Douglas Niles - Measure and the Truth

When they had first settled there, following the retreat from Solamnia, some of the humans in his army had dwelt in the headquarters village as well. For some reason, they had departed to set up their own town, just over the nearby ridge. No matter; Ankhar was undisputed lord of the small place.

Ankhar immediately spotted the two ogres who had brought their disagreement to the half-giant lord. Both wore metal helmets, one plumed with a scraggly array of stork feathers, the other wrapped around with a sash of some tattered material that might, once, have been silk. Those badges of honor marked them possibly as chieftains, or at the very least as warriors of importance and influence.

The half-giant got an idea as to the source of their dispute when he spotted an ogress, as tall and broad as each of the warriors, hanging back from the pair. She was seductively clad in a bearskin that she held tightly around herself, while her little eyes cast nervous glances from one ogre to the other. Finally she raised her face to meet Ankhar’s gaze, and he plainly perceived the plea for succor in her beseeching look.

He puffed out his chest and swaggered forward, having already made up his mind as to how the dispute would be resolved. She was not displeasing to the eye, that wench, with full breasts swelling under the bearskin robe, a long mane of thick, dark hair, and ample flesh displayed on the calf barely glimpsed beneath the hem of her robe.

“What is this?” he demanded, placing his hands on his hips, looming over the two ogres, leering with a tusk-baring smile at the ogress behind them. She gasped and lowered her eyelids demurely. The pair of plaintiffs immediately began to bark, each trying to snarl loudly over the other’s blustering accusations.

“He stole my bride-” snarled Stork Feathers.

“He took my wench-” declared Silk Band.

“She was in my lodge-”

“I paid her father-”

“Enough!” roared the half-giant, finally lowering his gaze to look at the two dumbstruck ogres. Ankhar pointed a sausage-sized finger at the ogre wearing the feathered crest. “Who are you?”

“I am Vis Gorger,” replied the bull proudly. “Chief of the Gorge clan, and lord of two valleys. This ogre wench was awarded to me by her sire-she is part of a pledge of truce between his people and mine. I claim her as a fair prize and would take her now as a chieftain’s bride.”

The half-giant scratched his chin, apparently considering his argument-but actually, admiring the increasing expanse of plump calf exposed beneath the hem of the ogress’s robe as she, inadvertently or not, adjusted her garment. Very nice!

“And you?” Ankhar said, switching his attention to the ogre with the sash. “What is your claim?”

“I am Heart Eater, bull son of the Ripper clan.” He thumped his chest with a resounding boom. “This wench is Pond-Lily, and I claimed her for myself many seasons ago. She said she would come with me, pledged her word last year. I am a chief in my own right-lord of one valley, for now-and my honor has been sullied.”

“You’re an ogre,” Ankhar retorted. “You have no honor. Neither of you. And you have no claim on this wench.”

“What?” bristled Vis Gorger.

“How dare you!” charged Heart Eater.

“You-Pond-Lily?” spoke the half-giant. “Did you promise to go with this ogre last year?”

“Um… no? That is, great lord, I really can’t remember,” she replied in a musical voice, her soft doe’s eyes cast downward. Very nice, indeed!

“A promise unremembered is a promise never made,” declared Ankhar. “And you, Vis Gorger, will honor your truce, and you do not need a wench to seal the peace. This is my judgment: The wench-er, Pond-Lily? You will stay with me. As to the pair of you, go while you can still get away with your lives.”

With a certain amount of muttering, growling, and dire glares, the bull ogres did just that. Before they were even out of sight of the great tent-city, Ankhar had taken Pond-Lily back to his shelter and embarked on some hasty negotiations of his own.

“You have made a very comfortable place for yourself,” the Nightmaster commented, his words as dry as the impeccable red wine he sipped through the black gauze that covered his face. The elf maid who had served it beamed happily, and scurried away at Hoarst’s dismissive gesture. “This place has been a wreck for decades. I shudder to think of the expenses you must have incurred.”

Hoarst took a drink from his own glass and, shrugging, studied the masked high priest curiously. “It is true that I hired some masons and carpenters. But my magic sufficed to accomplish a great deal of the… improvements I have made.”

“No doubt,” said the Nightmaster. He drew a long, luxurious breath in through his nostrils. “Even so, the air positively sings of gold and gemstones. I should say a virtually unprecedented cache, stored somewhere below our feet.”

“And if that is what it is?” asked the Thorn Knight, growing more guarded. “How is my treasure of interest to you?”

“Oh, I assure you, my good wizard, it does not interest me-except in that it allows me some understanding of your motivations, your desires.”

“Go on.”

“I am wondering if you would be interested in adding more gold to your holdings-an amount of gold that is, I believe, the largest intact collection anywhere upon Krynn.”

“I am always interested in valuable items and trinkets,” Hoarst allowed. He released a dry laugh. “I let an ignorant barbarian think that he was my master, simply because be paid me very, very well. But why are you coming to me with this proposal? I should have thought such a prize would be as tempting to the Prince of Lies as it is to any wizard.”

The Nightmaster chuckled, a sound like wind rustling dry leaves in a cold woodland. “The Prince counts his treasures in souls collected. Such trinkets as gold and gems are merely a means to the end.”

“So Hiddukel means to acquire my soul?” asked the Thorn Knight, his tone bordering on contempt. “I would have given him credit for greater subtlety in the attempt.”

“No, you misunderstand,” the dark priest clarified. Another chuckle whispered through the mask. “No matter your power, you are but one soul. The Prince desires to ensnare thousands, tens of thousands, and for this you could serve as an important-and very well-paid-agent.”

“Go on,” replied Hoarst, intrigued. “Where does the Prince intend to seek his souls in a land ruled by the Solamnics?”

“He intends to subvert the rule of the Solamnics. He proposes to take all the souls in Palanthas, and you can have all the gold in that city-including the lord regent’s legendary hoard.”

“A tempting offer. I have seen the bright ingots glowing in the room atop the tower he calls the Golden Spire. But the knighthood is stronger now than it has been for centuries, millennia even. Perhaps your master’s ambitions are too lofty for his means?”

“The knighthood may be strong, but there are fault lines in the empire. Besides, it is not necessary to destroy the whole nation at once. That one city, Palanthas, would be a good start.”

“Palanthas is well protected in its own right. There is the pass, and the High Clerist’s Tower.”

“Ah, you are right, but you are missing the point. Palanthas is vulnerable precisely because of that tower, that pass.”

“I don’t see how,” the Thorn Knight challenged.

“Would you feel the same if I told you where you could find and recruit a formidable army that would jump at the opportunity to take that tower and close that pass?”

Hoarst thought for a long time then looked at the empty bottle of red wine. He snapped his fingers, and the elf maid reappeared. “Bring us another bottle,” he demanded, all the while staring at the Nightmaster. So it was going to be a productive day after all. “My guest and I have much to discuss,” he added quietly as he gestured at the woman to hurry from the room.