A storm of violence had exploded in the clearing.

Red drenched the earth and gore painted the foliage. It dripped from vines to fill bloody footprints. Mutilated body parts were strewn every which way, some hanging from branches. Most were partially eaten. The more intact corpses were posed in warning.

“By the Three,” Eppon groaned, slightly sick. “I thought your magic stopped the ogres from finding us, uncle!” He eyed the towering trees nervously despite the vast army stretching around him. Most avoided looking at the hideously scarred prince, though a sea of wrappings hid most of his maiming.

The old man sat astride a gangly black steed, his darkened eyes narrowing on Eppon. The big man balked and looked away.

Lukotor was in no mood to be questioned. No mood at all.

“What the boy says is true,” Avernix rode up beside him, looking at his slain warriors in disdain. “What happened here, Lukotor? Did your pot learn anything for us?”

The old man grimaced. “There are two of them. One thinks in a southland language I have no knowledge of. The other’s thoughts are in Makkadian, which I understand.” He frowned. “But her mind…it became muddled with the instinct of an animal and I could put no sense to it. A shapeshifter, perhaps. I gathered some thoughts from our hunters before they were felled. It seems the wizard used some illusionist’s trick to create great noise. That called the ogres.” He sniffed. “Cunning bastard, but he will not fool us again. I will see that the Three know to guard for his tricks next time.”

“No sign of any other bodies but what’s left of our own, overlord!” one of the men searching the clearing called back.

“Damn them!” Avernix’s teeth ground.

“They’re slippery, father,” Eppon growled. “Sneaks and workers of treacherous magic. Cowards!”

Lukotor could not resist glancing toward the word covered by bandages, carved into the large man’s chest. “I also gathered from the trackers’ minds that the thieves fell into the river and washed westward.” Lukotor tapped the Vessel of Altak-Tur. “The Makkadian thoughts stayed in chaos, frantic like a frightened beast when they hit the water. I gleaned brief snippets, but could not keep my grasp on their minds.” He looked to the north. “My overlord, it would be wise if we continued toward Gergorix’s City. The river runs somewhat toward our destination; if the thieves survived, they could get ahead of us.”

“Lukotor.” Avernix gripped the reins on his warhorse. “I’ll not have some oafish ogre or forest beast taking my sons’ revenge while we chase your egg. The deaths of those two worms must come by my order.”

“Then give me the chance, father!” Eppon turned to him, his face half-smothered by his dressings. “Give me two score…no half a hundred warriors! A-and our remaining hounds! I’ll avenge my brother! I swear! I will deal with those two! I will hear them beg for death, and watch them long for escape, but this I swear on Agisil’s name: any escape they will find will be in hells of their own worst nightmares! Then, when they are broken, I will rejoin you!”

Avernix gave him a long look. “…alright, we will go on ahead. Search for them downriver. Find them. Kill them if you must, but try to capture them alive if you can.”

“Yes, father!” Eppon glanced furtively to the river. His eyes narrowed. “I’ll not fail you!”

The overlord clapped his hand to his son’s shoulder, eyeing his wounds and broken arm. “Take no more risks yourself. Use your warriors wisely and return to us, understand? This is my command.”

“It will be done, father.”

As the Bear-Breaker led his expedition along the river, thoughts of vengeance and regaining his honour consumed him. A part of him longed for the moment when Lukotor would seize the egg and could heal his skin. He did not fancy the idea of hunting down that Traemean knight while looking as he did.

He shook the thoughts from his head.

Spoils would come later, he told himself.

For now, he had a red-eyed bastard to castrate.

----------------------------------------

A rodent-like humanoid pulled herself up on the river bank.

She coughed onto the rocky shore, sneezing, and shaking herself. Water sprayed off of grey fur. With beady eyes, she examined the shore, snout twitching. The mist had cleared, but an unfamiliar, acrid scent was heavy on the air. The rat-thing chittered and bared her teeth, snuffling monstrously. Sharply, it looked down at a nearby spot on the bank. There was another scent there. A human had been close by here, bearing something that smelled strongly of sweetness and vitriol.

She looked again to the trees; beady eyes narrowed.

Splash!

Sputtering and groaning, Kyembe of Sengezi dragged himself onto the shore using the haft of his sword-staff as a crutch. His broken arm dangled and he favoured it with every movement. His fine, star-patterned robe was drenched and torn.

The rat-creature looked at him for a moment then hunched over, writhing in agony as her skeleton broke, shortened and reset. Sickening pops and cracks filled the air. Flesh rippled as skin replaced fur, and claws, snout and tail disappeared. Animal cries grew more human until they were the pained moans of a young woman.

Soaked and dripping, Wurhi of Zabyalla panted on her hands and knees.

She looked back at Kyembe and he looked back at her. Shared malice filled their eyes.

“We…” he hissed. “Are going to kill…” he wheezed. “Every…last…one…of those bastards.”

Wurhi’s teeth chattered in a snarl. “I’ll make those dog-humping…slack-mouthed…sons of goats eat each other’s guts. If that magic egg…is all you say it is…you keep them alive long! Long for what I’ll do to them!”

“And…beyond…” He swayed unsteadily on his feet. “I am going to…flay them…then make them live …without skin. Forever.” He looked down to his ruined arm in disgust. “But I will not be much use with this. I need to set it.” He glanced at her. “Are you alright?”

“I’m bruised and mad,” she spit. “But you healed the arrow wounds, so I’m better than you.”

“No doubt.” He pressed a hand to his chest and golden light poured from it. His breathing grew easier. Raising a foot, he propped it against his sword-staff’s haft, then pushed down with his good arm. It retracted, once again returning to a one-handed sword, which he sheathed at his waist. He touched the bundle on his back, sighed in gratitude to find it intact, then began tearing strips of cloth from it to bind his arm.

“Hey, Kyembe.” She eyed the forest. Roots large enough for rhinoceroses to walk on curved around the shore. The reedy cries of carrion birds sounded from within the towering tree line. “Someone else has been here recently. A human.”

He froze. “Impossible. They could not have found us so quickly.”

She shook her head. “They didn’t. It’s a few days old, I think. And it didn’t smell of dog, but did smell something like sugar and vinegar.” She wrinkled her nose. “Strong vinegar.”

He looked to the trees suspiciously as well. “Strange.” He continued to tend his arm.

“Everything in this place is strange. I never want to look at another tree after this.” She looked around and snatched a piece of driftwood from the bank. “Here, use this.”

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

They set Kyembe’s bone, trying to ignore his groans of pain, and splinted it to the wood with the torn pieces of his bundle. They made a sling with a long piece of fabric torn from his tunic. He examined himself then looked to her. “How do I look?”

“Like a drowned man,” she laughed. “Just like the first time I saw you.”

The little Zabyallan looked critically at Kyembe’s robe. “Best leave that behind. It’s ruined.”

“Not for long. Why do you think I was bargaining with Ku-Hassandra in the first place?”

“What?”

Kyembe switched his ring to his other hand, then spoke a word of power. Silver light shone in the eyes of the horned woman upon it, stuttering slowly and unevenly at first. The light outlined the cuts and tears on his prized robe, which quickly knit together like a lizard regrowing its tail. The dirt and staining sloughed away and the water rung itself out. In a few breaths, the garment was as rich and whole as though it had just left the loom.

“What? What was that?!” Wurhi demanded. “You can fix things!?”

“No, it is but a spell of minor mending and refreshment for garments,” he said tiredly, but there was boyish excitement in his eyes. “With it, I can keep this robe forever!”

Wurhi blinked. “You…traded a portion of your treasure for something that soap, a needle and thread can do?”

“Better than any thread or soap!”

“…I almost wish you had been looking for weird wizard writhings,” she muttered, before turning back to the forest. “Do you know where we are?”

Kyembe looked to the sky peeking through the canopy. “The river washed us west, I think, but by how far I do not know. Whether we reach the egg first will now be as much luck as it will be skill.” A look of frustration crossed his face. “Curse the breath that first uttered ‘Avernix’ and ‘Lukotor’ to me.”

He reached back into his bundle and drew the clay tablets from it, examining them carefully. “No damage from water or impact. Good. Lukotor must have warded them with a spell.”

“Good for him.” Wurhi looked up the river. No sign of pursuit yet. “We should move soon. You looking to find where we are?”

“No.” He turned a tablet around. “One tablet bears some of his notations about the egg, but the other talks of rituals and lore on their tribal demons.”

“The ones you said protected them?”

“That is right.” He frowned. “They made such noise when chasing us, but the ogres did not come until I raised sounds right where we were. I suppose that was his plan, to shield their forces and come for the egg in force. Cunning bastard…Avernix may have brought most of his army into the wood.”

Wurhi balked and she looked up the river again. “Shit! Shit! Can you do anything about it?!”

“That is what I am wondering. I had only skimmed this before…but I wonder if…” He paused. His eyes narrowed as they scanned a particular line of writing.

Then they went wide.

Wurhi startled as Kyembe threw his head back and roared out a deep laugh.

“Have you lost your thrice-damned senses!?” she hissed. “The ogres can still find us!”

He lowered his laughter to a quiet, rolling chuckle. His crimson eyes seemed to spark with joyful malice.

“You found something good?” she asked hopefully.

“Oh, moooooore than good. Much more.” He gave her a smug look. “We owe Agisil a debt for stealing these tablets. With some modification and one of my own spells, I can give our friend Lukotor the worst surprise of his long life.” He eyed the trees. “But we will need a wide, flat area, fairly dry and away from water. We will also need a large fire and a few other things.”

“Then we’d better get moving.” She glanced worriedly upriver once more. “Before they surprise us instead.”

They climbed the roots of the bank and started north. Wurhi hugged her arms around herself and shivered. It was late in the day and getting colder. Being soaked to the bone and having a wet pack strapped to her back did not help.

The deeper they went into the forest, the quieter it grew. The towering trees seemed even more ominous than before. Boughs twisted and bulged like inhuman faces leering through the shade. No animals lurked close by, save for the occasional over-sized crow coasting through the canopy far above on glinting black wings. Every dried leaf they stepped on seemed unnaturally loud.

“I don’t like this place,” Wurhi whispered, hugging herself now in as much nerves as chill. She shuddered as they saw another many-horned territory marker of the ogres. “Something nasty’s around here.”

“Stop!” Kyembe suddenly halted them with a hissed whisper. “Listen!”

Wurhi held still.

She heard it shortly after.

A deep snuffling and footfalls too heavy to come from any human tread.

Her heart began to pound.

“This way!” he dragged her upwind to the hollow of a tree. They huddled in silence, listening to its slow approach.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Louder the footsteps grew. Soon it was so close that she could hear its heavy breath.

Unable to resist, Wurhi risked a glance over the root. She fought a gasp.

It was a giant.

Its hide was slate grey and covered in thick coarse hair. It stooped in a simian stance, towering half again the height of a tall man. Kyembe had been right, she realized - its muscular body must have been at least ten times his bulk, if not more. Its thews rippled with power in every movement, and its hands flexed in the air.

Its countenance was a twisted mockery of humanity. The nose stubby and porcine. Its lips too wide, and parted to reveal pointed teeth and upward jutting tusks. Its jaw was enormous and its features looked as though they had continued growing until they fought each other for space on its face. Curving horns jutted from its skull, rising proudly into the air to scrape upon the lowest branches of the giant trees. It was barefoot, and its clawed feet sank into the earth with each step. Despite its immensity, it moved with animal grace that spoke of deadly speed if needed, and its yellow eyes sparked with brute wit and cruelty.

Though its piggish nostrils flared and Wurhi drew back in alarm, it did not catch their scent. It bent low to examine a wide expanse of flat earth, perhaps ten paces across for a man. It pushed on the soil, which sagged before rebounding. It gave a snort, and breathed something in a grinding, savage tongue.

Moving to a nearby tree, it examined a loop of thick vine wrapped purposefully around a branch, grunting before moving on.

As it proceeded westward, it bellowed once, as loud as a shattering boulder. Answering roars came from the east.

Grunting again, its vast footsteps carried it away.

Kyembe and Wurhi stayed until long after its steps had faded. Kyembe came forward first, and scouted about. “It is gone,” he finally announced.

The Zabyallan’s hands shook. “That…that was an ogre?” she choked out.

“It was the way I have heard them described.” He grimly approached the ground the ogre had examined and pressed on it with a fur-wrapped foot. It sagged and rebounded. “Ah, I understand. An elephant-no, it would be a mastodon trap here.” He walked about the edge of the clearing, testing the ground with his foot. “Keep a careful eye on the ground in wide places.”

They continued north, passing over the tracks of rhinoceros, mastodon and ogre. The Sengezian seemed to grow more tense as he examined them.

“What’s wrong now?” Wurhi asked.

“These were all made days ago. It is as though they stopped patrolling this area for some reason.”

She paused. Her nostrils flared. “Maybe for a good reason. I smell blood…and death.”

The Sengezian drew his sword grimly. “Then lead the way.”

Wurhi nervously followed the stench of rot until it grew so powerful that tears welled in her eyes.

They came upon the source in a hundred paces.

In a clearing a flock of vultures threw themselves into the air, squawking in a flurry of wingbeats. They left behind an ogre’s corpse, bloated and fly-ridden, with foulness oozing from a great rent in its side. Wurhi gaped. “What in all hells could’ve done this?”

Kyembe leaned over the body, grimacing at the scent. “Something with a blade. A very large blade. Another ogre, perhaps.”

The Zabyallan sniffed the air. “There’s more rot. This way.”

Flies buzzed like a sandstorm. A pair of slaughtered ogres were splayed in a clearing just to the north, their bodies cleaved as though a demon had lain into them with a giant axe. One had an arm severed and its chest caved in. The other had great slashes through its torso and its entrails pooled on the earth. Much of its flesh had melted and ran like wax. Wurhi sniffed and made a face. “Vitriol. Same as the river.”

“…something else is in here with us,” Kyembe murmured, his face troubled. “Hmmm…look.” He pointed to a set of boot tracks in the muck. He placed his own foot alongside it. The print was nearly the same size. “This is the tread of a human boot, or something similar. Northward bound and several days old.”

She grimaced. “And we’re headed north. Toward the thing that smells like acid, melts meat, and hacks up ogres like they’re making croc-bait.”

Kyembe glanced over his shoulders. “We know the east is patrolled from those roars. The one we saw headed west. Our only other choice would be to double back south.”

Wurhi looked back nervously. “Back toward where those bastards are likely to find us if they’re still looking. We’re in trouble. A lot of trouble.”

“I have been through worse,” he tried to say cheerily, but there was not much cheer in his voice.

“I haven’t,” Wurhi said. “And I hope this is the peak. If we live.”

“If we live,” Kyembe agreed.

She jerked her head northward. “Let’s keep going the way we are. At least the ogres are dead this way.”

----------------------------------------

“Fresh blood, my lord! The dogs have the scent!” came a call from the northern bank.

“Finally!” Eppon the Bear-Breaker waved to the trackers on the south bank then began to wade north through the shallow part of the river. A vast swell of warriors followed.

He gripped the hilt of his sword - a massive, rust-pitted thing pried from the fingers of a slain priest of the Cult of Steel. The scars on his hand ached.

Soon. His vengeance would be soon.