Ariakas crouched and froze, listening as the brute trundled past. By then he could hear the sounds of other marchers, grunting, groaning, and cursing under some strain. Risking another look, the man saw that the lead ogre had disappeared around the next bend in the trail. Immediately below, a pair of ogres labored under the weight of a heavy log, precariously balanced across their broad shoulders. Others came into view, each hauling a tree trunk destined, Ariakas speculated, for the fireplaces of the lofty keep.
Finally the band of ogres worked its way around the bend, but still Ariakas held his position, waiting and watching the trail. Minutes passed. The sounds of the grumbling ogres faded up the trail. Still the warrior waited.
A man came into sight, walking slowly and carefully up the path. Like the ogre who had led the column, he scanned the slopes above the trail with diligence and caution. His hand rested on the hilt of a long sword, and the weapon swung at the strange warrior's side with a grace that spoke of long familiarity.
More significant was the man's armor. Ariakas allowed his face to twist into a scar-split smile when he saw the metal helm-it included a visor lowered to cover the warrior's face. He was a large fellow, well-muscled and long of leg. Like the fully masked helm, these facts also met with the approval of the figure concealed above the trail.
Ariakas took a quick glance up the path, checking that the ogres remained out of sight. He then hefted a small stone, nestling the oblong shape in his palm as he watched the lone rear guard pass his place of conceal shy;ment. The blank mask of the helmet faced upward, and Ariakas froze while the gaze swept past his niche. Fortu shy;nately, as he had expected, the narrow vantage point and the surrounding shadows concealed him.
Then, as the rear guard looked farther up the trail, Ariakas pitched the stone through the air, watching as it fell perfectly-about ten feet on the other side of the war shy;rior, down the slope.
The fellow would have been inhuman if he had ignored the sudden rattle of sound. The man's sword was in his hand in a flickering instant, instinctively slashing the air behind him. Only then did he hear the sounds above.
Whirling, the warrior raised his long sword to face Ariakas, who plunged his broadsword downward with both hands. The guard staggered backward, then dropped his blade, and for a sickening instant Ariakas feared that he would plummet over the edge of the steep trail. But the man caught his balance, and his faceless helm dipped downward for a fraction of a second as he looked for his weapon. That splinter of time was enough-Ariakas thrust sharply, aiming for the gap between the man's helm and his breastplate. The sword slipped through the niche, and the guard groaned once, an exhalation of shock and surprise. Then he slumped to the ground, dead.
Now Ariakas had to work fast. Glancing up at the lofty tower, he saw no movement, no sign of any reaction at all. All he could do was hope that he remained unob shy;served. Swiftly he tore off his own leather armor, replac shy;ing it with the dead man's plate mail and helm. Discarding his knapsack, he took the locket, his dagger, and-after only a moment's hesitation-the flask of lavarum and stuffed them into his small belt pouch.
Slipping the helmet over his head, he dropped the faceplate to conceal his features. After cleaning and sheathing his own sword, he started up the trail. As he jogged along, he slipped the shoulder plates over his arms and pulled the gauntlets onto his hands.
With the faceplate down, he knew he presented a rea shy;sonable facsimile of the man he had slain. How long he could maintain the charade he didn't dare to guess.
Instead, he concentrated on closing the distance that sep shy;arated him from the ogres and their heavy load of fire shy;wood.
The trail twisted and wound on its way up the narrow crag adjacent to the ogres' tower. Ariakas's lungs struggled for air as he lumbered ahead, dragged down by the unfamiliar weight of metal armor. Finally he came around a bend and caught a glimpse of the steep upward slope before him. The brutes had apparently been wait shy;ing, for some of the ogres lolled on the ground around their great logs while others stamped their feet impa shy;tiently and glared back down the trail.
As soon as Ariakas came into sight, the sitting ogres lurched to their feet, though with some visible reluctance to resume their labors. One of them gave him a casual wave, which the warrior returned, while the others heaved the logs to their shoulders and started the march.
Now Ariakas tried to assume the mantle of his new role. He inspected the heights and the back-trail just as he'd seen the dead man do, ensuring that no one fol shy;lowed the party back to its lair. The trail entered a series of steep, narrow switchbacks, and he was acutely con shy;scious of the ogres marching along the face directly over shy;head. He paid them little obvious attention, reasoning that their human rear guard would be more concerned with any unknown threats lurking to the sides of the trail.
Eventually the path opened onto the narrow summit of the crag, and the party moved onto the crest. Ariakas guessed that they approached the lowered drawbridge, and he hastened up the slope below. His plan depended on him reaching that portal before the crossing was raised again-he didn't want to risk calling out for the guards to lower it. After all, he didn't even know what language they'd speak within the forbidding tower.
He crested the ridge to see the drawbridge resting across the chasm, the double gates of the tower just swinging outward as he approached. The keep soared to the sky before him, looming upward like an extension of the solid, craggy peak. Several of the outer towers extended toward Ariakas, giving the impression that the entire keep leaned forward, ready to fall upon him. Huge squares of dark granite intermeshed perfectly to form the high, sweeping wall. Except for the six outer towers, no external features interrupted the curved wall. Smooth palisades thrust upward to meet the overhang shy;ing lip of the cone-shaped roof, far overhead.
The ogres lumbered forward, trudging across the long drawbridge and disappearing through the gates into the tower. Ariakas hastened to follow. Risking an upward glance, he studied the tower as he reached the edge of the bridge. Narrow windows slit the walls in many places, and he imagined numerous eyes upon him. He could see no movement in the darkness within, however, and soon even the ogres before him had vanished into the dark maw of the gates.
Stepping onto the bridge, Ariakas was struck by an overwhelming realization of the immense drop yawning below him. The gorge lay more than a thousand feet below the bridge, and a sensation of dizziness overtook him. Gritting his teeth, he strode resolutely forward.
Passing between the open gates, he saw shadowy out shy;lines of the winch and gear mechanisms that operated the doors. Two ogres, grunting impatiently, cranked a capstan and wheeled the huge portals shut with surpris shy;ing speed. At the same time, the rattling of chain over shy;head informed Ariakas that the drawbridge mechanism had also been engaged. The gates slammed shut behind him, and he knew his course was set.
"Here, Erastmut-saved you a glop!" grunted one of the ogres, holding out a slime-streaked bottle. Ariakas took the flask, at first feeling a measure of relief that the ogre spoke in Common. At the same time, he knew he couldn't afford to raise his visor in the presence of some shy;one who knew Erastmut.
Silently nodding his thanks, Ariakas took the bottle and reached for his faceplate. An acrid stink, mingling cheap whiskey and ogre drool, nearly sickened him as he lifted the bottle. Then, as if remembering a great secret, he held up his palm and gestured toward his belt pouch. He reached inside and pulled out his prized flask of lavarum. Setting the ogre's bottle down, he passed the flask over to the brute.