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Authors: J. Robert King
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after the sylvari.
“Good point.” The charr grabbed two more tails and chased after his strange allies. “Thundershrimp, eh?”
Chief Kronon’s feet pounded the ground, and his heart pounded his ribs. His scar-crossed chest pumped like an old bellows, and he ached—not with the running, but with every father’s fear: that his son had stirred up terrible trouble.
“Ygor is rash,” Chief Kronon growled.
Beside him, Warmarshal Rairon blew upon a great horn. The mournful cry pealed out across the mountains, but no answering cry came from Chiefling Ygor’s horn.
Chief Kronon shook his head violently. His son was idealistic and rash and perhaps gone.
Kronon had lived 240 years, enough time to bury many sons. The chief had been born the very year that the Great Destroyer, champion of the ancient dragon Primordus, had awakened. His great-great-grandsire had been born in the year that magic had come into the world. The greatest of his grandsires had been born before there were any humans.
The ogre race was ancient, but Ygor was young. He cared only for “the hunts,” slaughtering humans and charr that strayed into ogre lands. “He is foolish and reckless and rash.”
Chief Kronon led his hunters up a wooded slope and thrashed past a stand of trees. He and his retinue emerged on a rill and staggered to a halt.
There, on the mountainside above, a canyon was lit by a pair of pyres. The ogres had smelled them from twenty miles away—burning human flesh and burning charr flesh. Only now, at the edge of dawn, did they see the light of them.
“We don’t burn our dead,” the chief said to no one.
“No, lord,” Warmarshal Rairon replied.
“The winner of this battle is burning the dead.”
“Yes, lord.”
A groan escaped Chief Kronon’s lips, but when the warmarshal glanced his way, the chief only ran forward.
He climbed a slope of scree and then a mossy hillside and a narrow trail through another thicket and at last reached the canyon.
There, between the pyres, lay ogre bodies.
Warmarshal Rairon charged into the clearing, past dismembered devourers and slain hyenas. When he approached the ogres, though, he shouted and fell to the ground. “Stay back! It’s trapped.”
Chief Kronon halted, holding out his arms to keep the rest of the group back.
The warmarshal reached to his foot, where the white stinger of a devourer was embedded. The venom gland still pumped. Rairon pried the stinger loose, then reached to his thigh and pulled out a second. “There are more stingers,” he gasped, “in a circle around the pile.”
Kronon nodded grimly.
Already, Rairon was stiffening. He looked up with cloudy eyes. “It has been an honor to serve you, my chief.”
“You have served well.”
The warmarshal went gray like a statue and toppled backward.
“Clear them away.”
The hunters tentatively moved forward, digging in the sands to remove the scorpion stingers. At last, they announced, “It is safe, lord,” and backed away. “Your son lies here.”
Chief Kronon approached the spot, seeing Chiefling Ygor sprawled out, arms spread and hands open, never to close again.
Falling to his knees, the chief murmured, “My son. My son. You will be avenged.”
He reached down to the chiefling’s belt, which bore the horn he used in the hunt. Chief Kronon pulled the horn from its thong and set it to his lips and blew a long, mournful cry. Then he let his hands fall to his sides and roared into the sky, “You will be avenged!”
Four miles away, Caithe, Logan, and Rytlock were running across a hanging valley when they heard the lonely horn.
“I think he’s found the body,” Logan said.
Then came an anguished roar.
“He’s definitely found the body,” Rytlock added.
Caithe still led the way, faster and more lithe than the other two. “Ogres can outrun all of us, and their hyenas can outrun them.”
Rytlock laughed derisively. “Where’s the weak point on a hyena?”
Caithe replied,
“Good point.” The charr grabbed two more tails and chased after his strange allies. “Thundershrimp, eh?”
Chief Kronon’s feet pounded the ground, and his heart pounded his ribs. His scar-crossed chest pumped like an old bellows, and he ached—not with the running, but with every father’s fear: that his son had stirred up terrible trouble.
“Ygor is rash,” Chief Kronon growled.
Beside him, Warmarshal Rairon blew upon a great horn. The mournful cry pealed out across the mountains, but no answering cry came from Chiefling Ygor’s horn.
Chief Kronon shook his head violently. His son was idealistic and rash and perhaps gone.
Kronon had lived 240 years, enough time to bury many sons. The chief had been born the very year that the Great Destroyer, champion of the ancient dragon Primordus, had awakened. His great-great-grandsire had been born in the year that magic had come into the world. The greatest of his grandsires had been born before there were any humans.
The ogre race was ancient, but Ygor was young. He cared only for “the hunts,” slaughtering humans and charr that strayed into ogre lands. “He is foolish and reckless and rash.”
Chief Kronon led his hunters up a wooded slope and thrashed past a stand of trees. He and his retinue emerged on a rill and staggered to a halt.
There, on the mountainside above, a canyon was lit by a pair of pyres. The ogres had smelled them from twenty miles away—burning human flesh and burning charr flesh. Only now, at the edge of dawn, did they see the light of them.
“We don’t burn our dead,” the chief said to no one.
“No, lord,” Warmarshal Rairon replied.
“The winner of this battle is burning the dead.”
“Yes, lord.”
A groan escaped Chief Kronon’s lips, but when the warmarshal glanced his way, the chief only ran forward.
He climbed a slope of scree and then a mossy hillside and a narrow trail through another thicket and at last reached the canyon.
There, between the pyres, lay ogre bodies.
Warmarshal Rairon charged into the clearing, past dismembered devourers and slain hyenas. When he approached the ogres, though, he shouted and fell to the ground. “Stay back! It’s trapped.”
Chief Kronon halted, holding out his arms to keep the rest of the group back.
The warmarshal reached to his foot, where the white stinger of a devourer was embedded. The venom gland still pumped. Rairon pried the stinger loose, then reached to his thigh and pulled out a second. “There are more stingers,” he gasped, “in a circle around the pile.”
Kronon nodded grimly.
Already, Rairon was stiffening. He looked up with cloudy eyes. “It has been an honor to serve you, my chief.”
“You have served well.”
The warmarshal went gray like a statue and toppled backward.
“Clear them away.”
The hunters tentatively moved forward, digging in the sands to remove the scorpion stingers. At last, they announced, “It is safe, lord,” and backed away. “Your son lies here.”
Chief Kronon approached the spot, seeing Chiefling Ygor sprawled out, arms spread and hands open, never to close again.
Falling to his knees, the chief murmured, “My son. My son. You will be avenged.”
He reached down to the chiefling’s belt, which bore the horn he used in the hunt. Chief Kronon pulled the horn from its thong and set it to his lips and blew a long, mournful cry. Then he let his hands fall to his sides and roared into the sky, “You will be avenged!”
Four miles away, Caithe, Logan, and Rytlock were running across a hanging valley when they heard the lonely horn.
“I think he’s found the body,” Logan said.
Then came an anguished roar.
“He’s definitely found the body,” Rytlock added.
Caithe still led the way, faster and more lithe than the other two. “Ogres can outrun all of us, and their hyenas can outrun them.”
Rytlock laughed derisively. “Where’s the weak point on a hyena?”
Caithe replied,
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