Chris Pierson - Spirit of the Wind

“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.