The winged spy returned its attention to the ogres, seeing that they had advance forces infiltrating the jagged rocks too. In one almost laughable sight, a band of ogres lay in hiding only a short distance from where a group of legionaries was doing the same.
The ogre ranks began to spread out as they approached, almost as if they had some warning concerning the opposing forces. The gargoyle landed atop a high peak, from where, folding its wings, it watched.
In their new formation, the minotaurs continued to spread over the first ridge. As they did, the ogres advanced toward them.
Scouts on both sides eagerly sent signals to their respective commands.
A massive ogre near the rear of the lines raised his hand. A trumpeter with a curled goat horn sounded a blaring note that echoed through the area.
The legions did not halt upon hearing the trumpet blast, but an officer in a plumed helm and purple cloak gestured to one of his own trumpeters. The legionary sent out a shrill reply.
Barely had both horns sounded than the front lines of both forces edged within sight of one another.
The minotaurs restrengthened their line of shields and held their swords, axes, and pikes ready. Opposite them, the ogres did likewise.
The gargoyle hissed in amusement. It was almost like watching one army fighting its own distorted, grotesque image. The blood would surely flow strong, the gargoyle thought.
Goatskin-covered copper drums beat among the ogres. They were met by the thumping of the iron drums of the minotaurs. For several seconds, the two different drummings vied.
The cloaked commander of the legions rode through the ranks until he and his sleek, black steed stood at the forefront. At the same time, the ogre warlord rode to the head of his forces.
The two leaders eyed one another. The minotaur raised his sword up. The ogre brandished his axe.
Both saluted one another.
The winged watcher blinked in astonishment. Its claws scraped at the rock as it tried to puzzle out the odd battle etiquette. Minotaurs could be very formal, but ogres-even the half-breed’s polished warriors-did not politely acknowledge the foe they were about to attack.
Their weapons still raised, the two riders charged one another. The gargoyle understood. The two leaders would fight for dominance first. It is what gargoyles would have done too.
The ogre and the minotaur met. Their weapons clashed once. And both riders reined their mounts to a halt and bowed their heads to one another.
The other ogres barked in approval. The legionaries banged their weapons against their shields and stood down. The ogres did the same.
Sheathing their weapons, the imperial officer and the ogre warlord clasped hands in greeting.
The gargoyle leapt back from the scene, its suddenly outstretched wings mirroring the amazement on its monstrous staring visage. It felt certain that it must have seen wrong.
Both riders had dismounted. They spoke in low tones. Still more unbelievable, elements of each group were moving toward one another, but with their weapons sheathed and their shields down.
The gargoyle had seen enough. It leaped into the sky, heading north. It flew well above the sight of the minotaurs and ogres. The huge wings beat faster than ever. Hunger was forgotten. Fear that it would fail its dread lord was forgotten. Its master would surely be eager to be told of the intriguing, inexplicable scene.
And the Grand Lord Golgren would surely have been interested too … If only he had been fortunate enough to know, or to have had his own spy.
I
His wounds still pained him, but Golgren didn’t let it show. Several months had passed since he had led his warriors against the unthinkable: an army of the undead-or, as the ogres called them, f’hanos-bent on the destruction of Garantha, the great capital of his precious Golthuu. Many warriors had perished, and Golgren had nearly died himself. But the threat had been overcome, with the Grand Khan-the Grand Lord at that point-being hailed by his people as Kala i iF’hanosi il aF’hanariFaluum iGolgreni, or the “Final Death of the Undead That is Golgren.”
But the half-breed master of the ogre race had not been entirely responsible for that victory, just as the danger that day had not come from a single source. Much magic had been involved. A great part of the magic, originated from the Ogre Titans. Indeed the damage to Garantha could be traced-at least by Golgren-to the spell the Titans had cast creating a massive quake beyond the capital.
Golgren rose from the wide, lush bed in his personal chambers. Countless silken pillows of many colors filled the bed, and elegant draperies flanked the structure. All were spoils of the conquest of Silvanesti far to the south-a conquest made in conjunction with his current bitter enemies, the Uruv Suurt. Those horned warriors had taken the bulk of Silvanesti as their prize, turning it into the imperial colony of Ambeon.
Golgren was an unlikely looking ruler of the ogre race. He was no taller than a minotaur and more sleek of form than most of his kind. His features could have been called brutally handsome, for there was much in them that spoke of his mother’s people: the very elves he had helped enslave and scatter. From his mother he had inherited his almond-shaped, emerald eyes and his more pronounced-yet narrow-nose. His jaw was strong, but less so than with most ogres. The tusks that he had grown up with had long been filed to mere nubs, adding to his more elf look.
His dark mane of hair was always kept groomed, and he wore garments befitting a noble of the elf or human races. The Grand Khan did not believe it was any insult to his people, but rather an attempt to resurrect the ancient golden era when his kind had been the most beautiful of creatures. The era when elves, dwarves, and humans had all but looked to the ogres as gods.
Golgren was dressed for war. Each day new reports confirmed that his great kingdom was under threat. As Golgren forced his weary body to move, he confronted in a nearby long, crystalline mirror-yet again, a treasure from what was Uruv Suurt-held Ambeon-a figure already clad in a shining breastplate and a kilt, with sandaled feet. A green and brown cloak lay loosely spread over one side of the bed. On a moon-shaped marble table sat a helmet whose crest was shaped like a griffon, the patron beast of Garantha.
Each night, Golgren slept ready to be summoned to battle. He had no choice. With the culmination of his dreams had also come the advent of his eternal nightmares.
“My lord,” came a musical, feminine voice speaking in the Common tongue. “I did not hear you rise. Please forgive me.”
“Ah, my Idaria,” he responded without even glancing in her direction. “Do I not always?”
Golgren had also spoken in Common for, as part of the transformation and uplifting of his realm, the Grand Khan insisted on all his subjects knowing and speaking Common. It was the accepted tongue of commerce and negotiation among the humans, elves, and other so-called civilized peoples. And Golgren was determined to prove his people were every bit as civilized, even if most of the other races were enemies.
A slim, but still well-shaped form clad in the tatters of a green elven gown slipped up behind the Grand Khan. The elf maiden looked years younger than Golgren-who himself was in the prime of ogre life-but she was, by his estimate, at least twice his age, if not much older. Though a slave, the silver-tressed elf looked well-Golgren desired his personal servant to always look beautiful and fit. Her gown, fashioned according to his orders to make her all the more appealing, revealed the beauty of her skin and body. Her ivory color was a sign of health among the elves, and her eyes were a bright, crystalline blue. She wore sandals that would have fit an ogre child of perhaps four years of age, and moved with an astonishing grace he could never match, even though she wore severed bracelets of chains on both her ankles and wrists.