Ogres were not known as the most proficient archers. Although the Grand Khan had worked hard to change that, such a shot as had killed the trumpeter took exceptional skill. Jod quickly peered at the direction from which the arrow had come.
There were Uruv Suurt behind the first two ranks.
Legionaries and ogres fighting side-by-side and against the Grand Khan’s own troops!
The commander turned his horse about, trying to decide what would be best to do. He was an ogre leader-and no leader left his warriors behind-yet he also felt obliged to warn the city.
Jod looked back over his shoulder to where Varkol’s broken body lay. He urged his mount in that direction, even though that would put him in the shadow of the precipitous block of marble.
Some of the warriors working the quarry had sensed something was wrong, while others merely looked around as though they thought perhaps replacements had come. A few of the former began racing for their weapons, which had been set with their breastplates at a nearby hut. No one had imagined a need for defense, and the only armed fighters were the guards on the perimeter.
As Jod leaped down to seize the lost horn, he wondered exactly where those guards were. Ogres did not abandon positions; indeed, they were more likely than even the most stubborn Uruv Suurt to stand their ground until slain.
Jod brought the horn to his mouth. He saw that many of his warriors were still unaware that something was amiss. The racket raised by the work in the quarry kept many from hearing the oncoming force.
Jod blew hard on the horn, sounding the notes that any warrior trained since Golgren’s takeover would recognize as the call to arms. Jod repeated the signal three times, forcing all the air from his lungs each time. By the end of the third signal, the ogre was hacking from the dust he had inhaled.
But his warning appeared to have an effect. No one was working anymore. Ogres were rushing to their weapons, and the only problem the commander noticed was that many still did not realize that the threat came from the newcomers. Most in the quarry could not yet make out the horned figures approaching.
A flight of arrows shot over Jod’s head just as he finished blowing the horn. The arrows flew so high that the veteran warrior, more concerned with what to do next, ignored them.
But a moment later, a terrible thundering warned him that he had made a foolish mistake.
Jod raced desperately even as the shadow swept over him. The thundering was accompanied by a familiar groaning sound, as if a giant was gasping out his last moments of life.
He grabbed for his horse’s reins, but the animal was quicker than him. It sprinted away, fast outpacing both its master and the huge block of marble descending upon the ogre. The deadly flight of arrows wasn’t meant for him, but for those still commanding the ropes above. There was nothing to keep the marble from falling and wreaking havoc among the defenders.
It also threatened to bury Jod beneath its massive weight.
The shadow swept ahead of him. The commander had no choice but to leap.
The ground shook as he landed. He was tossed up several feet and battered to the ground again.
A massive weight crushed his left foot. The ogre leader screamed.
Jod glanced back to see that although the main block of stone had missed him, a fragment as huge as his body had broken free and smashed his left foot to a pulp. That he was still breathing was little consolation; the gory mass that had been his appendage was bleeding profusely, and threatened his life.
He dragged himself forward, looking for something with which to bind the wound.
A second, smaller shadow fell over him. Jod gazed up to see the menacing form of an Uruv Suurt officer whose long cloak and plumed helm marked him as either a general or something close to it.
The horned legionary raised his sword.
An ogre stepped up behind the minotaur. Jod briefly took heart in the appearance of a member of his own race, until he realized the ogre seemed unconcerned over the legionary’s pose.
“Jod,” the ogre, a younger male, rumbled.
Through a pain-wracked eye, Jod peered at the other. “A-Atolgus? Kyzari ut-”
Atolgus shook his head. “You must speak Common, Jod! It is what your Grand Khan commands.”
The Uruv Suurt general snorted derisively at the comment. “Golgren will command nothing but the lance upon which his head will sit and stare at the surrounding crows.”
The bleeding commander snatched futilely at Atolgus’s leg.
“Why do we waste time with that one?” demanded the legionary. “I must report to my emperor and assure him that all is going well, even if not quite as he might expect.”
Atolgus did not answer the Uruv Suurt, but instead kneeled down to look Jod directly in the eyes. There was something different about the young chieftain that the older ogre could not put his finger on, something that compelled the attention of the overseer.
“You command Sadurak,” Atolgus whispered, grabbing him, sounding more like the Uruv Suurt than an ogre who had not grown up speaking Common. Jod wanted to pull away, but could not. All he could do was stare at the dark eyes tinted with gold, gold like the sun.
“You command Sadurak,” the other ogre repeated. Jod vaguely recalled the Atolgus he had first met in earlier years, not at all like the confident, overwhelming warrior. “You will speak of all of its defenses. You will tell them all to me.”
Jod could no longer feel anything in his left leg. He wanted to look at his wound, but could not. Instead, words began spilling out, words in the best Common he could speak.
And when he was done, the ogre wished he could have cut out his tongue, for he had left nothing out of his description. Even if he had wanted to, he could not keep any secret from Atolgus. The eyes, more golden than ever, demanded and received all they desired.
“You have heard all?” Atolgus asked the minotaur, finally letting Jod look away.
“The defenses should be simple, even if they know that we’re coming. Sadurak will be ours before the day’s over!”
“Will that satisfy your emperor for the time being?”
The horned officer seemed not to notice that Atolgus’s Common was even better than when they had first met. “Aye, it will. My legionaries can keep the rabble under control and solidify our holdings along the border, warlord.”
Atolgus grinned. He took his own sword and, as Jod stared at him, said, “Fya i f’han iJodi hardugh. I give you good death, Jod.”
He drove the sword into the other ogre’s throat. At Atolgus’s side, the Uruv Suurt grunted approval at the clean sweep of the stroke.
Withdrawing the bloody blade, the warlord gazed past the sprawled corpse. “Sadurak.”
Blood played a part in many Titan ceremonies and spells, blood drawn especially from the elf race. Elves were the closest race to the ancient High Ogres in terms of their innate magic, which was why their sacrifice had been required to make the elixir.
But elves were scarce those days, and Safrag was not yet ready to sacrifice those in the stockade. Besides, he had a different source in mind.
A stench filled the chamber in which the Black Talon had cast its latest spell. Residual energies drifted around the darkened room, briefly illuminating the giant sorcerers’ faces in most unnatural expressions of disgust and anxiousness.
The three abominations stood clustered together in the center, with the talon symbol of the inner circle under their misshapen feet. Safrag gazed at the three, his lips pursed in mild interest.
“Three where there should be four,” he sang. “Why three, Falstoch? Why?”
The lead abomination dripped forward. It was more hunched than the others, and there was a furious quivering to its constantly shifting form that the other pair did not display.
There was… There was the elf, Falstoch said in their minds. The elf slave of the mongrel.