“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.