“We don’t mean to sell them,” Kurthak said. “We mean to keep them.”
“To what end?”
He pursed his lips, hesitating.
“Oh, come now, Black-Gazer,” Malys purred. “Don’t be so reluctant. I can always use my magic to pluck the answer from your mind-something you’d find quite uncomfortable.”
She twitched another claw, and instantly Kurthak’s brain flooded with agony. He staggered, gagging, but the pain ebbed as quickly as it had risen. For a moment he stood silently, fighting to keep his gorge from rising. Then he wiped cold sweat from his forehead. “Th-the mines,” he stammered. “Our people have found many new lodes of ore. Narrow, cramped, dangerous work. Lord Ruog wants to use the small kender to dig them out.”
“Ah,” the dragon declared, smiling. “I see. And when the ore is gone… you will kill them then?”
“Yes.”
“Very clever. Put them to use before they die. But you’re having trouble, aren’t you?”
Kurthak scowled, his face darkening. “They’re trickier than Lord Ruog expected,” he admitted. “They elude us constantly. We’ve captured more than a thousand of them, but-”
“But you want more,” Malys interrupted. Her smile widened. “I think I can help you with that, Black-Gazer.”
“In exchange for my people’s allegiance?” Kurthak asked.
The dragon’s head bobbed, her smile never wavering.
“What could we possibly do for you that you can’t do yourself?”
“A good question,” Malys hissed. “For an ogre, you’re terribly bright, Black-Gazer. I like that. It is true, I am mighty, but I am only one being. Shaping the land into this Desolation requires great concentration, and it draws attention. I need your people to patrol and police my conquered lands. In return, I will let them have plenty of slaves.”
“What about me?” Kurthak asked. “We’ve spoken of what you want and what my people have to gain. You must have something to offer me, too, or you’d have approached Lord Ruog directly.”
She barked a harsh laugh. “So daring, too. You’re right, of course, Black-Gazer. I did not approach Lord Ruog because he is a fool. He could conquer the kender with ease, but instead he picks meaninglessly at their borders. You, however, are everything I had hoped you would be.”
She made a swift gesture, and Tragor floated back to Kurthak’s side. The champion’s feet touched the stone of the ridge; then he collapsed in a heap.
“So, my new friend,” purred Malystryx, “let us speak of what you shall gain.”
The black stain of the ogre horde grew darker still as night settled over the land. In a series of shallow, barren valleys to the east of the kender lands, thousands of ogres gathered around flickering campfires. Gray, greasy smoke drifted up toward the clear, violet sky, where the pale moon waned and the first evening stars flickered. Sounds, too, rose above the camp: a ghastly din of snarls, shouts and guttural laughter, mixed with the thundering roll of war drums and the fierce blare of horns. The ogres roasted fresh meat over their fires-venison, boar, and other things best left unmentioned-and devoured it when it was still pink and sizzling. They washed it down with copious amounts of beer, both their own sour brew and kegs of kender lager plundered from Myrtledew and several other towns. Drunken skirmishes soon followed, rival war bands attacking each other with fists and blades. Blood was spilled, skulls were cracked, and a few of the brutish creatures were crippled or killed before their clan chiefs could break up the brawling. Once the fighting was done, the ogres turned to other sport. A few captive kender, deemed too weak or sickly to be useful as slaves, were brought forth from their cages, and led to where the drunken ogres waited with axes, knives, and iron stakes heated in the fires until they glowed golden-hot. The kender’s screams soon joined the ogres’ wild howls in a chorus of despair.
It was a night like any other in the war camp of Lord Ruog, hetman of the ogres of Goodlund.
In a narrow dale in the camp’s midst, the hetman and his warlords had gathered about a huge, roaring bonfire for some sport of their own. They roared with approving laughter at the sound of bones breaking, and Ruog leaned forward on his makeshift stone throne, pounding his great fist against his knee.
Between the hetman and the raging fire, two of the ogre horde’s finest warriors were wrestling. It was not wrestling as humans knew it, since there were no rules of propriety: vicious bites and gouged eyes were commonplace, and fights were not called because of injury. Such was the case now, for one of the wrestlers, a shaggy brute named Grul, had just finished crushing his opponent’s wrist. The wounded ogre, a wiry hairless creature named Baloth, howled with pain, madly frying to pry his opponent’s fingers from around his arm, but Grul only smirked and tightened his grip. Popping, snapping sounds filled the air, and Baloth’s cries grew louder.
“More!” Ruog howled. “Finish him!” To either side, his warlords echoed his words, their eyes gleaming feverishly in the firelight.
Suddenly the tenor of Baloth’s cries changed, shifting from pain to fury in an eyeblink. His foot lashed out at Grul’s knee. The blow might have crippled the shaggy ogre, but he saw it coming and leapt aside, rolling in the dust before twisting back to his feet. Freed at last from Grul’s vicious grip, Baloth clutched his injured wrist and staggered back. The wrestlers glared at each other, battered and bleeding. Their sweat-soaked bodies gleamed in the firelight as they circled, seeking an opening.
“Come on, you cowards!” shouted one of the warlords. “This is no dance!”
Grul snarled and lunged, his hands grasping. He found a hold about Baloth’s leg, and the bald ogre struggled to stay upright as the shaggy brute pushed him back toward the flames. Baloth, in turn, tore at Grul’s long beard with his good hand, ripping out hanks of black, wiry hair. Grul spat and cursed, then let go when a vicious tug at his bristly moustache nearly tore off his upper lip. Baloth didn’t miss a step, his horny fist cracking against Grul’s jaw. Grul stumbled, tripped over a sharp rock, and fell backward, nearly landing in the fire. The assembled warlords shrieked with lusty approval. Lord Ruog’s grin vanished, however, as Baloth stalked forward to stand over his supine foe. Ruog had bet twenty kender slaves that Grul would win the fight.
Baloth stood above Grul, leering cruelly. Grul stared hatefully back, his eyes turning to ice, then reached back into the flames. The stink of searing flesh quickly filled the air, and the shaggy ogre’s face contracted with pain, but when he pulled his scorched hand out of the fire, it gripped a long, burning log. Baloth only had time to blink in surprise before the burning branch swung, striking him in the groin. He doubled over with a grunt, and Grul brought his new weapon up sharply, smashing it against the underside of Baloth’s chin.
Ruog leapt up from his throne, cheering exultantly. Grul, his arm red and blistered from fingertips to elbow, sprang to his feet, wailing with battle rage, and struck Baloth on his bald head. Baloth crumpled, moaning. Blood trickled from his mouth and nose. Triumphant, Grul raised the firebrand and held it poised for the kill.
The onlookers, half of them elated and the other half furious, looked to Lord Ruog. The hulking hetman stared down from the earth mound that served as his dais. It was his decision, according to tradition. Grul could either spare Baloth’s life or smash it from his body.
The hetman paused-not to make up his mind, but to draw out the moment, reminding one and all of his power within the horde. He shrugged off his bearskin cloak and threw it aside, then folded his massive, corded arms. Brown, rotten teeth revealed themselves as an evil smile split his face.
“You have both fought well,” he said. “But there can be only one victor, and so I say-”
“It seems an awful waste,” said a mocking voice from beyond the fire. “To kill one of our best for sport, when he could be fighting the kender instead.”
At once the crowd’s attention left Lord Ruog, shifting to the one who had spoken. Ruog glowered as an ogre wearing a homed helm stepped around the f
ire, striding forward to stand beside Grul.
“Kurthak,” Ruog spat. “So you’ve returned to us, have you, coward?”
The circle of warlords tightened around the fire, muttering darkly.
“I am no coward, my lord,” Kurthak said confidently. “But you are a considerable fool.”
The hetman’s scarred face grew very dark. His hand went to the haft of the great axe he wore on his belt, but he did not draw it yet. The warlords hung back, watching this surprising new confrontation as intently as they had watched the wrestlers.
“I don’t think I heard you,” Ruog growled. “It sounded as if you just insulted me-and without your dog of a champion beside you, even.”
Kurthak smiled unpleasantly. “Tragor,” he said.
Holding his great sword ready, Tragor strode into the circle of firelight. Seeing the cruel glint in his eyes, the warlords parted to let him through. Kurthak’s champion strode forward to stand beside his master. His blade flashed red in the firelight.
“Good dog,” Kurthak said. Tragor grinned.
Ruog grew even more livid than before. “I should have the both of you drawn and quartered. First you show mercy to your officers, then you abandon your war band to flee back into our homeland.”
“We didn’t flee,” Tragor snarled. His sword quivered in his hands, but Kurthak, who held no weapon, laid a steadying hand on his arm.
“My champion speaks truly,” Kurthak said, his good eye still on the hetman. “We went east, yes, but at the behest of one who would be our ally. I have made a pact with Malystryx the Red.”
The warlords all started shouting at once-some in rage, others in excitement.
“Silence!” Ruog bellowed, spittle flying from his lips. Reluctantly, the warlords fell still. “You cannot make pacts for this horde, Black-Gazer! Only the hetman may do so!” He thumped his chest soundly.
“Yes,” Kurthak agreed. “That is so. And that is why I intend to replace you as hetman.”
The stillness that settled over the crowd was almost eerie, disturbed only by the crackling of the fire. Kurthak looked up at Ruog, his face maddeningly calm. The warlords glanced at each other, not knowing what to do.
Ruog seethed for a moment, then looked toward Grul and nodded once. With a howl, the wrestler spun and swung his firebrand at Kurthak’s head.
Kurthak moved so swiftly that to many of the watching warlords it seemed his spiked club appeared in his hand by magic. He brought the weapon up to block Grul’s attack. Wood cracked against wood, loud as a thunderclap, and the firebrand shattered in a burst of flaming splinters.
Baloth stirred as Grul stared stupidly at the stump of charred, broken wood in his injured hand. Still dazed from his beating, he lurched up and struck Grul from behind. Before Grul knew what hit him, Baloth seized his shaggy head and twisted, breaking his neck.
Most of the warlords hung back, unwilling to enter the fray. Still, half a dozen of Ruog’s staunchest followers surged toward the melee by the fire, screaming of treason. Tragor fell upon these attackers, his sword flashing. Blood washed the dusty ground as he cut the first two down with a single stroke, then charged the others with berserk fury.
Ruog bellowed for his guards. No one answered his call. “You great idiot,” Kurthak sneered, striding toward the dais. “Do you think I would challenge you without dealing with your guards first? Most were easy to bribe. Tragor took care of the rest.”
His temper finally snapping, Ruog yanked the war axe from his belt. He leapt down from the dais, swinging a mighty two-handed blow. Kurthak blocked it, the head of the axe notching the thick wood of his club. He shoved Ruog back, then lashed out himself. Ruog batted the attack aside with his own weapon.
Behind them, Tragor cut down a third warlord, then drove his sword through the belly of a fourth. He dodged a spear thrust, then yanked his blade free and stood ready, facing his last two opponents.
“I’ll tear out your heart!” Ruog bellowed at Kurthak as axe met club again and again. “I’ll rip it from your chest and eat it while it still beats in my hand!”
One of Tragor ‘s foes swung a wicked, sickle-bladed sword, scoring a cut across the champion’s chest. Dark blood welled from the gash as Tragor returned the blow, slicing off the top of his assailant’s head. The warlord stubbornly remained on his feet for a moments, blinking stupidly, before he toppled over sideways into the fire. A blossom of cinders erupted from the blaze.
By the dais, Kurthak ducked a clumsy swing, then lashed out at Ruog’s legs. The hetman’s iron greaves turned the blow aside, however, and Ruog’s next attack nicked Kurthak’s shoulder.
Tragor’s last opponent swung a knobbed mace in both hands. Wounded, Tragor backed away from the whistling weapon, parrying only the blows he couldn’t dodge. Laughing, the warlord drove him away from Kurthak and Ruog, so when Kurthak stumbled at last beneath the hetman’s whirling axe, Tragor was too far away to help.
At that moment, Kurthak did something very strange. Reaching to his belt, he drew out a dagger as long as his arm and threw it behind him. It landed next to Grul’s limp body.
As Kurthak tossed the knife, Ruog kicked him solidly in the belly. A great whoosh of air escaped the Black-Gazer’s lungs, and he dropped his club as he fell. Roaring with triumphant laughter, Ruog loomed above his writhing, winded foe, and brought up his axe.
A shriek tore the air. Baloth, who had been watching the fight from beside Grul’s corpse, scooped up the dagger Kurthak had thrown. Then he hurled himself at Ruog, who had been a heartbeat away from ordering his death only a minute before.
Ruog could only gape in bewilderment as the hairless ogre leapt upon him and drove the knife into his throat. They fell in a tangle, the axe forgotten, and Baloth stabbed Ruog again and again, until his arms were black with blood.
The warlords watched in mute shock. On the other side of the fire, Tragor’s opponent glanced at the dais in astonishment. Tragor put five feet of steel through his chest.
By the time Kurthak and Tragor dragged Baloth off him, Lord Ruog was unrecognizable. Baloth stared at Kurthak a moment, his eyes wild, then came to himself, dropping to one knee. He extended the gore-caked dagger, hilt-first, toward the Black-Gazer.
“My lord,” he said.
Kurthak took the knife, grinned quickly at Tragor, then strode to the dais and sat upon the crude throne that had, until now, belonged to Lord Ruog.
“Hail the new hetman!” Tragor bellowed, kneeling beside Baloth.
One by one, the gathered warlords followed his example, until every ogre around the great, roaring fire knelt before Lord Kurthak the Black-Gazer.
Chapter 8
Brightdawn stumbled sideways, grabbing the railing before her to keep from losing her footing on the ship’s pitching deck. Salt spray, surprisingly cold, splashed her as Brinestrider descended into a trough between waves. By the time it started to climb the next swell, Swiftraven was at her side, touching her arm with a steadying hand. With an embarrassed smile, she let him help her regain her balance.
“Lean on me, if you will,” he offered.
She did, clutching his arm as the ship rolled under their feet.
Brinestrider hadn’t been the largest or finest vessel in New Ports-it was a simple, square-sailed double-master-but her captain, a swarthy Ergothman named Kael Ar-Tam, had been the only man bound for the port of Ak-Thain who hadn’t refused outright to take kender aboard.
“As long as the little squeakers stay out o’ the way,” he’d declared sourly, “I’ll try to keep my boot out o’ their backsides.”
His misgivings, it turned out, had been misplaced-at least where Catt was concerned. The older kender had pitched in with the sailors from the start, proving particularly adept when it came to knot work. Catt knew more about ropes than even Captain Ar-Tam himself, and had taught the sailors several new, maddeningly complicated hitches that were strong as iron but could come apart at the slightest touch in the right place. That, and the vast number of sea chanteys
she knew, had quickly endeared her to Brinestrider’s crew.
Which was the main reason they hadn’t yet killed Kronn. If Catt was a boon to the sailors, her brother was the bane of their existence. They had scarcely cleared the harbor before he’d been caught poking around the hold, trying to see what was inside the great crates and barrels the ship was hauling. Only Riverwind and Catt’s pleas, and a few extra steel coins, had kept Captain Ar-Tam from heaving Kronn overboard. Since then, in the four days they had sailed the waves of the New Sea, Kronn had brought down two sails, taken the wheel when the helmsman wasn’t looking, and pulled countless ropes he shouldn’t have. Once, he’d uncleated a single halyard, and the ship had nearly capsized. Each time his excuse was the same. “I only wanted to see how it works.”
Brightdawn glanced up and down the deck, looking for the kender, but couldn’t see him anywhere. She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.
Brinestrider crested the wave and started to descend its other side. Brightdawn clutched Swiftraven, but the young warrior’s footing was no more sure than hers; he staggered as the deck shifted, and both of them nearly fell. A nearby sailor laughed as the Plainsfolk lurched about, and Swiftraven flushed with anger, glaring at the dusky-skinned mariner.
“Be easy,” Brightdawn murmured. “Mind your temper.” Shaking his head, Swiftraven jerked free of Brightdawn’s grasp. He continued to stare at the sailor, though the man had turned his back and blithely returned to his work. “I’d like to see him try to shoot a bow while riding at full gallop,” the young Plainsman growled.
“The horses are in the hold,” Brightdawn countered. “Shall I bring yours up so you can show off?”
He looked at her, then saw the sparkle in her eyes and laughed in spite of himself. He slid his arm about her waist. “I’m sorry.” he said, and kissed the nape of her neck. “I just miss having solid ground beneath my feet.”
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