The ogre pointed up at the constellations. Stefan turned his gaze to the one most prominent in that direction-
And a strong yet comforting voice had filled his head.
I’ve need of you, good warrior, the voice had said. I’ve need of your arm, your head, and your good heart. I need you to stand before an enemy like none you have known… An enemy called capriciousness.
It was a very odd request the voice had made, but Stefan knew whom the voice belonged to, and that any request by that speaker would have good cause. Entirely unaware of his surroundings, the Knight of the Sword had listened to the rest of the words.
And when the voice was done, Stefan had stirred to find not only was Hogran no longer beside him, but morning was nearly upon the human. More importantly, clasped in his right hand he had found the second triangular pendant, a token of the speaker, whose constellation was just vanishing in the light of dawn.
As he departed the ogres who had been his family for weeks, Stefan brought the medallion to his lips and kissed it lightly “I’ll make myself worthy of the honor, my lord,” he whispered to his patron. “I swear by the Oath and the Measure-and you, great Kiri-Jolith-that I will.”
And so, Stefan pushed on to where he knew he needed to be, to where once again he would find the half-breed ogre, Golgren.
But he did not head toward Garantha.
Generation upon generation, the war machine of the ogre race had been the same: a vast horde of individual fighters relying on their brutal strength to overwhelm opponents in chaotic struggle. There was no skilled combat, no finesse with arms. Clubs, swords, and spears had been wielded with basic skills and fury. Sometimes, the swarm of ogres had brought great victory; other times, it had brought ignominious defeat.
But the age of Golgren, as some of his followers thought of it already, had begun to change all that.
The one hundred ogre warriors practicing their sword thrusts were part of the new ogre army. They wore the shining breastplates and metal-tipped kilts that were standard among all those who served the Grand Khan. Helmets had been temporarily set to the side for better hearing of the commands barked by their trainer. The swords were heavy and among most humans would have required powerful strength to hold with one hand, much less wield. The swords were well-honed, new, and of ogre make.
The warriors moved with an organized flair stunning even to those who had followed the initial transformation of Golgren’s forces. The swords thrust simultaneously, and as one shifted to counter an imaginary attack.
“Feint! Thrust! Retreat! Thrust!” roared their instructor, who was not an ogre. Indeed, he was possibly the last creature one might have expected to be willingly training ogre forces.
The minotaur was nearly as broad in his chest and girth as his students. Although he was more than a foot shorter, any who watched him move agilely could not doubt that-one against one, or even two against one-the outcome of any fight would leave the minotaur the victor and his opponents dead at his feet.
The minotaur wore the armor of the imperial legions, a marred black horse on its hind legs still visible on the breastplate. His armor was polished, but clearly more well worn than that of his charges.
Dark brown of fur, the minotaur had obviously seen much action. There were scars on his arms and shoulders, and even a wicked mark across the right side of his muzzle. Part of one nostril had been severed during the making of that scar. The smallest finger on his left hand had also been lost.
But most arresting about the ogres’ instructor was his singular lack of horns. It was not that he had not been born with any, but that those horns had, at some recent point in time, been expertly shorn just above the skull.
There were a handful of others like him, scattered around various parts of Golthuu. They were renegades with no life left for them in the empire. Some had served the previous emperor, Hotak, with too much fervor for his successor to accept their existence. With nowhere else to go, they had turned to the one livelihood left to their dishonored selves, while at the same time garnering a chance for vengeance against the new Uruv Suurt emperor.
And while the minotaur continued to teach and admonish, the grounds surrounding him and his students-grounds situated just to the north of Garantha-shook with activity. Hundreds more ogres were practicing, marching, and working. The latest hand took shape. Three mastarks under the guide of handlers also went through paces, learning signals that would enable them to be much more of a threat to the enemy than to their own force, as had often been the unfortunate case in the past. The handlers, seated atop the shoulders of the beasts, prodded the tusked giants left, right, forward, and even hesitantly backward.
Meredrakes went through training too, although with the huge lizards there was less that could be absorbed. Trainers used whips to teach the reptiles never to turn on them or those nearby. Meredrakes were always urged forward. To emphasize the practice, haunches of old amalok meat were hung before them; the meredrakes were only rewarded after they had learned that heading in any direction but forward was forbidden.
Another surprising activity was taking place on the training ground. For the first time, Golgren’s people were producing quality weapons in mass quantity. Every sword was a replica of minotaur make, but the work was being accomplished by their own kind. A vast, round forge had been set up for the task in a mud-block structure with open slits near the curved ceiling. Burly smiths worked with molten iron brought as ore from distant mines, where slaves and ogre prisoners worked under whips both day and night. Wagons arrived each hour at the forge. Those not filled with ore carried more coal and other fuel needed to maintain the blistering heat.
The smiths wore cloths over their noses and mouths, but otherwise had no protection from the heat or the searing metal. As the newly arrived Khleeg peered inside, he saw ogres with all sorts of burns covering them. Many had patches of hair missing. Smoke rose everywhere, and the stench of sulfur was so great that the officer’s eyes immediately teared and burned.
Hands protected by covers of thick meredrake skin carried orange-hot ladles of molten metal to the molds. The original molds had been stolen from the Uruv Suurt for just that purpose, stolen because even the late Emperor Hotak had not trusted his allies enough to do more than provide them with finished weapons. Of course, there were always those of any race willing to profit by theft, and so for Golgren, gaining what he needed to start the facility had not been difficult.
Khleeg surveyed the many molds, trying to make a count. Twenty were still serviceable, but two more had cracked, rendering them worthless. In another area, ogres were attempting to duplicate the consistency of the Uruv Suurt’s molds, but with varying success. Still, the molds that were usable temporarily gave the Grand Khan’s swelling forces what they needed.
Khleeg stepped back past workers freeing those blades cooled enough to finish upon the anvil. The clang of metal against metal was deafening, and more than a few who had labored in the forge for a few years were deaf to all but the loudest sounds.
The officer finally located the overseer. He seized the other brute by the arm and roared, “How many? Enough?”
The scarred and burned overseer-one eye had been seared shut months past after a chance encounter with a falling piece of burning metal-peered dumbly at Khleeg. Khleeg thought that the worker did not understand his Common speech, but the other ogre turned one fat ear toward him.