, and that with rationing.

  Instinctively, they all looked to him for leadership.

  Again, that had been partly the doing of Grom and Valun, for since they had earlier accepted him as the leader of their trio, the newcomers simply fell into place. Faros did not particularly want the company of the others, but understood that he could not shake them.

  Then he began to think about what a larger group could accomplish. There were other supplies to raid, more havoc to wreak. Another raid so soon after the last would send the ogres reeling.

  Leaving the ogre bodies where they fell, the ragtag band headed toward the camp. The sun would drop below the horizon within the hour, and Faros’s plan called for action by night.

  Two more sentries fell to Faros’s raiders before they arrived within sight of their destination. The ogres guarding the camp never anticipated a mass assault by the escaped slaves. The ogres’ overconfidence was Faros’s ally. Sahd probably figured that most of the minotaurs had fled for parts unknown.

  The last rays of the sun had faded away as the group gathered for final reconnoitering. Ahead, torchlight marked both the perimeter of the camp and the guards stationed at the edges. The hisses of the ogres’ meredrakes could be heard now and then.

  “Listen for the gong,” Faros commanded. “Everyone moves at the same time.”

  They waited for a while in silence, hearing only their own breathing and the occasional distant bark of an ogre sentry. One minotaur snorted, which brought him a reproving glare from Faros.

  Then … a deep, dull noise echoed throughout the region.

  One hour past dark, a gong began to sound, its metallic ring piercing the night. Each evening the ogres rang the bronze gong that hung near the hut of Sahd. None of the minotaurs understood its meaning and more than a few suspected that even their captors did not know why Sahd insisted on this ritual. Faros thought it might be a custom dating back to the age of the High Ogres.

  Tonight, it made the perfect signal to attack the camps.

  Moving with a growing excitement, Faros and the dozen or so other minotaurs swarmed up and around the jagged rocks. Those who did not have a weapon carried sharp rocks or lengths of slave chain—and other makeshift tools that might cause damage.

  Two ogre guards wielding iron-tipped spears were on this side of the perimeter, a monstrous meredrake at their side. With the night coming on, the reptile moved sluggishly, as though drugged.

  The first of the minotaurs had almost gotten within reach of the guards when the meredrake smelled their approach. The lizard stopped in its tracks, blinking, then pawed at the ground and hissed. Its handler turned and froze at the sight of a score of dark figures converging on him.

  Some of the minotaurs began pelting the meredrake with rocks while three of them—one with a sword and two with daggers—edged closer, jabbing at it, seeking a weak spot in its armored hide. Not used to dealing with such aggressive prey, the meredrake retreated, backing into its panicked handler.

  The other ogre thrust his spear at Faros, but the latter dodged the awkward attack then threw himself at his larger foe.

  They tumbled back, their weapons flying free. The minotaur reached down, drawing a rusted dagger from his kilt. He brought the blade up, burying it under the sentry’s thick jaw. The blade snapped off as the ogre twisted spasmodically before collapsing.

  Another minotaur seized the spear and headed toward the meredrake. As Faros retrieved his sword, shouts erupted from around the camp. Grom and the rest had launched their own incursions, siphoning Sahd’s minions off in different directions so that this time Faros’s party could zero in on the supply hut.

  The meredrake hissed as the minotaur with the spear drove it into its mottled side. Its massive tail whipped around, nearly bowling over two other minotaurs. Tugging the spear free, the minotaur thrust continually, mortally wounding the creature.

  Wobbling, the reptile tried to dash away, but already a river of blood gushed from its side. It managed a few quick steps then collapsed, panting. A deep sword thrust from Faros ended its life.

  “Quickly!” Faros ordered. “Before they can organize!”

  His group of minotaurs poured into the mining camp. Faros led several toward the hut, passing the dread poles set up by Sahd. Some of the freed slaves halted, staring at the heads …

  Atop all the poles now.

  Even Faros could not fathom Sahd’s relentless evil. Did the ogre taskmaster intend to slay every minotaur under his rule?

  The minotaurs stood frozen for precious seconds. Most were aware that their freedom had cost the latest victims their lives.

  Then, before Faros could order them to move on, several of his followers began angri
ly toppling the poles, bringing them and their grisly prizes earthward. Roars punctuated each crash.

  From the east, shouts of a different sort arose. Slaves were calling out, pleading, from the largest and nearest of the slave pens.

  Without hesitation, three of Faros’s raiders rushed over to the pen. Faros was about to order the former slaves back, when suddenly, a band of about a dozen ogre guards, armed with clubs, swords, and spears, appeared to confront the minotaur and his followers. With little other recourse, Faros roared, “Take them!”

  The raiders met the ogres head-on. One former slave perished swiftly as an ogre skewered him on a spear. Another minotaur wielding only a dagger rushed the attacker. The guard struggled futilely to free his spear, then finally gave up and drew his knife. Before he could act, however, the slave’s worn blade had cut open a savage gash in his stomach. The ogre dropped to his knees, trembling. A second slash across his throat finished him.

  The crack of a club sent the minotaur standing next to Faros tumbling to the ashy ground; his skull had been caved in. Faros stabbed at the ogre who was responsible, wounding him in the side. Two more slaves tackled the ogre guard, bringing him down.

  Three minotaurs were working on the lock of the pen. One screamed as a spear caught him between the shoulder blades. The remaining two finally broke the bolt. The lock clattered to the ground.

  Barely had the lock touched the ground when scores of disheveled, chained figures rushed out. Most immediately joined those fighting the guards, outnumbering and overwhelming the startled ogres.

  Despite being weaponless and encumbered by manacles, the minotaurs fought with such fury that they quickly subdued the guards. The attackers then took out months of misery and agony on the ogre guards, beating them down to the ground, senseless.

  “You!” Faros then called to one of the minotaurs. “You and four others—come with me!”

  The minotaur took up his summons with eagerness, asking for volunteers. Instead of five, Faros left with more than a dozen.

  To the east, there was a sudden explosion followed by flames shooting up. Harsh ogre voices cried out. Faros could only assume that those following Grom had ignited some of the barrels of oil the ogres kept for their needs. The fuel fire spread rapidly, quickly covering much of the eastern edge of the camp.

  Faros stumbled to a halt as a slavering reptilian form burst from the darkness, quickly followed by a second and third. The meredrakes seemed almost confused, however, or afraid. And they were free of their leashes.

  A moment later, several ogres with torches appeared to urge the beasts on.

  Most of the minotaurs beat a swift retreat.

  But with no reins to control them, the reptiles did not reliably heed their handlers. They started to drift off in various directions. The guards barked at them, but neither commands nor torches proved sufficient to enforce their orders. One meredrake turned to snap at the ogres, who were taken aback.

  “You!” roared Faros at a pair of minotaurs carrying spears. “Make an opening!”

  The two fell upon one reptile, dividing it from the others. The meredrake bit at the spears with its long maw, but edged away.

  Faros and the rest charged.

  Tossing aside their torches, the ogres drew their weapons. A few attempted to maneuver the meredrakes around, but now the confusion made the reptiles almost as dangerous to their masters.

  A bellowing ogre picked up one of the slaves, and threw him into the wall of a hut with such force that the stone and wood structure collapsed. Another, brandishing a club, kept three minotaurs at bay.

  The two minotaurs wielding spears wounded one meredrake several times. The scent of its blood stirred the other monsters. One meredrake immediately turned to attack the bleeding creature while the third plunged into the tangle of ogres and minotaurs.

  Savage jaws came within inches of Faros. Avoiding a club swung at him, Faros seized a fallen torch and thrust it at the reptile’s long, thick snout. As he did so, an ogre guard grabbed him.

  Without hesitation, Faros whirled and stuck the flames into the hairy face.

  The ogre screamed, his tusked mouth gaping. He released the minotaur and batted at the flames. Smoke rose from his chest.

  Faros lunged at him, finishing him off with his sword. Then he spun to face the meredrake, but the creature was now surrounded by a dozen minotaurs. The horned ones swarmed upon the beast with clubs, axes, and chains, pummeling the behemoth.

  The two remaining meredrakes were busy fighting each other. The minotaurs surrounded the struggling pair, watching for an opening.

  Everywhere, horned figures raced around the flame-lit camp, many of them now openly shouting for the blood of the taskmaster. The raid had turned into something impossible—an uprising.

  The ogres were scattered and tried to regroup, but there were far fewer of them than the minotaurs, and, unlike what happened at Vyrox, it was unlikely they would be rescued by reinforcements.

  “Find me Sahd!” Faros shouted to those nearby. “Find him!”

  The entire east and south appeared ablaze; the emptied pens had been set on fire by the freed slaves. In the center of the camp, the high pole on which Sahd’s crude banner hung—a crimson rag on which a crushed skull had been drawn—was toppled. Minotaurs took turns trampling the banner then tore it to pieces.

  Faros glanced toward the storage huts, which had been left alone until now; but he had seen movement there, and suddenly one of the structures burst into flame.

  “No, damn you!” Faros yelled. “Stop!”

  The black silhouette of a towering figure bearing a torch materialized. Two more appeared, these bent low and carrying barrels whose contents they poured on the next supply hut.

  Ogres.

  Destroying their own provisions—it was insane; they must sense their defeat, Faros thought, as he ran toward the three ogre guards. Only as he neared did he recognize the voice of Sahd.

  The taskmaster was berating his thick-witted underlings, haranguing them for their slowness. The ogre guards would have preferred to defend themselves, or better yet, escape the slaughter going on around them, but still they feared Sahd’s wrath.

  One ogre looked Faros’s way. The startled guard barked a warning that made Sahd turn.

  In the light of the burning camp, Sahd’s ravaged face, with two burned gaps all that remained of his nose, looked like a fright mask. The whip that had gouged so many lines into Faros and others hung rolled at his waist, and a sheathed sword dangled from his belt. Spotting Faros, his ruined face twisted into a grotesque smile.

  Careless of the death and destruction going on around him, Sahd strode almost calmly toward Faros, leering crazily.

  Memories stirred within Faros … memories of another sadistic overseer back in the Vyrox days. Piggish Paug was Sahd’s brother in spirit and, like the ogre, he had instilled fear into all those who toiled for him. Paug had slain Ulthar, Faros’s only true friend at Vyrox. Twice he had tried to kill Faros.

  But in the end … it had been Faros who had slain Paug.

  Sahd was Paug reincarnated, but ten times worse than Paug.

  Faros grinned back at his tormentor, readying his blade.

  Suddenly Sahd hurled his torch at him. Faros easily batted away the flaming staff, but as he was momentarily distracted, the hideous ogre drew his huge, broad-edged sword and hurtled it at him.

  Faros got his own sword up just in time. The two weapons clanged together, resounding throughout the camp. Sahd pushed in close to Faros, grinning with his food-encrusted, yellowed teeth. His putrid breath alone threatened to subdue his opponent.

  “Know you, Uruv Suuuurrrt!” Sahd snarled malevolently. “Beat you well many times, I did! Come to have more, yes?”

  Faros pushed back against his much larger adversary, calling on all his strength. He shoved Sahd back toward the burning huts.

  The ogre dug in his huge, calloused, nailed feet. With his free hand, Sahd reached around and sought Faros’s t
hroat.

  Faros abruptly let go, leaping back. Sahd stumbled forward, but quickly regained his balance. He swung at Faros, narrowly missing.

  One of the ogre guards rushed up and was about to jump in—when he heard a shout. Looking over his shoulder, he growled something to a third ogre, then both raced away, abandoning Sahd.

  Again the weathered blades matched one another. Faros’s sword was nicked, a piece of it flying at his face. The sharp metal cut his skin just below his left eye. The wound started dripping blood.

  Sahd stabbed at him again, creasing the minotaur on his side just below the rib cage. More blood poured from this second cut.

  Grunting and swearing, Faros backed up … and stumbled over the torch Sahd had tossed at him. He lost his footing.

  The ogre taskmaster raced up, gleefully hovering over him.

  “Place your head on a pole, Uruv Suuuurrrt! Put a smile on its face, make your friends march it around.”

  He raised his arms over his head and swung his blade. Faros twisted. The tip of the blade buried itself in the ground next to his neck. The minotaur rolled away, kicking at the ogre’s legs.

  Sahd laughed like a maniac as he fell. But he fumbled his weapon, and Faros grabbed him. The pair rolled around, first the ogre’s crushing weight on top, then Faros, then Sahd again.

  Nearby, one of the barrels abandoned by the guards caught fire and exploded. The earth shook, flinging the pair apart. Faros scrambled around, trying to find one of the swords.

  Nails ripped into his back—no, sharp hooks, ripping his flesh—and Sahd’s laughter filled his throbbing head.

  A slight whistling sound trailed after, and again the horrific raking of his skin and fur. He dragged himself away.

  “She bites deep, yes?” breathed Sahd, from behind him, the firelight adding an eerie glow to the figure with the whip.

  Eyes tearing from the agony, Faros turned onto his bloody back as the taskmaster stepped closer. Sahd readied another lash.

  The minotaur’s desperate fingers found a metal edge. Faros squirmed, finding his grip on the hilt of a sword that lay in the dirt.