Chapter 7

The eastern tip of the Goodlund peninsula had never been what humans and their ilk would call hospitable. Only the most stubborn trees and bushes had clung to the barren, gravelly steppes. Dry, dusty wind had gusted through its narrow canyons. Water had been hard to come by, save for the Heartsblood River, and even that had been tainted, stained rusty red in grotesque mimicry of the sea to the north.

To Kurthak’s people, it had long been home. The grasslands to the south had provided livestock and slaves for plundering, as had the Kenderwood to the west. The steppes were shot through with veins of copper, iron, and silver, ripe for mining. Sometimes, when a ship foundered on the rocky outcroppings along the coast—a treacherous stretch of shoreline mariners called Land’s End—the ogres had waded out to them through the surf, to slaughter their crews and loot their holds.

Kurthak and Tragor stood at the edge of the Heartsblood, in a place where it had once flowed quick, wide, and deep. Now, though, it was nothing but a meager, muddy trickle, seeping down the middle of what had been its bed. The Black-Gazer stared hard at the feeble rill, his brow furrowing as if he could will the flow to return to its former strength. His champion scratched his pockmarked jawline, confused.

“The land’s changed,” Tragor said.

Slowly, as if reluctant to do so, the Black-Gazer nodded. “I’d thought I was imagining it. It’s been many weeks since Lord Ruog led us west, to the kender lands.”

“You imagine nothing,” Tragor declared, shaking his head. “I have forded the Heartsblood here many times. The current was nearly strong enough to drag me off my feet.”

Kurthak considered the muddy creek a moment longer, then looked around. “The river’s not the only thing that’s changed. Speargrass and eaghon trees used to grow here.” He glanced around, looking for some sign of the sharp-thorned plants that once had clustered thirstily along the riverbanks. The earth, though, was barren. He looked up, squinting north, and pointed a hairy finger. “Do you know what lies ahead there?”

Tragor followed the gesture, past the Heartsblood toward the far-off, dust-cloaked horizon. Some five leagues away, a mass of jagged, stony crags groped toward the sky. Above them hung a black, hazy pall, as might swathe a burning city.

“Mountains,” Tragor said.

“Mmm. But that isn’t what should be there.” Kurthak regarded his companion, his single eye boring deep. “Think, Tragor. Do you recall what the humans call the lands beyond the Heartsblood?”

“I don’t—” Tragor began; then his jutting brows lifted. “The Hollowlands!” he exclaimed, his eyes on the towering peaks. “They called that place the Hollowlands.”

Kurthak nodded gravely. “Not so hollow now, are they?”

“Black-Gazer!”

Both ogres looked toward the voice, which came from the far side of the riverbed. The black-cloaked form of Yovanna emerged from a cleft in the rocks there. Her hood was up again, hiding her blasted face from the glaring red sun—and from the ogres’ eyes.

Reflexively Tragor scowled, reaching up to probe his face with thick fingers. He touched the great, swollen knot where her knee had smashed his nose, then growled, his hand straying toward the hilt of his sword.

Kurthak saw this, and laid a staying hand on Tragor’s arm. His champion hesitated, then relented.

Yovanna had followed Kurthak’s band and its captive kender back from Myrtledew to the valley where Lord Ruog’s horde camped. Once they were there, she had come to Kurthak’s tent at midnight, night’s shadows forming a second cloak about her.

“Malystryx awaits,” she had said.

Kurthak had wasted no time. Gathering his traveling gear, he summoned Tragor and followed Yovanna into the night. He had told Lord Ruog nothing, and the hetman was doubtless ready to gut him by now for abandoning his post.

They had walked for nearly a week through the wasteland. Yovanna would disappear ahead of them, moving swiftly and surely among the crags and boulders, then would reappear a short time later, beckoning the ogres urgently on. Now she called them forward, over the river’s drying bones, toward the towering mountains of the Hollowlands.

“Quickly,” she urged. “The place for meeting my mistress is not far. Come!”

Kurthak gave the river and the peaks beyond it One last suspicious glance, then turned to Tragor and nodded ahead. They slogged on, over the dying Heartsblood, red mud sucking at their boots as they went.

They walked for hours, not even slowing their pace when the sky began to darken with dusk. Yovanna had not so much as paused before leading them into the towering crags. Both ogres, who knew much about highlands, had noticed how new these mountains appeared. They showed no sign of weathering or erosion. Instead, they were all sharp angles and deep cracks, as though someone had pulled them up from the earth’s bones.

The crags were all around them now, stretching leagues in all directions. In the distance, one peak loomed above the rest. Its tip was burning.

“Is that Blood Watch?” Kurthak asked.

Yovanna did not look at him, nor did she break stride. “It is,” she answered, her voice cool and toneless as ever. “Though the ruins that gave it its name are long since gone. Now it is my mistress’s lair. She has chosen to keep the name.”

They clambered up a razorback ridge, Yovanna moving nimbly from rock to rock. The ogres climbed with greater care, sending rocks the size of their massive fists clattering down the steep slope behind them. When they crested the top, they saw that the ridge was the edge of a great, bowl-like crater. The bowl’s sides were streaked with yellow dust, and the stench of brimstone hung heavy in the air. A black cleft in the crater’s center hissed unclean-looking, brownish steam that rose in a column hundreds of feet high. The ground rumbled faintly beneath their feet.

Wrinkling his nose, Tragor shrugged and started to pick his way down into the crater. Before he could take two steps, though, Yovanna’s black-gloved hand shot out and clamped tight on his wrist. Though her arm was like a reed next to his own, oaklike limbs, he still winced at the tightness of her grasp. He stopped.

“Go no farther,” Yovanna said, releasing him. “We wait for her here.”

“Here?” Kurthak repeated, surprised. “I thought we were bound for Blood Watch.”

She shook her hooded head. “You thought wrong, then, Black-Gazer,” she told him. “Do not worry. My mistress will not be long.”

The ogres looked around. Kurthak squinted at the burning spire to the north. He could see the red glow of lava oozing down its sides.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Yovanna asked. “Malystryx is proud of her work here. Soon these peaks will dwarf the Lords of Doom themselves. After that—”

She stopped, her body stiffening suddenly. For a moment she was silent, then she swept her arm forward and up, her sleeve fluttering in the hot, fetid wind.

“She comes,” she hissed.

Kurthak didn’t see the dragon until she was almost upon them, so heavy was the pall of smoke and ash that hung over the Hollowlands. When she emerged from the haze at last, he could do little but hold his breath and stare, while dragonfear clamped around his innards like a vise.

Malystryx the Red was larger than any dragon either ogre had seen before. She stretched more than three hundred feet long, nearly half of that a sinuous, snaking tail; her wingspan was similarly huge, blocking out half the sky as she dipped through the smoke toward the crater. The air howled with the rush of her passing. She banked sharply as she passed overhead, then began to circle the caldera, scanning the ground with eyes like forge-fired steel. If she saw the three tiny figures atop the ridge, she gave no sign.

Beside Kurthak, Tragor moaned and began to tremble. Kurthak glanced at him harshly, but said nothing, afraid of revealing his own terror.

At that moment, the dragon threw back her head and roared. The ogres clamped their hands over their ears, wincing at the sound. The rock beneath their feet shivered. The shriek carried on for nearly a minute, and when it ended Kurthak wiped tears from his eyes, wondering if the ringing sound that lingered after it would ever go away.

“Mistress!” Yovanna cried, exulting.

The great scaly head whipped around, and Malystryx stared straight at them, her eyes smoldering. Smoke curled from her nostrils, and her lips curled into a vicious leer. She circled once more, then set down on the floor of the caldera. The beating of her wings as she landed whipped stinging chips of stone in the ogres’ faces; when they could see again, the dragon had curled around the sulfur-steaming cleft in the crater’s midst. She studied them, her head angling from side to side.

“Good,” hissed the dragon. “Very good, Yovanna. You may leave us now. Go to Blood Watch and await me there.”

The black-cloaked figure bowed. “Yes, mistress,” Yovanna said. Without even a sidelong glance at the ogres, she turned and walked away, disappearing down the lip of the crater. Kurthak and Tragor watched her go.

Malys stretched lazily, writhing around the warm steam vent. Her claws flexed, cracking stones. A sigh of contentment escaped her lips, accompanied by a puff of flame that could have reduced both ogres to ashes. When she was done, she looked at Kurthak. He stared back, wide-eyed.

“Black-Gazer,” she purred. “Yovanna has watched you for some time now. She has told me great things about you.”

Kurthak goggled for a moment, then bowed abruptly. “I’ve heard far greater things about you,” he responded. Despite his efforts to control it, his voice shook as he spoke.

The dragon chuckled. “Indeed.” Her gaze flicked to Tragor, and her scaly brows knitted. “This one I do not recognize.”

Tragor swallowed, shuddering.

“This is Tragor,” Kurthak stated. “He is my champion.”

“A warrior?” Malys asked, her voice mocking. Her great forked tongue flicked in and out of her mouth. “You wouldn’t use that mighty blade against me, would you, Tragor?”

The champion fell to his knees, weeping. “No,” he whimpered. “Please..

With a snort of amusement and disgust, Malys turned back to Kurthak. “I hope Yovanna did not… disturb you too greatly,” she said.

He shook his head. In truth, though, he had seen the woman’s disfigured face in his nightmares.

“You want to know what she is,” Malystryx declared. “Don’t you?”

Kurthak nodded wordlessly.

The dragon grinned, flames crackling between her tree-trunk fangs. “Call her an experiment,” she said. “When I first came to these lands, I laid waste to a village. Ran-Khal, I believe, was its name. Most of the barbarians living there died, but when the flames abated I found Yovanna still alive, though badly scarred… as I’m sure she has shown you. I took her back to Blood Watch and remade her as my servant. The spells I cast upon her destroyed the peasant girl she once was. Now she is strong and cunning, and she would leap from the top of one of these peaks if I wished it.”

“Spells?” Kurthak asked. “But magic is gone. The moons—”

Malystryx laughed. Her breath smelled like burning metal, making the ogres’ nostrils sting.

“Perhaps to you mortals there is no magic,” she said. “Dragons need no moons for their power.” She raised a long-taloned claw, pointed it at Tragor, and spoke several guttural words. Tragor gaped in horror, and Kurthak took a quick step away, expecting him to explode or rot before his eyes. Instead, though, Tragor rose from the ground and floated through the air toward the dragon. His terrified cries ended abruptly as he fainted dead away.

Sneering, Malys lowered her claw and turned back to Kurthak. Tragor continued to hang in midair, his feet dangling a hundred feet or more above the stony ground.

“Now,” Malystryx said, “enough idle talk. I have chosen you for a reason, Black-Gazer.”

With effort, Kurthak tore his gaze away from the hovering, limp form of his champion and focused on Malys. “Very well,” he said, trying to sound as though he were somehow on even footing with the gigantic wyrm. “Your servant sought me out. She said you had a bargain to make—my people’s allegiance in exchange for Kendermore.”

Malystryx’s head bobbed. “That is indeed what I intend to offer you,” she said. “I have watched your people for some time, Black-Gazer, and I see great promise in you—promise I did not see in the puny humans who dwelt in this land.”

Kurthak didn’t miss the carefully chosen word—dwelt. There had been thousands of humans in the Dairly Plains to the south of the ogres’ lands.

“They are mostly gone now,” Malys hissed, guessing his thoughts. “Many are dead, though some of them fled. I could have destroyed your people with no more effort than I crushed the humans, but I have chosen not to. Do you know why, Black-Gazer?”

“Because you wish to ally with us instead?”

“Precisely. I mean to turn my attention to the kender next.”

He swallowed. “To destroy them?”

“If I must,” she said. “But the kender are not very filling and I find simple slaughter somewhat boring. I like to… play with and savor my food. That is where I need your help.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You have been attacking the kender,” she explained, her tone that of a patient parent speaking to a dull-witted child. “Your chief—Ruog—has sent you and others to destroy villages along their eastern border. But you aren’t content with simple slaughter either, are you? No, instead you take them prisoner. Why?”

“We want them as slaves,” Kurthak said.

“Slaves!” Malystryx laughed. “Of course. But who would buy one? I am still somewhat new to this land, but I’ve learned enough about the kender to know they are not well-respected. Most of the other races consider them nuisances, I understand.”

“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 fire, 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.