Jean Rabe - Dragons of a New Age

“No!” Rig spat. “Keep back. The ogre will figure out something’s wrong.” The big mariner’s fierce look and Groller’s stance forced half of the other prisoners away. “Where’s Shaon?”

“On the ship,” Feril quickly explained. “Someone had to stay behind and look after the Anvil. But Dhamon’s here. So is Palin Majere.”

“Who?”

A boom rocked the campsite, a thunderous noise that jarred everyone and brought gasps to the lips of most prisoners. The odor of charred flesh filled the air to such an extent that it made Feril’s eyes water.

“That would be Palin’s doing,” she whispered. “He’s a sorcerer. Come on, we’re all getting out of here.” She rushed toward the railing and hesitated when she spotted a gaping hole in the center of the campsite—where the eight figures had been. A curl of smoke drifted upward. The lone ogre that had been approaching the pen also stared at the crater. The slack-jawed ogre was taken by surprise when the prisoners broke through the railing and quickly trampled over him.

The dozen ogres left alive were running toward her and the escaping mob. A Dark Knight was still alive, too, and was barking orders—a few of which Feril could make out. “Don’t kill them! Grab them!” he yelled.

Fury was racing toward the lead ogre, snapping and growling. The wolf pushed off against the ground and flew upward, striking the ogre’s chest and throwing him on his back.

Through a gap in the ugly yellow bodies, Feril saw Dhamon. He was surrounded by ogres.

“Toward the rocks!” Feril directed the fleeing prisoners. She gestured wildly at the gray-haired sorcerer who was standing ahead on a flat, tablelike stone. His hands were a flutter of movement, his fingers a blur as he weaved a pattern of pale yellow light in the air. “Hurry!” she cried in encouragement. Then she whirled on her heels to face the charging ogres. Rig was right next to her.

“They stashed our weapons in the tent!” he growled. “We’ll be cut down without them!” With that, he dashed toward the charging ogres, barely managing to evade them and slip inside the tent.

Feril reached into her pouch and ran her fingers across an assortment of objects. She selected a polished pebble and held it out as she started to sing. A trio of ogres headed her way, and she quickened her song. The remainder of the ogres had peeled off to pursue the prisoners.

“Come on, Feril,” she heard Jasper urge behind her. But she ignored him. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Groller dashing forward. He’d grabbed a piece of the railing to use as a club. He met the charge of the largest ogre, and slammed the makeshift club into its ugly yellow stomach. The ogre doubled over, and Groller swung again, this time hitting the brute on the back of the head and knocking him to the earth.

Feril’s song was heard above the pounding of feet. It was an old elvish tune about the woods and the land. The breeze stopped as the song crescendoed, and then the last note died away. She hurled the pebble at the two ogres still running her way. As the rock spun toward them, it glowed and enlarged—first to the size of a man’s fist, then bigger still. It struck the smaller of the two in the chest. Caught by surprise, he lost his footing and fell backward. Groller was on him in a heartbeat, driving the club into his skull.

The third ogre sprung on the Kagonesti. His filthy claws closed about her waist and dug in as he forced her to the ground. The nails cut through her dress and raked her sides. Then all of a sudden he stiffened, his grip relaxed and he fell forward with a groan, his great weight pinning her. The foulness of his breath made her gasp. Blood trickled from his mouth and onto her cheek. She rolled out from underneath him to see Jasper standing there, his stubby fingers bloody, and a grim look on his face. A wooden stake protruded from the ogre’s back.

She leapt to her feet, surveying the scene. Groller was swinging his club in a wide circle, keeping a quartet of ogres at a distance. Another four were closing on the escaping prisoners. As she watched, bright shards of light flew from Palin’s fingertips and struck the creatures, buying time for the prisoners to race to the safety of the rocks. The ogres pitched forward, almost in unison, grabbing their glowing stomachs and howling in agony.

The largest of the lot, the one she guessed to be the leader, writhed and cursed as Fury continued to grapple with him. But the wolf seemed in little danger.

She cast her gaze back to the tent and started off in that direction, the pounding footfalls of Jasper behind her. Dhamon, his shirt crimson with blood, had his back to the tent and was swinging his sword in a high arc over his head. Five ogres pressed toward him, cursing and growling. He pulled the blade hard to his right, just as one of the ogres darted in. Then he lunged forward. The sword connected with the creature’s neck and cut through the tough muscle and bone. Blood spurted in the air, and the decapitated brute fell to his knees before pitching forward.

The remaining ogres hesitated, and Dhamon used the moment to his advantage. He pressed forward, jabbing his sword like a spear, and pushing it through the belly of one of the brutes. The blade sank all the way in and protruded from the ogre’s back as Dhamon brought his leg up to shove the beast away and free his sword. The ogre toppled over, nearly in the path of the mariner, who was emerging from the tent.

Two ogres remained focused on Dhamon, but the third turned its attention to Rig. It glowered at the mariner and charged the big man, growling and dripping foul-smelling saliva. Rig was ready. A dagger was gripped in his left hand, and his rapier was balanced in his right. “I’m not a sleeping target now,” the mariner taunted. “You won’t find me such an easy mark.”

The ogre barreled in, and Rig slashed at him. His blade slid into the creature’s throat, but it kept coming, its long arms reaching out for him, and its claws raking his chest. Simultaneously, the mariner plunged his blade into the beast’s side, withdrew it, and thrust again. The ogre fell, taking the mariner down with him. Rig cursed and pushed the dying creature off him before lumbering to his feet.

Dhamon’s eyes were blazing and locked onto the larger of the two creatures still hounding him. He feinted to his right, dropped to his knees, and slashed his sword forward and up, cleaving an appendage off of the large ogre. The beast howled and pulled the bloody stump against its chest as its fellow ogres surged forward, angry and spitting. Dhamon’s sword slashed again into the smaller ogre’s leg, cutting through the dirty yellow flesh and exposing bone. But the ogre ignored its wound and lunged forward, slamming its shaggy shoulder into Dhamon’s chest and knocking him back into the tent. The old canvas billowed around them, sagged and groaned, spilling human and ogre to the ground.

A Dark Knight crawled out of the sagging tent’s collapsed entry. “Incompetent beasts!” he shouted. The larger ogre with the severed hand took a few steps back, apprehensively watching the man.

“Kill them!” commanded the Knight, gesturing toward the three companions who were fast approaching.

“Run or die!” Rig shouted, rushing forward.

Confused, the beast froze for a moment. But when Jasper snarled and stepped forward with a makeshift club, the ogre turned and stumbled off into the darkness, still moaning and holding its bloody stump. When the three turned their attention to the Dark Knight, they found he had disappeared.

Rig and Feril ran to the collapsed tent, furiously pulling at the canvas. A bloody yellow claw reached up to strike a blow, but Rig managed to grab the ogre’s arm. As the mariner struggled with it, he felt the thing shudder. Its muscles bunched, then relaxed. Rig released the arm and stepped back as Dhamon crawled out of the canvas.